#regal yet threatening

[cheese-ducks]

he looks so regal in this pic

[moongirlcleo]

Dutybound

❤︎  tags and content: arranged marriage, two dicks, double penetration, overstimulation, aftercare, rough and messy, raf is a smug bastard ❤︎  author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @/cafekitsune Fic: @moongirlcleo  

Married to a god of the deep, you expect duty. You don’t expect desire.

Rafayel is patient, indulgent—dangerous in the way he watches, waits, toys with you. He lets you pretend this is an obligation, that you don’t want him.But when you finally ask—when you offer yourself to him—he makes sure you understand: This was never just duty.You were always meant to be his.

You had never met your husband.

That was the first thing people always wanted to know. "What’s he like?" they'd ask, eyes gleaming with the kind of curiosity that thrived on scandal. And you would laugh, awkward and forced, because how did you even begin to explain that your own husband was a stranger to you?

"He’s... mysterious," you’d say, which wasn’t a lie. He had to be, considering you knew next to nothing about him. Your marriage existed on paper, a set of meticulously drawn signatures binding your life to his in a way no real emotion ever had.

A political arrangement, they called it. A necessity. An alliance between two worlds that had once been at odds, the threads of old wounds still raw between the lines of diplomacy. You, a human with nothing particularly extraordinary about you, were now tied to Rafayel—the Lemurian prince, the so-called God of Tides, a man whose very name carried the weight of tides and tragedies you had no part in.

And yet, in the eyes of the world, you belonged to him.

It was an absurdity you had never fully wrapped your head around. One day, you had been yourself—just yourself. And the next, you were a wife to someone you had never spoken to, never touched, never seen outside of fragmented images and whispered rumors.

He was beautiful, or so they said. Ethereal in the way all Lemurians were, a creature woven from the sea itself. Dusky violet hair, bi-colored eyes like a shifting current. Taller than most men. A smile that either charmed or threatened, depending on his mood.

You had spent nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering what he thought of all this. Did he resent it? Did he scoff at the idea of being bound to a human he had never met? Or was he indifferent, viewing you as nothing more than another burden to bear?

Tomorrow, those questions felt heavier than usual. Because after months of silence, of letters exchanged only through intermediaries, of a wedding that had been sealed without so much as a glance between you—

You were finally getting the chance to meet Rafayel in person.

You wake up before dawn, the weight of reality settling into your chest before your mind fully catches up. Today is the day. The day you finally meet your husband.

The morning air is crisp against your skin as you dress, each movement meticulous, measured. You’d spent far too long the night before debating what to wear—something regal enough to match his station, but not so extravagant that it felt like an act. In the end, you settled for something simple yet elegant, the kind of thing that whispered confidence instead of shouting it.

Your hands are steady as you adjust the fabric, but your pulse betrays you, thrumming beneath your skin like the distant crash of waves.

You’d been prepared for this moment in theory. Advisors had coached you on the proper way to address him, on the history of Lemuria, on the subtle nuances of a culture long thought lost beneath the tides. But none of their words had prepared you for the reality of it—that in mere moments, you would stand before a man who was as much legend as he was flesh and blood.

And then, the summons comes.

A quiet knock at the door. A low-voiced attendant informing you that he has arrived.

Your breath catches. With a final glance at your reflection, you step forward to meet the mysterious man that, to the rest of the world, had stolen your heart.

The room is grand—of course it is. Every inch of this place is designed to remind you of the weight of history pressing down upon your shoulders. Dark wood panels stretch along the walls, and high arched windows spill the morning light across polished floors. It smells of salt and something faintly metallic, like the remnants of a storm at sea.

And yet, the man waiting for you is not the one you expected.

He stands near the center of the room, hands neatly folded in front of him, posture straight but not stiff. His suit is pristine, the deep navy fabric tailored to perfection, but there’s something about the way he holds himself that feels unshakable—a man who has long since mastered the art of control.

“Lady y/n,” he greets, his voice smooth and measured. “A pleasure.”

You blink, your carefully rehearsed introductions crumbling under the sheer weight of confusion. “I—thank you.” A pause. “I was told I’d be meeting my husband?”

Something flickers across his face—just for a moment, just enough for you to catch it before his expression smooths back into polite indifference. “Lord Rafayel has been... delayed.”

Delayed.

Your stomach tightens. You are standing here, in a place you do not know, bound to a man you have never met, and he—what? Couldn’t be bothered to show up?

Thomas seems to sense the shift in your mood because he exhales, a soft, barely-there thing. “It is not a slight, I assure you,” he continues, his voice dipping into something quieter. Smoother. “Lord Rafayel is... particular about how he does things.”

You don’t know why, but the phrasing makes something bristle in you. “And meeting his wife isn’t one of them?”

A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of Thomas’s mouth, gone before it fully forms. “On the contrary. He has been very interested in meeting you.”

You don’t miss the deliberate wording. You fold your arms, tilting your head just slightly. “Then why isn’t he here?”

Thomas hesitates. Just for a second.

And that second tells you more than any explanation could.

“He prefers a certain... grandeur to introductions,” Thomas finally admits, and for the first time, the carefully placed neutrality in his tone wavers, like he knows exactly how ridiculous that sounds. “He will arrive soon. In the meantime, he has requested that I keep you company.”

You narrow your eyes. “To distract me?”

“To prepare you.”

The words land heavier than you expect.

You don’t know what you expected from this meeting, but something about the way Thomas says it makes your pulse slow, deliberate.

“Prepare me for what, exactly?” you ask.

The man finally allows himself a real smile, small but undeniably knowing. “For him.”

Thomas is efficient, moving through the room with the kind of practiced grace that suggests he has been in service far longer than his youthful features let on. A man trained to anticipate needs before they are spoken. He gestures for you to sit near a low table, where a tray of refreshments has already been arranged—an assortment of delicate pastries, rich tea, and something that gleams darkly in a crystal glass. Wine, perhaps. Or something stronger.

You sit, smoothing your hands over your lap, not missing the way Thomas studies you with the quiet precision of a man taking careful notes.

"You don't seem particularly nervous," he remarks as he pours your tea.

You arch a brow. "Should I be?"

Thomas lets out a soft, amused hum. "That depends." He passes you the cup, waiting until you've taken your first sip before continuing. "Most find Rafayel... overwhelming at first."

The way he says it—light, unassuming, but with a thread of warning—makes something stir uneasily in your chest. "And you? What do you think of him?"

Thomas considers you for a moment before answering. "I think he is not easily understood."

Not a good man. Not a bad one. Just... not easily understood.

Something about that unsettles you more than an outright warning would have.

You set your cup down, tilting your head slightly. "And why do I get the feeling you're trying to understand me?"

This time, Thomas doesn't bother hiding his smirk. "Because I am." He leans back slightly, his gaze assessing, sharp without being unkind. "I have been by Rafayel’s side for a long time. I am very familiar with how he operates. And so I am curious—what kind of woman agrees to marry a man she has never met?"

The question lands softly, without judgment, but still, you feel the weight of it settle in your ribs.

You glance down at the ring on your finger, at the delicate band that binds you to someone you should know, but don’t.

"My reasons are my own," you say finally, keeping your voice even. "Just as I imagine his are."

Thomas hums again, something like approval glinting in his eyes. "A diplomatic answer. You’ll need that."

Before you can ask what that means, the candlelight flickers. Just a whisper of movement in the farthest shadow of the room. A disturbance so slight that most wouldn’t notice it.

But you are not most.

The air shifts, the faintest rustle of fabric reaching your ears.

You are not alone.

And somehow, you never were.

Thomas, still composed, still pouring himself a glass of wine, does not turn his head as he speaks again. But his next words are different, heavier, threaded with something almost... knowing.

"Tell me," he muses, swirling the wine in his glass. "Do you prefer your introductions grand... or intimate?"

You don’t answer Thomas right away. Instead, your gaze flickers toward the far end of the room, toward the deep pockets of shadow that seem too thick to be natural.

The sensation of being watched drapes over you like silk and iron, both weightless and unyielding. It shouldn’t unnerve you as much as it does—this place is unfamiliar, its corners vast and unknown. It makes sense that you would feel small beneath its walls.

But this is something else.

Something pointed.

And Thomas—well. Thomas seems amused.

He watches you with the sharp patience of a man who already knows the game being played but is far too entertained to warn you of the rules. He swirls his wine again, watching the deep red liquid coat the glass before finally breaking the silence.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

Your spine stiffens, and you force yourself to focus on him. “What question?”

Thomas tilts his head slightly, as if you’ve just confirmed something he already suspected. “How you prefer your introductions,” he reminds you, voice smooth as the wine he sips. “Grand or intimate?”

The way he says it—intimate—is deliberate. A brush of velvet over steel, a thread of implication woven just faintly enough that if you called him out on it, he could feign innocence.

You shift in your seat. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that you’re suddenly hyper aware of your own posture. The space you take up. The way your breathing has slowed just a fraction too much.

Thomas notices. Of course, he does.

And, somewhere in the shadows, so does your husband.

There’s a reason Rafayel has not revealed himself yet. He is watching, studying, waiting for something only he will recognize.

You lick your lips before you can stop yourself, forcing your voice into something composed. “Does it matter?”

Thomas smiles. A small, knowing thing. “To him? Oh, absolutely.”

The weight of unseen eyes presses heavier now, the air shifting in a way that makes the candlelight tremble. A flicker of movement—too swift to catch—somewhere just beyond your periphery.

Your heart picks up, but Thomas is merciless in his curiosity. He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the arm of his chair, gaze never leaving yours.

“I wonder,” he murmurs, as if he’s speaking only to himself. “Do you fear him?”

The question catches you off guard. Not because you don’t know the answer—you do. But because you feel the shift. Something in the air tightens. A ripple, a tension pulling. And suddenly, you are very sure that whoever watches you from the shadows is no longer just watching.

He is listening. Waiting for your answer.

You wet your lips again, pulse thrumming against the delicate line of your throat.

Do you fear him? Or does something else coil in your stomach at the thought of meeting him?

Your lips part, the answer forming before you can second-guess it.

“No.”

The word settles between you and Thomas, clear, steady. A statement, not a question. Not a doubt.

For a moment, there is silence. A low, amused hum from the darkness shortly after. Slow. Drawn-out, ike someone savoring the taste of your answer.

“Interesting.”

The air in the room shifts.

The shadows stir, peeling away from the far wall like they are no longer satisfied with merely lurking. There is no grand reveal, no sudden burst of movement. Just a presence unfolding—fluid, effortless—as though he had been part of the very architecture, waiting for the right moment to detach himself from it.

There he is. Your husband.

Rafayel moves like a man who has never needed to rush a day in his life. His presence fills the space effortlessly, as if he had already claimed it long before he arrived. Tall, lean, otherworldly.

His dusky purple waves frame sharp, striking features—high cheekbones, a jawline that could cut, and eyes that are wrong in all the right ways. Blue and pink, flickering with something unreadable, something depthless.

He is dressed in dark silks that shift with every movement, the deep purples and blues of his coat nearly indistinguishable from the abyss he just stepped out of. And yet, despite his ominous introduction—despite the way your body knows he is dangerous—

He smiles at you. Not the smirk you expect, not the wolfish grin of a man who enjoys his power. But something softer. Playful. Amused. You don’t know what you were expecting from the Lemurian prince, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t the easy, almost lazy confidence in the way he watches you. It wasn’t the way his head tilts slightly, like he’s indulging in the sight of you, rather than staking a claim.

And it certainly wasn’t the first thing he says.

“You’re lovely.”

The words are too casual. Too intimate for a first meeting, as if he has known you for much longer than the last few seconds. You blink. Open your mouth. Close it. Thomas—damn him—looks supremely entertained. Rafayel’s smile lingers, his gaze flickering over you like he’s committing something to memory. Then, with a graceful dip of his head, he speaks again.

“I suppose introductions are overdue. Though I feel as if I already know you.” His voice is smooth, rich—like deep water lapping at the shore.

Then, his lips curve just slightly at the corners, teasing.

“You did say you weren’t afraid of me. I think I’m flattered.”

His tone is unreadable—mocking? Delighted? Genuinely intrigued? You can’t tell.

You should say something. You need to say something.

But your mouth has forgotten how to form words, and Rafayel—your husband—knows it. The way he watches you is almost lazy, eyes lidded in amusement, like he is waiting for you to catch up. As if he already expected this reaction. As if your flustered silence is exactly what he wanted. And Thomas—ever the opportunist—seizes the moment with all the grace of a man who lives for entertainment.

“Well,” he hums, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “I’d say my job here is done.”

You snap out of your daze just enough to flick a sharp glance his way. “Wait, you’re leaving?”

Thomas gives you a look that is all polite indifference, save for the glint of humor in his eyes. “You are married, my lady.” He gestures vaguely between you and Rafayel. “It’s only right that I allow the happy couple some time alone.”

The words send a fresh wave of awareness through you—because he’s right. You are married. To this man. To this prince. To this God of Tides whose presence alone feels like it has swallowed the entire room whole.

Before you can form a protest, Thomas inclines his head in a short bow. “I’ll take my leave, my lord.”

Rafayel, still entirely at ease, flicks his fingers in a lazy dismissal. “Thank you, Thomas.”

He doesn’t even look at him. His gaze remains on you as the door clicks and the two of you are alone. The silence stretches. You swallow, your fingers twitching slightly against your lap before you decide to busy yourself with the teacup Thomas left behind. You reach for it carefully, only to realize too late that your hands are not nearly as steady as you’d like.

Rafayel notices. He watches the way you hesitate, the way your fingers tighten minutely around the porcelain before you manage to lift it to your lips.

He smirks.

“You’re nervous,” he observes, tone far too amused for your liking.

You lower the cup, glaring at him over the rim. “I am not.”

Rafayel makes a low, thoughtful hum. “No?”

And then, before you can react, he leans forward just slightly—not enough to be invasive, but enough to make you feel it. The shift in proximity, the awareness prickling along your skin like the tide creeping up on unsuspecting shores.

His voice drops, low and measured. “Your hands tremble when you lie.”

Your breath catches. Heat prickles up your spine—traitorous, unbidden.

You pull back, willing your pulse to slow. “Maybe I’m just cold.”

His smirk deepens. “Are you?” You don’t answer. You can’t answer, which only seems to amuse him even more. Then, as if deciding to take mercy on you, Rafayel shifts back, allowing just enough space for you to breathe properly again. He watches you over the rim of his own glass as he takes a slow sip, considering.

“Would you like to ask me something, wife?”

The title lands heavier than it should. Not mocking, not teasing. Just… a fact. You grip your teacup a little tighter. There are a hundred things you could ask him. A hundred different paths this conversation could take. But what comes out of your mouth instead is—

“…Why did you watch me before revealing yourself?”

Rafayel pauses. Then, a slow smile unfurls across his lips, like the tide dragging back just before a wave crashes.

“I wanted to see if you were afraid of me,” he admits.

You blink. “And?”

He tilts his head, studying you. “I haven’t decided yet if I believe you.”

A shiver curls through you—one you hope he doesn’t notice. You clear your throat, shifting in your seat. “That’s not an answer.”

“Isn’t it?”

You glare at him, but he only grins. He sets his glass aside, propping his chin against his palm as if you’ve just become his new favorite curiosity.

“Ask me another,” he offers.

You hesitate this time, choosing your words more carefully. “What do you want from this marriage?”

Rafayel doesn’t answer right away.

He watches you instead, gaze dipping lower—not improper, but assessing. A slow, deliberate once-over, like he is measuring something unseen.

Then, finally— “Everything.”

Your breath stutters. All Rafayel gives is a smile. The way he says everything lingers in the air between you, heavier than it should be. It coils around your ribs, presses against the delicate skin of your throat, and sinks.

You swallow, pulse fluttering where it shouldn’t. “That’s—” Your voice catches, and you hate that it does. “That’s not very specific.”

Rafayel tilts his head, watching you with the slow patience of a tide creeping forward, his gaze shifting between blue and pink in a way that makes him unreadable. There’s a calm deliberation in his expression, as if he’s already considered every possible response you might give and is simply waiting for you to stumble into the most interesting one.

“It is not,” he agrees, amusement curling at the edges of his voice.

Your fingers tighten against your cup. “Would you care to elaborate?”

His lips curve, slow and deliberate, before he leans forward again—closer this time, enough that the warmth of his presence seeps into your space. He doesn’t touch, but he doesn’t need to. The sheer weight of his attention is enough to make you forget how to breathe properly.

“You wish to know what I expect of you?” he asks, voice as smooth as silk, laced with something you can’t quite name. “As my wife?”

There’s no mistaking the intent behind the way he says it, the possessiveness woven into the words, not spoken as a mere formality but as an undeniable claim. You hate the way heat pricks at your skin in response, creeping up the back of your neck despite your best efforts to ignore it.

You clear your throat, willing your pulse to slow. “That would be helpful, yes.”

Rafayel hums, watching you for a moment longer before settling back into his seat with a deliberate, unhurried ease, as if indulging you. His posture is all relaxed grace, yet something about the way he moves suggests he is always in control.

“In Lemurian tradition, a royal union is not truly sealed until it has been properly consummated.”

The words drop into the space between you like a stone into deep water.

You knew this. It had been mentioned in your endless briefings, an unavoidable detail buried among the many customs and expectations you were expected to uphold. But hearing it spoken by him, in this setting, while he watches you like that—like he’s already imagining what fulfilling that particular duty will look like—has your grip tightening around the delicate porcelain in your hands.

Rafayel notices.

His smirk deepens.

“I see you remember.”

You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to maintain your composure. “That’s not—” Exhaling slowly, you fight to keep your expression neutral. “That’s not exactly an immediate concern, is it?”

His gaze remains steady, unwavering, and entirely too entertained by your reaction. Slowly, deliberately, he tilts his head, studying you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. His voice drops just slightly, as if drawing out the moment for his own amusement.

“No,” he murmurs, taking his time with the word. “But it will be.”

Heat floods through you before you can stop it, spreading from the base of your spine up to your cheeks, and damn him for the way he seems to take pleasure in every second of it. He doesn’t move, doesn’t lean in again, but the weight of his presence feels closer than ever, as if he is already closing in, testing your reactions, measuring your every breath.

You force yourself to focus on something else—anything else—and grasp onto the shift in conversation when he finally moves on.

“Beyond that, there are formalities,” he continues, finally offering some distance, though the lingering amusement in his voice tells you he isn’t finished toying with you. “Public appearances. Celebrations in your honor. You are to be presented as the Princess of Lemuria, and with that comes expectation.”

You latch onto the new topic like a lifeline, willing yourself to regain some semblance of control. “What sort of expectation?”

Rafayel doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he watches you in that careful, assessing way of his, gaze dipping over you as if weighing something unseen. The pause stretches just long enough to make your stomach tighten, anticipation curling in the space between heartbeats.

“You are mine now,” he says, as if it is the simplest truth in the world, and it is not a metaphor. “And I intend for the world to see that.”

Your fingers press into your lap, grip tightening on the fabric of your dress. The certainty in his voice leaves no room for question, no space for doubt. It is not a boast or a threat—simply a fact, one that he expects you to understand as well as he does.

“There will be gatherings, ceremonies, and opportunities for you to become accustomed to your role,” he continues, tone lighter now, as if this is all perfectly reasonable.

You exhale slowly, forcing yourself to meet his gaze despite the lingering heat in your cheeks. “And what, exactly, does that role entail?”

Something shifts in his expression, not quite a smirk but something close, something knowing. He studies you for another moment, stretching out the silence just enough to keep you on edge.

“You will find out soon enough.”

The deliberate vagueness sends another shiver down your spine, and you hate the way he seems to enjoy the way you react to his words.

Your breath hitches, and for the first time since he entered the room, you realize—

This isn’t just a conversation to him. It’s a game.

And you, whether you like it or not, are playing it.

His gaze flickers over you one last time, that same unreadable look settling into his features before his lips curve into something slower, something deeper.

The silence stretches, thick and charged, his words lingering between you like something palpable. You will find out soon enough. There is no teasing lilt to his voice this time, no smirk playing at his lips. Just certainty. A weight that settles over you, pressing against your ribs, making your skin prickle with awareness.

Your fingers tighten in your lap as you force yourself to focus. You knew this moment would come eventually—that there would be expectations between you beyond the political union, beyond the public ceremonies and carefully curated appearances. There is another duty that marriage demands. A truth you’ve known from the moment you signed your name on the documents binding you to him.

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself. “About the consummation.”

Rafayel’s expression doesn’t change, but there is something new in his gaze, a flicker of interest as if he had been waiting for you to bring it up. He shifts slightly in his seat, his posture still relaxed, but there’s a weight to it now, an attentiveness that wasn’t there before.

“Oh?” His voice dips, smooth as the tide lapping against the shore. “You wish to discuss it now?”

Heat creeps up your neck, but you hold your ground, refusing to let him unnerve you any further. “I think it’s something that should be addressed sooner rather than later. It’s a requirement of the union, isn’t it?”

His lips curl—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile, just something slow and considering. “It is.”

You nod, exhaling softly. “Then we should establish expectations.”

Rafayel watches you, his fingers drumming lightly against the arm of his chair, his eyes flickering over your face as if he’s searching for something. The slow rise and fall of your breath, the way your shoulders are set with careful determination, the way you refuse to look away despite the heat pressing against your skin.

Finally, he moves.

Not much—just a small shift forward, a subtle lean of his body, but it feels as though the very air around you changes. He does not reach for you, does not bridge the space between you completely, but his presence alone is enough to remind you exactly who you are speaking to.

“You say that as if this is a contract negotiation,” he murmurs, his voice just above a whisper, something dark and amused threaded through it. “Tell me, wife, how do you propose we handle this particular expectation?”

Your pulse stumbles, and his gaze sharpens, catching the flicker of hesitation before you manage to smooth it over. You steel yourself, swallowing past the dryness in your throat. “I think it would be best if we approached it with a clear understanding. No surprises.”

Rafayel’s expression flickers, a shadow of something unreadable passing through his features before he settles back again. “No surprises,” he echoes, as if tasting the words, rolling them over in his mind. “How very... diplomatic.”

Your fingers press against your lap, resisting the urge to fidget. “I only mean that we should agree on—”

“On what, exactly?” His voice is softer now, but no less intense. “On how it will happen? When?” He pauses, and the way he tilts his head, the way his lips part just slightly as if savoring the thought, sends something warm curling in the pit of your stomach. “Or are you looking for reassurances?”

The words settle over your skin like a slow tide creeping in, dragging you under inch by inch. There is no outright mockery in his tone, no cruel edge, but there is something deliberate in the way he speaks, in the way he waits for your reaction, drinking in every little shift in your demeanor like he’s memorizing them.

Your throat tightens, but you refuse to look away. “I think it’s important that we both know where we stand.”

Rafayel considers you, his gaze sweeping over your face, lingering at your lips before meeting your eyes once more. “You’re tense,” he observes, and there is something far too knowing in his voice, something that makes your breath stutter despite your best efforts to remain composed.

“I’m being practical.”

His lips curve, slow and unhurried. “Are you?”

Your fingers twitch, curling slightly against your lap as heat prickles beneath your skin. You don’t trust yourself to answer, and he seems to know that too, because he shifts again, this time just slightly closer, his presence wrapping around you like the pull of deep water.

“You don’t need to worry,” he murmurs, and for the first time, there is something almost gentle beneath the amusement. “I have no intention of taking anything from you that you do not wish to give.”

Your breath catches at the quiet promise beneath his words, at the certainty in his tone that does not feel like a concession, but a truth.

And yet, something in the way he looks at you—the steady weight of his gaze, the quiet intensity simmering beneath the surface—tells you he does not believe this will remain an issue for long.

Because despite his patience, despite his willingness to let you set the pace, Rafayel is a prince. A man who has spent his life taking what he wants, bending the world to his will.

And right now, that sharp, unreadable gaze tells you exactly what he’s thinking.

He will wait. He will give you space.

But when you do come to him—and he seems certain that you will—there will be no mistaking that it was your choice.

The thought sends a fresh wave of heat through your veins, and as you quickly reach for your tea, desperate for something to focus on, Rafayel just watches.

The silence stretches long enough that your own thoughts begin to betray you. The weight of his gaze, the certainty in his expression—it’s too much, too overwhelming, pressing against your skin like the tide creeping in, swallowing every last inch of sand.

Your pulse stumbles, breath too shallow, and you hate that he can probably hear it. That he can see every tell in your body, every shift in your posture that betrays the nerves coiled tight in your stomach.

It would be easier if he were cruel. If he taunted, if he smirked with the satisfaction of making you squirm. But this—the quiet patience, the way he looks at you like he already knows exactly what you’re going to do before you do it—is far worse.

You need control. You need to take control before it slips completely from your grasp.

The words are out before you can think them through. “We should just do it now.”

The air changes.

Stillness settles over the room like the deep ocean before a storm, thick and weighted, suffocating in its quiet. You hear the faintest shift of fabric as Rafayel straightens slightly in his seat, but he does not speak immediately. He just watches.

And then—his lips part, voice smooth, steady. “Now?”

Your throat is tight, but you force yourself to nod. “Yes.”

His gaze flickers over you, trailing from your eyes to your lips, lower still before returning, a slow drag of attention that makes your pulse hammer against your ribs. “Because you want to?” The words are soft, deliberate, but you hear the unspoken question beneath them.

You know that’s what he means. And you know he’s right.

You lift your chin, pushing past the dryness in your throat. “Because it’s expected.”

Something glints in his expression, something sharp and unreadable, and for the first time since he stepped into this room, the air between you shifts. The teasing lilt in his voice fades, the lingering amusement dulling into something deeper, something darker.

“You truly wish to do this now,” he muses, voice slow and thoughtful, as if weighing something unseen. “To get it over with.”

The way he says it makes your stomach tighten, and you hate how clinical it sounds when spoken aloud. You clench your fingers slightly, willing yourself to stay steady. “I just think prolonging it will only make things... more difficult.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, he moves.

Slowly. Deliberately.

He stands from his chair with an ease that feels far too controlled, like a predator shifting from rest into motion. His steps are unhurried as he crosses the space between you, silent save for the soft rustle of fabric, until he stands before you, close enough that the faint scent of salt and something darker curls around your senses.

Rafayel lowers himself into a crouch before you, resting one arm on the side of your chair, his other hand reaching out—not touching, but there, hovering near your wrist, close enough that you feel the warmth of his skin.

“If we do this now,” he murmurs, voice like the deep pull of the ocean, “it will not be because it is expected.”

Your breath catches.

His fingers ghost up your forearm, barely grazing over fabric, not quite a touch, just a whisper of presence.

“It will not be to ease your nerves,” he continues, eyes locked onto yours, unblinking, unwavering. “It will not be because you are uncertain, or because you think it will be easier to have it done and forgotten.” His voice drops, the syllables dragging over your skin like velvet and tidewater. “If we do this now, it will be because you are asking me to take you.”

The words send something molten sinking low in your stomach, twisting tight.

Your throat is dry, your fingers curling against your lap as his hand finally closes the distance, fingertips grazing lightly over your wrist. Just enough to feel. Just enough to make you aware of every inch of your own skin.

“Is that what you want?” His question is quiet, but not hesitant. Never hesitant. His touch is warm, his breath feathering against your skin as he speaks, but he does not push. He does not take. He waits.

For you. For your answer.

Because he meant what he said. If you say no, if you pull away, he will not press. But if you don’t—if you let him continue, if you let him show you what it means to be his—there will be no half-measures.

You will know what it means to be taken by Rafayel of Lemuria. And he will make certain that you never forget it.

Your pulse pounds against your ribs, every breath a battle between reason and the undeniable pull of him. You should hesitate. You should take a moment to think, to untangle the mess of nerves and desire twisting in your stomach. But the moment he touches you—just barely, just a whisper of warmth against your skin—it becomes impossible to deny the truth.

You do want this.

You want him.

Your fingers tighten slightly against your lap, your throat dry, but you force yourself to meet his gaze. His eyes are steady, impossibly deep, waiting for your answer with patience that feels far more dangerous than if he had pressed for it.

You could lie to yourself, pretend this is just about duty, about obligation. But you know, and he knows, that would be a lie.

Your lips part, and when the word finally comes, it is softer than you mean for it to be.

“…Yes.”

His gaze sharpens, that flicker of something dark and satisfied flaring beneath the pink and blue of his eyes. But he does not move, not yet. He waits.

You inhale slowly, pressing forward, trying to steel yourself. “I want it.”

A breath. A single moment where the weight of your words settles between you.

And then, Rafayel moves.

The shift is slow but deliberate, his fingers sliding higher along your arm, just barely trailing the fabric of your sleeve before settling at the crook of your elbow. His other hand rises, brushing a knuckle over your jaw—light, teasing, a feather-soft touch that makes your skin prickle beneath it.

“Say it again.”

His voice is low, a command wrapped in silk, coaxing you toward the edge of something you aren’t sure you’re ready to fall into.

Your breath shudders, but you do not look away.

“I want you.”

It’s barely above a whisper, but it doesn’t matter. Because the second the words leave your lips, Rafayel decides. His fingers tilt your chin higher, his touch still gentle but firm, leaving no room for retreat. His gaze flickers lower, to your lips, lingering there for a single, agonizing heartbeat. And then, he closes the distance.

The first brush of his lips is light—testing, deliberate—but it is not hesitant. He wants you to feel it, to know exactly what you have asked for, what you have invited. But when you don’t pull away—when your fingers twitch slightly, your breath catching in a way that betrays you completely—he presses.

The kiss deepens, slow and devouring, his fingers sliding down to your waist, drawing you closer in a way that makes it impossible to think of anything but him. He kisses like a man who has already decided that you belong to him, that you will know the weight of his claim, that this is no longer just about duty but something far more dangerous.

And when he pulls back just slightly, breath fanning against your lips, his voice is dark with satisfaction.

“Good girl.”

Heat floods through you so fast it makes your head spin, your stomach tightening at the way he says it, at the way it feels earned, at the undeniable truth beneath it—

You are his.

The kiss lingers even as he pulls away, leaving your lips tingling, your breath uneven. He watches you for a moment, his gaze heavy-lidded and dark with satisfaction, before his fingers slide lower, just barely grazing the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t need to comment on how fast it’s beating—he knows. He feels it beneath his touch, beneath the way your body shivers when he moves.

He exhales, soft and warm against your skin. "Come."

It is not a request.

He takes your hand, fingers lacing through yours with a casual intimacy that makes your stomach tighten, and rises fluidly to his feet. When he guides you forward, you follow—because what else is there to do now but go with him?

The halls are quiet as he leads you through them, the air thick with unspoken promises, with the knowledge of what’s coming next. Your heart pounds with every step, nerves and anticipation curling in your stomach, but Rafayel doesn’t rush. He walks as if he has all the time in the world, never looking back, knowing without question that you are with him.

And then, you are in his chambers. Your chambers.

The room is vast, but not in an overwhelming way. It is warm, dimly lit with the golden glow of candles reflecting off dark wood and deep blue silks. The scent of salt and something richer lingers in the air, something undeniably him. But your attention is drawn to the center of the room—the massive bed draped in fabrics the color of the ocean at midnight, waiting.

Waiting for you.

Your breath catches, and Rafayel turns to face you, fingers still wrapped around your wrist. He lifts your hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles, slow and deliberate, before trailing them lower, dragging warmth in the wake of his breath.

“There is no need to be nervous,” he murmurs, voice smooth, steady, but knowing. “I will give you everything.”

Your pulse stutters, heat licking at your skin despite your best efforts to stay composed. He can see it, feel the way your fingers twitch slightly in his grip. He hums, pleased, before guiding your hand to his chest, pressing your palm flat against the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“You are mine now,” he continues, his other hand sliding along the curve of your waist, up to your shoulder, lingering at the clasp of your clothing. “And I intend to make sure you feel it.”

There is no hesitation as his fingers begin their work, unfastening the first piece of fabric, the cool air kissing your skin where the barrier once was. His touch is slow, agonizingly so, taking his time with each clasp, each ribbon, each delicate fold.

He doesn’t strip you—he undresses you.

With reverence. With purpose.

His fingers skim over the newly exposed skin, not grabbing, not claiming yet, just learning, just feeling the warmth of you beneath his fingertips. His breath is even, controlled, but his eyes burn with something deeper, something dangerous as each new inch of you is revealed.

You shift under his gaze, heat spreading in a slow, consuming wave over your skin. You should feel self-conscious, should feel exposed, but Rafayel does not let you. He does not let you shrink. His touch is steady, reassuring, making it clear that this is not just for him. This is for you, too.

A soft hum leaves him as his fingers finally slide the last piece of fabric from your shoulders, letting it slip down your arms, pooling at your feet. You are bare before him, and yet, he does not move immediately.

Instead, he looks.

His gaze drags over you, taking in every inch, every detail, like he is committing you to memory. Not with hunger—but with something deeper.

Possession. Devotion. And then, with slow, deliberate intent, he lifts his hand to your cheek, cradling your face in his palm as his thumb brushes over the heat of your skin. His lips curve, the barest hint of a smile, but his voice is low, heavy with something unreadable.

“Perfect.”

The word sends a shiver through you, your breath catching as his thumb drags lower, tracing the curve of your jaw, the column of your throat.

He leans in, lips barely a breath away from yours, and murmurs, “Lie down for me.”

The air between you is thick, weighted with something inescapable. Anticipation coils in your stomach, your skin prickling under his gaze as you lower yourself onto the bed. The sheets are soft against your bare skin, cool in contrast to the heat burning beneath your flesh. But the moment you settle, the moment you look up at him, everything else fades.

Rafayel stands at the edge of the bed, watching you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. His hands move to the fastenings of his clothing, undoing them with a slow, practiced ease, shedding layers of dark fabric one by one. His movements are unhurried, deliberate, but his eyes remain locked onto yours, drinking in every reaction, every shift in your breathing, every quiver of expectation running through you.

When the last of his clothing falls away, your breath stutters.

Because he is not just a man.

You knew this already—of course, you knew. But knowing and seeing are two entirely different things.

His body is sculpted, all lean muscle and power, his dusky purple waves of hair falling over his shoulders, framing the sharp angles of his face. But below—where flesh meets something more, where the remnants of his oceanic lineage remain—his body shifts into something distinctly not human.

Two thick cocks spring from his lower half, soft pink, ridged and powerful. Dark veins tracing along their edges like the glow of some deep-sea creature lurking beneath the waves.

Your lips part, something tightening in your stomach at the sight of them.

At the implication of them.

Rafayel sees the way your breath catches, the way your thighs press together just slightly, and he smirks.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice smooth as silk, thick with amusement.

Heat blooms in your cheeks, but you don’t look away. Can’t.

“What…” Your voice falters, your throat suddenly dry. “What do they feel like?”

Rafayel exhales a soft chuckle, and in one slow, fluid movement, he climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His arms cage around you, steadying him as he moves over you, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

“Why don’t you find out?” His voice is a murmur against your ear, his breath warm, teasing. One of them sits lightly against your thigh—not enough to do anything, just enough for you to feel.

A shudder runs through you. The skin is smooth but firm, powerful, the ridges adding the slightest texture against your bare flesh. The touch is exploratory, almost gentle, as if waiting to see how you react.

You exhale sharply, your body responding before your mind can catch up, your hips shifting just slightly toward him.

Rafayel notices.

“Eager,” he muses, fingers trailing down the length of your side, slow and reverent, while he shifts his own hips to drag them up your thigh, skimming over sensitive skin, teasing, testing. “Good.”

Before you can respond, his mouth is on yours again, stealing whatever thought you might have had, devouring you with the same slow, deliberate hunger. His kiss is deep, claiming, but controlled—he is savoring this, savoring you, taking his time unraveling you beneath him.

He pushes closer. The sensation is overwhelming, not just because of what he is, but the fact he remains controlled, patient, intentional.

You gasp, your fingers gripping at the sheets, your body arching beneath him, seeking more. Rafayel smiles.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs against your throat, his lips dragging lower, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your neck. “I wonder…” His voice is thoughtful, teasing, dangerous. “How much you can take.”

And then, with slow, agonizing intent, he pushes both cocks inside.

The stretch is unlike anything you’ve felt before—the firm, thick heat filling you, the ridges dragging against your walls, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through your core. The other slides into your ass as he holds you steady, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

A soft, broken sound escapes your lips, your body tightening around him, and Rafayel groans, the sound reverberating through his chest, vibrating against your skin.

“You feel—” He exhales sharply, his grip tightening at your waist, holding you still as he gives you more. “Perfect.”

Your head tilts back, pleasure rippling through you as he moves, slow and deep, every inch of him dragging against your walls, every ridge pressing in ways that make your toes curl. Your fingers scramble for something to hold onto, nails pressing into his shoulders, his back, needing something to ground you.

Rafayel’s breath is heavy against your skin, his lips brushing against your jaw, your cheek, your mouth, stealing every gasping moan that escapes you.

“You are mine,” he murmurs, his pace steady, unyielding, each slow thrust pulling another whimper from your lips. “And I will make sure you know it.”

His grip tightens, his cocks pushing, pressing, claiming, and the pleasure surges higher, drowning you, pulling you under, until there is nothing left but him.

Nothing left but the way he takes you—slow, deep, thorough—and the way you surrender to him completely.

Because you do.

You give yourself to him, to the weight of his body, the strength of his touch, the inescapable truth that you are no longer just yourself.

The pleasure coils in your stomach, winding tighter with every slow, deliberate thrust of his cocks inside you. Rafayel moves with intention, with precision, his pace measured, his control absolute. The firm ridges drag along your walls, each movement sending another wave of heat pulsing through your core, yet he does not rush.

He is holding back and you can feel it.

It’s in the way his fingers grip your waist, strong but restrained. It’s in the way his breath comes in slow, controlled exhales against your skin. It’s in the way his body trembles ever so slightly, like a storm waiting to break.

You need him to break.

“Rafayel,” you gasp, your fingers tightening against his shoulders, your nails digging into the smooth, firm muscle beneath his skin. His pace falters for the first time, a flicker of hesitation, as if waiting for something.

You swallow hard, tilting your head up just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes burn, a shifting mix of blue and pink, the light within them flickering wildly, barely restrained.

“I’m ready,” you whisper, voice trembling with something more than just need—trust.

And that—that—is what shatters him.

A growl rumbles from deep in his chest, vibrating against your skin, a primal, possessive sound that sends a shiver down your spine as he moves.

His grip tightens, spreading you open, locking you beneath him as he slams into you. The force of it knocks the air from your lungs, pleasure crashing through you like a tidal wave.

A sharp cry leaves your lips, and Rafayel devours it, his mouth capturing yours in a searing, claiming kiss as he sets a relentless pace. There is no hesitation now, no careful control—only need, raw and overwhelming, as he takes you the way he’s wanted to since the moment you walked into his life.

The ridges of his member drag against your walls, pressing against every sensitive place inside you with devastating precision. The second one, the one buried in your ass, throbs as you see stars. Your whole body shakes.

“You take me so well,” Rafayel growls against your skin, his lips trailing fire down your throat, his pace brutal and perfect. “As if you were made for me.”

Another deep thrust. Another broken moan spilling from your lips.

His voice drops lower, rougher, sending a shudder through your already trembling form. “Say it.”

You barely register the words, too lost in the overwhelming sensation of him filling you, stretching you, owning you. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your fingers curling against his back, desperate for anything to hold onto as he continues his relentless claiming.

“Say it,” he demands, his thrusts growing rougher, sharper, pushing you higher, forcing you toward the edge. “Say that you’re mine.”

The pleasure builds too fast, too intense, threatening to consume you whole. You barely manage to choke out the words between gasps, your voice breaking under the weight of it.

“I— I’m yours,” you whisper, then louder, more desperate as he slams into you again. “I’m yours, Rafayel.”

His grip tightens, and his whole body shudders at the sound of it.

“Good girl,” he groans, his pace turning frantic, his breath hot against your skin, his teeth grazing your shoulder, threatening to mark. His fingers sneak between the both of you, pressing hard against your swollen nerves, sending sharp pleasure rocketing through you.

You don’t stand a chance.

The orgasm crashes over you like a violent tide, dragging you under, stealing your breath, making your whole body tighten around him. A cry rips from your lips, pleasure consuming everything, and Rafayel follows you into it, his movements turning erratic, wild, as he buries himself inside you, his own release shuddering through him.

His lips find yours again, a deep, lingering kiss, as if sealing something unspoken between you. His appendages slowly unravel, his hands smoothing over your trembling body, grounding you, holding you close even as the aftershocks pulse through you.

For a long moment, neither of you speak, the only sound in the room the slow, heavy breaths of two souls tangled together, bound now in a way that cannot be undone.

And then, softly, his lips brush against your ear, his voice a quiet, satisfied whisper.

“You were perfect, wife.”

The room is quiet now, save for the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing, still uneven but slowing as the aftershocks pulse gently through your limbs. Your body feels wrecked, boneless and sated in a way you’ve never known before, heat still lingering in your skin where Rafayel’s touch has claimed it.

You expect him to pull away, to put some distance between you now that the act is over, but instead, he stays.

His arms remain around you, strong and steady, his warmth sinking into your skin as if he isn’t ready to let go just yet. His breath is slow against your hair, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns along the curve of your back, grounding, soothing.

It’s almost tender.

You shift slightly, and immediately, Rafayel tightens his grip, pulling you closer, pressing you fully against his chest. A soft, pleased hum vibrates through him, low and content, and you feel the ghost of a smile against your temple.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is rough from exertion but still carries that teasing lilt, that ever-present amusement as if he is entirely responsible for the state you’re in.

You huff, your cheek pressed against the solid warmth of his chest. “Nowhere. You’re holding me.”

He chuckles, the sound low and pleased. “Of course I am.” His fingers continue their slow path over your back, tracing every ridge of your spine as if memorizing you all over again. “Would you rather I let go?”

You hesitate. You should say yes. Should remind him that this marriage was not something you entered with romance in mind, that this was meant to be duty, obligation. But after everything, with his body wrapped around yours, his hands so gentle despite everything he’s done to you, the words don’t come.

“…No,” you admit softly.

His arms tighten just a little, as if rewarding you for your honesty. “Good,” he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. You listen to his heartbeat, feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against yours, and let yourself sink into the warmth of him.

And then, softly, Rafayel speaks again.

“You were perfect.”

Heat rises in your cheeks, and you make a quiet sound of protest, burying your face deeper against his chest. His chuckle rumbles through you, amused and knowing.

“I mean it,” he murmurs, his fingers tilting your chin slightly so you have no choice but to look up at him. His eyes, still flickering between blue and pink, are softer now, the intensity subdued into something quieter. “You are mine, and I will take care of you. Always.”

Something warm settles deep in your chest at the quiet certainty in his words.

He means it. Despite all his teasing, despite the way he enjoys watching you fluster under his gaze, there is nothing uncertain about this. He has claimed you, not just in body, but in a way that feels far more permanent.

And, perhaps most surprising of all—

You don’t mind it.

The thought should scare you, should send panic curling in your chest, but it doesn’t. Instead, it settles comfortably, as if some part of you already knew this was inevitable.

As if you were always meant to belong to him.

Rafayel watches you, his gaze flickering over your face, taking in your silence with something unreadable in his expression. Then, after a moment, his lips curl slightly. “You’re thinking very hard, wife.”

You roll your eyes, shifting against him. “I’m thinking that maybe this marriage isn’t going to be as awful as I thought.”

His grin is slow, satisfied, and utterly self-assured. “Of course it isn’t,” he murmurs, brushing another kiss to your jaw, trailing lower, as if he’s already thinking about pulling you under again. “I plan to make sure of it.”

Your breath catches, warmth flaring through your body all over again as your hips softly grind against him, eliciting a growl from the prince.

Maybe married life wouldn’t be so bad.

[comatosebunny09]

serve & protect [ prologue ] | sylus

— summary: you’ve stood dutifully by his side for years. seen him at his worst, not once letting that side of him deter you. can you blame him for craving more than your loyalty? — cw: royalty au, king sylus, femme reader, knight/bodyguard reader, mutual pining, brief mention of injury, marking, tension, jealousy, kind of a slow burn, will get steamier — notes: a reimagining of something i wrote a few years ago. heavily inspired by final fantasy xv & the beast within (2024) movie. tysm for reading! — now playing: waltz no.2 - cihat aşkın 

You would feel bad for badgering him if he wasn’t prone to disappearing like this. 

Prone to shirking off his duties like an entire kingdom didn’t rely on his guidance. 

You sigh for the umpteenth time amid the night-blooming jasmines. Fingers tighten around the strapped leather grip of your sword, fastened to your hip. Your feet move on autopilot, carrying you through the garden on a path you’re all too familiar with, the grass shining with dew and crunching beneath your feet. 

Your shift just began after a grueling week of training. Yet, you’ve already been tasked by his royal advisor with locating your charge before even shrugging into your coat. You’ve become something of a glorified babysitter these days, practically telling your liege when to eat.

If not for his advisor threatening to lop your head off—he could very well try—you would leave the king be. He hasn’t found much reprieve these days, what with neighboring countries pushing for peace treaties, reformation efforts to rebuild the outlying cities, and distant kingdoms shoving their daughters at him for marriage, amongst a slew of other issues.

It isn’t uncommon for your charge to slip away when the weight of the world is too much to shoulder. For him to retire to his private garden to catch his breath. He’ll never admit it aloud, but shouldering an entire kingdom on his own deepens the violet bags hanging beneath his eyes. The sleepless nights. The impending anxiety stewing in his gut.

Only you know of the secret passageways that lead to his most favored spots in the garden, where his servants get lost trying to navigate the network of rose bushes arranged like a labyrinth to keep them out.

It’s often your responsibility to fetch him since you work more intimately with him than anyone else. You know His Majesty’s habits like they were mapped on the back of your hand. You wouldn’t have it any other way; it’s nice to be the only person allowed into these private quadrants of his life.

A shock of white stains your peripheral, peacefully nestled between swaying hydrangeas. 

You near him, noting that he’s propped up on an ironwood bench. His head is lowered and crooked to one side, arms folded over a broad chest, lips slightly parted. A book rests open and forgotten on his thigh, legs crossed. You tamp down a smile when you realize he’s fast asleep.

“Your Majesty,” you beckon with a hidden fondness as your steps slow to a stop before him.

He doesn’t stir. Of course, you don’t expect him to. When sleep claims him, it’s hard to free him from its ivy-like crawl.

You kneel dutifully, bowing your head, your sword scrawling a thick line in the dirt. You caution his name again, the sound of your voice competing with that of the breeze threading through the leaves. 

Still nothing. Just the steady rhythm of his breaths and distant morning birds singing their symphony around you.

With a sigh, you incline your head to look up. And what a mistake that proves to be, traitorous butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

He’s a beautiful contradiction amid the soft stir of pastel flowers. A dark cutout of regality, slumbering like a dragon guarding its treasure. 

His hair is reminiscent of a thick blanket of snow, piling itself amongst the treetops. He wears summer skin in the midst of spring. Stretched taut over a pretty Roman nose, angular features, full lips. He’s ethereal, limned in the sun’s amber glow, a sight that could bring the end of days or sink ships to the bottom of the sea. Thick, furled lashes dance with dreams beneath furrowed brows. A gruff sound escapes his mouth as he lightly stirs before falling still again.

Even in sleep, he maintains the intensity with which he’s known to rule.

A quaint smile touches your lips. You quell an impulse to soothe the divot between his brows with your thumb. To smooth out the hard press of his lips together. A well-timed gust of wind kicks in, rustling the velvet-soft hair framing his face.

Your fingers twitch with an impulse to touch. To tuck those unruly locks behind his ear. You instead curl them into a loose fist on the ground, quietly chiding yourself for allowing such thoughts to trickle in. 

He is your charge—your king. Affectionate gestures like that are forbidden. A conflict of interest, no matter how harmless they may seem. 

Besides, you’re unworthy of touching him. There’s dirt caked beneath your nails and an ever-present film of grime adorning your cheeks. He should have someone of equal stature smiling at his side. A pretty, glittering doll in flowery dresses, well-versed in the tongue of nobility. In the art of being poised and prim.

You’re a mere servant. A shield to be used at his disposal, your hands battle-worn and skin sun-kissed. You threw away all hope for love when you took an oath, binding your life to his and pledging your fealty to him. 

He handpicked you to serve as his personal bodyguard, a decision you still grapple with several years later. Many seasoned knights served in the royal guard longer than you’ve held a sword. You would never do anything to jeopardize his trust, to betray his kindness. 

The affection that unfurls like lotus petals in your chest for him is deep-rooted. However, it results from serving under him for so long and nothing more.

At least…

That’s what you tell yourself whenever his gaze lingers a little too long, pilfering the air from your lungs. 

Or when his dexterous fingers brush over your wrist under the guise of reaching for something in front of you. 

When he presses a warm and possessive hand at the small of your back whenever you tour the citadel’s grounds with him, or he requests your input on something at his desk. 

When he flashes a rare quirk of lips that’s boyish and dimpled and disarming when he thinks no one else is the wiser.

You clear your throat, remembering yourself. Your voice is more assertive this time, dispelling the nebulous haze of your musings. 

“Your Majesty, please. You have to get up.” The urge to stroke his cheek returns. You squeeze your thigh to curb it.

As if the Gods grant you mercy, that does the trick. 

His lashes flutter, and his voice is thick and raspy, rolling like thunder over the horizon in his chest. You watch him blink away the bleariness, the scarlet wash of his irises causing your heart to pull. 

Your king studies you as if making out the colors and texture of your face. You try not to shiver under his scrutiny, instead looking away as warmth inhabits your face. You’ve always found his eyes to be one of his most devastating features. They could easily glean through the mist of your mind, your guise, reading you like the yellowed pages of a book, even without tapping into the power residing in his right eye.

Heat permeates through the thickness of your uniform when, after setting his book aside, he suddenly pitches himself forward, elbows digging into the pockets of his knees. He rests his chin atop his folded together fingers, and you don’t need to fully look at him to see the smirk crooking his lips. The scent of unfettered energy and stripped sandalwood rolls off his skin, curling around your senses, threatening to root your tongue to the roof of your mouth.

The air between you is rife with tension. So thick, you can cleave through it with your blade. Your king watches you amusedly, and you do everything within your power to resist the bewitching pull of his gaze. The comfort and strength he exudes.

When he speaks, you nearly jump fifty feet out of your skin. His voice is as devastating as his eyes, puddling in your stomach, turning your brain to smog.

“I knew you were there all along. That’s why I didn’t bother opening my eyes. I was merely resting them.”

You scoff despite the anxiety scorching your innards. Closing your eyes, you retort under your breath, though loud enough for him to hear, “Sure, Majesty. You were resting your eyes while snoring with drool running down your chin.”

Your charge releases an indignant sound from the back of his throat, reeling back to touch his face, mortified. Your shoulders shake with your quiet laughter, and you hide the round tug of your lips behind your fist.

“Funny,” he says, and he gives you a look. One he’s used to silence an entire court of hecklers, its sharpness boding danger.

You clear your throat, donning that straight-faced mask you’ve grown so accustomed to wearing. You’re friends—childhood companions—yet you know when to shift from candid to serious.  

Recalling why you were initially sent to fetch him, you stand to full height, brushing the dust off your hands on your thighs before snapping to attention. Your king raises a brow as if sensing something on your mind. 

“At ease,” he orders, his voice devoid of its usual sternness as he leans back against the bench, a long arm draped along the bench’s headrest. 

You get a good look at the veins peering through the cuffed sleeve of his button-up, spilling down his forearm to puddle at the back of his hand. You swallow against the barbs forming in your throat, your mouth growing dry.

“Speak freely.”

You nod, your hands clasped together at the small of your back. “You have a brunch date with the Queen of Universum today, sir.”

He blinks as if this information is news to him before recollection forms between his brows. His Majesty scowls, drumming his fingers on the bench’s rim impatiently. “Of course. Another noble here to throw their daughter at my feet.”

Your shoulders slightly drop at the dejection in his tone. You wish people weren’t so insistent that he take a wife. His father ruled just fine without one following the death of his mother. Still, having been around His Majesty so long, you understand why it’s imperative he marry soon. 

Your shoulder throbs dully, serving as your reminder. 

You try to ignore how the thought of some pretty noble wrapped around his arm makes you bristle, green-eyed feelings stewing in your belly. It would never be you—never could be you. You’re content with being his handler, watching him mutter obscenities over paperwork from your position at his door.

“How does that make you feel?” His Majesty suddenly asks, a teasing edge to his voice.

You blink, caught off guard. “M-Me?”

His chuckle is rich and endearing, and you unconsciously step back when he stands, swaddling you in his warmth and imposing aura. Stuffing a hand into his pocket, he pokes your nose, and you go cross-eyed looking at his slender finger.

“Yes, you. How does it make you feel, knowing that so many women would kill to take my name?”

He’s trying to get a rise out of you. Trying to weasel something out of you you’ve tucked in the deepest regions of your mind. You don’t humor him; instead, you give him a haughty look, your chin defiantly jutting forward. 

“I think anyone willing to marry you is clinically insane.”

He laughs at your brazenness, your teasing, full-bodied and soothing. Dimples crater his cheeks, and the softness washing over his eyes causes a smile to twitch your lips. Without warning, idle fingers scorch your skin through the fabric of your jacket, easing down your arm, past the crook of your elbow, further still…

You’re breathless as His Majesty coaxes a hand from behind your back, and you watch with slightly parted lips and through the wispy sweep of your lashes as he draws it to his mouth. His eyes drill into the hulls of your soul whilst his molten lips brush your knuckles. He kisses them with such tenderness, such reverence, as if you’re an idol forged from glass, meant to be preserved in a museum.

The sound of your pulse pounding like a war drum blots out every bit of noise around. Your throat thickens, tongue bolted to the roof of your mouth. 

“Good morning, by the way,” he drawls as if ensnaring you in a secret, his warm breath ghosting your skin, limber fingers scorching your hand to the bone. 

You snatch away quicker than you mean to. Smooth your palm down your thigh before pinching yourself, studying the blades of grass licking at your boots. You wish you hadn’t caught sight of the fleeting pain in his expression. Wish you hadn’t been the cause of it.

“W-We should get going, sir,” you divert, trying to hide the shakiness of your voice.

He pushes out a weighted breath, stuffing the hand once curled around yours into his opposing pocket. “Lead on, then, dear friend.”

“Right.” With a curt nod, you turn on your heel towards the patchwork of greenery you emerged from.

He follows wordlessly, closely, a towering presence at your back, footfalls weighted in the grass, swallowing up the sound of your smaller ones. Static charges between you, imbued with something potent. You practically feel his eyes boring holes into the space between your shoulder blades.

You try to no avail to quell your thundering heart. To ignore how your knuckles throb where his lips imprinted themselves on the rough stretch of skin. 

You wince, inwardly warring with yourself, praying that His Majesty keeps his hands to himself long enough to get through his meal with the queen. 

You could only dream he would behave.

His Majesty is as infuriating as he is handsome.

masterlist | next >>

[xelinielx]

Even Broken, I Still Love You

The ending of book 7 has just WRECKED me and I wrote some hurt/comfort because I have feelings about my dragon boy. I put a link to the AO3 post as well. I usually never post writing on here but this piece doesn't fit in on my other blog so here it is.

SPOILERS FOR THE END OF BOOK 7

Header by MagicPaint. AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63793984

“Do you think I’m a monster?”

Malleus’ voice was uncharacteristically quiet, tone so low that you had to strain to hear him. The question hung heavy in the air.

He still hadn’t turned to face you, staring out of the small window of the bedroom that he slept in during his stay at S.T.Y.X. There wasn’t much of a view out of the windows besides dark, moving water, so it was clear that Malleus was using the window as an excuse not to look at you.

It was clear just by looking that the overblot had taken an immense toll on him. He looked completely different from his usual self. Not only had his usual dark robes been changed to the S.T.Y.X-themed clothing that test subjects wore, but there was something about the way he held himself that was fundamentally different from before.

The noble dragon fae usually held his head high in a regal posture that was hard for anyone else to replicate, authority and power exuding from his very stance. It was a far cry to the way he was posed currently, hunched over as if trying to make himself seem smaller, trembling fingers clutching onto the windowsill. 

There was also a different aura surrounding him that was different from how his emotions could manipulate the weather around him. It wasn’t the feeling of crackling electric anger, or even the heavy, suffocating pressure drop as rain clouds formed. It was a deep, exhausted sorrow that seemed to weigh the entire room down. 

As Malleus had a collar to monitor his magic usage, the aura was, for once, not physical, yet it somehow felt more tangible than any emotional outburst you had seen from him. More real despite not actually being there.

A few days had passed since the final battle that had marked the end of Malleus’ overblot. When he had been reassured that Lilia was alright, Malleus had been taken by the Ferrymen as well as both Idia and Ortho to S.T.Y.X for monitoring and data-collection. No one had wanted to take the risk of leaving him in a state where he risked a second overblot, so once he had stabilized enough, the Director allowed him to request visitors. 

It had not seemed like a wise decision to keep Malleus cut off from the rest of the world as was S.T.Y.X’s norm since almost losing Lilia was what had brought on the overblot in the first place. Leaving Malleus not knowing how the people he cared about were doing was too high of a risk.

The first visitor that Idia had (begrudgingly) been tasked with delivering to the Isle of Woe was Lilia - to the surprise of no one. Both the Director and Idia had been hesitant to risk putting the strain of travel on Lilia so soon after everything that had happened, but Lilia had been uncaring of the worries and insisted that he had to go. 

Silver and Sebek were still in recovery - where Lilia was also supposed to be - and while Malleus had wished to see both his retainers as well, the Director had put his foot down. It was too dangerous to bring all three over already, so after negotiating, Malleus had agreed to let Sebek and Silver heal for a while longer before he got to see them. 

Lilia had also threatened the director, saying that if he refused to pick him up to go see his ward, Lilia would jump into the water surrounding Sage’s Island and swim until he managed to find the Isle of Woe. 

Besides researchers checking cameras and vitals to make sure both fae were alright, the two of them had been given space to speak alone. Whatever they spoke about was kept between them and S.T.Y.X, but it had involved lots of hugging and tears.

Two days after Lilia’s visit, Ortho had contacted you through your phone, telling you that Malleus had requested your presence at the Isle of Woe, which is where you currently were, staring at his trembling form for the first time since he had been taken in for monitoring. 

Normally, you’d have cracked a smile seeing the fae-prince surrounded by this much technology that he had no idea how to use, but the items in the room were the furthest things away from your mind.

Slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, you walked over to Malleus’ shaking form. With a gentleness that Malleus wasn’t used to feeling, you placed your hand softly atop his. It felt a bit strange at first, feeling his cold skin instead of the gloves he tended to wear, but the feeling of strangeness quickly disappeared. 

A pair of wide, emerald-green eyes stared down at where your hand rested on top of his, filled with an unspoken question.

Why?

For a moment, the two of you stood still in silence as you searched for the right words. Eventually, you took a calming breath and spoke up, voice soft and calming.

“Mal,” you began, using an affectionate nickname to hopefully help him relax.

His breath hitched for a moment, surprise evident. 

“I understand why you used your ultimate magic. Why the circumstances caused you to overblot. You wanted to protect the people that were precious to you and keep them from harm, protecting both them and yourself from getting hurt.”

A single tear ran down Malleus’ cheek as he finally turned to fully face you, leaving a wet track across his porcelain skin. He still refused to meet your eyes, scared of what he would see reflected in them.

“You had good intentions. There is nothing evil about wanting to keep your loved ones safe. If I had been in your position, I think that I would have overblotted too,” you admitted quietly, giving Malleus a small, weak smile. “So there is no way that I can possibly blame you for making the same choices I would have if I were you.”

In a silent plea, Malleus turned his hand around to face palm-up. You responded by lacing your fingers together with his, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Please look at me?” you asked in a small, yet hopeful voice.

Slowly, Malleus’ green eyes moved from your intertwined hands up your arm, then neck, where they paused briefly before finally meeting yours. 

The hate and anger he had expected to see was nowhere to be seen. He could see his reflection, and was unable to determine whether the sadness he saw came from you or himself.   

You lifted your free hand to his face, letting it gently rest against his cheek. Your thumb moved to brush another tear away. 

“Malleus Draconia,” you said, staring deep into his eyes.

“You are not a monster.”

Those words seemed to snap whatever makeshift dam he had constructed to keep his emotions at bay, shattering it completely. 

Malleus began to cry. Tears flowed down his cheeks and sobs tore their way out of his heaving chest as he finally let go of control and allowed his emotions to run free. 

Unable to stand up anymore, Malleus fell to his knees on the floor, burying his face against your stomach as he cried. His arms wrapped around you tightly as if you were the only thing keeping him upright. He held you like he would collapse if there was even as much as a millimetre of space between the two of you.

His devastating sobs and the desperate way he clung to you broke your heart. You wasted no time sinking down to kneel in front of the dragon fae so that you could properly return his full embrace. 

Tears soaked your shirt as Malleus clung to you so desperately that it felt like you would bruise or your clothes would tear from his strength at any moment. That didn’t matter, though. Bruises didn’t matter. Clothes didn’t matter. S.T.Y.X didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered in that moment but the sobbing fae in your arms.

Malleus sobbed out apologies in between cries, and you did your best to calm him, whispering reassurances as you alternated between rubbing his back and petting his head gingerly, being extra mindful of his horns.

At some point, you ran out of new things to say, defaulting to a reassuring ‘it’s okay’ as you held him. Hopefully, he would feel better after letting it all out. You weren’t going anywhere.

It could have been anything from mere minutes to several hours, but eventually, Malleus’ sobs began to die down to sniffles.

He lifted his head from where he had buried it against your shoulder, glancing up to meet your eyes with his red-rimmed, puffy ones.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking. “For everything. All the people I hurt. The things I-” 

Fresh tears spilled past his lash line, and you didn’t hesitate to cup his face in your hands, brushing them away as they fell. Malleus leaned into the warmth of your palms, seeking the reassurance your touch held. 

“You don’t need to apologize, Mal,” you whispered, smiling at him. “Not to me. Never to me.” 

Leaning forward, you pressed a featherlight kiss against the scale on his forehead which peeked out from between tousled locks of hair. 

“There was nothing unforgivable about what you did. The people who were hurt are recovering, the school is being rebuilt, and everyone is safe.” 

Malleus’ breath hitched. Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes and across his long lashes like tiny diamonds. 

“Aren’t you afraid?” he asked, voice still quiet and trembling. The ‘of me’ was left unsaid, but you knew it was there. 

Your immediate smile was all the reassurance Malleus needed, but you still decided to verbally reassure him as well.

“I could never be afraid of you, Mal.”

The relief Malleus felt was palpable as he finally relaxed, shoulders dropping from their tense position as he leaned his weight into you. 

His head shifted to press a pointed ear against your chest, listening to the steady and even thumps of your heartbeat.

To better support the body weight of the dragon fae, you shifted your sitting position so that you could lean your back against the wall. You refused to let Malleus get up so you could move, holding him close and carding your fingers through his hair with soft, comforting motions. 

“But I saw…” Malleus’ voice cracked. “When my horn broke, I saw the look in your eyes. You looked terrified.” The last part of the sentence was a mere whisper, but the close proximity between the two of you made you able to pick it up. 

“I was scared, yes,” you began, feeling something in your chest ache as you felt the powerful mage in your arms flinch. “But not of you.”

Malleus tilted his head to meet your eyes, brows furrowed in confusion. 

You let out an airy laugh, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “I was afraid for you. Afraid that you would have to be killed to stop your overblot. Afraid that I would never get to hold you like this again.”

You could feel tears brimming in your own eyes as you poured your heart out. “Mal, I love you. Nothing you have done or will do could ever change that.” 

Cold lips pressed against yours with a soft reverence. The kiss was slow, unhurried as the two of you conveyed a thousand words between each other in a silent, intimate moment. 

When you pulled apart, Malleus rested his forehead against yours, the cold of his forehead scale comforting. “You wish to stay by my side still?” he asked, knowing the answer deep down, yet still fearful he would be mistaken.

“Always.”

“Even if I look like this now?” he urged, leaning away far enough to do a sweeping motion towards his face and now uneven, damaged horns. “Even if-”

You cut him off with another kiss, this time more demanding than the prior. You tried pouring all your love into the kiss, trying to clear the insecure thoughts from Malleus’ mind. Taking the opportunity provided by Malleus as he had leaned away before, you climb into his lap, making yourself comfortable. 

Pulling away from the kiss, you cradled his face gently but firmly in both hands, making sure he couldn’t look away from you.

“Malleus, if you think something as insignificant as you looking different is enough to take me away from your side, you are far from correct.” You let your left hand travel up his face until it was gently tracing the base of his broken horn. 

“You could have four horns, eight and a half horns, or no horns at all, and it would still have no impact at all on my feelings for you.” 

Carefully, you gently ran the pads of your fingers over the broken part of the horn where it had snapped off. Malleus shuddered beneath you as your touch danced across his exposed, extra sensitive nerves.

“I love you because you are you. Not because you’re a Draconia, or a powerful fae. None of that matters.” Your hand returned to cradling his face once more. 

“Of course, having a strong, handsome partner is a bonus,” you added with a giggle, delighting in the small, pale blush that crept across Malleus’ cheeks.

“But I’m not with you because of those things. I’m with you because of all the things that make you you. The care that you show for me and those you care about, how fireflies follow you at night and circle our clasped hands. The cute way you pout when Sebek mixes up gargoyles and grotesques, itching to correct him. The childlike wonder you show to every new thing you learn…”

You take a breath, wishing in vain for your voice to stay strong, but failing miserably.

“- the way that all you’ve ever wanted is for people to see you for who you are, and be able to be yourself, unburdened by expectations and prejudices.”

Tears were flowing down your cheeks now, making you feel embarrassed. Right now, you needed to be the strong one supporting Malleus - not the other way around. 

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you placed your hand against his chest, right above his heart.

“I see you.” 

A relieved, genuine smile - the first one you’d seen since the overblot - stretched across Malleus’ lips. He leaned into the touch of your palm, eyes shining with both residual tears and adoration. 

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” he asked.

You immediately shook your head in outrage. “What do you mean deserve? You silly, silly dragon. You didn’t have to do anything at all but exist.” 

Letting out a sound that was something halfway between a laugh and a sob, you continued as Malleus’ arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close. 

“If anything, I’m the one undeserving of you.” 

His mouth fell open in shock, about to cut you off, but you forced yourself to continue, undeterred.

“You’re the prince of Briar Valley. Not only do you have magic, but you’re one of the most powerful mages in the whole world! And the most ethereal, gorgeous person I have ever seen. I’m a nobody compared to you. A magicless human from another world with nothing really special about me. My life is so much shorter than yours, and I-”

This time, Malleus refused to let you continue and cut you off. A slender finger pressed against your lips as he let out a dry laugh. “My love, do you hear yourself? You are bringing up all the things you said didn’t keep you from loving me to put yourself down. Just as these things don’t matter to you, it is the same way for me. I did not fall in love with you because you’re a human or because it would benefit Briar Valley. I would renounce my claim on the throne in a heartbeat for you.”

Malleus cupped your cheek, mirroring your own earlier actions. 

“I fell in love with the first person outside of my country who truly saw me for myself, was undeterred by how awkwardly I engage in conversation, and extended invitations to me - being the first person to see me as a choice, someone they wanted to be around. You have never looked upon me with the fearful gaze of a subject kneeling before me, and have never made me feel excluded in any way due to being a prince.” 

He let out a laugh, gazing fondly up at you. “Any and every day with you is an adventure. No matter where you take me, what we do together, or what people around us whisper about, it’s the fact that I’m doing it with you that makes it special.”

“Even though I laughed at you when you were startled and jerked back when they were popping popcorn at a market stall and me and Silver had to fight to keep Sebek from drawing his sword at the poor owner of the stall?” 

Malleus let out a loud burst of laughter. “Moments like those are my favorite. Spending time with people I care about, and learning new things while not a single thought about my royal lineage crosses my mind.” 

Falling quiet for a moment, Malleus seemed to ponder something. With a resolute nod to himself, he resumes speaking. 

“Like you said, I am aware that the differing length of our respective lifespans is a source of conflict and worry. I do not wish to ever lose you. You saw what happened when I was afraid I would lose Lilia…” he trailed off for a moment, but quickly collected himself.

“Even though that is a fear I harbor, I do not wish to give up on loving you. If you are willing to stay with me despite all that I’ve done, we have many years to find a solution… and…” Malleus took a deep breath, meeting your gaze again, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. 

“...and should we not find a solution, then so be it. I would much rather have lived a life with you in it and then lose you than never having had you in my life at all.” 

Terrified of loss and sadness, and knowing the potential consequences of that, he still wanted nothing more than to spend as many years as possible at your side. A century is a short time for a fae, yet even if that is all the time with you that he gets, he is certain that it will be the most memorable and most valuable hundred years he ever lives.

“You ass,” you choked out with a laugh, wiping your nose with the sleeve of your shirt. “I’m the one supposed to be sappy and reassure you - not the other way around.” There was no mirth or anger in your eyes, and the remark was playful, attempting to lighten the mood. 

Malleus let out a chuckle, chest rumbling. “Who is to say that I am not supposed to be the so-called ‘sappy’ one?” he asked, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. “You are truly precious to me, and I cannot in any amount of words in any language properly convey just how much you mean to me.” 

He fell silent once more, peeking up at you through his lashes. “Are you truly certain that you wish to be with me after all this?” 

There was no need to pause and think. You already knew your answer and had known it for a long time now.

“There is no place I would rather be.” 

Eventually, the pair of you fell asleep cuddled together on the floor, clutching each other tightly as if fearing that the other would disappear otherwise. Your head rested on Malleus’ chest, lulled to sleep by the soft, rumbling purrs he let out as he slept curled around you like a dragon guarding its hoard.

And for the first time since the overblot, neither of you worried about what you would find in your dreams, content to exist in the perfect reality that could only be found in the other’s arms.

[sylusonychinus]

Its okay if you forget me

Pairings: Sylus x reader and Sylus x MC (from the game)

Warnings: Angst

Part 2

"Is it really okay if you are forgotten?" The question echoed in your mind, a constant, gnawing ache. Sylus' attention, once a steady beam focused on you, now danced erratically, drawn inexorably to her. Miss Huntress. The name tasted like ash on your tongue.

You were his right hand, his confidante. Not just one of the twins, but you. You were the Sheva to his Chris Redfield, always there, anticipating his needs, covering his blind spots, a silent force beside him. You’d weathered gang wars, navigated treacherous alliances, even patched him up after particularly brutal brawls. You were his rock, his anchor. Or so you thought.

Then she arrived. Miss Huntress. A whirlwind of vibrant chaos, she’d breached the walls you’d so meticulously helped build around him. Walls that only you had ever been allowed to breach. The only other person, aside from you, he let his guard down for. The realization stung more than any physical blow.

These days, his routine was dictated by her whims. A call, a text, and he’d be gone, rushing to her side, leaving you to shoulder the burden of his responsibilities. "Handle it," he'd say, his voice already distant, his mind clearly elsewhere. "It's just paperwork." Just paperwork. As if the intricate web of Onychinus's operations was "just paperwork."

You watched him, a silent observer, as he showered her with attention, with a tenderness he rarely displayed in public, a tenderness he’d once reserved for you. The stolen glances, the shared jokes, the way his eyes lit up when she entered a room – it was a constant, agonizing reminder of your diminishing importance. Are you always going to be the second choice? The question clawed at your insides, a relentless torment.

One particularly brutal week, it became too much. Sylus had been summoned to her side yet again, leaving you to deal with a volatile situation involving a rival gang encroaching on Onychinus territory. You’d worked tirelessly, negotiating, threatening, strategizing, until exhaustion gnawed at your bones. You’d finally managed to secure a fragile truce, a victory hard-won.

You found him later, at one of their usual haunts, a dimly lit bar in the neutral zone. He was laughing, his arm draped casually around her shoulders. She was regaling him with a story, her eyes sparkling, and he was completely engrossed. You stood there, unnoticed for a moment, the weight of your exhaustion and the crushing weight of your insignificance pressing down on you.

You turned and walked away.

No dramatic scene, no tearful confrontation. Just a quiet retreat. You went back to your apartment, packed a bag, and left. No note, no goodbye. Just an empty space, mirroring the emptiness inside you. After all, she was his kitten now. He wouldn’t even notice you were gone. You were just…forgotten. And maybe, just maybe, that was the only way to stop the pain.

@/cafekitsune for dividers

[gpcwsl]

I know this is a throwback but I was wondering if you could do Alessia x royal!R (Swedish) and she scores THAT back heel goal? I think it’d be funny to see royal!R react to it and “threatening” Less with revoking her honorary citizenship for knocking Sweden out of the Euros

Alessia Russo x SwedenRoyal!Reader

slip note

WC: 908

MasterList

Warnings: Emotional tension and building attraction between characters, Possible romantic interest with a figure of royalty (Princess Y/n Y/l/n), Intimate, private communication (note with phone number exchange), Public attention and curiosity from teammates, Feelings of hesitation and uncertainty about the developing relationship, Pressures of balancing professional life with personal connections, short?

Song: Back to you - Selena Gomez

It was a warm, electrifying evening in England, and the stadium was buzzing with excitement as the semi-finals of the 2022 UEFA Women’s Euro Championship came to a thrilling close. England had just secured a remarkable 4-0 victory over Sweden, with Alessia Russo’s iconic backheel goal at the 68th minute being the standout moment of the match. The crowd roared in unison, and her teammates surrounded her, celebrating the well-earned win.

As the match ended, and the England team made their way off the pitch, Alessia found herself surrounded by teammates, still riding the high of their victory. But her eyes were drawn to a familiar figure approaching the pitch—Princess Y/n, making her way down the steps to shake hands with the players.

But amidst the celebration and the noise, Alessia’s gaze briefly wandered toward the royal box. There, watching the game with an air of grace and poise, was Princess Y/n Y/l/n, a Swedish royal. Alessia couldn’t help but notice the way the princess’s eyes followed the game with a mixture of passion and pride, even as her country’s team faced the crushing defeat. There was something captivating about her, something Alessia couldn’t quite put her finger on. She quickly shook the thought away, focusing on the triumph in front of her.

Alessia felt a slight flutter in her chest as the princess came closer, her regal presence commanding attention. Y/n moved gracefully, exchanging words with each of the players, until finally, she reached Alessia. The English striker, trying to hide her nerves, smiled warmly as she extended her hand to the princess.

“Congratulations, Alessia,” Y/n said, her voice laced with a soft, Swedish accent. “You and your team played incredibly well today.”

Alessia shook her hand, a bit starstruck. “Thank you, Your Highness. It was a great game for all of us.”

Y/n’s smile widened, and her eyes twinkled with a playful glint. “Though, I must warn you, knocking Sweden out of the Euros might result in the revocation of your honorary Swedish citizenship,” she teased, her tone light but with a hint of mischief.

Alessia laughed, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Oh no, I’ll have to make up for that somehow,” she joked back. “Maybe a visit to Sweden is in order?”

“Perhaps,” Y/n replied, her gaze lingering on Alessia for a moment longer than usual. “But it’s not over yet, you know.”

Alessia nodded, feeling a spark between them—something that went beyond just the competition.

Before Y/n walked away, she leaned in and, with a subtle move, slipped a small note into Alessia’s hand. Alessia blinked, surprised, but before she could react, Y/n had already turned and joined the rest of the royal party. The note burned a hole in her hand as she stared at it, unsure of what had just happened.

Once back in the changing room, Alessia’s teammates were still buzzing with excitement, but a different kind of energy filled the air as they noticed the small note in Alessia’s hand.

“Come on, open it!” Millie urged, her eyes glinting with curiosity.

“Yeah, what’s the royal message?” Lucy teased, her tone full of playful suspicion.

Alessia hesitated, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. “It’s nothing,” she muttered, trying to play it cool.

But the team wasn’t having it. “Let us see!” Jess chimed in, trying to snatch the note from her hand.

Alessia was quick to hide it, slipping it under her jersey and away from their prying hands. She felt oddly protective of it, as if it was something precious.

Finally, after a moment of peace, Alessia carefully unfolded the note, her heart racing with anticipation. The words were simple, yet they sent a rush of excitement through her:

“I’ve never been one to enjoy competition, but watching you on the pitch today was a real pleasure. If you’re interested, I would love to get to know you better. Here’s my number: ********** - Y/N Y/L/N.”

Alessia blinked, reading the message again to make sure it wasn’t just her imagination. Her fingers trembled as she tucked the note into her pocket, her thoughts racing. Princess Y/n had left her phone number. Was she asking her out?

Before she could overthink it, her teammates were still circling around her, begging her to read the note out loud. Alessia’s heart hammered in her chest, and she decided to keep it to herself. She didn’t want to share this moment with anyone—not yet, at least.

As the team celebrated their victory, Alessia remained a little quieter, her mind swirling with thoughts of the princess. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was brewing between them—something beyond the pitch, beyond the competition. The note, simple as it was, had given her a glimpse into something that could be more.

Her teammates, ever observant, noticed the slight blush on Alessia’s cheeks and the way her gaze kept drifting back to the pocket where she had hidden the note. “You’re not fooling anyone, Russo,” Millie teased, winking at her.

Alessia smiled but didn’t say a word, the note still burning a hole in her pocket. As the night went on, and the celebrations continued, all she could think about was Princess Y/n Y/l/n and what could come of this unexpected connection.

The game may have ended with England victorious, but for Alessia, the real match had only just begun.

[bumblesimagines]

The Sky's Empty

Request: Yes or No

Pronouns: She/Her/Hers, F!Reader

Summary: Nobody understands Queen Helaena, absolutely nobody. She's always been the odd little girl who whispers senseless things. Nobody understands her. Nobody heeds her warnings. Nobody comforts her.... except for her loyal lady in waiting.

CW/TW: Spoilers for S2, death of a child, a mother in grief, Criston Cole, could be read as platonic or romantic written with a secret romance in mind tho

Heyyyy I promise I'll do a fluffy Helaena thing soon! This is for my beautiful girl kissers who love angst.

~~~

Another prince was dead. 

(Y/N) could hardly comprehend it, could hardly believe the news she'd woken up to earlier than usual when the castle had abruptly come to life in swift panic before the sun had even begun to rise. Her maids had flocked to her bedchambers as quickly as their nimble feet could take them and woken her up with pale faces and wide eyes. 

"They killed the prince," One told her, spinning around to retrieve the clothes (Y/N) would be wearing for the day while the woman in question stared groggily after her, left to sleepily turn to the other maid and furrow her brows in question. The other one sniffled, hardly containing the tears before they spilled from her eyes. "The Queen's son, My Lady! Prince Jaehaerys!"

At her words, (Y/N) had gone rigid with shock, mouth falling open and a wave of dread crashing into her like a cold wave eager to drown her in its depths. Her hands flew to her mouth, her eyes widening until they were no doubt almost bulging from her head. Helaena... Helaena. She'd thrown the covers from her body and flew out of bed, her maids quickly springing into action to dress her and pull her hair back into a regal style befitting of a lady. 

Access to the floor where the royal family slept had been restricted until the guards managed to capture one of the men involved but Dowager Queen Alicent and Otto had granted her permission to pass. 

So, there she went, the front of her dress lifted slightly so she could speed through the halls and staircases in the direction of Helaena's bedchambers. Servants and guards stepped swiftly out of her way and dipped their heads in respect as she flew past them until she reached the doorway leading into the twin's bedchambers and stepped inside.

"Oh, Gods," She exhaled shakily and pressed a hand to her chest at the sight of the bloodstained sheets. Decapitated, she'd heard. Decapitated in front of his mother. Little troublemaking Jaehaerys who loved laughing and playing and getting up to no good with his father. (Y/N) inhaled deeply and squeezed her eyes shut, forcing her body to calm itself and her heart to slow back down to a regular pace.

She swallowed and opened her eyes again, scanning the room until they landed on Helaena. "Oh, my dear Helaena." (Y/N) whispered, placing her fingers over her lips, refusing to let the tears fall yet. Helaena needed her. She needed her. (Y/N) swallowed down the bile threatening to rise and looked back toward the servants stripping the bed and mattress. 

"I need you to move quicker." She told them icily and their movements quickened, hands fumbling and eyes frantically glancing in her direction. She watched them through narrowed eyes until they stumbled out of the bedroom and disappeared down the hall, forcing her attention to the guard standing by the door. Cole. Her shoulders squared and she strode toward him. 

"My Lady," Ser Criston greeted forcibly, his eyes dancing between the partly taken apart bed and her face. 

"Get out." 

"I-"

"Get out." (Y/N) hissed, her hand flying out to grasp the collar of his chest plate and tug him closer to her. His eyes flashed with surprise and a hint of fear, his body going rigid beneath his armor. She leaned in to angrily whisper without Helaena hearing, "Do not pretend to be doing your job when you're simply here to rid yourself of guilt, Cole. A child died because of your failure. If it were up to me, you'd be stripped of your position and cloak, now, go. Nobody wishes to lay eyes on your face today, Ser." 

Releasing him with a forceful shove, (Y/N) watched him stagger back and out of the doorway before she grasped the door and closed it in his face. She summoned all her anger and annoyance and forced it out in a long exhale, her fingers reaching down to grasp the skirt of her dress and raise it as she turned back around and approached the sorrowful mother. 

"My darling," She cooed softly. Helaena barely looked like herself anymore. Her hair remained messy and unattended, her eyes red and marked with lack of sleep, her lips cracked and bitten from anxious nibbling. (Y/N)'s heart twisted at the sight of it. 

"My boy... they wanted the boy... it was always going to be the boy... my boy," Helaena whispered, her eyes shining with unshed tears and cheeks stained with the ones she'd already shed. She sobbed and gasped, nearly collapsing over the table containing the children's toys. (Y/N) quickly stepped toward her and wrapped a delicate arm around her, the other one nudging Helaena's face into the crook of her neck. "They took him... they took him, they took my boy, my only boy."

"I know, sweetheart, I know. I'm here now, Helaena. I'm here. I will not leave your side, sweet darling, I will not. I promise." (Y/N) reassured, feeling Helaena's full weight lean into her as the mother slumped in her arms and sobbed into her shoulder. (Y/N) carefully lowered herself onto the floor, taking Helaena with her and cradling the weeping girl. She carefully began rocking side to side, whispering comforts and reassuring sentiments. 

Helaena sniffled. "They... they wish to show his body to everyone..." She hiccuped and buried her face further in (Y/N)'s shoulder, staining the fabric of her dress with tears. Her arms wrapped loosely around her, seeking out every bit of comfort she could find through her crying. (Y/N) squeezed her eyes shut again, running her fingertips along Helaena's hair and scalp. Heartless fools the lot of them; too caught up in a war they began to care for anything else. 

"I'm so sorry, Helaena. I'm sorry, my darling." (Y/N) continued to stroke her hair until her weeping subsided for the moment, leaving Helaena to nuzzle her cheek into (Y/N) shoulder and sigh shakily, occasional sniffles leaving her. (Y/N) stared at the bedframe of Jaehaerys bed, all too fond memories of helping Helaena get the twins down for the night flickering through her mind. Poor, sweet boy. A child brutally killed and for what? Revenge? Coin? 

The door creaked open and a maid peeked in, her lips parting to speak but the scathing glare (Y/N) sent her way had her shutting the door again. (Y/N) slid her hand down to Helaena's hair to gently take her shoulders, carefully pushing her back slightly and cupping her wet cheek. "Come, my dear. We must get you dressed. I will attend to you, alright?" 

Managing to coax Helaena onto her feet, she led the girl to her bedchamber and dismissed the maids. She helped Helaena dress in a gown fitting for a funeral and combed her hair, ensuring to give her encouragement and words of comfort throughout while her experienced fingers braided strands back into a bun. Helaena stared blankly at her lap so (Y/N) carefully took her hands and brought her attention up to her face. 

"Helaena," She began, "You are no longer a princess bound to do whatever your mother and grandsire wish of you. You are the Queen of Westeros. You must speak with your husband. Aegon may be... volatile and unpredictable but I highly doubt this is how he wishes your boy to be remembered. You must tell him. His word is final. Not your mother's or Otto's or anyone on the council. His. You are his wife. Speak to him. Do not allow them to parade Prince Jaehaerys to be gawked by those who never knew nor cared for him."

[earthlybeam]

Elves how they would react to finding you (reader) asleep in unusual or unexpected places.

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Thranduil, Elrond, Glorfindel, Celeborn Version below.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The grand doors of the throne room swung open with a low groan, pushed apart by two silent elven guards who bowed as their king strode past them. Thranduil, the Elvenking of Mirkwood, entered with the unhurried grace of one who knew the world would wait for him. The faint, almost musical sound of his boots against the stone floor resonated softly in the stillness of the hall. His platinum blonde hair, fine as silken threads of moonlight, cascaded over his shoulders, catching the warm glow of the enchanted lanterns that lined the room. His robes, a rich blend of forest-green and gold, billowed behind him like the rippling of leaves caught in a gentle breeze. The delicate embroidery of vines and leaves that adorned the fabric shimmered faintly, as if alive with magic. With one hand, Thranduil lightly adjusted the cuffs of his sleeve, the motion precise, as though even the smallest detail of his appearance had to be impeccable. There had been much on his mind before his arrival. He had spent the morning in quiet reflection, walking alone among the ancient trees of his woodland realm. The whispers of the forest were as familiar to him as the beating of his own heart, and they had provided him with much-needed solace after a morning of deliberations with his advisors. Now, with his thoughts ordered and his patience carefully restored, he returned to his throne room, seeking the tranquility of its familiar grandeur. Yet, as his sharp gaze swept the room—taking in the towering carved columns that reached like ancient oaks toward the vaulted ceiling, the intricate tapestries depicting the history of his people, and the soft, ethereal glow that bathed the space—he froze. For there, sprawled across his throne as though it were the most natural thing in the world, was you.

For a heartbeat, Thranduil did not move. His steps halted mid-stride, his long fingers still resting lightly on the folds of his robes. His gaze sharpened, narrowing as it landed on your insolent, audacious form, draped across his grand seat as though it were a mere lounge chair. One leg was hooked lazily over an armrest, the other dangling precariously off the edge, while your head lolled back in serene, unbothered slumber. The sight might have been offensive had it not been so utterly absurd. One elegant brow arched high on his otherwise stoic face, betraying a mixture of disbelief and amusement. The audacity! It was as if you had declared yourself ruler of Mirkwood in his absence. Yet, as he studied the scene further, his lips twitched ever so slightly, threatening a smirk. Your utter shamelessness reminded him of a lounging house cat, basking in stolen luxury, oblivious to its impertinence. He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the ridiculousness of it all. Then, slowly, he strode forward, his boots clicking faintly against the stone floor.

“You remind me,” he began, his voice low and smooth, “of a pampered house cat who saunters about as though it owns the palace.” His words echoed in the empty hall, the quiet humor lacing his tone unmistakable. His lips curved into a subtle smirk as he came to a halt beside the throne, his piercing gaze fixed firmly on your slumbering form. “For your information, this throne is mine. And it is hardly meant for lounging.” When you failed to stir at his entrance, Thranduil’s lips curled into a faint half-smile, a sigh slipping from him, heavy with a mixture of exasperation and a subtle amusement. His gaze lingered on the sight before him: you, sprawled across his throne as though it were your own personal sanctuary. One arm dangled loosely over the armrest, fingers lightly brushing the ornate wood, and your head tipped back in a peaceful, untroubled slumber. Your leg rested lazily across the opposite armrest, its casual placement a quiet defiance of the regal seat you occupied. The sheer audacity of your relaxed position, so out of place in this grand hall, sparked a glimmer of bemusement in his sharp eyes. For a long moment, Thranduil simply stood still, watching you with quiet fascination. His gaze softened ever so slightly, amusement mingling with something warmer, a rare tenderness that stirred beneath his usual cool demeanor. Was it affection? Or perhaps just the odd comfort of seeing such a carefree display in a room so often filled with the formalities of his rule? It was a rare sight indeed, and one he found oddly captivating.

But his patience was not without limit, and despite the lightness of the moment, curiosity began to win out. He had to know whether you would acknowledge his presence at all. With a fluid, controlled motion, he took a single step closer to you. His long, elegant fingers reached out, not tapping on the armrest, but gently nudging your foot with a soft push. The touch was deliberate, light, yet firm enough to break the stillness between you. His eyes, though, never left you as he waited, his expression a careful blend of mock severity and quiet amusement. The nudge barely disturbed your slumber. Instead, you shifted in place, murmuring unintelligible words as your body lazily adjusted, seemingly trying to block out whatever dared to interrupt your peaceful rest. A barely audible grumble left your lips, muffled by the soft cushions of the throne, as you pulled your leg back slightly and mumbled, “Five more minutes…” The words were thick with sleep, and there was a childlike petulance to them, as if the world could simply pause until you were ready to face it. Thranduil’s eyes softened as he watched the fleeting defiance, his lips quirked in a smirk at your quiet refusal to acknowledge the presence of your king. You had claimed his throne as your own, and now you dared to dismiss him with nothing more than a sleepy demand for time.

Thranduil stilled, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and bemusement. Five more minutes? His mind barely processed the words, his sharp gaze flicking over your relaxed form sprawled across his throne. He was the King of Mirkwood, a lord of the Eldar, a figure of ancient authority, and here you were—ignoring him, dismissing him as though he were some doting servant instead of one of the most formidable beings in Middle-earth. The audacity of it had his heart stirring with a sharp mixture of irritation and humor. He exhaled a long, dramatic sigh, one that might have seemed irritated to anyone else, but the gleam in his eyes gave him away. He was far too amused to be genuinely angry. With the elegance of someone utterly accustomed to being obeyed, Thranduil bent at the waist, his long fingers reaching out effortlessly. Before you could even react, he swept you into his arms, lifting you as though you weighed nothing. The sudden motion jolted you from your slumber, and your body stirred instinctively. Your eyes fluttered open, and for a brief moment, they were wide and confused, the sleep still thick in your gaze. Your expression distorted in surprise, your mind struggling to comprehend the change in position. Thranduil’s piercing eyes met yours as your grogginess collided with the bewildering reality of being cradled in his arms, and for a heartbeat, you looked at him as if you weren’t quite sure what was happening.

“What—?” The question slipped from your lips, still half-formed and lost in the haze of sleep. His voice, smooth as velvet, cut through your dazed state. “You’ve claimed my throne,” he murmured, his tone rich with regal mockery as he settled back onto the seat with effortless grace, pulling you gently onto his lap. His words carried a quiet authority, though there was an unmistakable glint of amusement beneath the surface. “I shall claim you in turn.” You grumbled faintly, still too drowsy to put up much of a protest. You tried to return to your comfortable position, your voice muffled as you snuggled closer to him, “Mmm… It’s not what it looks like… just… borrowing it for a moment… keeping it warm for you…” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep. Thranduil’s lips quirked at your half-hearted protest, the subtle humor in your words only deepening his amusement. He arched a brow and, with a small, knowing smile, leaned in just slightly, his voice low and filled with mock curiosity. “Keeping it warm for me?” His tone was playful, laced with a hint of his usual regal authority, though it softened as his gaze lingered on you. He chuckled under his breath, the sound rich and melodic. With a smooth, practiced motion, he adjusted you more comfortably in his arms, settling you further into his lap. Your body shifted against him, your head now nestled in the crook of his shoulder. Thranduil’s long fingers grazed your cheek as he swept aside a few errant strands of hair, his touch so gentle it contrasted sharply with his commanding presence. The softness of his actions was a quiet reminder of the affection that lingered beneath his often-imposing demeanor.

His fingers traced the curve of your face, moving with a tender precision that made his touch feel like something intimate, something meant only for you. “Such gratitude,” he murmured teasingly, his voice a soft purr that vibrated through the air. “I should expect you to purr, yet instead, I receive grumbles. Perhaps I’ve spoiled you too much.” You made a small, unintelligible noise in response, your protests a mere murmur beneath the weight of sleep. It was enough to make him chuckle softly again, the sound warm and deep. His lips curled into a small smile as he leaned back in the throne, the high back of it supporting him as he gazed down at you with that characteristic mix of amusement and tenderness. His fingers continued their soothing path along your shoulder, then down your back, the slow rhythm of his touch a balm against the weight of the world. Though his eyes sparkled with mirth, there was a gentleness in the way he held you, as though he were savoring the rare quiet between you, a moment of peace in the otherwise ever-demanding life of a king. He was content to let you rest, for now, the world outside could wait.

For Thranduil, this moment was an odd mixture of exasperation and contentment. He wasn’t used to such… informality. Such audacity. Yet here you were, completely unbothered, utterly unafraid in his presence. You had dared to fall asleep in his throne as if it were a mere chair, and while he might have been expected to take offense, there was something about it—something about the ease with which you claimed his space—that he found… endearing. As your warmth pressed gently against his chest, a soft shift in your position, Thranduil’s gaze softened. He tilted his head back ever so slightly, allowing the weight of centuries and responsibility to ease, if only for a fleeting moment. He glanced across the hall, where the flickering light of enchanted lanterns danced across the stone, and for a brief second, the usual burden of ruling seemed to lighten. The quiet of the throne room, usually heavy and full of formality, felt oddly peaceful with only the sound of your soft breathing breaking the silence. With a tender shift, he rested his chin lightly atop your head, the position oddly comforting, as though you had both created a small, shared sanctuary within the vast emptiness of the hall. His voice lowered to a soft murmur, just above a whisper, words meant only for the stone walls to hear. “You are a maddening creature, Mellon nîn,” he said, his tone rich with affection and something unspoken, “But perhaps, that is why I let you stay.” For a king who had long ruled alone, the quiet intimacy between you both felt surprisingly welcome, even amidst the rare silence of his throne room.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

Lord Elrond sat at his desk, his eyes scanning the carefully arranged scrolls before him. The study was bathed in the soft, golden light of the afternoon, casting long shadows across the room as the quiet rustle of parchment filled the air. His fingers moved with practiced precision, lifting one scroll after another, sifting through the ancient texts with an air of quiet determination. There were few things that could pull him away from the depths of his work, and the passing hours had done little to diminish his focus. His thoughts, sharp as ever, were entirely absorbed in the task at hand, yet beneath the surface, a sense of something else stirred—a lingering awareness of the presence nearby, one that never failed to bring a sense of calm to his soul.

As his hand reached out for another scroll, his fingers brushed against the edges, but the parchment slipped from his grasp. He watched it roll from the desk and tumble to the floor with a soft thud. Elrond’s attention flickered briefly, his mind momentarily distracted as his gaze followed the parchment’s descent. A small sigh escaped his lips as he leaned back in his chair, the weight of his focus lightened for just a moment. He remained still for a beat, letting his eyes briefly drift over the papers, before deciding to rise and retrieve the wayward scroll. As he moved toward the fallen parchment, something unexpected caught his eye. Beneath the edge of the desk, tucked into the shadowed corner of the room, lay the form of his friend. There, sound asleep, was you. The sight of you, so peacefully curled in such an unorthodox position, brought a fleeting smile to Elrond’s usually composed face. The sight was endearing, unexpected, and far more charming than he would ever let on. Your legs were tucked up toward your chest, your head resting on your arm with your face hidden in the curve of your sleeve, hair spilling around you like a silken cascade. One hand was curled beneath your cheek, your other arm loosely draped over your body, as though you had simply fallen into a moment of comfort and rest, right there in the quiet of his study.

For a moment, Elrond simply stood there, his usual serene expression softening as a faint flicker of amusement danced behind his dark eyes. His lips, so often set in a stern line, tugged ever so slightly at the corners, the rarest of smiles—small, soft, and fleeting—curving his mouth. It was not the first time you had fallen asleep near him, but there was something about the sight of you curled beneath his desk, so utterly unaware of the world around you, that stirred a tenderness he seldom allowed himself to feel. Elrond’s hand hovered for a moment, resting on the edge of the desk as he studied you with quiet affection. Your rhythmic breathing, the way your chest gently rose and fell, was a gentle reminder of the peace you brought to his heart. The sight of you here, in this place so close to him, softened the edges of his usually meticulous and composed demeanor, a warmth filling him that not even centuries of experience could shield him from. A chuckle stirred in the back of his throat—quiet, almost imperceptible—but one that could not be contained. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to indulge in this rare bit of levity, marveling at how effortlessly you had slipped into his world, leaving traces of warmth and comfort wherever you went. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, rare and soft, though it remained, for a moment, hidden beneath the seriousness of his expression. It was only when the scrolls and papers on his desk seemed to pull him back to the present that Elrond decided to bring you from your peaceful slumber.

He couldn’t help but be struck by the sight—the way you appeared so content, utterly unaware of the world around you, lost in the quiet sanctuary of sleep. His heart warmed at the sight, even as he felt a playful glimmer stir within him. Quietly, he reached for a thick book resting on his desk, its weight reassuring in his hands. He dropped it onto the surface with a deliberate thud, the sound echoing through the room like a small thunderclap. He couldn’t help but be struck by the sight—the way you appeared so content, utterly unaware of the world around you, lost in the quiet sanctuary of sleep. Your form was curled up beneath his desk, small and peaceful, like a gentle ripple in a still pond. The soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your hair spilled out around you in a tangled mess—there was something so serene about it. Elrond’s heart warmed at the sight, even as a playful glimmer stirred within him. It was rare to catch you so unguarded, so completely absent from the cares of the world. He found a small amusement in it, and with a quiet, thoughtful smile, he decided to indulge in the moment.

Quietly, he reached for a thick book resting on his desk, its weight reassuring in his hands. His fingers brushed over the pages as his gaze lingered on you for just a moment longer. He then dropped the book onto the desk with a deliberate thud, the sound echoing through the room like a small thunderclap. The noise shattered the peaceful silence, its sharpness undeniable in the quiet study. The sound caused you to stir immediately. Your body shifted beneath the desk, a low murmur escaping your lips as you slowly blinked up at him, eyes still heavy with sleep, fighting to adjust to the light. You struggled for a moment, eyes squinting, as though the waking world was still a hazy place, and for a brief second, you simply stared at him in confusion.

A soft, sleepy hum escaped your lips, your brows furrowing in mild disorientation, as if you were still caught between dreams and reality. Elrond’s gaze softened instantly, his heart tugging at the sight of you, the fog of sleep thick in your eyes. It was a quiet, endearing thing to watch you struggle in the half-light of consciousness. His usual composed demeanor faltered just slightly, as an affection he couldn’t entirely conceal shimmered behind his calm exterior. Seeing the way your body remained still, trying to fight off the clutches of sleep, Elrond’s voice slipped out, steady and calm, but with a teasing warmth that wrapped around his words like a soft blanket. “It seems my study has gained a new resident,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips as he allowed a gentle humor to color his voice, though the quiet care that usually guided his tone was still present.

You blinked up at him again, your confusion giving way to the fog of sleep. You rubbed your eyes, trying to shake off the haze, but your attempt to make sense of the situation only made Elrond’s amusement grow. His lips parted in a quiet chuckle, a sound rare enough to make the air around him feel warmer. As you continued to stare at him, his chuckle deepened—just a hint of affection behind it. Still blinking, your voice came out thick with sleep. “What—what time is it?” you mumbled, your words slurring slightly, clearly still not fully awake. “Did something… fall?” You yawned, stretching as best you could while still tucked beneath his desk, your body moving with the languidness of someone pulled from a deep, peaceful slumber.

Elrond couldn’t help but smile more at the sight. His usual solemnity melted in the face of such vulnerability, the love he held for you clear in his expression. The way you lay there, so peacefully unaware of the world around you, made something stir deep within him—affection, tenderness, and a quiet joy. He allowed himself a rare, soft smile, the kind that only you could bring out of him. He leaned down just a little closer, his breath gentle in the stillness of the room, and his voice, though steady, carried a playful warmth. “It seems you’ve found a very comfortable corner of my study,” he said, the words laced with both amusement and the fondness he felt for you. His eyes twinkled softly, a lightness there that not many would see, and certainly not when his mind was usually so focused and heavy with the burdens of leadership. Kneeling down to your level, Elrond reached out, offering you his hand with a graceful fluidity. The gesture was an effortless blend of strength and gentleness, a clear invitation to rise, yet with an undeniable tenderness that matched his quiet care. His fingers hovered just within reach of yours, patient and calm, allowing you the time to decide if you were ready to take his help. His brow arched slightly in amusement, the faintest trace of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he waited for your response.

“Come now, little one,” he said, his voice a soft melody, his tone like a gentle caress against your sleep-dulled senses. “Surely there are more suitable places for rest than beneath my desk.” There was a teasing edge to his words, but beneath that lightheartedness, there was a depth of care—an affection that was always there, even when his voice was steady and composed. He was concerned, though not in a way that felt overbearing. It was the sort of concern that felt natural, the concern of someone who cared for your well-being as deeply as he did. Still groggy from your unexpected nap, you made an attempt to push yourself upright, but your body, heavy with the lingering pull of sleep, didn’t seem to respond as you’d hoped. The sudden movement was a little too much, and your legs wobbled beneath you. A soft, sleepy murmur escaped your lips, a confused sound that was almost entirely made up of a yawn. Before you could regain your balance, Elrond was there—his hand steady, his grip firm but not forceful—guiding you back to a more stable stance.

You stumbled slightly, and in your disoriented state, you accidentally bumped your head lightly against the edge of the desk. A soft thud, not painful, but enough to make you wince in surprise. Elrond’s smile widened, though the tenderness in his gaze never wavered. His quiet chuckle filled the space between you, warm and soft, like a ripple in still water. But the amusement quickly shifted into a more protective concern, and he was instantly attentive to you, his eyes searching for any sign of discomfort. “Careful, Mellon nín,” he murmured, his voice lowering to a near-whisper. The soft tone held an edge of worry, though it was quickly masked by the calm, steady assurance he always carried. His fingers grazed the spot where you’d bumped your head, though his touch was light, checking for any signs of injury. “I’ll not have you injuring yourself,” he added, his words gentle but firm, as if to remind you that he would always be there to catch you when you needed him. The care in his voice was unmistakable, and though you were still a little dazed from your nap, you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of comfort in the quiet reassurance he offered.

With a small, reassuring sigh, Elrond helped you find your feet fully, his hands guiding you toward a more comfortable chair. He moved with practiced care, as always, attending to your needs with a quiet dedication that came so naturally to him. Without speaking, he rose and went to a nearby table, where he had previously prepared a fresh cup of herbal tea—still warm, its soothing aroma drifting through the air. He placed the cup gently into your hands, his gaze unwavering, yet filled with tenderness. “Drink this,” Elrond said quietly, his voice both affectionate and firm. “I’ll not have you wandering my halls half-asleep.” The concern in his voice, though steady, carried an undercurrent of warmth, a reflection of the deep care he held for you. You took the cup, sipping slowly as he observed you from across the room. Despite his own work awaiting attention, Elrond’s gaze often flickered back to you, a soft smile tugging at his lips, though he remained composed. It was clear that, while his mind was occupied with his tasks, part of him was wholly devoted to your presence, finding contentment simply in knowing you were close.

You took a moment, looking up at him with a playful glint in your eye, the sleepiness still evident in your voice. “Thanks, just what I wanted!” you said, a hint of sarcasm lacing your words, though the gratitude was clear beneath your teasing. You had intended to keep resting, to remain lost in the peaceful haze of sleep, but there was a part of you that appreciated his care, even if you weren’t entirely thrilled with the interruption. As the warmth of the tea began to settle in your bones, the lingering exhaustion of your day weighed heavier on your body, pulling at your consciousness. Without a word, you shifted from the chair, your movements slow and languid, almost as if the weight of the day had caught up with you all at once. You moved towards Elrond with an ease that came from knowing he would be there, his presence a constant source of comfort. Slowly, carefully, you settled yourself in his lap, your head naturally seeking the warmth of his chest. The act, though wordless, spoke volumes—a request for closeness, for the quiet reassurance only he could offer.

Elrond, ever attuned to your needs, didn’t hesitate. His arms encircled you with a natural grace, as though this was the most familiar thing in the world, the way his body seemed to instinctively know how to shelter and protect you. You felt the strength of him beneath you, his heartbeat steady and strong, a gentle rhythm that began to slow the pace of your own thoughts. His embrace was secure yet tender, holding you as though you were both his greatest responsibility and his deepest joy. You nestled into him, letting go of the last remnants of your grogginess, surrendering to the comfort of his warmth. Elrond’s hand, the same one that had guided you with care earlier, moved to your hair, his fingers brushing through it in soft, rhythmic strokes. The sensation was soothing, almost hypnotic, as though each touch was meant to calm not just your body, but your mind as well.

He allowed the silence to stretch between you, broken only by the quiet sound of your breathing and the occasional soft chuckle that escaped him as he regarded you, half-lost in the moment. “You seem to have no intention of leaving,” he murmured with a teasing lilt to his voice, his breath warm against your skin. There was a lightheartedness to his words, yet the affection in his tone was unmistakable. “I think I’ve made the mistake of offering comfort to someone far too determined to take advantage of it.” A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he continued to stroke your hair, the motions slow and deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world to simply be here with you. The playful edge to his voice never faltered, but beneath it, the care in his touch was clear—each movement tender and full of a quiet, deep affection. “Mmmm…” you mumbled sleepily, your words slurring slightly as you burrowed deeper into his chest, your exhaustion still clinging to you. You didn’t have the energy to fight it anymore, and honestly, you didn’t want to. “I’m just… here to… help you… with your work…”

Elrond chuckled softly, the sound rich with warmth, as his fingers continued their soothing rhythm through your hair. He could feel the tension leaving your body, the weight of the day beginning to melt away, and he felt a quiet peace settle over him in response. His smile widened, the affection in his gaze deepening as he responded with gentle humor, though his voice was still full of tenderness. “Yes, of course,” he said, the teasing edge to his voice still there, but it was tempered with love. “I suppose you’ve been quite the help in keeping me company.” And so, in the calm of his study, with nothing but the steady beat of his heart and the quiet, rhythmic motion of his hand through your hair, the two of you shared an unspoken understanding. Elrond resumed his work, his attention divided between the task at hand and the precious presence nestled in his arms. He knew, as always, that the simplest moments—like this one—were often the most meaningful. The peace of the moment was perfect, and with you in his arms, all was right in the world.

☀️𝓖𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓵

After finishing his tasks in the stables, Glorfindel paused for a moment, leaning lightly against the handle of the broom he had just set aside. The warm, earthy scent of hay mixed with the familiar tang of leather saddles and oiled tack filled the air, a smell he had long since come to associate with calmness. The soft snorts of horses and the occasional rustle of hooves shifting against the stable floor provided a steady, almost rhythmic background, one that always eased the weight of the day from his shoulders. He reached up, brushing a damp strand of golden hair back from his forehead, his gaze sweeping the tidy rows of stalls one last time. Everything appeared as it should: the straw fresh, the feed buckets filled, and the horses content. Yet, as he turned to hang the broom on its usual hook, his sharp eyes caught an unusual detail.

One of the stall doors at the far end was slightly ajar, its sturdy wooden frame left just wide enough for a sliver of light to spill through. Glorfindel frowned faintly, his mind already cataloging possibilities. It was rare for the stable doors to be left unsecured, rarer still for one of the attendants or elves in charge of the stables to overlook such a thing. Straightening, he moved toward the stall with quiet, measured steps, his boots barely making a sound against the worn planks of the stable floor. His keen senses remained alert, his eyes flicking briefly over the nearby surroundings to ensure nothing else was amiss. As he approached, his hand brushed instinctively toward the hilt of the blade that rested at his side—a habit born of countless centuries of vigilance. He did not truly expect danger here, in this peaceful sanctuary of Imladris, but old instincts were difficult to silence entirely. The faint creak of the floor beneath him and the soft rustle of hay reached his ears as he closed the gap between himself and the open stall. Glorfindel’s frown softened into something more thoughtful as he reached out, fingertips brushing lightly against the edge of the door. It swung inward with a faint groan, revealing the scene within.

He hesitated on the threshold, his sharp gaze adjusting to the dimmer light inside the stall. What he saw made him pause. His hand, still resting on the door, stilled entirely, and the faintest flicker of surprise crossed his expression. The sight that met his eyes made him pause, his breath catching in his chest before it escaped in a faint, incredulous chuckle. There, nestled comfortably on a thick bed of hay, was you—completely unaware of his presence, lost in peaceful slumber. Your form was curled slightly on one side, one arm tucked beneath your head like a makeshift pillow, while the other rested limply against your chest. The golden straw beneath you framed you like a halo, catching the light that filtered in from the high stable window. Your face, serene and softened by sleep, was partially obscured by a stray lock of hair that had fallen across your cheek. The gentle rise and fall of your chest marked the rhythm of your deep breaths, each exhalation soft and unhurried, as though the world outside held no urgency. Your legs were bent slightly at the knees, with one ankle resting lazily atop the other, and the hem of your tunic was slightly rumpled from the uneven surface of the hay.

But what truly made the scene so endearing—so utterly absurd—was the presence of the large horse standing just beside you. Its dark eyes glinted with a quiet intelligence as it leaned down, its velvety muzzle gently nudging at your hair, as though ensuring you were still breathing. The beast exhaled softly, its warm breath ruffling the strands of your hair, an almost protective presence looming over you in the small, intimate space of the stall. Glorfindel suppressed a laugh, one hand rising instinctively to cover his mouth as he marveled at the sight before him. The combination of your utterly relaxed state and the horse’s quiet, almost guardian-like demeanor struck him as both amusing and unexpectedly charming. He shook his head lightly, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips, as he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe to take it all in.

His smile deepened as he leaned casually against the doorframe. His arms crossed over his chest as he took a moment to observe you. This was indeed a unique horse, but in a way he hadn’t quite expected. “Well, well,” he murmured to himself, “What a unique horse we have here.” He watched for a few more seconds, the peacefulness of the scene filling him with quiet amusement. Finally, an idea struck him—a little playful trick, something to rouse you from your slumber in a way that would surely draw out a reaction. He reached down, scooping up a handful of loose hay from the floor. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he lightly sprinkled it over your hair, his voice carrying that familiar teasing lilt. “Rise and shine, my curious little steed. Your stable duties await!” The teasing voice broke through the haze of your dreams, tugging you back to reality in a way that was both jarring and strangely gentle. Something soft landed atop your head, and you groaned faintly, instinctively brushing at it before fully opening your eyes. Your mind, still foggy with sleep, struggled to make sense of the sensations around you—the scent of hay, the warm breath of a nearby horse, and the sound of restrained laughter.

You blinked slowly, confusion clouding your thoughts as the scattered pieces of the scene began to come together. Your hand brushed through your hair, dislodging loose bits of hay that clung stubbornly to the strands, though a few still stubbornly clung to your shoulders. The distinct crunch of the straw beneath you was the next realization that surfaced—hay? Why was there hay? It wasn’t until the familiar voice sounded again, this time accompanied by the faint shuffle of movement nearby, that you snapped fully awake. Jerking upright with wide, bewildered eyes, you looked around, your gaze darting to the open stall door and the tall, golden-haired figure crouched just a few feet away.

“Glorfindel?” you mumbled groggily, your voice thick and raspy with sleep. You squinted at him, your frown deepening as the drowsiness slowly loosened its hold. He was grinning, his blue eyes sparkling with unmistakable amusement as he rested one elbow on his knee, casually watching your disoriented attempts to make sense of things. “What in Middle-earth are you doing here?” you finally managed, though your tone came out more accusatory than you had intended. Your fingers brushed through your hair again, pulling out yet another stubborn piece of hay, as your sleep-heavy mind reeled. How had you managed to fall asleep in a horse stall? And, more importantly, why did he look like he was enjoying this far more than he should? Glorfindel’s soft chuckle filled the air as he stood, effortlessly steadying you when you wobbled a bit. He didn’t answer right away, simply brushing a few stray pieces of hay from your shoulder, his grin widening. “I could ask you the same thing,” he said, his voice light with amusement. “It seems you’ve found a rather unusual bedmate.” He gestured toward the horse that had stayed by your side, now curiously sniffing at your disheveled hair. “Though, I must admit, I find your choice of company rather charming.”

Despite the haze of sleep still clouding your mind, a smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you looked toward the horse, who had seemingly become your unlikely guardian for the nap. “I wasn’t planning to fall asleep here,” you muttered sheepishly, brushing more hay from your hair. “It’s just… so cozy.” He raised an eyebrow, still grinning. “Cozy? In a stall?” His voice held the teasing lilt that you were slowly coming to expect from him. “I suppose I can’t argue with that. Though I’d suggest next time, perhaps a blanket instead of hay.” His words softened, and there was a warmth in his eyes as he helped you steady yourself, clearly both amused and concerned for your well-being. You couldn’t stop a sleepy frown from forming, even as you appreciated his gentle manner. “You don’t have to scold me,” you mumbled, still trying to clear the cobwebs from your mind. “I’m not scolding,” Glorfindel replied with a soft laugh. “I’m just… making sure you don’t wake up next to a horse’s tail next time. Now, how about a little breakfast, hm?” His voice was warm, his teasing now edged with a kind of protective affection. “You’ve certainly earned it after your… unique nap.”

His laughter echoed in the quiet stables, and despite the lingering grogginess, you couldn’t help but smile at how easily he’d lightened the mood. The gentle teasing, the way he helped you stand and guided you toward the exit—there was something comforting about his presence, something that made the sleepiness fade even faster. The horse, too, followed behind, as if reluctant to leave its new companion. Glorfindel’s playful nature and teasing were all on full display, but it was also clear to you that, despite the lighthearted jesting, he cared for your well-being. He didn’t scold, didn’t make you feel foolish—instead, he made sure you woke up in the most reassuring way possible, with a smile and a gentle hand guiding you. And, as you walked toward the stable doors with Glorfindel by your side, you couldn’t help but feel that, while you might never hear the end of this little nap, his playful nature made it all the more bearable.

🩵𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓸𝓻𝓷

Among the Roots of a Mallorn Tree

The golden light of Lothlórien filtered through the dense canopy of the mallorn trees, their silver leaves shimmering like living stars. The air was filled with the soft murmur of wind through the branches, the distant songs of birds, and the subtle rustling of the forest’s life. It was a perfect day to walk the ancient woods, the stillness broken only by the occasional step of a passing elf or the rustle of an animal darting beneath the underbrush. Celeborn, tall and composed, moved gracefully through the forest, his gaze both sharp and serene as he took in the beauty of his realm. However, today something was different. As he wandered deeper into the woods, his sharp eyes caught a glimpse of movement among the roots of an enormous mallorn tree. For a moment, he thought it was a small animal curled up in the shade, nestled against the ancient wood. His steps slowed, and his heart softened with the brief thought that the forest’s creatures had claimed the spot as their own. But as his gaze focused further, the shape became clearer, and his brow furrowed slightly in recognition. There, nestled among the thick, gnarled roots of the mallorn, was you.

There, amongst the gnarled and twisting roots of the great tree, lay your form, curled up and almost indistinguishable from the earth itself. The thick, knotted roots cradled you like a natural bed, and your body was draped in the shadows of the mallorn’s silvery leaves. Your face was relaxed, eyes closed in peaceful slumber, and a faint smile curled on your lips. The only movement was the slow rise and fall of your chest as you breathed deeply, so utterly at ease in this unexpected spot that Celeborn couldn’t help but feel a mix of fond amusement and affection. He stepped closer, his long, fluid movements bringing him to your side with silent grace. The soft rustle of leaves beneath his boots barely disturbed the tranquility of the moment. Leaning over, he observed you for a moment, appreciating the way the intricate roots seemed to embrace you, as if you had become one with the ancient tree itself.

He couldn’t deny the gentle smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. You had always managed to find the most unusual places to sleep—be it on a bench, curled up by a fire, or now, amid the roots of the great mallorn. The sight of you, so utterly relaxed, made his heart ache with tenderness. “Truly, you have an uncanny ability to find the most… unusual places to sleep,” Celeborn whispered softly, his voice carrying the warmth of the surrounding forest. His hand hovered above you for a moment before he brushed a single leaf from your face, the light touch tender and filled with affection. As his fingers gently swept the leaf aside, your hand stirred in response, a soft, unconscious motion. You swiped at the air with a casual gesture, as if swatting away an irritant, but your fingers never made contact with anything—only the sensation of Celeborn’s touch lingered, unnoticed in your dreamlike state. He smiled warmly at the delicate moment, his touch remaining soft as he placed a hand on your shoulder, giving it a gentle shake, careful not to startle you from your slumber.

“Wake up, my friend,” he said, his tone barely more than a murmur, though firm enough to rouse you from your slumber. “It seems the world has moved on without you.” You stirred at the gentle motion, letting out a low, half-hearted grumble as you shifted slightly, clearly reluctant to leave the cocoon of warmth and comfort the roots had provided. A soft groan escaped your lips as you burrowed deeper against the gnarled wood, as though willing sleep to pull you back under. For a few moments, you were lost to the haze of dreams, the earthy scent of the forest and the rustling whispers of the wind lulling you to stay.But the presence beside you was impossible to ignore. The voice—calm, comforting, and always familiar—persisted, tugging you further from the fog of slumber. Slowly, begrudgingly, your mind began to clear, and you cracked one eye open, squinting up at him in reluctant acknowledgment. Celeborn stood there, a patient smile on his lips, his silver hair catching the soft light of the mallorn leaves. His gaze, warm and steady, met yours as you blinked the last remnants of sleep away, a half-formed grumble still escaping you as if protesting the very idea of waking.

You let out a tired laugh, the sound soft and rough as it broke through the lingering haze of sleep. Rubbing your eyes with slow, deliberate movements, you stretched your arms high above your head, your body still heavy with drowsiness. “I… must have fallen asleep without even realizing,” you murmured, your voice thick and low, as if the very earth beneath you had conspired to hold you in its gentle, grounding embrace. The warmth of Celeborn’s presence seemed to surround you, his steady gaze pulling you further from the tendrils of slumber that clung stubbornly to your bones. His smile softened, the corners of his lips curving with unmistakable fondness as he crouched beside you, careful to keep his movements slow and unintrusive. “I can see that,” he replied, his voice rich and warm, the faintest hint of teasing in his tone. “Though you seem to have chosen a very… intimate spot. It seems the roots have accepted you as one of their own.”

Your eyes widened slightly as his words brought clarity, and you blinked, suddenly more aware of your surroundings. Looking around, you noticed how the massive, winding roots of the mallorn tree curled protectively around you, like a cradle crafted by the forest itself. Above, the ancient tree stretched endlessly into the sky, its golden leaves shimmering in the dappled light and whispering secrets to the wind. The realization brought a soft chuckle to your lips, still tinged with sleep. “I suppose I’ve become a part of the tree, then,” you said, your words accompanied by a sheepish grin as you glanced back at him. “Perhaps it’s just too comfortable here…” Celeborn’s eyes crinkled slightly with amusement, though his concern remained evident in the way his gaze lingered on you. Extending a hand, he spoke gently but with purpose. “It may be comfortable, but the ground is no place for a proper rest, my dear.” His hand was warm and steady, his voice carrying that familiar blend of amusement and care that always put you at ease. “Come, let us find you somewhere more fitting.”

You hesitated, the idea of moving feeling far too strenuous in the wake of such a deep slumber, but with his hand there—a quiet promise of support—you found yourself reaching out. His touch was firm yet careful as he guided you upward, his strength effortless as you swayed slightly, unsteady on your feet. The sleep that still clung to you made your limbs feel heavy, and you leaned lightly against him, seeking his warmth and stability. Celeborn’s hand remained at your back, a gentle anchor as you regained your balance. The familiar scent of the forest mingled with the faint, calming fragrance that always seemed to surround him, grounding you further in the present. “You’re patient with me, Celeborn,” you murmured softly, your voice carrying the faint remnants of drowsiness as you leaned into his side, your steps tentative. “Always waiting for me to wake up, always guiding me through.”

He chuckled quietly, the sound like the rustling of leaves caught in a soft breeze, rich with warmth and the kind of affection that ran deep and steady. “Patience is a virtue, my friend,” he replied, his voice low and soothing as he began to lead you forward. “And with you, it is always worth the wait.” His steps were slow, measured, and unhurried as he guided you through the tranquil woods, his hand remaining at your back, steady and sure. Though the journey to a more fitting resting place would be a short one, neither of you seemed in any rush to reach it. The golden light filtered through the canopy, bathing the two of you in a gentle glow as you walked. Sleep still clung to your mind, but with Celeborn’s quiet, unwavering presence at your side, the line between dream and wakefulness felt blissfully blurred. No matter how many times you wandered into the forest only to succumb to sleep in the most unexpected of places, you knew you would always find him there, patient and ever-watchful, ready to guide you back to safety. And though you still felt the pull of slumber, there was a comfort in knowing that you could lean into him, that his presence would always feel like home.

[michaela-o]

SENTINEL X GN! HUMAN READER DRABBLE

( warnings: kidnappery, mentions of threatening life and killing )

The chamber was dim, lit only by the faint blue glow of Cybertronian technology running through the walls. The air was thick with tension. A human sat bound in the corner, their wrists shackled by unfamiliar uncomfortable restraints digging into their flesh. Faint crackle of their restraints humming with every slight movement. They glared up at the towering form of Sentinel Prime, as they quickly learned his name, their heart pounding in their chest like a little bird looking for escape in a cage.

Sentinel loomed meanecingly above them, his optics burning with cold amusement with that sly smile across his faceplate. His presence was overwhelming—a blend of regal authority and calculating menace of someone who knew held all the cards. His massive frame shifted slightly as he crouched down, leaning closer above to the creature beneath him.

"You really don't understand, do you?" Sentinel rumbled with chuckle, his voice smooth but laced with menace. "Your life—your very existence—depends on my whim."

The human swallowed hard, forcing themeselves not to flinch. They are not gonna let this prick of a leader, as he likes to call himself, let him intimidate them. But damm was that hard. But if there's one thing Sentinel was good at, was to break anything that he didn't like to bend his way. Even if he had to use a little force. As if he cared. He was rather enjoying this.

Sentinel’s optics narrowed as he reached down, his sly smirk not faltering, pinching them between two massive fingers. They gasped as he lifted them into the air effortlessly, holding them just high that their feet dangled above the ground. The pressure from his grip was deliberate—enough to hurt and scare, not enough to crush. At least not yet.

"You humans are so... breakable," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "It takes barely any effort to end you. A twist. A squeeeeeze..." He gave the slightest increase of pressure, making them cry out.

Their breath hitched, panic clawing at their chest. They struggled against his fingers but Sentinel’s grip was unyielding. He chuckled darkly, savoring the way their heartbeat quivered in their chest, the way fear bloomed in their eyes despite their attempts to hide the fear.

The human glared at him through gritted teeth, determined not to give him the satisfaction of begging. But Sentinel’s smirk only grew at their defiance. He let out a chuckle—the delicate balance of fear and resistance, knowing he could extinguish them in a heartbeat but choosing not to. He was enjoying himself a bit too much.

"You’re wondering how long I’ll play with you," he said, as if reading their thoughts. "How many times you’ll wake up, wondering if today will be your last." He shifted his grip slightly, making them gasp as the pressure around their ribs increased. "Maybe I'll crush you slowly, just to see how long before your little chest snaps. Or perhaps I'll let you go—just for the sport of hunting you down again." He was talking as if this was a normal occurence in his daily life. It was sickening.

He brought them closer to his faceplate, his optics burning into their soft glassy eyes with an unsettling intensity. "You’ll never know," he said softly with venom dripping in his voice. "And that, little human, is the most fun part. Your life isn’t yours anymore. It’s mine. You belong to me."

Their pulse pounded in their ears, it all fell down on them. The desperation..the reality that they might never come out of this alive. But despite this they forced themeself to meet his gaze. "You're just a coward," the human spat, tested the waters, breathless from the pressure on their ribs. "All that power you claim to have and all you can do is threaten a human."

For a moment, there was silence. Then Sentinel laughed—an unsettling sound that seemed to echo in the small chamber. "Brave words for someone this close to death i gotta admit that."

Suddenly with a flick of his hand, he dropped them to the ground with a heavy thud. They tumbled to the ground, gasping for air, their body trembled from adrenaline and fear. Sentinel stood tall again, watching them with quiet satisfaction.

"Enjoy your defiance while you can," he said, turning to leave the room. "We’ll see how long it lasts when you realize I can snuff you out whenever I please."

As the massive door slid shut behind him with a resonant clang, the human sat in the silence, clutching their ribs, mind racing. As they slowly sat up tears started to form in the corner of their eyes as Sentinel’s words echoed in their head...

Aaaa i hope u enjoyed this ! Feel free ro add anything !! I know i'm not a good writer but i tried <3🧡🧡

[colourstreakgryffin]

Hiiii

Can you make another Alastor x Rarity reader like I love it sm and I need more 😭😭❤️

If you do thank youuuu

I definitely can! My dear @sillyalastor, here will be yours and @nenerobobot’s post for Rarity-reader and Al! I hope you both like our kinda short follow up to the Radio Demon and his Drama Queen!

Alastor- Diamond Trio

Alastor knows how much of a detail-orientated and fussy woman you are, and he knows fashion colours, stitching processes, habits, facts and more on the top of his head. He knows what is considered eggshell white and what is considered ivory white. That’s how much time he spends with you

Alastor has been teaching you some new recipes, ones that get a bit messy. Whilst, you’re very worried about getting food on you and is wearing about five layers of protection each time you cook with him. He finds it cute and cheers you on for you being so precise and careful with the measurements. You’ll stand there for five minutes making sure the water percentage is just perfect and he thrives off that

Alastor is not a fan of you being friends with any of the Overlords except Rosie, so when he finds out, you befriended a fellow fashionista Velvette. He is supportive of your wishes but he is glaring down Velvette and threatening her behind your back to not hurt you or he’ll hurt her. Needless to say… Al’s protective and he doesn’t tolerate any of your friends trying to ruin your spirits or your work

So that means, if anybody rejects your outfit choice and creation you made for them, even politely. Alastor will hunt them down. You’re generous and you should be praised for that generosity. Alastor takes everything you give him, if he doesn’t like it, he’ll merely ask for some additions. He won’t ever demand a new outfit or item

Now. How did you and Alastor meet, you ask? You met him at a grand gala. It mainly consisted of Overlords but a handful of Sinners were invited and you were one of them, brought into this ‘incredible’ party

Alastor had been quite intrigued by you, the moment he saw you. A gorgeous, classy, sophisticated sinner dressed in the most pretty, regal maroon pink dress he has ever seen. You had attended this ‘best night ever’ party in hopes to find your prince, the man of your dreams and when you ran into a prissy but handsome Overlord that screamed prince-like grace, you immediately latched onto him. Unaware that you’re actual prince is the one Overlord all the guests avoided like the plague

Alastor couldn’t bring himself to just ignore the only shining jewel within this boring, prim and proper high-class party. He was so uninterested that he only got entertainment out of talking to his dear friend, Rosie. So after some careful yet quick consideration, he begun to follow you and your… date around the large palace hosting this gala under the cover of shadows. He was curious on what you’d do and the disgust he felt over this Overlord acting so uncharming and so harsh to a sweet lady such as yourself. He doesn’t tolerate women of radiance being disrespected

Alastor is so glad that you finally put your foot down after all the treatment: that ‘Prince’ of a Overlord making you pay for treats, making you give up the cushion seat, taking your rose for himself, making you throw your gorgeous silky-fabric shawl over a puddle so neither of you would slip. No gentleman should treat his lady this way and his blood is boiling in pure disgust at his fellow Overlord. The final straw is when that Overlord used you as a shield to block off the pretty strawberry icing cheesecake that came flying at the pair of you

Alastor watched from the sidelines with much pride and respect, over you talking that Overlord down and proclaiming he is a royal pain but of course, that ‘prince’ only cared about his looks and was scared of you drenched in the cake. Shaking off some of the cake on your dress, hair and face to get it onto the Overlord, out of raw rage. You ended up stomping out of the main big dance ballroom, furious and on the verge of crying. Leaving that ‘date’ of yours behind

Alastor couldn’t stop himself from following you. He was curious how a pretty mid-atlantic accented lady would handle being humiliated and having lashed out against her ‘date’ in front of almost ALL of the guests in the Gala. Your pretty sparkly almost diamond-like eyes poured tears, smudging your nice mascara and light blue eyeshadow as you stomped into the pretty empty gardens and cried out your rage

Oh. Alastor didn’t like seeing somebody so innocent and done no wrong mistreated like this. Even if it was amusing, he doesn’t like it

So, he finally approaches you after a few seconds of watching you vent out your feelings through sobs. His strong sharp crimson red eyes going from your forehead golden crown to the glass plumps to the still damp shawl tied around your shoulders in a classy princess style. You’re the most beautiful guest at this sorry excuse of a Gala. Alastor folds one arm behind his back, his own gala-style black, white and red coloured suit making his red and black colouration pop as he presents you with a rose

“I believe this is yours, my dear” Your glassy eyes turned over to look at him, the almost folded, multi-layers of your dress hugging your curves and hiding your leg movements as it just felt like this night went from the worst to the best. Is this the actual gentleman you’ve always wanted?! Gently reaching out, you’re a bit intimidated by how strong his glare is, how visible his golden yellow fangs are through that wide open grin, with how menacing his long fingers are

Taking the still stemmed rose from Alastor, you didn’t even know his name but you wished you did… you are a bit scared he may be a fake like that awful Overlord you were chasing after just before but he seems friendly enough. Alastor lifts up your hands with his single one, precisely placing the rose into your prettily curled and tied up hair, just above your bangs before speaking once more. His entire presence leaking charm, grace and poise

“Shall we dance?”

You were a bit shy, still drenched in destroyed layered cake batter but Alastor didn’t even chuckle at how ruined your clean, neat look is now. He merely snaps his fingers and like that, all the sweet confectionery remains are gone and all the ruffled, ripped or knotted parts of your dress and hair is smoothed out to perfection, as well as your slightly wet shawl back to being completely dry and your makeup returned to more presentable. Just like how you looked when you entered this Gala and when Alastor first saw you. Taking a deep breath, your cheeks flustered and blushy

You take his hand and with a single tug, you and him are dancing together in the calm, breezy, beautiful gardens of the giant gala palace, no music, no other prissy annoying guests. Just the plants, the animals and you two

Your eyes are no long filled to the brim with tears, anger and heartbreak. You’re now developing a sense of admiration and awe at Alastor being so gentlemanly and sweet with you in seconds flat, he’s treating you the way you wanted that blueblood ass to treat you and it’s making your heart flutter. Twirling slowly in a nice slow steady waltz, the only music ringing is the sound of the nearby birds singing

That night was the best night ever

[thebluester2020]

Stardew Bachelors x Rude!Farmer Reader Headcanons

Summary: A new farmer has moved into Stardew Valley and...wait, how come they're always seen with a scowl on their face?! And why are they so mean?!

Warning(s): Fluff, Mean! Farmer, Doesn't contain all the bachelors! (I've only included Elliot and Sebastian since I didn't want things to become too long!), Farmer is low-key more of a tsundere to be honest, Slight favoritism to Sebastion at the end, !not proofread!

Note: As much as I love sweet-hearted farmers. I also love my mean, tsundere-esque farmers as well <3

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ

Elliot

:: Elliot had heard about the rumors a week before you arrived. That the grandchild of the late deceased farmer, who once cared for the old farm a little ways away from town, would be moving in soon. He thought a new face around town would be nice. After all, Elliot was fairly new to the town himself! He thought the two of you could share in your common experience of being new to the environment and possibly build a friendly bond.

At least…until the week you were supposed to arrive rolled around.

The rumors of you being rude. He swore they spread faster than you had actually been here.

First it was from overhearing a conversation between Gus and Lewis on Friday.

The way Lewis described you was like hearing a weary night regale his tale of how he narrowly escaped the fiery breath of a dragon. “They’ve…definitely got an attitude.” Elliot heard Lewis say.

“I’m struggling to find the resemblances. Looks aside, they’re rude! They threatened me the other day when I tried to ask if they could do me a favor!”

Elliot wouldn’t exactly deny that the possibility of you being rude made him nervous. Everyone in town was so nice that having someone mean would be like a black sheep sticking out in the middle of white sheep, you just wouldn’t belong. Yet when he had happened upon you once fateful morning on the beach/

“The hell you lookin’ at Prince Charmin’” You spat in his direction when he stared too long.

His eyes widened. “N-Nothing! Forgive me, I’ve never seen you before.”

“I’m new here, that’s why.”

He cleared his throat. “So I see…” He stood in place a little while longer, observing you as you crouched down to collect items from the beach. Your appearance didn’t match your attitude, he thought. Your appearance was like that of nobility to him, graceful with certain details accentuating personality and your life on the farm.

From slightly muddied knees and a few scraps here and there.

But your tongue was like a freshly sharpened knife.

“The fuck?” You hissed at him again, snapping him out of his trance. “Who the hell you looking at? Got a problem?”

“N-No!” You dropped your bag full of items before you walked right up to him, your mouth nearly curling upwards like an angry feline.

“Yeah? You sure? You’re staring mighty hard for someone you A. Don’t know and B. Is just trying to go about their day! So what’s the problem?!”

Elliot chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry once again, it's just- I think you're really gorgeous to look at. The tales of your fiery temper did nothing to speak of your beauty as well." You paused at the compliment, your cheeks beginning to redden as your temper started to ease down considerably.

Besides the compliments towards the farm and your weapon prowess when you first joined the Adventurer's Guild. You didn't hear too many compliments about yourself, the only thing you'd hear was

"That new farmer is scary aren't they? They're completely unlike their grandfather!"

"Why did her grandfather entrust the farm to them? With their attitude, they'll probably soil the crops just from their glare."

To say it didn't hurt from time to time was an understatement. It wasn't your fault that you had a mean scowl on your face 24/7 and sometimes you had a habit of speaking about how you actually felt about someone before thinking about your words!

So, to hear a compliment? You couldn't help the way it made your heart flutter and your chest begin to warm.

Not that you would let this lonely beach writer who talked like some actor from Medieval Kingdom know that.

"...Thank you." You finally mumbled under your breath.

A smile graced Elliot's features. "You're welcome."

There was a comfortable silence for a few minutes before you turned around to quickly pick up your backpack before walking off. But, not before Elliot could get another line in. "You should visit my cabin sometime! I love visitors!"

Although there was no response, for the next few months afterward, however, he kept strangely receiving duck feathers and ink bottles at his front door every other day...

Sebastion

:: The first time he had even heard the rumors of a new farmer. He was talking to his mother about her day and also alerting her that he would be out for a while riding his motorcycle. His mother had made sure to tell him to "be safe!" and likes before she told him that someone new would be moving into the old farm a little ways from town.

He hadn't thought much of it.

'Just another face in the crowd' he thought while also wondering why someone would even choose to go to this town where the most interesting thing that happened was when a slime got loose in the middle of town a while ago!

Until...the words of how rude and snappy you were began to pop up.

"That new farmer has no manners!"

"They're so mean..." He also heard Lewis say. "All I asked was for them to retrieve a...special item from Marnie's house and they said 'Get it yourself'"! Sebastion didn't see anything wrong with the supposed 'attitude' you were giving people in town, in his mind? He thought it was about time that someone had tried to bring a different energy to the town besides being yet another happy-go-lucky person who wanted to help everyone and anyone!

And even when he bumped into you one midnight evening...a sword in his hand as he wanted to go exploring the mines in order to try and put himself to sleep, his opinion of your supposed attitude remained the same.

Though, as he saw the piles of dead Shadow Brutes around...he did have a mind to be a little more weary of you. No one had told him that you were capable of slaying multiple Shadow Brutes on your own.

"You lost gloomy?" Were your first words to him as you pushed your hair back out of your face, snapping him back to reality.

He glared at you. "I could ask the same of you. Whose out fighting Shadow Brutes at midnight?"

"Me," You responded. "Something that I wouldn't expect you to do seeing how you're as skinny as a twig."

His mouth dropped a little, his annoyance with you growing as well as his interest of you. You were mean, that was no question but...unless his ears were playing tricks on him due to him not interacting with too many other people besides his friends.

He could've sworn there was a little bit of playfulness in your voice.

"I may be skinny but I've been down these mines before." He said, walking past you with a grumble as he started to look around the area for anything valuable.

As you looked Sebastion over, your mouth cracked upward a little more in an amused smile. You had just arrived at the valley, and joining the Adventurer's Guild was a good way to blow off some steam and clear your mind by fighting mindless monsters. You hadn't really thought about talking to any of the residents besides the essential ones such as Pierre, Robin and sometimes Lewis from time to time.

But, you were beginning to change your mind.

"You managed to make it all the way down to level 100 in the mines gloomy, maybe you wouldn't mind accompanying me to level 120?"

Sebastion looked back at you with a huff. "You probably wouldn't want a 'twig' coming with you."

"Even twigs can have their usefulness, don't be a wuss."

His eyes narrowed. "I'm not a wuss."

You stuck your tongue out playfully. "Then prove it! Killing those Squid Kids can be a tricky process at times." As you walked passed him, you playfully shoved him as a cocky laugh escaped you. "Who knows? Maybe you'll even upgrade from a twig to a branch."

He could've ignored you, he wanted to ignore you but...as you sauntered away cockily, climbing down one of the ladders into the next level. He couldn't deny that you were interesting despite your need to tease him despite the two of you just meeting, you may have had an annoyingly high urge to tease but...strangely enough?

He liked it.

[twoidiotwriters1]

Chapter 9. Wallflowers

Summary: With each word that comes out of your mouth, Benedict feels more and more inclined to reach out and hold you. Masterlist Previous Chapter // Next Chapter Words: 2,384 Listen to: 'Bed Chem' -by Sabrina Carpenter A/N: They're horny your honor! -Danny

Benedict wasn't expecting to feel this nervous about escorting you, but he's doing his best to ignore it and greet you with a smile. However, said smile falters when you come down the steps in the loveliest sky-blue dress he's ever seen. He forgets he's supposed to help you until you're already there, and he almost stumbles over his feet to do so.

"Apologies, I forget myself," he offers you his hand awkwardly.

You smile. "Luckily for us, I didn't step on my skirt. It happens more often than you'd think," you say in a secretive manner, leaning into his side and making his heartbeat quicken. "Mr Bridgerton, I'd like to introduce you to my lovely friend, Miss Paula Weaver."

Your lady-in-waiting comes down the stairs a few steps behind you and bows, her eyes doing a quick appraisal of the man before her. Benedict smiles and curtsies. "Pleased to meet you," he says, then looks back at you, "I've heard splendid things about you, Miss Weaver."

"All merciful lies, no doubt," she says politely. You've never seen her smile at a man like she's doing now, and you narrow your eyes at her in playful warning.

"Shall we get going, then?" You ask Benedict.

"We shall. Miss Weaver, are you joining us?"

"Afraid so, Mr Bridgerton," she stands beside you. "Sorry to cloud on your clear sky."

"The more the merrier—and perhaps your princess will refrain from barking at me quite as much if one of her subjects is present to witness it," he adds teasingly. Paula holds back a laugh as you pinch Benedict's arm lightly.

"Your Royal Highness, allow me to introduce you to my family—my brothers, Colin and Gregory," he gestures at the two, both bow and eye you with interest. "My sisters, Eloise, Francesca, and you know Hyacinth."

You bow regally. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Y/N Deveraux."

There is a string of replies that mix with one another. Eloise has a look of suspicion on her face that you silently ask Benedict about, but he only smiles, as if he's used to those looks from the girl. 

"Princess, this is my mother, Violet Bridgerton," he steers you away from his meddling sister.

"It is a great honour having you visit us for the season, Your Royal Highness," the woman beams at you, and her voice sounds remarkably sincere.

"The honour is all mine. To be considered by your Queen and spend the winter in her lovely palace is something I don't look down upon," you reply with a gentle smile. 

That is about as much of a flawless speech as you'll manage to give being as nervous as you are, and so you reach for an appetizer. Sadly, your hand stretches more than it needs to and the small tower of pastries threatens to topple over. Thankfully, Paula keeps it upright and flashes a smile meant to be soothing.

"Apologies," you blush without meeting the Bridgerton's eyes.

Hyacinth is buzzing with excitement and she boldly grasps your arm, tugging you away from her family and guiding you to the balloon. "Come look, Y/N!"

You follow, glad to be pulled away from the crowd. Benedict tails you at a polite distance, wanting to give his youngest sister the chance to become closer friends with you. Gregory is not as generous and he confidently strides next to you, keeping his hands behind his back looking every bit the proper gentleman, though his puffed chest gives his youth away.

"How are you finding London so far, princess?" He asks with large amounts of dignity that make you want to giggle. 

"Youk now, Mr Bridgerton, I get that question a lot, but I'm yet to hear how London is finding me."

"If the city and I are anything alike, I'm sure it's finding you delightful," Hyacinth says, squeezing your arm affectionately.

"You're a joy to have around, as usual," you squeeze her arm back. "And I need you to meet my lovely friend, Paula," you turn to find her and Benedict in polite conversation. The moment she hears her name, however, she steps forward. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"I want you to meet Hyacinth Bridgerton," you gesture at the girl clinging to your arm. "She's the loveliest lady I've met in a long time, perhaps since I met you."

"Is that so?" Paula smiles at the girl and bows. "Well, then it's a pleasure to be your acquaintance, Miss Bridgerton."

Hyacinth delights in the attention, unused to be seen and spoken to like an adult. She bows back and quickly starts a conversation with the girl, which Gregory takes full advantage of. "My sister is quite right, you know?" He says. "We all think you're a delight."

Benedict reaches out and closes his hand tightly around his brother's shoulder, pulling him back. "That's alright, Gregory."

"What? I'm only—"

"Go keep an eye on your sister and Miss Paula," he says, giving him a look.

Gregory's face flushes with offense but doesn't argue, excusing himself and walking ahead muttering something that's surely foul about his older brother. Benedict shakes his head, glancing at you bemusedly. "You must forgive my brother, he's at an age where he feels ready to be called man despite the baby fat clinging to his face."

You giggle, the noise making Benedict's insides go all fuzzy. "It is quite alright, my brothers went through it just the same—I reckon he needs to be put on the spot once or twice before he realizes waiting to be noticed is worth it."

"Is that how you felt while growing up?" He smiles. "Had your own embarrassing moments in the spotlight?"

"Oh, definitely. I continue to," you sigh. "I wish I could've stayed a wallflower forever. I don't think you believe me when I tell you I'm an expert at creating chaos."

Benedict shakes his head lightly, a soft smile on his face. "Having a lack of coordination hardly makes you bad to have around, Princess. It would've been a waste, having you hidden forever."

"You only say that because you haven't seen the extent of it," you brush it off humbly. "You think your younger siblings are a handful because they are restless and bold. I wish that were my issue. I should be categorized as a military weapon instead of a royal."

The man laughs with his whole body, his hand going up to cover his mouth a bit with the back of it, and you think he could easily hold your head in place with that hand, which causes you to shiver. Quickly, you look away and pretend to fix your skirt.

"You have a knack for words, Your Royal Highness," he says lightheartedly. "I don't believe for a second that you could ever be so terrible, but I do think you're a fun storyteller, no wonder you journal."

You blush. If only he knew what kind of thoughts you've been putting on paper for the last week... "I suppose I shouldn't taint your good opinion of me, those are rare."

With each word that comes out of your mouth, Benedict feels more and more inclined to reach out and hold you. He's never been the kind to offer such platonic comforts to strangers, usually saves the domestic affection for his family only, but you bring it out quite easily.

You also bring out a different kind of need each time you blush, each time you fight back without getting riled up, merely stating your ideas like a suggestion that perhaps the world has more than one way to be looked at, and he thinks you're just the same. You could be looked at as a princess or a woman, in fancy dresses or trousers, or whatever you wear under both...

He looks away from you, horrified by how close he was to slip into his lewd ways. His hand reaches and pulls on his cravat, feeling ten times warmer under the judging sun. He also feels the need to stay still and stop his trousers from creating a friction that could worsen his current state.

You pay him no mind as he lingers, walking forward to meet your new friends as they gaze and discuss the balloon. Benedict thinks that, with your maid and his siblings around, you won't be missing his presence, so he goes away to cool off.

It's been about fifteen minutes since you picked up your conversation with Benedict's siblings when the man abruptly pulls you out of it and enters the nearest tent.

"What is the—"

"We must stay here a minute," he lifts his hand to stop you from talking, pointedly looking outside at someone you can't see.

"What is the matter?" You ask anxiously. 

"I'm being hunted like a fox," he claims, scowling at something in the distance.

"Pardon?"

"The night we met—I mean the night we were officially introduced, I made the foolish mistake of dancing with an all-too-eager debutant in an attempt to escape you." He purses his lips. "I should've accepted my fate as it was, but now I have to deal with you and her."

You scoff. "You flatter me."

He looks at you apologetically. "I don't mean to insult you."

"Yet you keep doing it," you reply, though your words have no heat. "What is so wrong with this debutant?"

"We danced once and talked almost nothing, but now she and her mother search for any excuse to harass me at every event. You don't know how glad I am to have you."

"Well, now I feel a little less glad to have you," you reprimand him. "Why don't you talk to this girl and tell her the truth, that you never intended to marry her?"

He laughs, then realizes you mean it, and his smile vanishes. "Should I also hand over a gun to her mother and tell her she's got big feet?"

"Surely they wouldn't hold it against you? You only danced with her once!"

"My dear Princess, when you're a Bridgerton, dancing encourages advances from the marriage mart. I was stupid, allowed my panic to take over."

"Were you that afraid of me?" Your mood sours further with every word he says. "I don't recall hissing and throwing acid when we met at the park."

Benedict places a hand on your forearm. "You are perfectly lovely, but I tend to act on impulse and it gets me in trouble way too often, that's all I'm saying. Your Royal Highness, please stop coming for my throat—"

"I'm sorry but is this tent a balloon?" A woman speaks out loud. "Because you all are certainly filling it with air."

"Oh, lord have mercy..." Benedict winces, recognizing the voice without having to look up at the person.

"This man's ingenuity will drive forth practical progress. I came here to listen to someone who thinks differently, not to hear the familiar chorus of what cannot be done."

Your smile widens at the lady's words, slipping out of Benedict's grip and swiftly making your way over to the woman. "Well said!" You tell her once the men have settled and gone back to listening to the lecture. You lower your voice. "Are you familiar with this man's works?"

The older woman smiles amicably. "Not nearly enough, but I want to." Her eyes land on the person behind you and her smile shifts to something frailier. "Benedict."

"Tilley," Benedict smiles, but it's a stiff one. "I should've known you'd be here."

"I wish I could say the same, but you've always been more about... whims, rather than predictability."

It is quite an innocent comment, but you can tell it has a certain effect on Benedict, whose smile tightens. "You flatter me. I'm here escorting Princess Y/N Deveraux, she expressed an interest in meeting the mind behind today's exhibition and needed a companion for the day."

"Princess Y/N," the woman curtsies. "I apologize, I read you were visiting but I was yet to see you in person. I'm Lady Tilley Arnold. Are you enjoying London so far?"

"London has been very kind to me, thank you for asking," you curtsy back. "Are you friends with Mr Bridgerton?"

"She's an old acquaintance," Benedict admits, "met her at an art exhibition, she's always been open to sharing her opinion even when she shouldn't."

"Someone ought to be the voice of reason," the woman matches his tone, "especially when those around have no backbone."

You find yourself caught in the fire, eager to abandon it. You step forward and turn to keep facing them as you talk. "Well, you must have a lot to catch up on, so I'll take a walk around the exhibition and—"

You accidentally knock over the miniature balloon used for the lecture, you reach out and catch it squeezing the papier mache basket, leaving a prominent dent on the side. "I'm so sorry!" You blush, handing the balloon to his owner. "Please do let me know how much—"

"Your Highness!" Benedict approaches like a mother hen. "Are you alright?" He gestures at the aeronaut. "Beg you forgive us."

"I didn't mean to break it," you continue with embarrassment.

"He can fix it—you can, can't you?" Benedict asks demandingly. "I'll pay for it."

"No, I will!"

"Princess, don't be absurd."

"It was my fault!"

"No need to argue," the man stops you nervously after hearing you're a princess. "This isn't as expensive as it looks, Your Royal Highness, do not worry."

"The man says it's fine," Benedict guides you out of the spotlight. "We should let him be."

"But I–"

"Y/N," Benedict speaks your name in an urgent whisper, managing to silence you. "Whenever you commit an indiscretion, apologize once, then stop talking altogether."

You pout. "My mother always says that."

"So then why did you continue talking?"

"Because if I hadn't I would've cried," you blush furiously.

He eyes you, and you're drowning in your stress so much, that you completely miss the way his expression morphs into affectionate concern. "You're quite a handful..."

"I'm sorry," you say again, to which he responds with a laugh that makes you stop fretting.

"I don't think it's a bad thing," he reminds you. "You'll make these events far more entertaining for me. Embarrass yourself to your heart's desire, I'll be there to save you if needed."

You don't realize that's exactly what you've been wishing to hear until he says it, and you stare at him, the spark of mischief in the way he's looking at you tells you he's back to acting like he did at Hyde Park, and it makes you wish there were ivy walls nearby.

"Very well," you say softly. "I suppose that means you're agreeing to be my companion for the season?"

"Better yet, Miss Deveraux," his smile softens. "I'll be your friend."

Next Chapter –>

Taglist.

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[altocat]

The Silver Elite club is so creepy actually. The fan clubs for Genesis and Angeal share basic information about Angeal loving plants and cooking or Genesis having a history with Loveless.

But Silver Elite takes it to another level. The information is uncomfortably private. Sephiroth sneaking into the training room with his friends was supposed to be a secret, but Hojo exposed it anyway. Yet in the same newsletter he writes about how Sephiroth valued his privacy. Great.

Then for Hojo to share something as personal as what Sephiroth used to clean his “long beautiful hair” is absolutely repulsive and disgusting. All that fan club did was expose how obsessed Hojo was with Sephiroth and how closely he monitored him all his life.

It's really eye-opening because Silver Elite is sorta played for laughs in CC, or at least meant to be kind of amusing because it's Sephiroth doing mundane Sephiroth things, only for you to realize in hindsight that it's actually a very deeply violating invasion of privacy. Sephiroth around CC era won't even LOOK at Hojo, much less speak to him. I refuse to believe he's giving Hojo any license to post all this private information without Shinra pressuring him into compliance.

People have expectations of Sephiroth. That he's this regal, dominant creature that is always in control, always above everyone else, always flawless and badass at everything he does. They know him as a villain, powerful, imposing, always two steps ahead of Cloud and crew, always smug and threatening and towering over the competition. Crisis Core (and First Soldier) paints a far grimmer picture as to the person Sane!Sephiroth really was pre-madness. He's actually very passive and subdued, dare I say submissive. He has his pride, yeah. And a level of authority over his men. He's definitely not someone you want to annoy or come to blows with. But in his private life within Shinra, he's actually very nonconfrontational and sort of bleakly resigned to everything.

Maybe the EC marketing was right when it suggested that the audience doesn't really KNOW Sephiroth. Because the way the real Sephiroth acts doesn't suggest dominance or power or autonomy of any kind. He's dealt a lot of daily Shinra bullshit and he just puts up with it. He does as he's told. He can be choosy about his missions and he might have a few more privileges than the average soldier. But his hands are just as tied as everyone else's. Maybe even more so because his guardians are allowed to exploit him for profit day after day just to drum up propaganda for new recruits.

[itskindofidontknow]

What dreams know about love?

Chapter 16

Dream of The Endless/Morpheus x Love!OFC

Summary: The Queen of Love has grown used to the absence of her husband, the Dream King. After banning her from the Dreaming, they only saw each other when Morpheus summoned her for social or marital duties. He would go decades without calling for her, enamorated by a variety of mistresses. It broke Love's heart. Not that her husband cared. However, after being imprisioned for a century, The Dream King wants to regain his Queen's love. She doesn't believe him, not after centuries of neglect. The question is: Can dreams repair a broken heart?

Tag: Established relationship, arranged marriage, regency romance, eventual happy ending, angst, morpheus is a dick prepare to hate, love is eoster from west germanic mythology, typos are to be expected

TW: Abortion as an option, light violence between sisters

If I forgot any TW, please let me know!

The lake shimmered beneath the gentle rays of the afternoon sun, its surface dotted with the occasional ripple where a stray leaf or bird’s feather met the water. Surrounding the lake were tall trees whose branches swayed lazily, offering shade from the warmth above. The breeze was soft, warm tender even, brushing through the reeds at the water's edge. It was a typical summer day and one could easily hear the buzzing of cicadas all afternoon. It was a place designed for peace, a sanctuary of nature where the muses often congregated for lazy leisure and might enjoy each other’s company undisturbed by the chaos of gods and mortals. And yet, tension now held the air hostage.

What was meant to be an afternoon of gentle persuasion had already turned sour.

Calliope sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, her gaze fixed stubbornly on the far side of the lake, with her back turned away from her sister. The gentle overture from Polyhymnia, the eldest of the muses, to begin the conversation—one that every muse but Calliope knew to be the very purpose of this gathering—had met with quiet resistance. What began as a moment of peaceful indulgence, as Polyhymnia softly brushed her hair in that familiar sisterly manner, soon transformed into a posture of defiance, quickened by the shift in the air, her sisters encircling her as if she were some creature ensnared. Their expressions ranging from concern and frustration.

“She is a spoiled child who saw something she could not have and worked in a devious way to take it!” Calliope’s voice rang out, raw with the emotion she could no longer suppress. Her dark eyes flashed with fury, but beneath that fiery surface, tears glistened, threatening to spill. Her sisters had ambushed her, invited her under false pretenses to what she believed would be a tranquil afternoon. Instead, they had brought their judgment, their warnings, and she could no longer bear the condescending in their demeanor.

“Sister!” Polyhymnia’s tone was sharp, her face marked with the effort of maintaining composure. “Do not speak of what you do not understand.” Her dark brows knitted together, and for the first time in this conversation, her regal calm began to waver. She had promised herself, and the others, that they would approach Calliope with reason, that their words would be tempered with love and concern, the way that was always the best to talk to Calliope, the only way to make her listen. But how difficult it was when faced with such stubbornness, such blindness.

Polyhymnia’s figure, always elegant, now felt rigid. Her dark, braided hair, so carefully woven into a crown, stood in contrast to the loose, windswept strands that framed Calliope’s tear-streaked face. Both sisters, mirror images in appearance, now seemed so far apart.

“What is there to understand?” Calliope spat, turning to face the older sister, even if it felt almost unbearable. “She got what she wanted, didn’t she? She trapped him, and Desire helped her. They plotted together to force him into this—this cage of a marriage!”

At this, Polyhymnia’s lips thinned, her patience unraveling thread by thread. But before she could form a response, Erato stepped forward, her eyes burning with righteous anger. "Is that the sweet lie Oneiros has been feeding you?” Her voice, sharp as a blade, cut through the air between them. Erato’s cheeks flushed with the heat of her own frustration, the kind that only sisters can invoke in one another. Though a few years older than Calliope, she moved with the restlessness of youth, her steps quick as she paced in front of the group. “Does he truly make you believe he is some victim of love, poor and powerless in the hands of a scheming queen?”

Polyhymnia sighed, casting a glance at Erato—her warning unheeded. She had told her sister not to let her closeness with Lady Love cloud the conversation. Erato and Calliope always had friction between them, disagreeing on even the most mundane topics, and Polyhymnia was clear that Erato should not let the emotions of the heart interfere with the delicate matter at hand. But now it was too late.

Her devotion to Lady Love had always made her the first to rush to protect the queen, and judge anyone that dares to speak ill of her. It could almost be compared to the devotion of cupids, although they would not like to be compared. And it showed now in every line of Erato's body.

“He is not kind to her, Calliope. Oneiros treats her with cruelty,” Clio interjected quietly, her voice steady, calm—too calm. She emerged from the lake, her red hair dripping as she wrung it out with slow deliberation, as if the conversation was but a trivial matter.

Calliope’s breath hitched. That calm tone unnerved her more than Erato’s fire. Clio, ever the pragmatist, always seemed to know more than she let on, as she was a specialist on every subject in the universe. And Calliope always believed in her sister's wisdom, now however it sounded as over-the-top pretentiousness. The younger muse looked up at her, seeing in her sister's expression not malice, but pity. And that, she could not abide.

“And what of it?” she replied, her voice now cold, detached. “He is cruel because she deserves it. He punishes her for what she took from him. A fitting retribution for all that she has deprived him of.”

In an instant, the air seemed to still. Polyhymnia’s breath caught, and the others exchanged startled glances. Then, with a sudden, sharp movement, Polyhymnia’s hand connected with Calliope’s cheek, the slap echoing in the quiet, idyllic scene. Not even the buzzing of cicadas could be heard.

Calliope’s hand flew to her cheek, stunned. She had not expected this. Not from Polyhymnia. A deep sense of betrayal flooded her, mingling with the stinging pain of the slap. She opened her mouth to speak but found no words, only a raw, wounded silence.

Polyhymnia’s chest heaved with the effort of regaining control, her hand still trembling slightly from the force of the blow. She never raised her hand to any of her sisters, she never resorted to violence and her immediate instinct was to hug Calliope, and beg for forgiveness. A quick glance at Clio, who locked eyes with Poly, gave her the strength to keep her stance. This was bigger than Calliope’s feelings. This was for her own good. “You defend a man who punishes his wife, and for what? A fleeting love that cannot last?” Her voice softened, but the steel remained. “This affair... it must end, Calliope.”

“She deserves it,” Calliope whispered, her voice barely audible, her pride still clinging to the remnants of defiance. Her sisters exchanged glances, even Euterpe, Melpomene, Thalia, Terpsichore, Urania who let the older ones guide the conversation, sitting on the side, realized with the exhausted sigh of Poly. They were no longer listening to her as a sister, but as a threat to their way of life.

Clio stepped forward, her eyes hard. If love and gentleness didn’t resolve, maybe rationality would. “And what of us, Calliope? What do we deserve? The wrath of the Queen of Four Loves for your defiance?”

The muses all knew what that meant. Lady Love’s sisters, the Ladies of Emotion, were known throughout the realms for their beauty, gracefulness, the embodiment of every form of feeling— They were good sisters, and loving nieces to the Aunts, but they were also known for their ruthless and unforgiving nature. Each had their way of exacting revenge. Honesty and Pride were quick to act when their husbands strayed, they had a tendency for the drama, crafting the bloodiest violent scenes as lessons to their husband.

Not that it worked, as their husbands were equally kin on bloodshed, feeling more proud and enticed by their wives. It is what Lady Honesty called “games of love”. Melancholy and Happiness had more long-term provoked suffering, playing with the lovers' emotion until they themselves ended their lives. Love didn’t agree with her sisters, and they would often fight when it came to discussion. Love used to say that they should punish their husbands for the infidelity, not the affairs they search for. Her sisters always disdain her opinion, saying that she would understand when she got a husband of their own.

Eoster promised herself to her if it ever came to infidelity, she would punish her husband and hold no ill against their lover. But more than often she broke that promise, and hated Calliope and referred to her by despicable names when fighting with Morpheus. Eoster knew it would elicit a reaction from him, she would have his attention, and after she hated herself for it, to reach so low, and found herself wanting her husband to defend her honor against the gossip and awful whispers that called her frigid and unfit, as he defended Calliope’s to her. But even in her lowest moments, Aphrodite never thought to resort to her sisters’ tricks and games. The muses however couldn’t know this, they couldn’t be certain, and they couldn’t risk it. It was for Calliope's own good and survival.

“If Lady Love chooses to punish you…,” Clio said, her voice now edged with fear, “She may be softer, but do not think her heart will remain unscathed by your defiance. She may not draw blood as Pride and Honesty do, but she can withhold her blessings, and with them, the very inspiration that keeps us alive.” Calliope’s sisters feared not just for her, but for themselves. They could not afford to anger the Queen of Love, the one who controlled mortal desires, the very prayers that sustained the Muses’ power.

Polyhymnia’s eyes hardened, her voice unwavering. “The mortals pray to us because they are moved by Love, Calliope. The songs, the poems, the art—it all begins with her. And if she turns away from them, if she takes away that spark… what would become of us?”

Calliope’s heart sank. She knew the weight of those words. Without the prayers, without the devotion of mortals, the Muses would fade. And it was all tied to Love, the queen whose influence stretched farther than even they could see.

“Oneiros won’t allow her. He promised me…” Calliope began, but her words sounded hollow even to her.

“Promised you?” Clio cut her off with a cold laugh. “What good are his promises when our very existence hangs in the balance? He will protect his queen, his soul, not you. You are a passing affair. She wears the crown.”

Polyhymnia stepped forward, her voice firm but tinged with sorrow. “You must understand, Calliope. This is not just about you or your heart. This is about all of us. We cannot risk losing everything for the sake of your… infatuation.”

Tears welled in Calliope’s eyes, but this time, they were not born of anger. They were tears of realization, of betrayal. Her sisters—her family—were not standing by her out of love or concern for her well-being. They were protecting themselves, preserving their own power.

Melpomene with her melodic voice, spoke for the first time, without directly facing Calliope, her tone different from all the others, she didn’t seem like to be talking directly to them, but to an invisible audience preaching a prophecy, her voice was distant “When push comes to shove, he will have one choice only. And she is the one sitting by his side, wearing his crown. She is, and always will be, his queen.”

Calliope looked at each of them, searching for a sign that they still cared for her, that their words came from love. But all she saw was fear—fear for their power, for their survival. They used the worry for her as an excuse to veil their desire of self preservation. The bond they shared, as muses, as sisters, had been broken, replaced by cold practicality.

She stood, feeling the sting of betrayal heavier than the slap across her cheek. She had lost her sisters.

—------------------ Calliope sat at the edge of the bed, her thoughts swirling as heavily as the storm outside the window. Her fingers rested on her belly, a gentle gesture, yet one laden with uncertainty. The Three stood before her, their dark chitons contrasting sharply against her pale gown, their presence an embodiment of fate and finality.

“My child,” the Mother began, her voice both tender and admonishing, “I feel for your tears, but you were warned. You were advised against this.”

Calliope had hesitated to summon them, but the silence of her sisters and the weight of her secret had driven her to desperation. She could no longer bear the burden alone. Weeks had passed without her monthly bleeding, and as the truth of her condition settled in, fear took its place. Oneiros had to know—yet how? How could she speak of the life growing inside her when the very act of creating it was shrouded in betrayal?

She could almost see the dream she once had, seemingly a lifetime ago, before the complications. Calliope watches them from the window from the same bedroom she sat now. A child wrapped in Morpheus’s arms, eyes like the starry skies of the Dreaming, cherished by the Lord of Dreams, as Morpheus would cradle him with the same tenderness he once held for her. How Morpheus would love him, their child, his child. She knew that, just as surely as she knew the stars would continue to shine. A father of stories would fill their child’s nights with tales of the Dreaming. In another life, perhaps, it would be a perfect future. But perfection, Calliope now knew, was fragile.

“It is the last time,” said the Crone, disapproval dripping from her lips as if she had already judged Calliope’s heart. “That is what she said, the last time,” echoed the Maiden, sitting beside Calliope and placing a compassionate arm around her shoulders.

Every breath Calliope took seemed to make the room smaller, as though the air itself was pushing in on her. “Please, my mothers, what shall I do? I crave your guidance.” A blessing it should be. A blessing that belongs only in that perfect life in her dream life.

Because the moment the universe learned of this child, the whispers, and gossip would become insufferable. A scandal, which according to Oneiros, was all that Love wanted to avoid. The Lady of Love herself floated through socials with her sweet, brittle smile and gentle manners. But a child would be different. No amount of feigned ignorance or public pleasantries would quell the storm that would follow.

Calliope knew little of Eoster beyond her public mask—preaching love, displaying polite affection for her husband, always by his side, with her hand holding his arm, in a way that grated on Calliope’s nerves. She expected to see a fracture in her facade or regret, but the Lady of Springs was always composed. In private, Eoster was miserable; Calliope knew this. And yet, despite her misery, the queen had never directly harmed her. She didn’t torture her by any means. But could she trust that?

Eoster might not harm the child, but Calliope didn’t know that. What guarantees did she have, besides Morpheus' word?

And worse— She could see the future as clearly as she could feel the weight in her womb—Morpheus loving their child, yes, but unable to silence the outside judgment. He could not protect him from the scorn of entities, nor from the cruelty of his own family. What would be his place in the universe? The opinion of others might not be relevant to the Dream King, but to a child, it might shape their future.

“I see it,” Calliope whispered, her voice trembling. “I see the life we could have. The child would be so adored by his father, loved as no child could dream to be loved. But...”

Her voice faltered as the weight of the decision pressed down upon her.”My mothers, What would you have me do?” She repeat the question, craving for an answer, for an solution made by others. If she kept the child, he would be a source of joy, but also a source of endless conflict. Their son would grow up knowing he was not entirely welcome, his very existence a reminder of the broken vows of a True Marriage. Would Eoster ever allow Calliope’s child to feel love? Or would she punish him by devoiding him from the feeling? An empty shell, never satisfied, never knowing what is missing.

“It is not a question of what we would have you do,” replied the Mother, her expression softening as she seated herself beside Calliope. “It is a question of what your heart will allow.”

Calliope’s gaze fell to the small cup in the Crone’s hands. The tea was warm, fragrant, almost inviting. “Poppy for a dreamless sleep,” said the Mother. “Peony and safflower to ease your pains, and honey to sweeten the bitterness.”

She stared at the cinnamon-colored liquid, her heart pounding in her chest. How easy it would be—just a sip, and the terrible weight that had settled in her bones would lift. Maybe in a few decades she would tell him. What would he think of her then? Morpheus would forgive her, embrace her, soothe her pain, but beneath that forgiveness would always lie a wound—a wound that would never heal, because she had taken away something he would have loved beyond all measure. He would always feel betrayed, even if he never said it aloud.

The Maiden’s voice broke her thoughts. “What pains you now will not pain you any longer.”

But Calliope’s hands were already trembling. Could she live knowing that she had denied her child the life he could have had, the father who would have adored him, all because she feared entities whose whole lives revolve around gossiping and whispering lies? Could she truly carry on, lying beside him, pretending as though nothing had happened?

She looked at the tea again, the weight of her decision pressing down harder with every passing second. She imagined again her child in Morpheus’s arms, the life they could share together. But then the universe’s whispers crept in—the cruel, cutting judgments, the sarcastic jokes and mean laughs, the reminders that their love was hurting love itself.

The Mother’s voice broke through her thoughts, gentle yet firm. “A child can be a blessing.”

“And a curse,” added the Crone, her tone far less comforting. “What the Dream Lord gives to one, he denies to another.” Calliope closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She had made her choice, though the weight of it bore heavily on her heart. “I will talk to Oneiros,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

The Three exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. The Mother spoke softly. “Guard your heart, for his answer may not be what you wish it to be.”

“And yet,” the Maiden added, “perhaps it will be.”

Calliope swallowed hard, fear and hope warring within her. Whatever path she chose, it was clear: there would be no peace. Whether she kept the child or ended its life, the scars would remain forever. Yet one thing she knew—she could not bear the weight of this choice alone. Morpheus had to know, and together they would face whatever came.

But the final words from the Three echoed loudest of all, chilling her to the bone. “Remember dear Calliope, if you keep this child, it will never be entirely only your son. It belongs to the Dreaming, and tragedy follows the Dream King.”

—------------------ They had a home, the Dream King and Calliope. It wasn't a palace, like the one in the Dreaming or the one in the Garden. It was a quiet home nestled within a secluded glade, where the trees whispered ancient secrets, and the light filtered through leaves in soft, golden dapples. It was their escape from both their realities. And Calliope and Morpheus were content there, the best they could, taking the circumstances. The land around them was pastoral, untouched by time—wildflowers spilled across the meadow, and a gentle stream wound lazily through the valley. It was a place that seemed to belong more to myth than reality, where dreams and reality blurred together, a sanctuary for their love.

In the early days, the thought of ending her pregnancy had never truly surfaced in their conversation. Calliope’s worry were clouded by the unexpected emotion by her so often introspective king. Morpheus had cradled her growing belly with tender reverence, his dark eyes softened by the love he felt for the life within her. Orpheus grew in their little bubble, they had built dreams of their son, untarnished by the harshness of the universe beyond. And Calliope had been cherished, adored by the Lord of Dreams as if nothing else mattered.

But no child can be forever protected, and Orpheus grew into a fine gentleman, and gifted of music. He was enamored by life and nature, and soon, against his mother’s wishes, started to frequent socials, only from the greek pantheon, which Aphrodite was usually absent. His charisma and harmonic voice, inherited from his mother, soon made him a dear guest at any greek social. Both Calliope and Morpheus forbade him from going to any universal manifestation meeting. Until one day his eyes turned to a girl that always ran way, but in early spring, decided to stay longer than usual, to celebrate the spring solstice and the good fortune that came from mortal’s abundant harvest.

And from a young love, the promised tragedy came.

“I am going to kill her!” Calliope's voice, raw from endless weeping, cracked with a fierce determination as Morpheus appeared, his presence still and impenetrable as ever. Her face was gaunt, cheeks hollow from the toll grief had taken. She had not truly slept since Orpheus' death, haunted by the cruel fate that had befallen her son.

Morpheus stood there, watching her, his expression unchanged—a figure wrapped in shadows, the weight of the Dreaming ever present in his silence.

“My beloved, calm down,” he said, his voice low, distant. But the words felt empty to her, hollow like the chasm now carved into her heart.

“Calm down? She killed him, Morpheus!” Calliope’s fists clenched, her eyes wild with fury. “She used that girl—Eurydice! She took him from us on the day of their wedding, trapped him in darkness. Our dear boy…”she wailed, her voice thick with sorrow. “He will hate the Underworld. He loved the sun, the earth, the very breath of life. And now... now, he is lost, forever entrapped, his soul, his poor soul.” Her sobs broke free again, as though the tears would never end.

Morpheus said nothing. He simply held her, as he had done countless times before, letting the storm of her grief rage while he remained the silent center. Rain began to fall in the Dreaming, clouds swirling above, a reflection of Calliope’s inner torment. He, however, was removed from it. His thoughts drifted to the Garden, to the figure of Love, serene in her eternal role, utterly unaware of this grief. He hadn’t seen Eoster in what felt like an age. The thought of her, oddly, surfaced now, perhaps jealousy of her unremarkable week. The bond was quiet, it has been for a few thousand of years.

Calliope’s tear-streaked face turned up toward him. “Promise me you will bring her to justice. Promise me that you will make her pay.” Morpheus’ eyes darkened. “Calliope... Eoster had nothing to do with this.”

“How can you be so sure?!” Her voice broke with disbelief. “There was a mortal girl, Morpheus. He followed her because he loved her. Loved, Morpheus. Does that sound familiar to you?”

He averted his gaze, jaw tight. “I warned him. I told him not to pursue Eurydice.”

“And that is all you have to say?” Her voice trembled with rising anger. “You warned him?” She scoffed bitterly. “She despised him. She despised me. Her sisters, her aunts, her cupids, her circle of protégés—they all called him a bastard behind your back, they shunned your son. Who do you think allowed that?”

“They needed no permission to behave as they did. Eoster does not control them any more than I can control the tides of time. She would not—”

“Why are you defending her?” Calliope’s voice was raw with accusation. “Orpheus’ blood is barely cold, and you’re here defending her! Why are you not feeling this? Why are you not seeking justice for your own flesh and blood? He was your son!”

Morpheus’ voice hardened, though his expression barely shifted. “Do not mistake my restraint for indifference. I grieve our son. But I will not be ruled by madness.” “Madness?” she spat. “Is that what you call a mother’s grief?” Her breath caught as she trembled. “How can you be so... How can you not see that she is responsible for this?”

His voice was ice, unyielding. “Eoster would never harm a child. She is the queen of love, of family. She would not break her vows so easily.”

Calliope's laughter came sharp and bitter. “Easily?” She whipped a tear from the side of her eye” Wouldn’t be the first time she’s bent her ‘sacred vows’ to get what she wants.”

A brief flicker of emotion crossed Morpheus’ face—something too fleeting to grasp. He inhaled deeply, grounding himself in the calm he always maintained. “Do not speak of what you don’t understand.” It was difficult to explain the bond, how he could be certain that Eoster had nothing to do with it. How he could vouch for her innocence even after years of not seeing her. How he knew her nature even if he didn’t properly know his wife as one often does.

“No. You’re right. I don’t understand. I don’t understand how you can stand there defending her—defending the woman who has scorned us since the day of that accursed marriage, who has despised your son from the moment of his birth.”

Silence.

Something dark and cold settled in her gaze as she looked at him.”Oh, I see” Calliope let out a sharp, mirthless laugh, one that sent shivers through the cold air. “She’s pregnant, isn’t she?” Her voice dropped to a low, venomous whisper. “That’s why you don’t care. She’s carrying your heir—your legitimate heir.” Morpheus’ brow furrowed, his face set like stone. “Calliope, that is not—”

“That’s why!” she cried, interrupting him, voice rising in hysteria. “That’s why you defend her! You have a new child to look forward to, a new legacy to secure. You won’t accuse the mother of your ‘legitimate’ heir, will you?”

His voice, usually a command in the realms of dream and reality, faltered for the briefest of moments. “Do you hear yourself? I know you are in pain, but do not twist this into something it is not.”

Her eyes blazed. “When push comes to shove, you’ll have only one choice.”

“What?” His voice was low, almost a whisper, but filled with a deep, unspoken sorrow.

“You’ll choose her. The one wearing the crown. Sitting by your side.” Calliope’s voice was cold now, final.

Morpheus moved closer, trying to reach her with words, with a touch—but she recoiled.

“Get out,” she demanded, her voice barely audible.

“Calliope, please...”

“Get out!” she screamed, her face twisted in grief, in rage.

Morpheus stood there, the weight of centuries pressing down on him, but his expression remained impassive. He gave a small nod, turned, and walked away.

Even as the pocket sand wrapped him, Calliope’s heartache echoed through the emptiness, and Morpheus was left to face the terrible truth—he could not bridge the gap between them. She would always hate him, see him as the one who could not protect their child.

And somewhere in the depths of his silence, he knew she was right.

@secretdreamlandmentality @littlemoistcarrot @lokigirlszendaya @notyourwildestdream @roxytheimmortal

[raointean]

Okay, I'm thinking of the descendants of Finwë in RoP and I need to share.

Of the 29 descendants of Finwë (that have been born at that point), there are only four left alive in Middle Earth. One of them, Celebrimbor, has purposefully sundered himself from all his kin, trying to put distance between him and the crimes of his family. Another, Galadriel, has become so hellbent on revenge that she can hardly spare a moment to spend with her family before rushing back to the hunt.

The two youngest, the little ones, Gil-Galad and Elrond, are physically together, but there is a strict boundary of authority that sunders them as well. Gil-Galad is king. He must maintain a sense of regality and aloofness to maintain his position, command his cousins, and leash his great-aunt. Elrond is the only son of many dispossessed houses and, in being part of everything, belongs nowhere. He is still young and awkward, having yet to come into his own.

As royals, they are not particularly close, whether that be due to necessity or if that was just the way things shook out. Galadriel seems to be on the best terms with most of them: she is a friend to Elrond and seems friendly with Celebrimbor, although her relationship with her nephew is a little... strained. Gil-Galad knows all of them well, but almost only as working relationships, detached and impersonal. Elrond has a dear friend in Galadriel, but it seems that he had never even MET Celebrimbor before season 1, and his relationship with Gil-Galad is strictly professional.

They are no better when pressure is applied. They take sides and block out all evidence that does not support their positions. Elrond flees. Galadriel bulldozes ahead. Celebrimbor isolates himself. And Gil-Galad- Gil-Galad is doing his best to be the rock his kingdom- and his family- needs.

And yet, despite their distance and dysfunction and individual flaws, they come together when one of their own is threatened.

[earthlybeam]

I came up with this idea myself after seeing fan art from a fandom. But I hope you enjoy it. Plus you you wish for any more characters please do ask. Gil-galad, Thranduil, Elrond, Celebrimbor version below. (You are their spouse messing with them mid act of the deed of you giving them head)

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

Gil-galad is a king of immense composure—stoic, regal, and calm under pressure. But even he is not immune to being caught entirely off guard, especially by you his spouse. He had been resting against the smooth headboard of your shared chambers, the moonlight from the open balcony casting silver streaks across his bare chest. His crown had been long abandoned, along with the formal stiffness of the day, and now the great High King of the Noldor was reduced to something far more vulnerable beneath your touch—beneath you.

Your mouth had been working him skillfully, worshipping him in a way no council or battle victory ever could. For all his dignity and restraint, Gil-galad was not above letting his head tip back against the wall, letting soft, breathy groans escape him as you hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper. His large hands, usually so steady when wielding a spear, had found their way to your hair—threading through it but never pushing, just holding. Always the gentleman, even when undone.

He was watching you now, golden eyes darkened with something primal. His chest rose and fell in controlled, measured breaths, though you could feel the way his thighs tensed beneath your hands. And then—you did it. Mid-act, you pulled back, releasing him with a wet, sinful sound, and he opened his mouth to question you—only to watch in utter disbelief as you brought a delicate hand to your lips and let out a deliberately obnoxious, dramatically loud cough.

“Sorry, love,” you said, voice dripping with playful mischief. “It’s a little dusty down here.” Dusty. You had called him—the most immaculate, clean, and composed being in all of Middle-earth—dusty. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the distant crashing of the sea against Lindon’s shores. His face remained perfectly still, utterly unreadable—so much so that you almost wondered if you had gone too far. And then… he laughed.

It was not a quiet chuckle, nor one of his rare soft hums of amusement—it was a full, rich, unrestrained laugh that shook his broad shoulders. A sound that seemed to ripple through the air, bright and free, like a glimpse of the carefree young Elf he must have once been.

“You—” he began, voice catching as he tried to regain his usual regal composure. His head fell back for a moment, exposing the elegant line of his throat as he tried to suppress his amusement. “Dusty?” His golden eyes flashed back to you, glinting like sunlight on polished steel. There was warmth there—affection—but something else too. Something dangerous.

“You dare mock your king in such a way?” His voice had dropped, smooth and commanding, though you could see the corners of his mouth twitching as he fought the smile threatening to return. “I should have you punished for your impudence.”

His fingers tightened slightly in your hair—not harsh, but enough to make your heart skip. Slowly, gracefully, he leaned forward, towering over you even from his seated position. His expression was calm, but there was a gleam of playful menace beneath it.

“And yet,” he mused softly, lifting your chin with two fingers so your eyes met his, “I find myself in awe of your boldness. To say such a thing to me… You must think yourself very brave.” You bit your lip, suppressing the smile threatening to break free. “I thought you liked my boldness, my king.”

“I do,” he admitted, a rare hint of indulgence creeping into his voice. His thumb brushed gently across your bottom lip, his tone growing darker, silkier. “But such audacity cannot go unanswered.”

Without another word, he guided you back down—slowly, deliberately—until your lips hovered once more over the very place you had so brazenly mocked. “Now,” he commanded softly, the regal weight of his voice settling over you like a velvet shroud, “be a good little thing… and finish what you started.”

And as you obeyed—lips and tongue working to draw out every sound you loved to hear—he let out a quiet, breathless laugh, the warmth of it brushing against the air. Dusty, indeed. You would pay for that.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

Thranduil, the proud and dignified King of the Woodland Realm, is not a man easily shaken. He has faced down dragons, orcs, and the endless burdens of ruling for centuries—but this… this is new in what you pulled upon him tonight.

The soft golden glow of candlelight bathes the royal chambers, flickering across the elegant lines of his body. His long, silver-blond hair spills over his shoulders as he reclines against the silken sheets, all smooth muscle and effortless grace. His crown—usually worn like a barrier between himself and the world—is absent. Here, with you, he allows himself to be unguarded. For once, he isn’t a king—just a man, completely at your mercy. And what mercy you give him.

Your mouth works over him with a skill that makes even Thranduil, with his centuries of composure, lose himself. His breath hitches—quiet but audible—as your tongue drags along the sensitive underside of his length. One of his hands rests in your hair, long fingers splayed over your scalp, while the other lazily strokes the curve of your jaw, guiding you but never forcing. He is indulgent—until you push him too far.

And you do. Right when he’s on the cusp of letting a rare, pleased sound escape his lips, you stop—his eyes, half-lidded with pleasure, snap open to find you staring at him with a glimmer that immediately puts him on edge. He knows that look.

Then, with all the audacity of someone who clearly values danger, you dramatically cough into your hand. Fake cough. “Sorry, love—” you murmur, your voice dripping with playful innocence, “It’s a little dusty down here.” The room falls into stunned silence.

For a moment—just a moment—Thranduil does not react. His expression is perfectly blank, as though he is trying to process the sheer disrespect you’ve just committed against his very clean, very regal self. And then—his jaw clenches.The hand tangled in your hair tightens—not painfully, but firmly—tipping your head back so you’re forced to look directly into those impossibly sharp, icy-blue eyes. His gaze burns with a dangerous glint, one that promises retribution.

“…Dusty?” His voice is smooth, silk over steel, but there’s an edge lurking beneath it. A dangerous calm. “You dare.” There is no dust—you both know it. This is Thranduil—everything about him is immaculate, from the gleaming marble of his palace to his flawless body. Yet, here you are, mocking the Elvenking while on your knees, no less.

He tilts his head slightly, a slow, elegant motion that makes the long strands of his silver hair shift over his shoulders. His lips curve into the faintest of smirks—dangerous, calculating. “I invite you to repeat that,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into something lower, silkier, and entirely too calm. Oh, you’re in trouble now.

He releases your hair—only to trail his fingers lightly down the side of your neck, brushing over the sensitive skin with deceptive gentleness. His nails scrape lightly in their wake, sending a shiver down your spine. “It seems,” he continues in that dangerous purr, “you have mistaken my patience for leniency.”

His gaze drifts lower—slow, deliberate—before meeting yours again. His voice is velvet-dipped authority when he speaks next. “Since you find the air here… unsatisfactory, perhaps I should remind you precisely who you kneel before.” Without another word, he shifts forward—a graceful, fluid motion that leaves no doubt as to who is in control. You barely have time to breathe before his hand is on your chin, tipping your face up, his thumb brushing along your lower lip.

His expression is calm—too calm—but his eyes? His eyes burn with the promise of vengeance. “Let us see,” he muses quietly, “how much of your cheek remains… when I’m through with you.” And oh—he means it.

Play with fire, melleth nîn, and you will burn. “If it is too dusty for you, my love… perhaps I should have you remain down there a while longer. Until you have adjusted.” His smirk is infuriatingly elegant. And you— you know exactly what you’ve done.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

Elrond, ever composed and regal, had been thoroughly immersed in the intimate pleasure of your touch—his body tense beneath your hands, his breath controlled but growing heavier with each passing moment. His long fingers, usually so steady in their grace, now tangled gently in your hair as you worked him with deliberate care, your mouth a warm haven against the cool air of his chamber.

The Elf-lord rarely allowed himself to be undone, but with you—oh, with you—he did not resist. He savored every sensation you offered him, his head tilting back slightly, yet black -threaded hair cascading down his back as a soft sigh slipped from his lips. You knew precisely how to unravel him, slow and patient, until the weight of his centuries-old control began to fray beneath your affection. And then—you struck.

Pausing mid-act, you released him from your mouth, sat back just enough to meet his gaze with a glint of wicked mischief in your eyes. With all the audacity in the world, you raised a hand delicately to your lips and coughed—an exaggerated, melodramatic sound, as if you had spent hours breathing in the dust of ancient scrolls in his study. “Sorry, love,” you said, your voice rich with playful teasing, “it’s a little dusty down here.” The room fell utterly silent.

For a breathless moment, Elrond simply stared at you—his expression unreadable, but his lips parted slightly as if he could not quite believe the words that had left your mouth. His keen, discerning eyes, bright and sharp as starlight, held yours in a gaze so intense it sent a shiver down your spine.

It was true—he was immaculate. Always. From the polished leather of his boots to the silk of his robes, though right now he just in silky open robe and certainly in the more intimate areas you now so boldly teased. The very idea that you would dare to call that dusty—when he took the utmost care of himself—was nothing short of blasphemous.

A flicker of something dangerous—amused, yet wholly unyielding—crossed his face. His brows arched ever so slightly, his lips curving into the barest hint of a smile, though his voice, when he spoke, was low and measured.

“Dusty?” he repeated, each syllable laced with an elegant disbelief. “You are bold indeed, meleth nín…” His hand, still resting in your hair, shifted subtly—fingers curling just a fraction tighter, as if to remind you precisely who you were teasing. “And here I thought your tongue could be put to far better use than… mockery.”

That soft, velvety voice sent heat pooling low in your stomach. You knew you were playing a dangerous game—a game where Elrond, with all his patience and centuries of restraint, would let you win only so much before he decided to turn the tide. He leaned forward then, the warmth of his body brushing yours as he tilted your chin up with the back of his knuckles, forcing you to hold his gaze. His face was serene—too serene—but the heat in his eyes betrayed him.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, voice like silk and steel entwined, “you require a more thorough… demonstration to remind you how well I tend to what is mine.” Oh, you had awakened something now. And judging by the way his grip firmed against you—possessive, yet achingly tender—you would be learning that lesson very soon.

💍𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓫𝓸𝓻

Your mouth, warm and eager, had been working him into a state of breathless bliss. His hands, always so steady in the forge, were tangled in your hair, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths. For all his grace and composure in public, in private, he was putty in your hands—shivering under every slow, deliberate movement of your mouth. And then—you did it. You stopped. Dramatically.

Pulling back just enough to lock eyes with him, your face the picture of pure mischief. You brought a hand delicately to your mouth and let out the most exaggerated, theatrical cough you could muster. “Sorry, love,” you said, voice dripping with mock concern. “It’s a little dusty down here.” The room hung in silence.

Celebrimbor blinked once. Twice. His lips parted slightly, as if his brain was trying and failing to process the sheer cheek of your words. His usually sharp, calculating mind—capable of crafting the most intricate designs in Middle-earth—had utterly stalled.

“…Dusty?” he repeated, his voice uncharacteristically high, disbelief etched into every syllable. His brow furrowed, and for a moment, it was as if you had spoken to him in some foreign, incomprehensible tongue. “I—It’s not—I am not—”

His hands fell away from your hair as he glanced down at himself, as if to confirm that, no, there was absolutely nothing remotely dusty about him—least of all there. His skin was smooth, immaculate, and had he not just bathed less than an hour ago? He was an Elf, for Eru’s sake, and Elves did not get dusty.

And yet… here you were. Calling him dusty. His ears, those delicately pointed tips, flushed a pale pink—an unintentional betrayal of how flustered you had made him. He inhaled sharply, a sound caught between indignation and disbelief. “I—this—that’s impossible.”

You bit your lip to hold back a snicker, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you. You weren’t sorry. Not even a little bit.

His mouth opened again as if he intended to present an impassioned, logical defense of his cleanliness, but no words came out. For once in his long life, the Lord of Eregion was utterly speechless.

And then—you saw it. That spark in his silver-gray eyes. The slow shift from shock to something else. Something far more dangerous. “Oh…” His voice dropped an octave, smooth as polished mithril. “Dusty, is it?” Your stomach flipped at the sudden change in his tone.

Without another word, he reached forward and grasped your chin, tilting your face upward. There was no trace of his earlier fluster—only the slow, deliberate curve of his mouth as he considered you with a heated, wicked gleam in his eyes.

“You’re awfully bold for someone on their knees,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your lower lip. “Perhaps I should give you a better reason to lose your breath, since you seem so… easily distracted.”

And oh—he did. By the time he was through with you, there wasn’t a breath left in your lungs. Dusty or not, he was going to make sure you never forgot just how clean and thorough he could be.