#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.

[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.

[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."

[aventurineswife]

Hello! I've been reading your SAHSRAU content (10000/10 btw). I suddently had this idea of a reader who has 12 pure white angelic wings that they can hide whenever they want. But the aura surrouding them is so intense and pure that is nearly impossible to hide. However those wings can turn black under extreme moments of anger or rage. Kinda like this ying and yang kinda thing in which the reader is a balance between light and darkness under some circuntances yet not malicious in any shape or form. Also i don't know about yoh but can you imagine the reader looking like warhammer 40k emperor or manking? Being tall and divine yet hates being called a god? I find that idea funny since it's canon that the emperor of mankind loathes being called or seeing a god can you imagine the reader being tall and golden in everyshape or form being worship while cringing inside? I can imagine sunday, argenti or any other religious character not just from honkai but from genshin trying to worship the reader.

Sunday: "Praise the almighty Creator! The God of life. Allow me to sing praises to your glory!"

EoM Reader: "Please don't...."

Argenti: "Your grace your beauty surpassed does of Idrila!"

"EoM! Reader: "STOP! I AM NOT A GOD!"

Sunday: "All hail the creator!"

Everyone else: "All hail the creator!"

Meanwhile the reader is dying inside while some of the express crew tries to comfort them. Since the reader aura is soo strong and so divine they basically can't hide it

(This is not a request or anything like that I just wanted to discuss these ideas with you)

HELLOOO—first of all, thank you so much! I'm so glad you've been enjoying the SAHSRAU content, and OH MY GOD this concept you’ve dropped in my lap?? I’m devouring it. This is chef’s kiss peak celestial angst and divine comedy.

12 pure white angelic wings—absolutely yes. It's so biblical it hurts (in a good way). That kind of holiness that burns, like trying to look directly into the sun. The Reader’s presence isn't just divine; it’s overwhelming, a pressure on the soul like you're being judged just by standing in the same room. But the twist? The Reader hates it. That kind of “I’m just trying to live a life and y’all keep bowing” energy.

And then—black wings in times of wrath? That duality is so poetic. The idea that they're not evil when the wings turn black—it’s just a mirror to the emotion inside them. Their “rage mode” isn’t demonic, it’s just the raw force of justice or grief that tips the balance. Think “vengeful seraph” not “fallen angel.” And maybe even in those moments, others misinterpret it as the Reader falling from grace, and they panic. Meanwhile the Reader’s just screaming “THIS IS FINE I’M JUST MAD.”

Reader who looks like the Emperor of Mankind but cringes when worshipped—oh my god, the contrast of their divine, regal, borderline eldritch presence with the deeply human, "please stop putting me on a pedestal" energy?? HILARIOUS. They walk into a room, radiant as a thousand suns, their voice makes walls tremble—and the first words out of their mouth are: “You better not be kneeling again, I swear to Aeons—”

Sunday is positively vibrating in reverence. Argenti probably composes three odes a day, and Jingliu has to physically drag him away sometimes. Even Herta’s research drones start quoting scripture when the Reader enters the lab.

Reader internally screaming at the cult forming around them while characters like March, Dan Heng, or even Kafka and Welt are trying to shield them from the worst of the worship?

YES.

March: sighs “Okay, I’ll take care of the shrine someone made in the parlor again.”

Dan Heng: “We can’t keep threatening to throw Sunday off the train.”

Trailblazer, deadpan: “...Can we, though?”

Meanwhile, Sampo’s probably selling fake feathers on the black market claiming “They fell off the Creator’s wings during their descent!”

I also love that Reader’s aura is too strong to suppress, like their divinity is an inescapable fact of existence. That just adds this beautiful tragicomedy where even if they wore a hoodie and sunglasses, the sheer reality-breaking presence of them would turn every head. “I’m not a god,” Reader says as flowers bloom in their footsteps and the air vibrates with unseen choirs.

“You sure about that?” replies literally everyone.

[neumond-alte-sonne]

knight!vi x masc/butch-king!reader

«Golden brown»

The throne room was crowded with noise—noblemen murmuring, advisors gesturing with ink-stained fingers, guards standing like statues at every column. You sat on the throne, newly crowned, the weight of gold unfamiliar and heavy on your head.

You were young. Beautiful, yes—but that wasn’t what made the room pause when you looked up. It was the stillness in your gaze, eyes far older than your face. Sharp and unflinching. The kind of person who had already learned that ruling meant being both blade and sheath.

Vi stood at the edge of the crowd, armor still bearing the dust of travel. She hadn't intended to end up there and stay longer than necessary. She was only meant to deliver a letter—a sealed message from a minor northern lord who owed fealty to the crown. But she had lingered when she shouldn’t have. Something about the tension in the room had kept her rooted. Something about the young monarch had drawn her like a moth to a flame.

A servant noticed her strange, cautious presence and leaned forward to whisper to the king. You looked up and rested your gaze on Vi with a slight frown.

"You," you said, and the whole room quieted. "Step forward," voice like ice cracking.

Vi did not move.

"You’re not deaf, are you?" You asked, arching an eyebrow.

Vi sighed and stepped out of the shadows, holding her helm in her hand. "No, Majesty. Just not used to being called out in rooms like this."

You tilted your head, your gaze fixed on Vi with a serious expression but with a growing, odd curiosity. "You’re not court guard."

"No, Majesty."

"You’re not a noble."

"Gods, no."

A flicker of amusement passed over your face. "Then what are you?"

"I'm just a simple wandering knight," Vi said plainly, but there was a hidden meaning in her words. "I was ordered to deliver a message. I didn’t mean to linger."

"And yet you did." You replied in a calm voice, tracing your lower lip with your thumb in a thoughtful gesture.

Vi looked into your eyes, holding a eerie spark in them. "I don’t like the way they look at you."

The room chilled. Several advisors bristled. A few guards shifted, giving a more threatening air.

But you didn’t move.

"And how do you look at me?"

Vi paused, almost hesitantly, and then said: "Like someone who’s about to be surrounded by hungry wolves."

For a long moment, there was silence. No one seemed to want to rebuke Vi's words. Some eyes held a dangerous haze as they settled on you, waiting for your reaction.

Then you stood.

"Come here."

Vi stepped forward, her boots echoing off marble. When she stopped at the foot of the dais, you descended the stairs, each step deliberate. You stopped only a breath away with your hands behind your back.

"Most people look at me with awe. Or hunger. Or fear," you said quietly, tilting your head slightly. "You don’t."

"No," Vi replied, firmly.

"Why?"

"Because you don’t need awe. You need someone who’ll bleed for you without asking why." A pause. "And someone who’ll tell you the truth when everyone else lies to keep their heads on their shoulders."

You studied her like one might study a blade—measuring its edge, its weight.

"Can I trust you?"

Vi didn’t blink. "No. But I won’t betray you."

That—strangely—seemed to please you.

"Good," you said. "Because I don’t need trust. I need loyalty."

Your eyes scanned Vi in detail, an attention that Vi found intimidating.

"What’s your name?"

"Violet. No title. No land."

"Just a sword?"

Vi shrugged. "And a spine. Which seems to be in short supply around here."

Your smile was slow, dangerous. Not amusement—approval.

You turned to the room, voice rising with regal command.

"Dame Violet is hereby named to my personal guard. Effective immediately. Anyone who questions it can speak to me alone."

Gasps followed and murmurs. Fury hidden in silk and lace.

But Vi? She just bowed her head with a hidden smile, the kind that flickered more in the eyes than on the lips.

"Yes, Majesty," she said, her voice steady, respectful.

Inside, though—inside, her chest burned with something fierce and complicated. Pride, yes. But also disbelief. A memory stirred: the first time she held a sword with trembling hands, the nights spent training in silence, bleeding on the stone floors no one ever bothered to clean. She had dreamed of honor once, before the world taught her to stop dreaming.

And now—this. Chosen by the king.

She did not look up. She couldn’t. Not yet. The smile might break into something else.

And from that day forward, they were never apart—not in war, not in peace, and not in the quiet spaces where duty twisted into something far more dangerous.

�� 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟

[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

[rnnsdrms]

strangely enough, despite albert’s tarnished reputation among the nobility, his popularity with the ladies of any social standing never seems to wane. however, you won’t deny (it’s not the same as admitting it, though) that he is blessed with a regal face structure enough to rival a prince; his calm, sophisticated aura, accompanied by his gentle tone of voice and amiable smile, makes him an even more formidable bachelor.

oh, poor the men of london! but if you were as naive as most of the ladies of london, who are all too quick to give their affections away in hopes of gaining a little attention, you might not have found yourself in his clutches. because, perhaps, men are creatures who flourish when there is a thrill of a challenge. and albert saw you as one. you were the mysterious island in the distance. his mind has charted its course, and he won’t anchor until he succeeds in reaching his destination: you.

you would have thought that a man of his caliber and notoriety would have had no trouble charming a potential suitor. it was only after you were with him that you realised he had gone through all the trouble to impress you, even at the expense of his dignity. at first, you thought he would lavish you with ephemeral joys and sweet nothings, which is a trade he excelled in to impress the opposite sex. again, it was only later you knew that wasn’t something he prides himself on. it had merely been a mask to hide his true self. albert knows that people liked to be pleased, and that they are more likely to behave cordially when one told them the things they wanted to hear. but not with you. oh no, he could never do such a shallow thing toward you. with you, it was the other way around: he became the one at lost for words.

uncovering his duality had been a bewildering surprise to you. in front of the world, he had adorned an actor’s mantle, and yet before you, he is as lost as an innocent child. you find it sweet, albeit slightly hilarious (much to his embarrassment) that he appears to be reserved with his display of affections for you. and you have no qualms about it. you know now, that his love comes in soft whispers and moments of unwavering gazes, and they have slowly slipped into the lonely spaces of your life, just like whenever his hand reaches for yours when walking down a dark alley. you feel the timidity of it, and in addition to his desperation for your love betraying his cold emerald eyes, there was no room in your heart to torment him further.

but certain situations do call for grand public displays of affection. if he notices a man getting too close to you, his hand quickly finds its place around your waist, pulling you firmly, closer to the warmth of his body. he may give a kind a smile or two to the man, but only you can feel the pressure of his fingers seeping through your clothes. if a woman throws herself at him? you need not worry. he doesn’t waste another glance, choosing instead to kiss you in a way that leaves no room for doubt. sometimes, his actions, ones fueled by jealousy, catches you off-guard. but you can’t help but fight back a smile that threatens to reveal your thoughts about how adorable his silent fury is.

albert’s love language is unconventional. another discovery you unravelled despite what the aristocratic ladies gossip about when they bat their eyelashes at him. “the finest bachelor in london” and “london’s prince” are just some of the labels you have heard about him when you attend social events. and you still hear it even after albert dropped his aristocratic title. by now, you know that his charms that they all fall for is a farce, one he wears because he has learned it’s easier to indulge their attention than fight it. because, if anything, albert’s behaviour is a far cry from a prince. if only they know how many times albert almost burned the kitchen; how he would bring you the charred remains of his cooking with a sheepish grin because to him, it wasn’t the result that mattered, it was the effort. it didn’t matter that he almost hurt himself when he tried deboning a fish because he doesn’t want you to choke on them; or how he would give the oddest compliments such as putting his hand over your head when you’re trying out new heels. “hmm, you are at the perfect height to kiss me, shall we give it a go?”

he speaks eloquently, yet chooses not to drown you in “i love you”s. no. albert believes in a love that speaks through actions rather than words. you will not hear him say it often, but when he does, it wears down every burden on your shoulders. you feel the immense generosity of it. he always celebrates your victories, no matter how big or small. when you rise, he rises with you. and you can find him amongst the crowd, looking at you with a quiet pride in his eyes, silently announcing to the world, “that’s her. that’s my woman. my halo. my saving grace.”

rnnsdrms™. do not plagiarize, translate, share my works on any social media site and ai engine. support writers by reblogging their work.

[gweelczz]

Blood Run Blacker Down Here. Louis x Stack (PLATONIC)

Louis De Pointe Du Lac x Elias ‘Stack’ Moore (Platonic)

Genre: angst, fluff, smut (not between the two characters!!)

Warnings: mentions of religion and religious beliefs/practices, Violence, swearing, blood and gore, the N word is said multiple times, Threatening, Stack is lowkey an asshole, LESTAT mentioned

Summary: When the sun rose after the massacre, Stack feels the other half of his soul is gone. Without Smoke here with him he leaves Mary, the Juke joint, Sammie and Mississippi in the dust along with the painful memories and heads to the the city that never rests: New Orleans.

Sneak Peek below the cut!!

Blood Run Blacker Down Here

The night bled like a slit throat over New Orleans. Gaslight hissed against damp alleyways, casting a dim glow on brick and bone. The Quarter smelled like perfume and decay, sin steeped into the cobblestones. Somewhere in the distance, a trumpet wailed a note so blue it sounded like God crying in a brothel.

Stack walked like he owned the sidewalk—shoulders broad, steps slow, the way a man moves when he’s got all eternity to kill. His suit was black, crisp, and heavy like funeral silk. Deep burgundy lines stitched into the lapels—barely visible, but they were there if you looked long enough. Blood-colored. Intentional.

Gold glinted in his mouth when he smirked at a drunk stumbling past him. The grill on his teeth sparkled like a buried secret. He wasn’t hungry—not yet. The kill from last night still hummed under his skin like warm molasses. The man had begged in church Latin. Stack had licked the blood off the pew.

He didn’t know what pulled him to New Orleans. Just that something in him—a new something—was drawn to the city like a match to whiskey. Smoke and Stack were always drawn to fire. Now, only one of them was left breathing.

And Stack wasn’t breathing anymore.

He leaned against a wrought iron fence and lit a cigar just to feel the smoke touch his lips. He didn’t need it. He just liked the burn. That’s when he saw him—another suit, another slow walker. Different kind of elegance. Regal. Like sorrow had made him a prince.

The man’s soul, well what was left was darker than the night around him. Skin tawny with a red undertone. Hair slicked back neat, with waves too pretty to be anything but intentional. His suit was the color of moonlight and menace. And when he smiled—oh, he smiled like he’d been alive too long—Stack caught the flash of diamonds on his grill.

Louis.

Coming Soon!

[lazy4honey]

Slime Queen

Another reader request sent per dm~!

Contains: milf slime queen x m!explorer reader, heat, oral, p in v, doggy style, NSFW & MDNI

Being an explorer has always been a high-risk job, and it is particularly perilous during the breeding season of the most spectacular monsters an explorer like you could hope to find — namely the Mushroom King Sija and the Slime Queen Mohana.

And you have just stumbled into the latter’s lair.

The ancient temple is overgrown with pink roses, their fragrance permeating the humid air and mingling with an underlying note of musk. It is a mark of territory and dominance, and it also tells you one more thing:

The Slime Queen is in heat.

This realization makes your eyes gleam with excitement. Being able to witness a creature of regal status in such a primitive state is truly a rare occurrence! You absolutely have to get close enough to record the matter in detail!

The fragrance intensifies as you get closer to the temple’s heart, and by the time you reach the inner sanctum, it is so dense it almost feels like it is burrowing into you. Mottled sunlight streams into the vaulted hall through broken windows, faded pink banners gently sway in the breeze, and dozens of humanoid pink slimes turn towards you.

You swallow nervously.

Why are there so many slimes here?? Shouldn’t the Slime Queen be currently mating? Or... did they... want to watch...?

Just as your thoughts begin to run wild, a few slimes suddenly approach you. They lean in uncomfortably close, sniffing your neck and crotch before pulling and pushing you over to a chamber on the opposite end of the hall.

Here, the scent of roses and musk is so thick you find it hard to breathe. Resting upon a large chaise lounge veiled in shadows, you can vaguely make out the towering silhouette of the Slime Queen dressed in a flimsy white robe outlining her thick thighs and large breasts. She had her legs leisurely crossed, propping up her head and holding a big goblet in a bored manner. Her voice is velvety smooth and sweet as poison, yet at the same time so majestic, larger than life and awe-inspiring, that it makes your legs go soft and dick hard.

“Come here."

Commanded by her, you have neither the will nor the ability to resist, so you walk over, and kneel.

“Raise your head."

You do as told and see the Slime Queen lean forward. Then she pinches your chin, her soft lips catching yours. Her fragrance invades your mind and prompts you to open your mouth, allowing her long, slimy tongue to slip in. It is a dominating kiss that leaves you lightheaded and panting and wanting for more, your cock almost painfully hard.

“Our daughters are right... You’re really delicious, little human.” She reclines against the chaise lounge and crooks her finger at you with a devilish smile. “Let Us see what you can do."

Then she spreads her legs. The flimsy robe is pushed aside, laying bare her thick thighs and fat pussy soaked in slick smelling of roses and musk.

Under her weighty gaze, you shuffle forward on your knees. You cautiously hold her thighs and bury your face in her slimy folds, and from the moment you start, you can’t stop. Sucking and biting her big clit followed by slurping up her fragrant juices and pushing your tongue into her vagina, you almost desperately eat her out.

And just that has the Slime Queen already moaning. She grabs your head to press you firmly against her crotch, her big chest heaving as she cranes her neck back in pleasure. A few seconds later, she comes with a suppressed scream. Her hand tightens and her thighs tremble, almost threatening to crush your head between them.

By the time she releases you, you’re desperate for air, yet every breath you take still smells of her. Her engorged pussy is right in front of you, her slick smeared across your face, and the heat she exudes makes your blood boil.

You stand up with shaky legs, rip the flimsy garment that barely covers her voluptuous body off of her, and drop your pants. Your erect cock bounces with the movement. Pulling back the foreskin, you touch your tip to her clit and press them together, then slowly drag it down between her folds and enter her soaked pussy.

She gasps as you push forward, bucking her hips and sucking you in, quickly engulfing your cock with her hot, wet walls. You can feel her pulse around you, drawing you in balls deep and almost refusing to let you pull back.

Then you start thrusting, rough and fast. Her big breasts are right in front of you, bouncing every time you pound into her, and her needy moans intertwine with the squelching of her pussy. She wraps her legs around you, confining you to a range at which you can never fully pull out of her, and you hold onto her waist with such fervent passion it deforms the pink slime. You are melded together by lust, relentlessly slamming your hips together accompanied by the sound of wet slaps.

Just when you feel you’re about to cum while the Slime Queen still needs a while, you suddenly hit a slightly harder spot within her soft pussy, and she clenches around you. She grips you so tightly you cum immediately. Her trembling and blissful cries are exhilarating, drawing out your orgasm and making you pump shot after shot of cum into her translucent pink belly. The milky white liquid mixes with her and clings to hundreds of small orbs contained within, leaving them with a slight sheen.

Your breath hitches as you realize—

— Those are her eggs.

— Right now, you are breeding the Slime Queen.

This is probably the shortest rest time your dick has ever needed before hardening again.

You grab her half melted legs and pull her close, rutting into her like a beast in heat. She is so hot and wet and tight, as if she moulded herself around you to let your cock fill her better. The sensation brings you close to ecstasy and makes you thrust so hard the Slime Queen can’t hold herself upright, incidentally giving you a new angle to work with.

Viscous slime spills from her hole with thrust, forming a puddle and dripping from the chaise lounge. It is hot against your balls, making them tingle and your cock twitch.

Your rhythm grows irregular and then you cum again. You fuck through it until your flaccid cock slides out, drenched in slick and still dripping cum.

The Slime Queen writhes beneath you. Her gaze towards you is dark with the lust brought by her heat, not silently begging but wordlessly ordering you to keep filling her with your cum until you are squeezed dry. No sight in the world can compare to her at this moment.

You adoringly stroke her curves, her thick thighs, wide hips, belly bulging with eggs and large breasts, kneading every now and then. It is pure bliss to bring her pleasure with these careful ministrations, letting you feel that you can provide her something no one else can. Or at least, none of her monstrous mates have ever catered to her like so.

Only you.

“My Queen...” You give her a deep kiss, then flip her onto her stomach and get on the chaise lounge. Grabbing her hips and raising her ass, you dive back in just as she’s propping herself up.

Her ass and breasts shake as you slam into her, every thrust hitting that slightly harder spot in her pussy and making her cries rise in pitch. Within seconds, she comes around your length. If she weren’t so wet, you’d probably get stuck in her.

Your eyes roll as you near your orgasm. You only come back to your senses a little bit when she twists her arms and grabs a hold of you, bending her flexible torso backwards to face you. Her large bouncing breasts, her wet tongue peaking out between her lips, her half lidded eyes seeing nothing but a tool to vent her heat... All of it entices you to lean down as you rail her and capture her lips for a passionate exchange.

Your hands keep wandering over her body, slippery with sweat and so springy you grope her almost like a stress-relief ball, never getting enough of her.

Then her tongue caresses the roof of your mouth, and you cum. Your cock throbs, your balls tighten, and your entire body trembles as you erupt, the cum shooting against her g-spot and pulling her into her next climax together with you.

“Mohana...” You unconsciously whisper the Slime Queen's name against her lips, adoring and reverent.

She pulls back and opens her eyes to quietly gaze at you. It is hard to tell whether she condones your transgression, or is just too caught up in her heat to care.

You hug her waist and pull her with you as you sit, preventing your softening cock from slipping out again. This way, she will know the moment you get hard again, and she’ll be able to ride you however she likes, to use you whatever way she desires.

The Slime Queen traces the lines of your face in a thoughtful manner and shifts her butt slightly, coaxing a lazy hum out of her.

“Little human, you’ve worked hard to please Us..."

You grab her breast and pinch her nipple, smiling at her as you rub it between your fingers, “Oh, but my Queen, I’m not finished yet. As explorer, it is my job to witness as much as I can."

“Is that so."

She twists and turns, her body reshaping itself to come face to face with you, still intimately connected, her large breasts pressing against you.

“Then stay."

And so, you accompany the Slime Queen Mohana through her heat, inseminating her eggs until you're milked dry. It is the most fulfilling exploration you have ever undertaken.

And if circumstances allow, you will definitely come back, and accompany her once more.

[astrids-blog333]

A Ruin of His Making Chapter Two

Lucius Verus Aurelius x Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Summary: Marriage was supposed to make you friends. Instead, it made you worse. After a Senate meeting explodes into political warfare, the emperor and his new empress find another outlet for their frustrations, one that is far more dangerous than words.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ power imbalance, rough sex, overstimulation (fem!reader), dom/sub dynamics (light), light degradation/possessiveness, mild emotional hurt/comfort, period typical misogyny.

A/N: I'm so sorry I've been slow this past week, I'm swamped with exams at the moment. This is the sequel to A Ruin of His Making, so check that out first. I got a couple of requests for this, so thanks for reading my stuff guys :) @okyeeaaahhhh

MASTERLIST

WC: 4.0k

It has been a short, brutal few weeks since the engagement, and since you married the emperor.

Since you and Lucius crossed that line; first with words, then with teeth and bruising kisses, then with his arms locking you against him in full view of the palace corridors.

The rumours have not stopped since.

Neither have the politics.

The marriage was rushed, scandalous in its swiftness. Some called it passionate. Others, desperate. You and Lucius know the truth, it was neither. It was necessity. A spectacle of unity for a court eager for weakness, for gossip, for cracks they could pry open and widen.

You have not made it easy for him.

He has not made it easy for you.

You are still learning how to rule together, how to bruise each other without drawing blood, how to clash without setting the empire aflame.

Somewhere between you, something more dangerous is taking root; it's not love, not yet, but something that makes it harder to look at him without remembering the way his hands feel on your skin, the way he looks at you when he thinks no one else is watching.

Today, though, there is no room for that. Today is politics. Today is war by other means.

And you sit beside him now, a silent witness to the games men will play with crowns and swords and words.

The Senate chamber is grand. Stone columns stretch high into the ceiling under which the senators sit in their long rows of cushioned chairs, each one with a wealth of experience and ambition behind their eyes.

Lucius sits at the front, his posture regal, his gaze sharp, but there is an air of tension surrounding him, one that has been steadily growing since the morning. Beside him, you sit silently, hands folded neatly in your lap.

The meeting begins, as they always do, with the boring and routine matters of the empire. Grain supplies, taxes, and the defence of the borders.

The topic of discussion inevitably veers toward the eastern campaign and Lucius’s bold strike against the rebel forces that had threatened the provinces, a decision that seems to have ignited a fierce debate.

Your attention drifts in and out of the conversation. You know the Senate is a house of power, but it’s also a house of whispers and backstabbing. Suddenly, Senator Valerius’s voice rings out, clear and cutting.

"Emperor," "While I do of course respect your military achievements in the East, I must question the strategic wisdom of your recent campaign. Was it necessary to engage so quickly? Surely, a more cautious approach would have saved the empire much grief."

The chamber quiets.

The question, innocuous as it may seem, is a challenge, a reminder that no ruler is without critics.

You turn to Lucius, but his face remains an unreadable mask. His fingers tap lightly against the arm of his chair, a signal of his thoughts but also a sign that he will let the conversation unfold.

Senator Valerius presses on, he is a man who has many years of experience in the Senate and also has a tendency to be vocal with his opinions. "The cost of that campaign was steep, Emperor. And while your victory is commendable, the risk we incurred, was it worth it? Did we truly need to shed so much Roman blood to secure the region?"

Lucius doesn’t answer immediately. You feel the tension mount in the air, the kind of tension that comes before a storm.

“Senator,” your voice rings out. “I fear you are mistaken. The emperor’s decision was not based on rashness or risk but on the necessary action to preserve the empire. If we had waited any longer, the rebels would have only grown stronger. Inaction would have cost us far more than the bloodshed you speak of."

Valerius’s eyes narrow at you, his expression one of thinly veiled disdain. He was expecting Lucius to respond, but you, a woman, had inserted yourself into the conversation, and not just as a silent observer.

He leans forward. "Ah, the empress speaks," he says with a mocking smile, a deliberate attempt to belittle you. "I did not realise that women were so well-versed in military strategy."

The room falls silent at his insult. It’s a subtle jab, but one with teeth.

You don’t flinch. “I may not have commanded legions, Senator, but I know enough about the empire to understand the stakes. More than enough to recognize that the Emperor acted with the full benefit of the council’s advice and military expertise."

Valerius scoffs, clearly unnerved by your unexpected intervention. “And you presume to know more than our generals, do you? More than those who have spent their lives in service to Rome?”

"Senator," you respond, "if the generals had opposed the strategy, the emperor would have listened. But they did not. What you fail to recognize is that the strategy was sound, and it was the only choice that would safeguard Rome’s interests. If you have a different perspective, I welcome you to share it. But, by all means, let us not pretend that your personal animus is what drives this concern."

The room goes still. There’s a murmur of approval from some corners, but Valerius, to his credit, does not immediately retreat. He has built a reputation on his wit and his insults, and now it is clear he is trying to regain some ground.

"Perhaps," he sneers, "the empress is more capable than I thought. But it still doesn’t change the fact that your husband’s decisions have cost us dearly."

You turn to Lucius, who has remained silent during the exchange. His jaw tightens slightly, but his gaze never leaves Valerius.

“I will not sit here and allow you to belittle my wife, Valerius,” Lucius’s voice is low but unwavering. "If you have a problem with my decisions, you will speak directly to me, not through veiled insults and jabs at her intellect.”

Valerius's eyes flick to Lucius, and the senator’s bravado falters.

Lucius continues, his voice sharpening. "If you wish to debate strategy, I welcome it. But you will not mock the empress in this chamber, not while I am present."

With a slight bow of his head, Valerius retreats to his seat.

The Senate hall is still fresh in your mind as you walk side by side with Lucius through the grand corridors of the palace, the murmurs of the council echoing in your thoughts. He’s silent, his hand resting at your back, guiding you with a firmness that matches the tension radiating off him.

The grand doors to your chambers close behind you with a soft thud. Only when you’re inside does Lucius finally speak. His voice is low, and controlled, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it.

“You could have left it alone.” His words cut through the air, sharp like a blade. “I didn’t need you to speak up.”

You turn to face him, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. “I was defending you,” you reply, your voice steady, but you can feel the fire burning in your chest. “I won’t let them insult your decisions, not for the whole empire to see.”

He shakes his head, pacing in front of you. “It wasn’t your place. You put yourself at risk, publicly, and for what? To prove a point?” His eyes narrow, his jaw tight with frustration.

You step closer, not backing down. “I don’t need you to protect me, Lucius. I know the consequences as well as you do. But what I won’t stand for is some senator questioning your judgment, especially not when he has no right to do so.”

He freezes for a moment, his eyes darkening, and when he speaks again, his tone is tight, almost threatening. “You should have stayed quiet.”

The sting of his words hits you harder than you want to admit. He’s telling you to play the quiet, submissive part.

“I’m not here to be a figurehead,” you say, your voice sharp. “I’m here because I earned it. I’m not just your wife, Lucius, I’m your equal in this. Don’t forget that.”

He steps closer now, his presence towering over you. But then his lips curl into a slight smirk. “You’re not my equal in this, darling,” he murmurs, the words dripping with amusement.

“You may hold the title, but you’ll always be my wife. And that means you’ll do what I say.”

His voice is low, a warning, but one you refuse to take lying down. You don’t let the insult land.

“You think because we’re married, that means I should be silent? No. If I were silent, I’d be no better than a servant.”

Lucius’ eyes darken further. He’s angry, that much is clear. And you can feel the way the room shifts, the tension thickening. He steps toward you, closing the space between you in a heartbeat.

“I didn’t want you to speak, because I didn’t want to see you in danger,” he snaps, his voice rising slightly. “Every time you open your mouth in that council, you make yourself a target. I can’t always protect you.”

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your breaths, both ragged, both angry. The tension between you is palpable, thick as smoke. You can feel the heat radiating off him as he stares down at you.

He grabs your arm roughly, pulling you to him in a swift motion. His breath is hot against your ear, his voice low and commanding.

“You don’t get it,” he growls. “You think you’re invincible? You think you can just play this game, make decisions that could cost you everything, and I’ll sit back and watch?” He presses you against him, his hands sliding up your sides. “I won’t have it. Not when it comes to you.”

You’re pressed against his chest now, his fingers digging into your skin with an almost painful intensity. His body is rigid with anger, his gaze searching your face as if looking for a crack, a sign of weakness. But you don’t give him one. Instead, you stare right back at him.

“I’ll take care of myself,” you say, your voice just as low, your chest rising and falling rapidly with the adrenaline coursing through your veins. “I always have. You don’t need to control everything.”

Lucius doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leans in, his lips brushing against the side of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

His lips press harder against your neck, and you gasp, the sound coming out softer than you intended. His hands tighten on your body, pulling you closer as if there’s nothing else in the world but the two of you in this moment.

“You’re testing me,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice strained with frustration. “And I don’t think you know how dangerous that is.”

“You’ve made your point,” he says, voice thick. “But don’t ever do that again.”

And then he kisses you like he’s furious with you.

Because he is. You feel it in the way his hand fists your hair, in the bruising press of his mouth; this isn’t a kiss, it’s a reprimand. Punishment. You barely manage to catch your breath before he breaks away, glaring at you like you’ve spat in his face.

You’re both breathing hard now. The chamber’s quiet, save for the sound of it, your sharp exhales, his heavier ones.

In one swift movement, Lucius grabs your wrist and spins you, pressing you back against the edge of your desk. The wood bites into your spine, but you don’t flinch.

You look up at him, daring him. Daring him to lose control.

“You liked it,” you say, cool and sharp.

He leans in close, his breath hot on your face. “I liked watching you put that bastard in his place.”

A beat.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m letting you get away with it.”

Your mouth curves. “So this is your retaliation?”

He smiles, but there’s no humour in it. “This is me reminding you who you belong to.”

“And what?” you hiss, teeth bared. “You think you can fuck the disobedience out of me?”

“Can't hurt to try.”

He grabs you by the waist and hoists you up onto the desk with a brutal sort of grace. Papers scatter, ink threatens to spill, and a scroll snaps in two under you.

“You’d better make it worth the mess,” you mutter, dragging your nails down his chest as he steps between your legs. “I’m not cleaning this up.”

“You won’t be able to walk,” he growls, pressing you flat against the wood, his hands already dragging at your skirts. “That’s your punishment.”

You smirk, lifting your hips to meet him. “Then you’d better stop talking and start proving your point, Emperor.”

You tug at the clasps of his armour, but he catches your wrists and yanks them above your head.

“Oh, no,” he growls against your throat, already kissing down it. “You don’t get to be in control. Not after today.”

“You didn’t seem to mind my control when I was saving your arse-”

His teeth sink into the skin just beneath your jaw. Hard. Enough to make your breath catch, enough to shut you up. “You’re still talking?”

You grin, even as heat floods your core. “What was it you said? Something about not being able to walk?”

His hand spreads over your abdomen, pinning you in place as his thigh pushes between yours, keeping them wide. “You’ll wish I only meant that.”

He lifts your skirts with unnecessary force, baring you to the cool air. You gasp when his fingers drag up the inside of your thigh.

“Already soaked?” he says mockingly. “Was that speech of yours really for me, then? Or do you just get wet showing off?”

You glare up at him, furious and aching. “Go to hell.”

Lucius laughs and sinks two fingers into you with a thrust that punches the breath from your lungs. “Tell me again?” he says, voice too soft to be safe. “Where I should go?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Not when he’s already curling his fingers inside you, finding the spot that makes your hips buck and your pride dissolve. His other hand spreads your thigh wider, holding you down, keeping you open as his thumb circles your clit.

“You made them look like fools,” he mutters, almost admiring, but his movements don’t slow. “And you made me look weak. You think that won’t cost you something?”

Your breath hitches. Your hands scramble against the desk, searching for anything to ground you. “You’re angry because I was right.”

“I’m angry,” he snarls, “because you’re mine. And you put yourself at risk.”

He withdraws suddenly, fingers slick with your arousal, and you whine before you can stop yourself. That earns you a wicked smile.

“Oh, you’ll be begging by the end of this.”

He grabs your hips, flipping you onto your stomach with little effort, dragging you so your toes barely touch the floor. You’re still gasping when he hikes your skirt up over your waist, and you barely have time to brace yourself before you feel the hard press of him against your entrance.

He doesn’t ease in.

He takes you, deep, hard, and furious. You cry out as the breath rushes from your lungs.

The desk creaks beneath the force. His hand tangles in your hair, arching your back until your spine curves beautifully for him, and he pounds into you like he’s trying to fuck the fight out of both of you.

“You like giving speeches?” he hisses against your ear. “Let’s hear one now.”

You try, you really do, but the only sound you make is a desperate, broken moan as he thrusts deeper, unrelenting.

You want to defy him. You want to taunt him. But the angle is devastating, the pace punishing, and the way his fingers slip between your thighs again makes your vision blur.

“That’s it,” he says, smug and breathless. “Take it.”

Your whole body tightens, trembling with the warning of release. And just when you think he’ll let you have it-

He stops.

He pulls out. You almost sob, reaching back blindly. “Lucius-”

“I said,” he growls, flipping you back over, “you don’t get to be in control.”

Your legs are shaking. Your mouth is parted in disbelief. But he just lowers himself onto the desk, spreading your thighs again, and dips his head between them like he owns you.

His mouth is hot, punishing, relentless. You’re already too close. Too raw. And when his tongue flicks just right you come.

Hard.

Without warning. With a noise you’re embarrassed to hear come out of your mouth.

But he doesn’t stop.

Lucius pins your hips down, licking you through it, pushing you higher, past reason, past sense, until you’re clawing at his hair, trying to push him away even as your body begs for more.

“Too much,” you gasp.

His eyes flash up, triumphant. “Good.”

He slides back up your body, catches your mouth in a messy kiss, and thrusts back into you again.

You're sensitive, too full, too raw, but it doesn’t stop him. It only spurs him on. His body is flushed with sweat, muscles taut with control he’s barely holding onto. The sound of skin meeting skin echoes in the room, obscene and punctuated by your breathless whimpers.

You try to brace yourself, but your legs are already trembling. Every thrust punches the air from your lungs.

“Count,” he says roughly.

You blink up at him, dazed. “W-what?”

“Every time you come,” Lucius growls. “You count.”

He’s already circling your clit again, the pad of his finger quick and ruthless. Your body jerks at the sensation.

“You want to play the clever empress? Let’s see how clever you sound when you’re coming on my cock.”

You don’t last long. He thrusts deeper, hits that spot that scrapes every thought from your mind, and you shatter with a strangled cry.

“One,” you gasp.

“Louder.”

You glare at him, breath heaving. “One!”

His smile is wicked. “Good girl.”

You don’t get a moment to recover. He just keeps going.

The next one takes you by surprise. You’re already writhing, moaning through gritted teeth, and then your body convulses again.

“Two,” you whimper.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he hisses against your throat, his voice ragged. “You look so good when you break.”

You curse him. You try to shove him off, try to slow it down, but he pins you harder, arms caging you in, his mouth dragging heat across your collarbone as he drives into you.

The next orgasm crashes through you without warning. Your thighs clamp around his hips. Your nails dig in. Your head falls back, vision blacking at the edges.

“Three,” you sob.

“Say it again.”

“Three!”

He doesn’t stop.

Your mind slips. Your body doesn’t know what to do. You don't know if you should curl into him, run from him, pull him deeper. It’s too much. It’s all too much, and still, he keeps going, fingers tight on your throat now, just enough to control.

“Lucius, please-”

His thumb returns to your clit and your whole body jerks.

“Four,” you cry. “Please-”

His mouth is on your ear now, dark and furious. “Not done.”

You don’t remember the next one. Or the one after. You only remember the sting in your thighs, the sweat on your skin, the pain-blurred pleasure that starts to bleed into each other, until you can’t separate one climax from the next. You’re a mess beneath him, limp, shaking, drenched.

He’s still holding himself together by sheer force of will. You can hear it in his voice when he mutters, “That’s it. Take it. Take all of it.”

Your hips tremble with the effort of staying grounded, your breath sobbing from your throat.

And finally, his rhythm falters.

He thrusts one more time, deep enough to punch the air from your lungs, and spills inside you with a low, guttural sound against your skin.

He holds you through it, his forehead pressed to yours, arms locked around your waist, panting like he’s just fought a war.

Your entire body is humming, raw and sated and stinging from too much.

The desk is a disaster. The air stinks of sex and ink and power.

And then, as if nothing just happened, Lucius exhales against your jaw and murmurs, “Next time, keep your mouth shut in the Senate.”

You let out a hoarse, broken laugh. “Fuck you.”

His smirk is all triumph, all bite. “You just did.”

The quiet stretches long.

Lucius doesn’t move at first. His body is heavy over yours, his breath ragged, hair sticking to his brow. For a moment, the only sound in the room is your breathing, which is shaky and uneven against his chest.

Then he pulls back just enough to look at you.

Your lips are parted, cheeks flushed, a smear of ink across your collarbone where something must’ve tipped mid-rage. Your eyes, though glazed and dazed, don’t look away from him. And for once, you’re not trying to win.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness, knuckles grazing your cheek.

“You’re trembling,” he says quietly.

“No shit.”

He huffs, the ghost of a laugh, then lifts you from the desk like you weigh nothing. You hiss when your thighs press together, muscles worn thin, and he pauses, eyes flicking to your face and reading it.

“Too much?” he asks.

You glare at him. “Didn’t stop you.”

“Didn’t hear you say stop.”

You don’t reply, and he takes that as a win. Smug bastard.

Lucius carries you to the lounge near the fire, settling with you in his lap like you’re the spoils of battle. One arm anchors around your waist. The other dips between your legs.

You flinch.

“I’m checking,” he says, and his voice, though still rough, isn’t mocking this time.

You go still.

His fingers are careful now, gentle, tracing the ache he left behind. His brow furrows, and you watch the satisfaction in his features fade into something more thoughtful, even… regretful?

“Did I hurt you?”

You arch a brow. “You wanted to.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You don’t give him one.

Instead, you lean into his chest, letting the heat of him soothe your trembling body. You listen to the thud of his heartbeat beneath your ear. Fast, but steady.

“I’m not porcelain,” you murmur.

“No,” he agrees, his voice low.

He presses a kiss to your temple, still catching his breath.

“I didn’t want to stop,” you admit after a beat. “Even when I should’ve.”

Lucius’s hand slides slowly up your back. “You don’t have to prove yourself to me, you know.”

You scoff. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.” He looks down at you, something unreadable in his eyes. “Just… next time, say when.”

You nod once. It’s all you can manage.

Silence settles again, this time warmer.

He pulls a throw over your bare skin. Tucks you closer, one arm still around your waist, thumb stroking the back of your thigh. You wonder if he even knows he’s doing it.

“You meant it,” he says eventually, quieter now. “What you said. In the Senate.”

Your eyes lift to his. “Of course I meant it.”

A flicker of something crosses his face. Guilt, maybe. Or something dangerously close to affection.

“I don’t need protecting,” he says.

“Neither do I,” you reply.

He smiles then, faint and rueful. “Yet here we are.”

You shift against him, a small, weary sound escaping your throat as the ache flares again.

Lucius looks down at you, and something in his expression changes—softens around the edges, though his mouth still curves with amusement.

“I warned you,” he says smugly. “You wouldn’t be able to walk.”

You slap his chest, but your strength’s long gone. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You don’t.

But you’re not about to say that aloud.

So you close your eyes instead, nestled against him, and let yourself be held.

Again, so sorry for being a little slower than usual. I've got another request in my drafts which should be out in the next few days 🫶