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aisiedaisie · 1 month ago

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Royal Flush

Authors Note: This is a continuation of an ask I did last month where reader is at a ball and catches the eyes of the boys. I loved the idea and many of you wanted a part two of the Royal AU so I hope this doesn’t disappoint 💖

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

Pairing: Poly!Marauders x Fem!Reader WC: 3.1k

The morning’s soft light filtered through the curtains, casting soft patterns across the stone floor. It was the day after the grand ball, and the palace was quieter now. Most of the attendees had already returned to their estates within Griffyn’s capital, while foreign guests remained as the royal family’s honored visitors.

Your morning had started in an unfamiliar way. Molly, one of the palace maids, had woken you—a cheerful woman with bright ginger hair and a warm, motherly tone. She knocked once before entering, her smile as much of a greeting as her words.

“Good morning, my lady,” she said, glancing around the room before turning her attention to you. “Did you sleep well?”

She offered to assist with anything— breakfast, dressing, even drawing a bath. It felt strange, having someone so eager to help. Back home, you’d always managed on your own. Though your family held the title of Baroness, your estate wasn’t large enough to support a full staff, especially for travel.

You hesitated before asking Molly for breakfast, not wanting to seem ungrateful. She brightened at the request, practically skipping out of the room with a promise to return quickly.

As you waited, you couldn’t help but compare her energy to Mary’s. Mary, Lily’s other Lady’s Maid, was usually always composed and efficient, keeping everything about the crown princess’s day running smoothly. With Mary around, there was rarely anything left for you to handle.

_____

When Molly returned, balancing a tray of breakfast that smelled more enticing than anything you’d eaten in weeks, Mary arrived not long after. She was dressed in a light pink day gown trimmed with elegant cream lace, the kind of attire that reminded you how deeply ingrained courtly refinement was in her every movement.

“Lily is in one of the meeting rooms with foreign dignitaries,” Mary informed you with a soft smile. “She’s likely to be occupied for most of the day.”

You nodded, though a pang of sympathy flickered within you. Lily had never been one for the formalities of court, least of all the endless debates that often unfolded in such meetings.

“Well, I suppose that leaves us fairly free for today,” you said, more to yourself than to Mary.

Mary’s expression softened briefly, though she didn’t linger. “I’d better fetch Marlene some snacks before she causes a scene,” she said, her tone laced with amused exasperation.

As she left, you considered how to spend the day. The palace grounds were sprawling, with gardens, libraries, and countless other places to explore. A rare opportunity to simply wander presented itself— a stark contrast to the tightly scheduled days you were used to at home and here at court.

For now, though, you stayed by the window, looking out over the grounds. Somewhere, Lily was enduring another meeting, and you silently hoped the dignitaries of Griffyn were at least more pleasant than most.

_____

By the time the afternoon sun reached its peak, you could no longer bear the confines of your chambers. The room felt stifling, though you knew it was more a result of your restlessness than anything else. Normally, you’d be trailing after the princess, your day filled with purpose. Without that familiar routine, the stillness left you feeling oddly untethered.

Seeking relief, you asked Molly if it would be acceptable to go for a walk. She assured you it was not only fine but encouraged, her cheerful enthusiasm evident as she bustled about to help you prepare.

“Day dresses are far too light for strolling outdoors,” she explained, pulling out a pale green walking dress with practical yet elegant lines. The hem barely skimmed your low heels, and Molly wrapped a white shawl around your shoulders for good measure.

“This should keep the sun and breeze from bothering you too much,” she said with a pleased nod, tying the shawl neatly. “I wish we had more parasols, but our queen isn’t fond of them—not for herself or her servants.”

“It’s all right,” you replied with a soft smile. “I don’t plan to be out long, just enough to stretch my legs.”

Molly guided you through the winding halls and out toward the gardens. The walk was quiet, save for the occasional exchange of smiles and greetings with passing servants. Their cheerful responses lifted your mood, though the uneventfulness of the palace only highlighted the stark contrast to the bustling atmosphere of the night before.

As you stepped into the sunlight, a voice called out, startling you. It was low, familiar, and unmistakably directed at you.

“My lady?”

Turning, you saw him— the tall, scarred man who had stood at the prince’s side during the ball. His presence had been commanding even in the grandeur of the event, and now, in the simpler setting of the palace grounds, he seemed no less imposing.

“Sir Remus,” you greeted softly, adjusting your stance to face him fully.

He inclined his head slightly, his expression far more relaxed than it had been the night before. You couldn’t fault him for that; a grand ball would leave anyone with a touch of nerves, no matter how practiced they were.

“Remus is fine, my lady,” he said with a faint, almost self-deprecating smile. “I’ve no title to speak of, so the formalities aren’t necessary.”

You tilted your head slightly, taking in his appearance. He was tall, his frame sturdy but not imposing, his posture carrying a quiet confidence that spoke of gentle discipline rather than arrogance. Even the scars that marked his face and hands which caught the light as he shifted, did nothing to dull the warmth in his gaze.

“I see,” you said, a touch of curiosity slipping into your voice. “But standing at the prince’s side during a ball like that—surely that carries some weight, title or not.”

Remus chuckled softly, a sound that felt entirely at odds with the stoic impression you had formed of him the night before. “It’s not nearly as glamorous as it looks, I promise. Most of the time, I’m a glorified shadow, trying not to trip over my own feet.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his candor. There was something disarming about the way he spoke, as though he had no interest in the airs and graces so many at court clung to.

“Then you must have done an excellent job,” you replied lightly. “I didn’t see you trip once.”

A spark of amusement flickered in his eyes. “High praise, my lady. Perhaps I’ll add it to my list of achievements.”

You both fell into an easy silence, the kind that felt less like an awkward pause and more like a shared moment of understanding. The gentle breeze carried the scent of flowers, and the distant sound of a fountain added a soothing rhythm to the scene.

“I imagine you’re more accustomed to this place than I am,” you said eventually, glancing around at the sprawling gardens. “Molly suggested this garden, but I’ve no idea where to start.”

Remus nodded, following your gaze. “The gardens are beautiful, but they can be overwhelming for someone unfamiliar. If you’d like, I can show you a quieter corner— somewhere to gather your thoughts without interruption.”

You hesitated, caught between the politeness expected of you and a genuine curiosity about what he might show you. “If it’s no trouble, I’d appreciate that,” you said at last.

“It’s no trouble at all,” he assured you, gesturing toward a nearby path lined with blooming hedges. “This way.”

As you walked together, the conversation turned to lighter topics—the unseasonably chilly weather, the finer details of the ball, and a few amusing anecdotes from Remus’s time in the palace. He spoke with an ease that belied the seriousness of his appearance, his dry wit catching you off guard more than once.

The path opened into a small clearing, where a stone bench sat beneath the shade of a grand tree. The air here felt cooler, the sunlight softened by the canopy above. At the center of the space, a fountain bubbled gently, its water catching the light in a way that seemed almost magical.

“This was always my favorite spot,” Remus said, his voice quieter now as though the space demanded a certain reverence. “Few people come here. It’s peaceful.”

“It’s beautiful,” you said, taking a seat on the bench. For a moment, you simply let the stillness wash over you, the weight of the day slipping away.

Remus remained standing, his hands clasped loosely behind his back as he gazed at the fountain. There was something contemplative about his expression, as though he were lost in a memory.

“Do you come here often?” you asked, your voice soft enough not to break the calm.

“Whenever I can,” he admitted. “Though that’s not as often as I’d like.”

You studied him for a moment, noting the way his shoulders seemed less tense here, his guard lowered in a way that felt rare. “Thank you for showing me this,” you said sincerely.

He turned to you, his smile faint but genuine. “It’s my pleasure, my lady. Everyone deserves a place like this.”

For a while, neither of you spoke, the silence comfortable and unforced. It was a rare moment of tranquility, and you couldn’t help but feel grateful for it— and for the unlikely company that had led you here.

_____

The calm was shattered when a rustle of leaves preceded the sudden, chaotic entrance of a disheveled Prince and his knight, Sirius. They stumbled into the clearing, unmistakably attached at the lips. The sight was so unexpected that a startled squeak escaped you as you whipped around, your hands flying up to cover your eyes and the warmth now flooding your cheeks.

Behind you, Remus let out a long groan. “You two— what did I say about being careful?” he muttered, already moving to untangle the pair.

With an exaggerated huff, Remus grabbed Sirius by the collar and pulled him away from the prince, leaving James standing awkwardly in place. Sirius, his dark hair even messier than usual, blinked at Remus before his expression morphed into something between mischief and mortification.

“It’s just us,” Sirius started before catching sight of you. His voice pitched up a notch. “Oh. OH.”

You kept your hands firmly over your eyes, facing resolutely away. “I didn’t see anything!” you insisted, your voice high with embarrassment.

James, ever the composed royal, immediately tried to salvage the situation. Straightening his disheveled attire, he cleared his throat. “My lady, I assure you— this is not what it seems.”

“It’s exactly what it seems,” Sirius interjected with a half hearted grin, earning a sharp look from both James and Remus.

“Not helping,” Remus hissed under his breath, shoving Sirius lightly in the shoulder.

You cautiously lowered one hand, keeping your gaze averted as you lifted the other in a placating gesture. “Your Highness, please. There’s no need to explain. It’s… not my place to comment on such matters.”

The words tumbled out in a rush, and you hoped they conveyed your sincerity. As a mere lady’s maid, it felt absurd that the crown prince was scrambling to justify himself to you.

James stepped forward, his expression softening, though his cheeks still bore a faint flush. “I appreciate your discretion, my lady. Truly. But I must insist, you didn’t walk into anything inappropriate. Sirius and I—”

“Are in love,” Sirius finished bluntly, crossing his arms over his chest. His tone was unapologetic, and though you couldn’t see it, you were certain he wore a challenging expression.

The tension in the air thickened, but you found yourself smiling faintly at Sirius’s bluntness. Slowly, you turned back toward them, keeping your gaze carefully trained on a neutral patch of garden behind James. “If I may speak freely, Your Highness?”

James gave a hesitant nod. “Of course.”

“I’m glad,” you said, your voice soft but earnest. “You deserve to be happy, both of you. And I promise— this stays between us.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then Sirius broke it with a low whistle. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises, my lady.”

Remus sighed heavily, though there was a hint of amusement in his expression. “Could you at least try to take this seriously, Sirius?”

“What? She’s clearly not scandalized,” Sirius replied with a shrug gesturing to your calm figure.

James ran a hand through his already-mussed hair, looking more relieved than anything else. “Thank you,” he said simply, meeting your eyes briefly before glancing away. “That means more than you know.”

You inclined your head, still feeling the weight of the moment despite your efforts to ease it. “It’s no trouble, Your Highness. If anything, I feel bad for stumbling into your… private moment.”

“Maybe next time, you two could avoid ‘private moments’ in public gardens,” Remus interjected dryly, giving Sirius another shove for good measure.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Sirius quipped, earning a groan from both Remus and James.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, the tension easing into something a bit more comfortable. Yet it drew their attention back to you, a subtle reminder that you were an outsider in this exchange.

_____

With the weight of their attention settling heavily on your shoulders, you cleared your throat and rose from the stone bench. Your fingers instinctively adjusted the shawl around your shoulders as if the gesture might somehow steady you. “I should excuse myself,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve already intruded far more than I intended.”

Before you could retreat further, James moved toward you, his amber eyes wide and earnest. “There’s no need to leave so hastily,” he said, his voice gentle but insistent. “If you’d allow it, I’d be honored to escort you back.”

The offer took you by surprise, and for a fleeting moment, you faltered. He was the prince, after all, and you, a simple lady’s maid. Yet his tone carried no weight of obligation— only a quiet sincerity that made it impossible to refuse.

“If it’s no trouble, Your Highness,” you replied, your fingers nervously tracing the edge of your shawl.

“It’s no trouble at all,” he assured, his voice warm as he extended his arm toward you.

With a glance at Sirius and Remus— both of whom seemed far too amused by the situation— you gingerly accepted James’s arm. You began walking beside him, though it quickly became clear that the prince had no intention of taking the most direct route back to the palace.

But you said nothing. The moment was too peaceful, too quiet to break.

As you walked through the winding garden paths, the vibrant flowers that lined the stone walkways caught your eye. James, his tone light yet tinged with reverence, gestured to them. “Most of these flowers were planted by my mother,” he said, a softness to his voice.

“Really?” you asked, your curiosity piqued as you followed his gaze to the vibrant blooms.

He nodded, a small smile pulling at his lips. “She always said the gardens were the heart of the palace. Even now, when she has the time, she tends to them herself. These lavender bushes here,”—he gestured to a cluster of pale purple flowers—“were the first ones she planted.”

You paused to take in the sight and fragrance of the flowers, your steps slowing as their sweet scent filled the air. James, noticing your pause, stopped as well. “She planted them with her own hands, when she was still just a princess.”

You nodded, the sight of the delicate flowers filling you with a quiet appreciation. “They’re beautiful. She must be proud of how they’ve flourished.”

“She is,” James replied, his smile deepening. “Though I think she’s most proud of her roses in her private garden. Those are her true pride.” His voice held a lightness, a warmth that seemed to stem from genuine affection.

There was something disarming about his words— something that softened the weight of his title, making him seem less a prince and more a proud son.

In the soft glow of the garden, with the scent of flowers thick in the air, James felt more human than royal. It was a side of him that you hadn’t expected, but it made him all the more endearing.

As you continued to walk, he turned to you with a thoughtful expression. “You’re from the neighboring kingdom, aren’t you?”

You nodded, a bit startled at the shift in conversation. “Yes, Your Highness. I’m from Eylillium. I serve Princess Lily as a lady’s maid.”

James smiled, his gaze steady and kind. “I do hope you’re enjoying your time here. It’s been a pleasure getting to speak with you these past two days.”

His words, though spoken casually, stirred something in your chest. The prince, in all his sincerity, had a way of making even simple conversation feel profound. Your heart quickened, and for a moment, you found yourself at a loss for words. You glanced away, unsure how to respond.

Before you could collect your thoughts, James slowed, stopping before one of the covered hallways that led back into the heart of the palace. Off to the side, Molly stood with a soft smile, offering a respectful bow to the prince.

“Thank you for letting me escort you back,” James said, his voice carrying a quiet sincerity as he turned to face you fully. You let your hand fall gently from his arm, the distance between you suddenly feeling more pronounced.

“Thank you for showing me the way,” you replied, your tone light, though tinged with the truth. “I likely would’ve gotten lost otherwise.” A quiet chuckle escaped you, recalling how disoriented you'd been when Remus first guided you through the sprawling garden. Its winding paths were a labyrinth to anyone unfamiliar.

“It’s my pleasure, truly,” James reassured, his grin wide and effortless, leaving little room for protest.

You sighed softly, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite the odd flutter in your chest. You nodded politely, dipping your head slightly in a gesture of respect. “I hope you have a pleasant afternoon, Your Highness.”

James’ chuckle was warm, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer before he leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I hope to talk to you again soon, my lady.”

James bowed slightly before turning, making his way back toward the gardens with his usual confident stride. His presence lingered in the air, and for a moment, you found yourself watching him leave, an odd mix of thoughts and emotions swirling within you.

As he disappeared from view, you blinked, shaking yourself from the reverie. With a quiet breath, you turned to follow Molly, who had already begun walking back towards your room. Your pace was slow, your mind replaying the conversation, as the heat in your cheeks returned with a rush. The weight of everything that had transpired that afternoon began to settle heavily within you.

You couldn’t help but think you might be damned. Not just by the information you had stumbled upon today, the unspoken tension hanging between you all, but by the mere presence of those three.

You were definitely damned.

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redtsundere-writes · 10 months ago

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We need sukuna brutally murdering another servant because they put reader in a bad mood. ITS NOT A WANT ITS A NEED PLEASE

Blood Bath | Sukuna Ryomen

king!sukuna ryomen x femservant!reader

Sypnosis: The king needs to wash himself after defending his favorite servant. Contents: king x servant, kinda fluffy I guess, murder, a bit of humiliation, nudity. Word count: 2255 words. Author's note: Thanks for the request, anon! I was already writing this fic when I received your message, so it was a great add-in! Beginning. ← Previous | Next →

AO3/WATTPAD VERSION

Sukuna left the castle a week ago. He set out for distant lands to conquer villages, eat its people and spread the terror on his behalf. The absence of his presence was noticeable in the magnificent palace. Peace reigned in the spotless marble hallways, the quiet kitchen and the solitary great hall. Despite not having the pressure of everything being perfect, the servants were making sure the castle would shine for the king's return. The servants walked around at their leisure, pretending they owned the place. They ate at whatever time they wanted, lay down to rest on the lawn of the parade ground, and talked loudly about the rumors that have been surfacing about your relationship with the king.

Recently, it had come to your attention that you were Sukuna's favorite servant, but no one knew exactly why. The consensus had concluded that it was because you were his mistress. Sukuna used to lock himself in his room with you for hours at a time and always came out with a broad smile. The truth is that you didn't sleep with him, you just gave him massages, fixed his outfits and sometimes talked for hours. You tried several times to clear up the rumors, but no one believed you.

It was a rainy summer afternoon. You and a small group of servants were cleaning the great hall, the largest room in the castle. Surrounded by white concrete columns that rose to the ceiling, you sternly swept the red carpet that indicated the center. Diamond chandeliers softly lit the place, statues of the king stood tall and the beautiful hand-painted mural raised on the ceiling harmonized the entire room. The drops fell softly against the giant window in which the green outside could be admired.

“When do you think our king will return?” One servant asked the other as they cleaned the decorative torches that rested on steel bases around the perimeter.

“He won't be long, he has to come back to his mistress,” the other one joked. They both let out small, annoying laughs.

Those kinds of comments had become more recurrent as the days went by. You knew they did it on purpose. They raised their voices every time you entered the room or when you were about to go to sleep. None of the other servants seemed to want to intrude to keep what little peace they had. You slammed the broom down on the carpet hard to take out your frustration.

“How disgusting to be that monster's mistress, don't you think?” the other one asked. You could feel her piercing gaze on the back of your head, waiting for you to react to her uncalled-for comment.

“I know! I don't know how she can sleep with someone as creepy as our king,” she replied with disgust in her voice.

Those two had crossed the line. You firmly grabbed the broomstick to confront them about their lousy topic of conversation. You approached them at a steady pace, dragging the broomstick in case you needed it as a weapon to defend yours and your king’s honor.

“That's enough!” you scolded. “I don't sleep with our king! Besides, he may be a monster, but thanks to him, we can eat fresh food, sleep in comfortable beds and live in a magnificent palace! If I were you, I'd stop barking, bitches!” You exploded after such a long time of having to put up with their out-of-place comments.

“Shut up! You're only defending him because you're his favorite whore!” One of them exclaimed, throwing the feather duster in her face.

“Yeah, shut the fuck up, who-!”

A fine cut echoed throughout the great hall. A large splash of blood fell on your face, blinding you for a couple of seconds. The slight gasp of surprise from the other servants left you speechless. You dropped the broom to scrub your eyes. What had happened? You backed up in desperation until you ran into a wall that wasn't there before. After a crack, it all made sense. You looked up to see Sukuna's sharp jaw. Dried blood tainted his skin, his breath was cut short from exhaustion. He was back home after conquering another empire successfully.

“Does anyone have anything else to say?” Sukuna asked the other servants, who were kneeling before him, giving him a warm welcome.

You knew you should kneel, but seeing the lifeless bodies of what used to be your gossiping companions made your body freeze. Their heads had been cut in half and the rest of their bodies were shattered. What used to be two women were now small pools of blood and bones. Sukuna had erased their existence with just a couple of his fingers. It was a scene you never thought your eyes would see in the flesh. That would be your fate if you did not obey your master's orders.

“This is a reminder that I can get rid of you just as quickly,” he threatened. His thick voice echoed off the walls. “If I hear that you even dare to speak blasphemies about me or one of your companions, I will not hesitate to kill you. Do you understand?” The servants, still kneeling, said, “Yes, my king,” in unison.

Coming out of your state of shock, you turned around to kneel at his feet. Sukuna looked at your small figure compared to him. He had heard how you had defended his honor in the face of annoying accusations. He knew you were a good servant, but now you had proven to him that you were loyal.

“Welcome home, my king,” you greeted in a trembling voice. Your body was still processing the murder your eyes had witnessed.

“Draw me a bath,” he ordered, brushing past your greeting.

“Yes, my king.”

You ran as fast as possible to his room to get there before him. Luckily, you had cleaned the bathroom thoroughly the day before, so everything was ready for the king to relax properly. You turned on the faucet to fill the tub with hot water, sprinkled scented bath salts, filled the water with bubbles and lit a few candles to romance the atmosphere. Sukuna soon arrived. Without a word, he began to undress as usual. Obediently, you stood in front of the wall to give her privacy.

“Since when?” He asked you as he untied the knots of his garments and let them fall to the floor. You could only hear the fabric sliding down his Herculean body.

“I don't understand the question, my king,” you answered confused, looking at the wall full of green tiles.

“How long have they been bothering you?” Sukuna completed the question while analyzing your figure from behind. He could tell you were nervous in his presence. It was the first time you saw him kill someone, it must have made quite an impression on you.

“Since a couple of months ago,” you answered.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Sukuna entered the bathtub, which was already bubbling. You closed the bath faucet and approached a stool to begin the most complicated task, washing his hair.

“I didn't want to waste your time.” You prepared the utensils: a sponge, a small wooden bowl and glass bottles filled with the hair products.

“You don't dictate what I do with my time,” he replied sternly.

Sukuna stepped into the tub so you could easily reach his head, drowning his torso into the soapy water. With the help of a soft sponge, you wet his pale pink hair, taking care that the water did not enter his ears. The king closed his eyes, letting himself be carried away by the pleasant sensation after a week of consecutive massacres. Untangling his short hair with a wooden comb, avoiding pulling too much so as not to hurt him. You placed the shampoo directly on his head and massaged the product into the roots.

Sukuna hummed happily every time your fingers gently stroked his scalp. You were so gentle with him even though he was the worst monster ever. You scratched, stroked and massaged his skull to your heart's content. While you let the product work, you focused on his broad shoulders. Your hands roamed his upper body calmly and patiently. The king was tired from having fought day after day and night after night to leave his name high as the greatest conqueror, you could tell by how tense his skin was.

“Answer me a question,” Sukuna asked with his eyes closed.

“As many as you wish, my king.”

“Are you loyal to me because you are afraid of me or because I am powerful?” He asked firmly.

“Both. I am afraid of you because you are powerful,” you replied as you took the bowl of water to rinse his hair.

Sukuna smiled in satisfaction with your answer. That's why you were his favorite servant. You are a perfectionist, shrewd and perceptive. You always managed to surprise him in a different way every time. Something no woman had ever managed to do before. Sukuna twisted his torso to face you. Your face and your white clothes were inked with the blood of your companions. He couldn't let you work like that, after all, it's his fault you were stained.

“Take off your clothes and come in,” he ordered.

“What?” You asked, shocked.

“You're dirty. Come in. I won't repeat myself,” Sukuna demanded.

You nodded and started to undress before his eyes. He had seen hundreds of women undress before. He knows what a pair of striking breasts, sexy hips and long legs look like, but even so, he was mesmerized as he watched you unfold before his eyes. Each garment slid down your body delicately, your hairs bristled from the change in temperature and your nipples stood erect at the lustfulness. No one but your mother had ever seen you naked. You had never been with a man, let alone a monster as imposing as he was.

Sukuna held out his hand to help you into the large tub. You sat in front of him and covered your breasts with the glistening bubbles that floated around you. He took one of the sponges and soaked it with soap to gently clean your face. The now dried blood came off easily. His black claws sometimes scratched your cheeks, but you could tell he was trying to be as gentle as possible with your beautiful face.

“It's not necessary, I can do it myself,” you asked, trying to take the sponge from him.

“I can wash my own hair too, but I prefer you to do it. Let me do it,” he replied before filling the bowl with water and wetting your hair.

He repeats the same process as you. The warm water, the closeness of your bodies and his hands taking care of your hair, transported you to fantasies where you had a relationship beyond king-servant. They were romantic ideas of a Sukuna you didn't quite know. A Sukuna who hugged you every time he saw you, who gave you head pats every time you did something right, and who sat you on his wide lap, demanding attention.

Someone knocked on the door, to which Sukuna allowed access. It was Uraume, who had just heard that the king had returned and what had happened with the reckless maids. What they did not expect was to see you in the bathtub next to his majesty, but even so, they decided not to ask details of how they had come to that situation.

“Welcome home, your majesty.” Uraume bowed from the doorway. “Dinner is ready. You must be hungry after the long journey.”

“I'll be there in a minute,” Sukuna answered. Uraume bowed again and left the room.

“They won't say anything,” Sukuna assured you before getting out of the tub. You were about to get out to give him his towel too, but he stopped you. “The water is still hot, it would be a shame to waste it,” he said before taking the towel and wrapping it around his waist.

“It's my job to do it,” you said.

“Your job is to obey me,” he dictated seriously. You sat back down in the tub and nodded. “Good girl,” he said with a satisfied smile before leaving the bathroom.

Sukuna returned to the bathroom and looked in his closet for what he would wear to dinner. He glanced into the bathroom from time to time to observe you. A small naked human wrapped in the ethereal steam of her innocence. He could have any woman in the world. Why was his mind obsessed with your beauty, your words, and your docility? He didn't know exactly, but he was sure you were completely his, so he didn’t have anything to worry about.

You stood alone with your thoughts in the elegant bath. You plunged your body into the water, submerging your head in the bubbles. Heads cut in half, his big hands stroking your hair, brains strewn across the carpet, his gentle touch as he washed your face. The quick, deep images made you feel confused. Your head went back up to the surface as you realized you were short of breath. You brushed your wet hair back to take a deep breath. What were you doing? Where were you? What kind of person were you serving? Sukuna confused you with his actions, and now you didn't know what to do with your poor heart beating a mile a minute for him.

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simsim54 · 9 months ago

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Stranger: *Gesturing to Alex* Is this man bothering you? Henry: Yes, but he is my husband. I signed up for this

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elorberryart · 2 years ago

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painted this scene from the RWRB trailer :)

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morwap · 6 months ago

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𝐃𝐎 𝐈𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐄

• executioner!james potter x queen!reader

•angst

• nav | james potter m.l

• blurb, cheating, implied death

you stroked james’ head as he cried into your nightgown, his hands clenching the fabric so hard his knuckles turing white.

tomorrow he was going to execute you.

“james, dont cry” you cooed, tucking his hair behind his ear.

“i wanna go with you” he sobbed, his knees hurt from the stone under him. james lifted his head, his tear stained face was something youll always remember.

“you cant. i told you what you were going to do, you have someone to take care of.” you sighed, your hand slipping from his hair to his cheek, he leaned into your touch and turning his head to kiss your hand. more tears fell down his face.

“if they find me, theyll do the same” he sobbed.

“they wont, i made sure of it. you do what remus says and it wont happen.” you reasured him.

remus could see both of you, a gaurd dog, litterally.

“please…please…just do what he says and it wont happen, he will call it off- i wont have to do it.” james begged in a broken voice. you shook your head.

“i can’t james, you know that” you sighed.

a soft whine started.

“cmon, she wants her father” you stood up and guided him off the floor, taking him to her crib. you wiped the tears from his eyes before picking her up. she giggled and reached out for you two.

it had always killed you to pretend she was the kings child.

you held her so that she could see both of you.

“please james, do it for me”

#marauder era #marauders #james potter #marauders james potter #james potter x y/n #james potter x reader #james potter fanfiction #james potter marauders #morwap #harry potter universe fanfic #royal au

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jezebelblues · 4 months ago

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forsaken | h.s

summary: florence 1583. a woman of fire, a man of fuel.

cw: smut18+ penetration (piv), oral fem!receiving, parent death, fem!reader, unedited. unrealistic happy ending if u seek tragedy 😔

world count: approx 17.2k

| omg will be writing more on these 2, renaissancerry is my heart <3 not rlly thinking a series, more like extras on them fosho. ps: am not a historian or time traveler–if u see something incorrect no u didn’t

masterlist

Florence, 1583

Harry Edward Styles was born to a mother, an older sister, and two fathers—one of blood, one of choice.

The man that bore his blood to the two Styles children preferred the sound of the way glasses of ale would clink in warm evenings, the twinkle of gold coins in the sunlight. Children were the continuation of a name, a bloodline—and that’s all he thought them to be. The only fathering a man was made to do was the ritual of burying their seed in a woman, her duty was to grow them.

So, after a son with his same eyes drew his first breath, he rose a dagger and marked his heel with one singular, vertical dash.

He had done the same when his sister was brought into this world, but he marked her with a horizontal dash.

Their mother, Anne, didn’t understand why—and hated it with every fiber in her being—watching her newborns cry for any other reason then being pulled from the comfort of their mother’s womb.

Once their father left after Harry’s first week on earth, she understood why, his words messily printed with ink on parchment.

Dearest Anne,

Thank you for bringing my own flesh and blood into this world. You are a woman I entrust most with them, having been chosen by God to bear such souls.

Which is why I must leave. A man has more to do with his time on this Earth than to nurture, I shall pour my being into others and bring forth more Brothers and Sisters for sweet Gemma and Harry.

My blood with course through this nation and find itself basking within the kingdom of heaven. I’ve marked my children to find them when God finally calls us forth.

Your womb is a gift from the angels above.

Until then,

– Desmond.

For a while, she mourned the loss of her lover and children’s father. But as time continued, as it always does, she realized that she had dodged the fatal strike of a sword.

She was unsure of the crimes committed by the hands of their father, but she remembers hearing the news of him being hung in the southernmost village of their country.

On Harry’s second birthday, she had fallen in love with a woodmaker, Robin. Shortly after, they moved to Wiltshire and Robin was always known as their papa.

Of course, Harry and Gemma had learnt their true parentage before the dawn of Gemma’s thirteenth birthday, but it was hard to mourn a man you had never known.

Anne would have never told them he was hung in a town’s square, but ascended to heaven of natural causes—the inevitable kiss of an angel.

The scent of turpentine and drying oils had long become as familiar to Harry as the earth beneath his feet. In the cool stillness of his studio, he paused, fingers stained with ochres and umbers, to stare at the remnants of his father’s brush—the one he had used all those years ago, before the fever came.

Harry’s father had been no renowned artist. He was a man of simple trades, a woodworker from the hills of Wiltshire, far from the splendor of Florence’s sunlit domes. But in the evenings, when the day’s labors were done, his father would sit by the window, painting quietly by candlelight. It was there, beside him, that Harry had first seen the magic of creation—colors flowing like rivers across rough wood and fraying canvas, ordinary scenes transformed by the wild, unspoken emotion in every stroke.

His father had painted not for fame, but for peace.

Harry had only been fourteen when his father’s hands, once steady and sure, began to tremble with sickness. His chest had grown tight, his breaths shallow, until finally they stopped altogether. He remembers the way the pads of his fingertips would prune from bringing a water soaked rag to his lips, how his father would drink from the drops of it.

For a while, he hated the color red and grey. His father’s lips would crack with peaks of crimson, leaving faint stains of red on the water rag in its wake. His skin greyed in a speed he didn’t think possible once his heart fell absent of a beat.

In the days that followed, the house had filled with the clamor of neighbors, mourners, and merchants, but Harry could only hear the quiet absence in the stillness.

In the flickering silence, he had picked up his father’s brush.

The years after his father’s death were a blur of movement, as though he had been running from some unseen ghost. He had wandered south, across valleys and mountains, always chasing the sun. By the time he arrived in Florence, he was a man of twenty three and had little more than the clothes on his back and a single paintbrush to his name.

Florence had embraced him like a reluctant lover. The city’s streets were gilded with Renaissance splendor, yet heavy with the weight of expectation. It was a place of grandeur and art, where even beauty was a form of currency—where the Medici and other noble families wore their wealth as a crown and commissioned artists to immortalize their names in frescoes and portraits.

Harry’s talent had bloomed in these streets, but it had come at a price. Every stroke of his brush, every commission, felt like an unspoken promise to a father who would never see what his son had become. The bright colors of his palette were often mixed with the shadow of his grief, and though his name was now whispered in the gilded halls of Florence’s elite, Harry felt as though he were forever painting in the twilight between joy and sorrow.

Sometimes his mind would wonder to the possibility of if he was an angel banished by God, his punishment being to bear the pain of not having lost one, but two fathers.

Three if he counted the absence of Jesus in his life. He felt fatherless, in all senses of the word.

Or maybe it was all well circulated fairytale, conjured in the thoughts of his father’s, the one he shared blood with, brain.

He had grown to resent the mark on his foot, and in the depths of his heart he would refer it as the the kiss of the devil, rather than the mark of God.

He would blame his struggle with faith on his fathers, the three men who sat behind the title.

Desmond, for abandoning his family.

Robin, who loved him like a son and died in front of his eyes.

And Jesus, who had ignored his prayers for his papa to stay and to take him instead.

But it was the pain, the deep and gnawing ache within him, that had given his art its soul. His patrons spoke in reverence of his ability to capture more than a face—how he painted the delicate tremor of a moment, a fleeting look, a breath before the breaking. His works were praised as vibrant, yes, but they also carried something deeper, something tragic. A hidden sadness, like the ghost of a love lost too soon.

In his heart, he knew: he painted because the world was filled with such unrelenting beauty, and that beauty was fleeting. To capture it was to hold on, however briefly, to something that could not last.

One afternoon, as golden light filtered through the shutters, a letter arrived. The wax seal bore the mark of a powerful house—the Candela family. A commission for their daughter’s portrait. A noble request, one that might cement his place among Florence’s greatest. But it was not the promise of riches or recognition that made Harry’s heart stir with something close to fear. It was the girl herself, the rebellious daughter who, rumor had it, could not be tamed by family or duty.

As Harry read the letter, his thoughts drifted back to the girl he had once seen in the Candela gardens. Her eyes had been bright, but wild. Free. In that moment, he knew what she was—a living echo of the spirit he had long tried to capture in his art: untamable, elusive, yet heartbreakingly beautiful.

It was a portrait that might change everything. Or destroy him.

He set the letter down and turned back to the canvas, but his hands trembled once more, just as his father’s had in those final days. A reminder of mortality. A reminder that every brushstroke was borrowed time.

But still, he would paint.

The heavy velvet curtains of the Candela palazzo had long felt like a prison to her. Born into one of Florence’s oldest and wealthiest families, Y/N had spent her life in the shadow of their legacy—one that was both gilded with fortune and bound by duty. From the moment she took her first breath, her future had been decided for her. Her days were filled with lessons in etiquette, music, embroidery, and diplomacy, while her nights were a symphony of forced pleasantries at banquets and balls, always under the watchful eyes of her mother and the judgment of the city’s elite.

But from a young age, Y/N knew she was not made for such a life. Beneath the layers of silks and jewels, beneath the carefully orchestrated smiles and curtsies, there was a fire burning in her—one that she had learned to hide from everyone around her, for fear it would consume her entirely.

Her earliest memories were not of the marble halls of the palazzo, but of the gardens beyond its walls, the wild olive groves that stretched out toward the hills. It was there, in the quiet spaces between her responsibilities, that she found her freedom. She had spent her childhood escaping into the fields, where the wind would tear through her hair and her laughter would echo through the trees, free from the rules that shackled her in the world of men.

Her father, the head of the family, was a cold and distant man, more concerned with his political alliances than with his children. He rarely spoke to her except to remind her of her place—her duty to the family, her obligation to marry into another powerful house and secure the Candela legacy. Y/N’s mother was no different, though her scoldings came wrapped in sweet, deceptive smiles. She had been raised to be an ornament, a living testament to her family’s wealth and power, and Y/N was expected to do the same.

But she refused to be molded by their expectations.

She had always been different from the other girls of her station. Where they dreamed of betrothals and courtly love, she dreamed of escape. She would slip out of the palazzo at night, dressed in the simple clothes of a servant, and wander the streets of Florence, blending into the crowd, invisible for the first time in her life. In the dim glow of lanterns, she would listen to the street musicians, watch the painters in the piazza, and breathe in the freedom that was denied to her by daylight.

By the time she reached womanhood, her spirit had only grown wilder. Her parents, exasperated by her refusal to marry the suitors they paraded before her, tightened their grip on her life. But the more they tried to contain her, the more fiercely she fought to break free. She began to push the boundaries of what was expected of a noblewoman—her wit was too sharp, her temper too bold, her opinions too dangerous. Whispers spread through the Florentine courts, branding her rebellious, unfit for the delicate role of a noble wife.

It was not that Y/N wanted to be unwed. She simply refused to give her life to a man who would cage her like a bird. She longed for something more than what Florence could offer her, more than a life of duty and appearance. There were moments—fleeting though they were—when she felt she could see the world as it truly was, raw and beautiful, and she wanted to live in that truth, not the carefully constructed illusion of noble society.

That was when her mother decided it was time to have her portrait painted, a desperate attempt to remind the world of her beauty, her value. It was, of course, more for show than for art—another piece in the game of noble alliances, another way to lure in potential suitors. But Y/N saw it for what it was: a final effort to tame her.

And that was when she had first heard his name—Harry, the painter from the north.

Her mother spoke of him with the same dismissive tone she used for all the artisans they employed, but there was something about this Harry that intrigued her. He was not born of noble blood, and yet his name carried weight in the circles that mattered. The Medici spoke of him with admiration, and even the Pope had once commissioned his work. His paintings, it was said, had a rare quality—they revealed not just the outward beauty of a subject, but the soul beneath.

Y/N had seen one of his works in the home of a distant cousin, a portrait of a young woman who had died tragically young. The face had been serene, the colors soft and gentle, but the eyes—the eyes had told a story of longing and loss that no courtly painter would dare to capture. It had haunted her ever since.

For days, she tried to convince herself it was just another scheme of her parents—another attempt to make her fit the mold she had spent her life breaking. Yet, she could not deny the flicker of curiosity that sparked within her. What would this man see in her? Would he, too, try to make her into something she was not? Or would he paint the fire she had spent her whole life hiding?

The day her mother informed her of the first sitting, Y/N had felt the familiar weight of resignation settle over her. She would sit for this portrait because she had no choice. She would smile, she would pose, and in the end, her mother would hang the portrait in some grand hall for every eligible bachelor to admire. It was all part of the game they had been playing for years.

But when the day came, and she finally entered the makeshift studio lended to Harry for the length of his time here, she felt a shift in the air, as though the fates had turned their gaze upon her.

Harry was not what she expected. He was younger, rougher around the edges than the other artists her family had employed. His dark curls were wild, and there was a certain sadness in his eyes, something she recognized all too well. He was no stranger to loss, that much was clear. His eyes were a vibrant green she had not seen before, unless she counted the gardens that sat in a rainy haze. Perhaps he was a painting himself. And he, too, seemed out of place in the glittering world of Florence’s elite. It was as though he was merely passing through, as though he belonged somewhere quieter, more distant.

Draped in heavy silks, with eyes as sharp as a hawk and a posture that suggested defiance rather than decorum, the daughter of the noble Candela family was unlike any of his previous subjects. Her name was Y/N, and she exuded an air of mischief that the delicate ladies of Florence rarely allowed themselves to entertain.

He did not greet her with flowery pleasantries, as other painters had. Instead, he regarded her quietly for a moment, his eyes flickering over her face—not in judgment, but as if he were searching for something hidden beneath the surface.

“You’re the one they cannot tame.” He said at last, his voice low, almost amused. His accent confirmed he did not have deep roots in Italy, it sounded more of the English suitors her mother would introduce.

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. And somehow, in that moment, Y/N knew that he had already seen more of her than her family ever had.

She smirked, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “That depends on what you believe needs taming.”

Harry’s lips quirked into a half-smile, and for the first time in years, Y/N felt as though she could breathe just from the few seconds in his presence.

Her eyes gaze around the studio as she waltzes further in, her lips in a closed smile. Her skin held the glow of the sun beautifully, hair bouncing with the scent of lavender. Her fingers feather across a few empty canvasses he has on stilts, messes of paint and brushes scattered onto a table. “They say Hephaestus molded your flesh and bones before sending you to Earth.” She eased, a smile still on her reddened lips. Her steps clicked closer to where Harry stood, eyes still drawn out the windows surrounded by nature. “I heard Aphrodite herself kissed your wrist, frame still soft with clay.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle, though her tone soft, there was anything but sincere admiration laced in her words. “I assure you that there’s no markings of her kiss pressed unto me—m’just a man with a brush.”

She hummed, rounding the stilt between them and watching the sunlight glimmer in his eye as the sun would in the waves. There was no denying the shift in the air between them, an unspoken understanding that went beyond the typical dance of polite conversation. In this studio, amidst the scent of oils and pigment, they were stripped of the titles and roles society had thrust upon them.

“A man with a brush.” She repeated softly, almost to herself. She reached out, her fingers grazing the surface of one of the unfinished canvases. The texture of it was rough, still raw with potential, much like her own life—full of promise, but still undefined. “I wonder,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper, “what you see when you look at me.”

Harry’s hands, stained with the colors of his art, stilled for a moment. He had painted many faces, each one a portrait of both beauty and sorrow, but this woman—this subject—was different. There was something about Y/N that made him hesitate. She was not like the others who sat for him with plastered smiles, eager to be frozen in time, their beauty immortalized for the world to see.

No, Y/N did not want to be captured in that way. She wanted something more, something truer. Her spirit was restless, untamed, and her gaze held a challenge, as though daring him to see beyond the layers of silks and expectations. To see the woman beneath.

Slowly, Harry moved closer to her, the distance between them shrinking. He studied her face, not with the detached gaze of an artist trying to perfect his subject’s likeness, but with a quiet intensity that sent a ripple through the stillness of the room. His voice, when it came, was low and deliberate.

“I see a woman who was never meant t’be caged.” He mumbled. “I see fire and wind—a calm in an eye of a storm that would bring no ruin; something wild, something the world doesn’t understand.”

Y/N’s breath hitched slightly at his words. It was as if, in a single moment, he had unraveled all the masks she had carefully worn her entire life. The world she had known, the roles she had played, felt fragile and false in the face of this raw truth.

“And yet,” Harry continued, his voice dipping lower, “they try to fit you into a frame, don’t they? As if y’could ever be captured.”

For the first time in what felt like years, Y/N let herself be vulnerable. She turned away from the canvases, facing him fully, the light catching the strands of her hair like molten gold. Her eyes met his, no longer guarded, no longer deflecting.

“I don’t belong in that frame.” She whispered, the words slipping past her lips like a confession. “But they’ve been trying to fit me into one for as long as I can remember.”

Harry nodded, his gaze never wavering from hers. “I know.” He said simply. “I’ve spent my life painting what people want to see. But you–”

He trailed off, as though the thought itself was too bold, too dangerous to speak aloud.

“Me?” she pressed, her heart beginning to race in her chest. She stepped closer, drawn to him in a way that felt both terrifying and inevitable.

“With you,” Harry continued, his voice a hushed murmur, “I want t’paint what the world can’t see.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The tension between them was palpable, charged with the weight of unspoken desires, and the world outside the studio seemed to fade away. In that small, sunlit room, there were no titles, no expectations, only two souls who had somehow found one another in a world that had tried to break them.

Y/N’s hand hovered near Harry’s arm, and then, slowly, as if testing the waters of some forbidden sea, she let her fingers brush against his. The contact was light, fleeting, but it sent a shockwave through both of them.

“I want that too,” she whispered, her voice trembling with the vulnerability of the admission.

Harry swallowed, the pulse of his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. He had never felt this way about a subject before, had never let himself blur the lines between artist and muse. But with Y/N, those lines had already been crossed the moment she had walked into his studio.

They stood there for a moment longer, hands barely touching, eyes locked in a silent conversation. And then, as if by unspoken agreement, they both pulled back—just enough to remind themselves of the roles they were meant to play, even as those roles were beginning to crumble.

Harry stepped away first, turning back to his easel, his voice steady as he spoke. “We’ll begin the portrait today. But I won’t paint what they expect.” He nodded toward her, “A caged dove to be set free.”

Y/N’s lips curved into a soft smile, her heart still pounding in her chest. She knew, in that moment, that whatever Harry painted, it would be the truest version of herself she had ever seen. And it would bind them together in ways neither of them could yet understand.

“This will displease them.” She smiled, pausing her words. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Her voice carried the weight of a promise, though she wasn’t sure who it was meant for—him, or herself.

Without another word, he jutted his chin toward the chair in the center of the room. “Sit.” He instructed, his tone soft but firm.

She followed his gesture, looking toward the seat and ambling toward it silently. She sat, keeping her spine stiff—something that was embedded into her through her training over the years. His eyes narrowed onto her face, cataloging each curve, line, and hint of emotion that sat in her eyes.

Their sittings became a ritual over the last month—an escape from the suffocating demands of her family, from the world that sought to control her. Each time she stepped into his studio, it was as though she left the weight of her name behind, shedding it like a heavy cloak. Here, she was not the Candela daughter, not the rebellious heiress trapped by duty. She was simply Y/N, a woman with dreams and desires that no one had ever cared to ask about.

Harry painted in near silence, his brush moving with a precision that bordered on reverence. But as the days passed, the silences grew warmer, more comfortable, and slowly, they began to talk. He spoke of his father, of the quiet life in England he had left behind, and of how he had found himself in Florence, painting for men who would never understand the depth of what he was trying to capture.

And she, for the first time, spoke of her own longing. Not for marriage or jewels, but for freedom. For the wildness of the world outside the palazzo gates. She told him of the nights she wandered the streets alone, the moments when she felt most alive, when the weight of her name fell away and she became just another face in the crowd.

With every word, with every glance, they both knew they were crossing a line—one that could never be uncrossed. Their relationship was not one of artist and subject. It was something deeper, more dangerous. And Florence, with all its grandeur, was not kind to those who broke its rules.

As Harry’s brush moved over the canvas, he realized he was no longer painting just a portrait. He was capturing the essence of a woman who had lived her entire life behind a mask, forced into roles she never wanted to play. With each stroke, he revealed her fire, her vulnerability, her defiance.

And Y/N, who had spent her life being told what she should be, saw herself reflected in his eyes—not as the noble daughter, not as the prize her family sought to offer to the highest bidder, but as she truly was.

In those stolen moments, as the sunlight filtered through the shutters and the world outside seemed to fall away, they became something Florence would never understand. They were freedom itself—dangerous, fleeting, and unbearably beautiful.

Y/N’s portrait only neared its finish as time continued to pass. They would always meet three times a week for about an hour or two. She would never say it out loud, but it began to become a favorite part of her weeks—meeting Harry. His soul was anything unlike she’s ever known, and all she wanted to do was linger.

They sat outside the cobblestone studio, lying upon a blanket adorned with fresh vegetables, cheeses and meats. Her mother and Father had been out for the day, and she thought it’d be a perfect opportunity to see Harry as he is, rather than the painter.

He spoke of his travels as he would eagerly show her he could catch the bites of cheese he would throw into his mouth—and he would order her to rank each catch one through ten.

Harry lied back, weight on his elbow as his curls tousled perfectly in the warm breeze. Y/N lied on her belly, kicking her feet in the air behind her as she lie her head on her folded arms.

The afternoon sun peaked from the trees above them, catching the light in her eyes perfectly. Harry always found her to be beautiful, but at this moment she looked ethereal.

He tossed another piece of cheese into the air, leaning his head back and catching it deftly with his mouth, smiling proudly as he chewed. “Well?” He asked, his voice teasing. “What say you? Surely that was a ten.”

Y/N laughed, the sound as bright as the sun and as sweet as the strawberry he head earlier. “A six, perhaps.” She grinned, voice lilting with playful challenge. “Surely you could do better.”

His smirk widened, and he threw another piece of cheese, catching it again with exaggerated flourish. “A six indeed.” He mumbled, feigning offense. “I think you’re quite mistaken, my lady.”

She bit her lip to suppress another laugh, shaking her head against her forearms. “Perhaps your talents lie elsewhere.” She mused, her voice dripping to a soft, flirtatious murmur as she gazed at him through her lashes. “Catching cheese seems beneath you.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was something else in them too—something she hadn’t seem from him yet, something that sent a shiver down her spine. "And what talents might you suggest, then?" he asked, his voice low and teasing, though the undertone was laden with meaning.

Y/N's breath caught for a moment, her heart fluttering in her chest as the playful banter between them took on a new edge. Her gaze lingered on his lips before she tore it away, focusing on the light streaming through the leaves above them. "I think you know the answer to that.” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, the world seemed to still around them. The laughter and lightness faded, replaced by the palpable tension that had been simmering between them for weeks. It hung in the air now, thick and undeniable. Harry shifted beside her, his playful grin fading into something more serious as he watched her carefully, as though waiting for her to give him permission to step closer to that edge.

He wanted to toss away the platter that lay between them, to grab her waist and flip her onto her back and show her the talents he possessed. It made his heart go into a sputtered mess, to cloud his gaze with need. He wondered if she knew how beautiful she was in that moment.

“Did you hear me?”

Harry blinked, shaking his head before letting a sheepish smile spread across his lips. “No. I suppose not.”

“Have you ever thought of leaving Florence, H? Of leaving all of this behind?"

Harry narrowed his eyes, the question pulling him from whatever unspoken thought had been lingering on his lips. He exhaled softly, rolling onto his back and staring up at the sky. "I've thought of it," he admitted after a moment, his voice quieter now, thoughtful. "But Florence has become something of a home. Even if it binds me, l've learned t’live within those bounds."

Y/N frowned, her heart tightening at his words.

"But don't you wish for more? Don't you long for freedom?"

He turned his head to look at her, and in his eyes, she saw a reflection of her own yearning, the quiet desperation that they had both been trying to ignore. "Of course I do," he murmured. "But freedom is not something easily won. Especially not for people like us."

She swallowed, the weight of his words settling over her like a shroud. She had always believed that Harry, in some way, was freer than she could ever be—an artist, a man without title or the crushing expectations of nobility. But now, she saw the truth. He was as trapped as she was, bound by the invisible chains of his station, his livelihood tied to the whims of men like her father, men who would never derstand the depths of what he truly wanted create.

"And you?" he asked, his voice soft but filled with quiet intensity. "If you could go anywhere, if you could leave all this behind, where would you go?"

She hesitated, the question stirring something deep within her, a longing she had never dared to voice. "Anywhere," she whispered, her gaze distant. "Anywhere but here. I want to see the world, to lose myself in it. I want to go where no one knows my name, where I can be just Y/N—not the daughter of Candela, not someone's prize to be won."

Harry's gaze softened, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the garden, but the air between them crackled with an intensity that neither of them could ignore.

"And if l asked you to go with me?" she said suddenly, her voice trembling with the weight of the question. "Would you?"

Harry's breath hitched, and for a moment, he didn't answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost pained. "If you asked me, I would follow you anywhere."

Y/N's heart pounded in her chest, the enormity of his words settling over her like a heavy cloak. The desire to reach out, to cross the boundary they had been skirting for weeks, pulsed through her veins. But fear-fear of the consequences, of what they would beer if they gave in to this—held her back. Harry could feel the weight of her thoughts, the far away look in his eye. He sighed gently, propping himself back onto his elbow as he took a cheese from the platter, lightly throwing it toward Y/N.

It pulled her from her thoughts with a smile as it bounced from her shoulder onto the blanket spread beneath him. He laughed, leaning across the space between them and stealing the cheese for himself. “That’s a zero, I’m afraid.”

Before meeting Harry around the same time she had been, she brought forth a bowl of fruits from the kitchen—both a snack and a small gift. The heat was unforgiving today, adorned with the same silk gown she was supposed to wear during these sessions, but her feet were bare. The ground was cold beneath her, blades of grass leaving kisses from the dew left behind.

The temporary studio Harry resided in was across the courtyard, a small, cobblestone building hidden between trees and a small pond.

As she reached the studio, the door slightly ajar, she paused, listening. Inside, she could hear the faint sound of Harry moving, his footsteps light as he adjusted the easel or mixed colors on his palette. Her heart quickened, not out of nervousness, but out of anticipation. Each day spent with him had become an escape, a release from the weight of her family’s expectations.

Pushing the door open with her hip, Y/N entered the room, the bowl of fruit balanced in her hands. Harry was bent over his canvas, his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing the sinew of his forearms, streaked with paint. His dark curls were unruly, as though he had been running his fingers through them absentmindedly. When he looked up and saw her, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“You’re early today, my dove.” He grinned, his voice warm, the familiar hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I brought something.”Y/N murmured, holding up the bowl of fruit. “A peace offering, perhaps.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, setting his brush down and wiping his hands on a nearby rag. He stepped toward her, his eyes flicking from the bowl of fruit to her face, as though trying to discern the real reason for her gift. But there was no pretense between them here, only the quiet truth of what they had started to build—a fragile, unspoken connection that neither of them dared to name.

“I did not understand us to be at war.” Harry teased gently, his voice dropping to that low, familiar murmur that always seemed to make Y/N’s pulse quicken.

She smiled, setting the bowl down on a nearby table. “In these walls, we are always at war.” Her tone was soft, the weight of her words lingering in the air. Her gaze shifted to the canvas behind him, where her likeness had slowly begun to take shape. He was capturing her in a way no one had before—not as the carefully polished daughter of Florence’s elite, but as the restless, untamed spirit she had always been. She stepped closer to the easel, studying the way he had painted her eyes, the intensity of her gaze, the subtle fire that simmered beneath the surface.

“You paint me as though you know me.” She paused, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s eyes softened, his expression unreadable as he stood beside her. “I am beginning to.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the quiet intimacy of his words. She felt exposed, vulnerable in a way she had never allowed herself to be before. For so long, she had worn her defiance as armor, a shield against the world that sought to control her. But here, with Harry, she didn’t need that armor. She could be raw, unguarded, free.

Y/N turned to face him fully, her bare feet making no sound on the cold stone floor. She had spent her life being afraid—afraid of disappointing her family, afraid of not living up to their expectations, afraid of being trapped in a life that wasn’t her own. But standing here, inches away from Harry, she realized that the only thing she was truly afraid of was losing this—this feeling, this connection, this fleeting glimpse of what life could be like outside the constraints of duty and decorum. “I am no artist, but your own beauty belongs on canvas.”

For a moment, Harry’s hand hovered near hers, as though he was about to reach out, to close the distance between them. But instead, he stepped back, turning to the easel once more, a breathy chuckle escaping him. “Okay, Shakespeare. Let us thank our lucky stars that you are not.”

She laughs with him, placing the bowl of fruit on the table beside the paint. She shook her head, popping a grape into her mouth. “Here I thought you to whisper me something poetic—we all have an art about us, we are art ourselves.” She mocked in his accent, rolling her eyes.

“Well that would be simply untrue.” He grinned, adjusting the canvas before him. “I am much too talented for you to compare your hand to my own.”

She scoffed, though it was humorous. Through her feigned offense, his lips only spread wider. “Show me to be wrong.”

“Show you wrong?” She raised her eyebrow, parting her lips. “You want me to paint you?”

He nodded, glancing at the blank canvases behind him. She only rolled her eyes as she gently grabbed his wrist, pulling him to the chair into the center of the room. He sat expectantly, his dimple cratering his cheeks as she retreated back toward the bowl of fruit, fishing out a deep red cherry, skipping back toward him. He knit his brows in confusion, but Y/N’s lips parted to speak before him. “You are to be my canvas.” She smiled, bring the cherry to his lips like a challenge. His expression was amused, though he couldn’t deny the way she made his chest tighten with tension. His eyes flickered between both her eyes and the fruit as he gently bit into the fruit, his lips brushing against her fingertips.

It was slow, deliberately intimate. Their eyes still burrowed into each others, she watched as the bead of crimson juice dribble down his chin. She thumbed it away, her touch light and fleeting before she feathers the fruit across the apples of his cheeks, adding to the already flushed pigment. Hesitantly, she pressed her fingers into the glistening flesh, patting it in and leaving his cheeks and lips painted red.

She steps back ever so slightly, putting the rest of the cherry into her mouth and letting a quiet laugh escape her lips. “Consider yourself to be painted.”

He shook his head, his cherry red lips widening into a smile as he stood. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s how it works.” Harry leaned in close, his breath a whisper against her cheek, but he made no move to wipe the remnants of cherry from his skin. His eyes, still dancing with amusement, searched hers, lingering with a quiet intensity. “I’ll grant you this.” He murmured, his voice low, carrying the hint of a jest. “Your methods are..most unconventional.”

She smirked, refusing to be daunted by his nearness. “Unconventional?” she quipped, her chin rising with a flicker of defiance. “I would call it a work of art. Would you not?”

Harry raised a brow, feigning deep thought as he smeared the red juice across his chin with a casual flick of his finger. “A work of art, you say? If by that you mean I appear as though I’ve just stumbled from a duel with a fruit cart, then aye, I’ll concede to your genius.”

Her laughter rang through the studio, a sharp contrast to the quiet that had hung heavy in the room moments before. It echoed off the stone walls, a sound so free that it banished all thoughts of duty, of propriety. The half-finished portrait on the easel, the weight of her family’s name—all of it melted away. In that moment, it was just them. Two souls bound in a fleeting absurdity, lost in shared laughter.

“Delicate sensibilities,” she teased, her brow arching as she wiped the last of the cherry’s stain from her hand. “I never thought to find such in a man.”

Harry’s lips curled into a slow, wicked grin. “Delicate, am I?” He drawled, his voice thick with mischief. In a single swift motion, he swiped his thumb across her cheek, leaving a streak of red in its wake. “There. Now we are even.”

She gasped in mock indignation, taking a step back as her fingers flew to the sticky mark on her face. “You’ll rue this day, Harry Styles.”

“Will I?” he challenged, his tone now deep and laden with mischief of its own.

Y/N moved closer, closing the space between them with a deliberate slowness. Her heart raced, but not with the trepidation that had gripped her so often in this room. No, this was something far more exhilarating. The world outside this studio—the rules, the expectations, the rigid walls of her life—it all felt distant, unimportant.

“I’ve never claimed to be a master of painting,” she whispered, her voice dropping like the edge of a velvet curtain. She took a few steps backward, reaching into the bowl and pulling out a plum. She looks at it expectantly in the gleam of sunlight, trotting back toward the painter. “Yet I do believe the best art thrives with a hint of chaos.”

Before he could form a reply, she bit the dark fruit pressed it hard against his chest. The plum burst, sending dark juice cascading down his tunic, staining it deep purple.

Harry blinked in astonishment, his expression hanging in the space between disbelief and amusement. But the moment of shock passed swiftly, and his laughter came, full and bright. “Your peace offering was a coup!” he declared, lunging forward with a handful of cherries.

Y/N shrieked and darted away, her laughter filling the air as she dodged him. They circled the room, the once-serene studio descending into joyful chaos. Fruit flew, staining the floors, the easel, their clothes—a riot of color and recklessness.

By the grace of God the portrait remained untouched through the ordeal.

It was madness. Glorious, reckless madness. And for the first time in her life, Y/N felt utterly, completely free. Free from the chains of decorum, free from the burden of her family’s name. In that riot of fruit and laughter, she was simply alive.

When at last they collapsed onto the floor, breathless and sticky, the room a ruin of color and laughter, neither of them could stop smiling.

Harry lay beside her, still chuckling as he tugged at the ruined tunic. “If my patrons could see me now, they’d see me cast out of Florence faster than y’could say ‘masterpiece.’”

Y/N propped herself up on her elbow, a grin dancing across her lips. “Then we shall flee to the hills. I’ll hide you amongst the olive groves. We’ll live like rogues, artists and outlaws.”

“Artists and outlaws,” Harry echoed, his smile softening, his eyes lingering on hers with a look that carried something far deeper than the playfulness of a moment before. “I think I could grow fond of such a life.”

And in that quiet, as their laughter ebbed into the late afternoon light, Y/N felt the air shift between them. What had started as a game, as flirtation, had become something real. Something undeniable.

And try as they might, neither could outrun it.

As they lay there amidst the chaos, the moment stretched on, teetering on the edge of something neither could fully name. Y/N’s pulse thrummed in her ears, her heart racing not from the frivolity of their earlier play, but from the weight of his gaze on her. The air between them had thickened, laden with an unspoken tension that neither laughter nor fruit could break.

Just as her lips parted to speak—to say something, anything to diffuse the intensity—a sound, sharp and echoing, pierced the air.

The door to the studio had swung open, and there, silhouetted by the fading light of the late afternoon, stood Y/N’s mother, Lady Candela, her presence a sudden, jarring intrusion into their world of fleeting freedom.

Her eyes, dark and sharp as the blade of a dagger, took in the scene before her: the floor littered with the remnants of their childish game, the streaks of fruit staining both their clothes and skin, the disheveled state of her daughter and the painter. And in an instant, the mask of propriety that Y/N had so desperately sought to tear away snapped back into place.

“Y/N.” Her mother’s voice was cold, clipped, a tone that could freeze the blood in one’s veins. “What, in God’s name, is the meaning of this?”

Y/N scrambled to her feet, her breath catching in her throat, but her defiance flickered in her eyes. She had been caught, but she would not cower. “Mother,” she began, her voice steady despite the racing of her heart, “it was nothing—just—”

“Nothing?” Lady Candela stepped forward, her posture rigid, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. “This disgrace is nothing? You, a daughter of the Candela family, covered in filth like a common servant? Is this how you choose to honor your name?”

Harry, who had risen to his feet beside Y/N, cleared his throat, stepping forward as if to shield her from the wrath of her mother. “My Lady, it was my doing,” he lied smoothly, his voice respectful but firm. “I allowed myself to get carried away during our session. The fault is mine.”

Lady Candela’s eyes flickered to him, her disdain barely concealed. “And you—an artist—think you can speak on matters of decorum in this house? You are here to paint, not to play the fool.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing more. He could feel Y/N tense beside him, her fists clenched at her sides. The silence that followed was thick with tension, the weight of Lady Candela’s expectations pressing down on them both like a vice.

But Y/N, ever the rebel, would not be silenced.

“I am not a child, Mother,” she said quietly, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I will not be tamed.”

Lady Candela’s gaze snapped to her daughter, her eyes narrowing. “You will be what this family needs you to be, YN. This behavior—this foolishness—ends now. You are to be married, and your actions today have only made that more urgent.”

Y/N’s heart sank, the reality of her mother’s words hitting her like a blow. Marriage. The cage she had spent her entire life trying to escape was closing in around her, tighter and tighter.

She glanced at Harry, her chest tightening. The fleeting freedom they had found in one another was slipping away, vanishing like a mirage in the desert. And yet, she knew she could not let it end like this.

“Perhaps I wished for something more than just another hollow painting to hang on the walls of your prison,” Y/N said, her voice stronger than she felt inside. She could see Harry stiffen at her side, his gaze flickering between her and Lady Candela, but he stayed silent, letting her words hang in the air.

Her mother’s mouth tightened into a thin line. She took a deliberate step forward, her eyes narrowing as they bore into Y/N. “A prison?” she hissed, her voice dropping dangerously low. “You speak of this house as if it were a cage, when all we have done—all I have done—is ensure you live in luxury, surrounded by the finest of Florence. Yet here you are, acting the fool with a common painter.” She spat the word like venom, her eyes flicking toward Harry before returning to her daughter. “Do you want to ruin yourself? To become nothing but a scandal whispered about in the courts?”

Y/N’s fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms, but she kept her voice level. “What you call ruin, I call freedom.”

Her mother’s eyes blazed, her nostrils flaring, but before she could retort, Harry stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “My Lady, if I may—”

“You may not,” Lady Candela snapped, cutting him off with a sharp glare. “You are here to paint. Nothing more. Your thoughts and opinions are of no concern to me.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he bowed his head, stepping back in silent acquiescence.

The silence that followed was thick with tension, each breath Y/N took feeling heavier than the last. Her mother’s gaze never wavered, cold and unyielding, but Y/N refused to back down. Not this time.

“Mother,” Y/N began again, her voice softer now, though no less resolute. “I do not wish to ruin the family’s name. But I also do not wish to be something I am not. I have given you my obedience for years, attended every ball, entertained every suitor you’ve paraded before me. But I cannot—will not—live a life that is not my own.”

For a brief moment, something flickered in Lady Candela’s eyes—something that looked almost like uncertainty, or perhaps a recognition of her daughter’s growing resolve. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that same cold, unyielding stare.

“You have a duty, Y/N,” her mother said, her voice flat, as though the very word—duty—was the end of any argument. “To this family. To this city. And if you cannot understand that, then you are more lost than I thought.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, the weight of her mother’s words pressing down on her like a heavy cloak. But before she could speak, her mother turned sharply on her heel, heading toward the door.

“You will be expected at dinner,” Lady Candela called over her shoulder, her tone dismissive. “We will discuss your upcoming engagement. I suggest you clean yourself up and remember who you are.”

With that, she swept from the room, leaving Y/N and Harry standing in the wreckage of what had once been a moment of shared joy, the heavy door closing behind her with a finality that echoed through the studio.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Y/N could still feel the burn of her mother’s words, each one a reminder of the gilded cage she had been trying to escape her entire life. She swallowed hard, turning toward Harry, who was watching her with a mixture of concern and something else she couldn’t quite place.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “You shouldn’t have been involved in that.”

Harry shook his head, his eyes softening as he stepped closer. “You don’t have to apologize, Y/N. I knew what I was stepping into when I took this commission.”

Y/N let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Did you? Did you know you’d be caught in the middle of a battle between duty and freedom?”

Harry smiled, but it was a sad, knowing smile. “In a way, yes. I’ve seen it before. This city—this life—demands so much from those born into its upper echelons. But I think you are stronger than you know.”

Y/N met his gaze, her heart twisting painfully in her chest. She wanted to believe him, to believe that she could somehow break free from the chains that bound her. But the reality of her situation felt suffocating, as if the walls of the studio were closing in around her.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, her voice cracking slightly. “I don’t want to be trapped in a marriage I never wanted. But I don’t see a way out.”

Harry reached out, his hand gently brushing her arm, a small gesture of comfort. “There’s always a way out,” he said quietly. “But it’s not always easy.”

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for some kind of answer, some hint of hope. But all she saw was the same uncertainty that gnawed at her heart.

“I don’t know if I’m brave enough,” she whispered.

Harry’s grip on her arm tightened, just slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, but full of quiet conviction. “You are. You’ve already proven that.”

For a moment, they stood there in the quiet, the weight of the world pressing down on them, but together, they felt just a little lighter. The path ahead was uncertain, and Y/N knew the battle was far from over. But for now, in this small, sunlit room, with Harry by her side, she felt just a little bit stronger.

And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.

The heavy, golden hour light had faded, replaced by the muted grays of twilight, casting long shadows across the stone walls of the palazzo. Y/N stood before the mirror in her chambers, her reflection staring back at her, cold and distant. She had shed the stained silk gown and washed the remnants of the fruit from her skin, but no amount of scrubbing could remove the weight of her mother’s words or the tension coiled tight in her chest.

Dinner. The final act of the day’s charade, where her mother’s sharp gaze and her father’s stony silence would frame yet another conversation about her future—a future she had no say in. The idea of sitting through another meal where her fate was decided without her input made her stomach twist with dread.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and her maid, Lucrezia, entered the room, her face a mask of quiet concern. “My lady,” she said softly, “your mother has requested your presence in the dining hall.”

Y/N let out a slow breath, her hands gripping the edge of the vanity as she steadied herself. “Of course she has,” she muttered, her voice thick with resignation.

Lucrezia stepped forward, her hands moving to adjust Y/N’s gown—another silk creation, pristine and flawless, as if nothing untoward had happened earlier. “Shall I tell her you are not feeling well?” the maid asked gently, her fingers lingering on the delicate fabric.

Y/N smiled weakly, shaking her head. “No, Lucrezia. I must face it. I always must.”

The maid nodded, though her eyes were filled with sympathy. She knew the weight that rested on Y/N’s shoulders, the burdens placed upon her by a family that demanded perfection at all times. But even Lucrezia, with her quiet understanding, could not offer a solution to the problem that had no easy answer.

With a final glance in the mirror, Y/N straightened her posture and lifted her chin. She would face this evening the way she had faced every other trial in her life—head on, even if it tore her apart inside.

The walk to the dining hall felt longer than usual, each step echoing in the vast, empty corridors. The palazzo, so grand and full of splendor, felt like a prison tonight, its marble floors cold beneath her feet, its towering walls closing in on her with every breath.

When she reached the dining hall, she paused just outside the door, gathering her courage. She could hear the faint clinking of silverware and the low murmur of voices—her mother’s sharp, clear tones and her father’s deep, measured replies. It was the sound of a family accustomed to routine, to the rigid structures of their world.

Taking one last breath, Y/N pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The dining room was grand, as always, with high ceilings adorned with intricate frescoes and a long, gleaming table set with the finest china and crystal. Her father, Lord Candela, sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable as he idly cut into his meat. Her mother sat opposite him, her posture perfect, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes sharp as they flicked up to meet Y/N’s.

“You’re late,” Lady Candela remarked, her tone light but edged with reproach.

Y/N forced a tight smile, lowering herself into the seat that had been prepared for her. “I apologize, Mother. I lost track of time.”

Her mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing more, her gaze lingering on Y/N for a moment before turning back to her plate. The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the clinking of silverware and the occasional murmur of servants as they moved in and out of the room.

For a few minutes, Y/N focused on her meal, her appetite nonexistent but her movements precise, each cut of the knife and placement of the fork a carefully rehearsed act of decorum. It was a routine she had perfected over the years, a mask she wore to survive these dinners, to navigate the unspoken landmines of her family’s expectations.

But tonight, the weight of that mask felt heavier than ever.

It wasn’t long before her mother broke the silence, her voice smooth but laden with intent. “Y/N, your father and I have spoken, and we believe it is time to move forward with your betrothal.”

Y/N’s fork froze halfway to her mouth, her pulse quickening as she set it down with deliberate care. She had known this conversation was coming—she had felt it looming over her for weeks, like a storm gathering on the horizon. But now that it was here, the reality of it hit her like a blow to the chest.

“Engagement?” she echoed, her voice steady but her heart racing.

Lady Candela nodded, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction as though she had just solved some great puzzle. “Yes. We have received an offer from the Montellini family. Lord Montellini is a man of considerable influence, and his son, Leonardo, is a fine match for you.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her hands gripping the edge of the table as she fought to keep her composure. Leonardo Montellini. She had met him once, at a banquet—a young man with slicked-back hair and an air of arrogance that made her skin crawl. He had looked at her the way one might look at a prized horse at auction, and the thought of spending her life chained to him made her stomach churn.

“Mother, I—” Y/N began, her voice faltering for a moment as she searched for the right words, something that would convey the storm of emotions rising within her without sparking her mother’s ire. “I do not wish to marry Leonardo Montellini.”

Lady Candela’s fork paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she regarded her daughter. “What you wish is irrelevant, Y/N. This is a matter of duty. Of ensuring the future of our family. You cannot afford to be selfish in this.”

Her father, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat, his deep voice rumbling through the room. “Your mother is right, Y/N. This marriage is important. The Montellini family’s wealth and influence will secure our place in Florence for generations to come.”

Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing as she tried to find a way out, a way to make them understand. But how could she make them see that she couldn’t—wouldn’t—live her life in a cage, bound to a man she didn’t love, trapped in a world that suffocated her?

“I understand the importance of family, Father.” Y/N said carefully, her voice measured, though her hands trembled slightly in her lap. “But I cannot marry a man I do not love. I cannot live my life as something I am not.”

Her mother’s gaze hardened, her lips curling into a faint sneer. “Love,” she scoffed, the word dripping with disdain. “What nonsense. Love is a fleeting thing, Y/N, a frivolous notion for those who have the luxury to indulge in it. We are not those people.”

Y/N’s chest tightened, her breath shallow as she fought to hold back the rising tide of panic. She could feel the walls closing in on her, the future her parents were trying to force upon her looming like a prison, cold and suffocating.

“But I am not you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but full of quiet defiance.

The silence that followed was thick, the tension between mother and daughter palpable as they stared at one another across the table. Lady Candela’s expression remained cold, unyielding, but Y/N could see the flicker of frustration in her eyes.

“You will marry Leonardo Montellini,” her mother said at last, her voice like steel. “And you will do so without further complaint. That is the end of this discussion.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, her heart sinking as the weight of her mother’s words settled over her like a heavy shroud. She felt trapped, suffocated by the life they were trying to force her into, and for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to fight it.

As the servants moved quietly around the table, clearing the plates and refilling the wine, Y/N stared down at her hands, her mind racing. She knew she couldn’t do this. She couldn’t marry Leonardo. But how could she escape a future that had already been decided for her?

Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Harry—to the quiet strength in his eyes, to the way he had seen her, truly seen her, in a way no one else ever had. There was something in him, something that stirred in her a desire for more—for freedom, for choice, for a life lived on her own terms.

But that life felt impossibly far away, separated by the vast chasm of her family’s expectations and the iron grip of tradition.

And as the dinner dragged on, Y/N sat in silence, her heart heavy with the knowledge that, for now, she was still very much trapped. The clinking of silverware and the quiet hum of conversation felt distant to Y/N, as if she were trapped in a cage of sound, separate from everything around her. Her mother, satisfied that her edict had been given, spoke no more of the engagement. Instead, she shifted her attention to her father, discussing household matters and social engagements as if Y/N’s entire future hadn’t just been decided without her consent.

Y/N’s mind, however, was far from the table. It kept circling back to Harry, to the moments in his studio where, for the first time in her life, she had felt something close to freedom. His presence had stirred something within her—a quiet rebellion, a fire that had been smoldering beneath the surface for so long it had almost gone unnoticed. Until now.

As her mother droned on about the upcoming ball and the importance of making a good impression, Y/N’s fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass. The thought of standing beside Leonardo Montellini, paraded like a prized possession for Florence’s elite to admire, made her stomach turn. She had seen his eyes on her before—hungry, possessive, as though she were nothing more than a means to an end for him. The Montellinis wanted to solidify their power, and she was the key to that door.

She could feel the bile rising in her throat, the suffocating weight of her family’s expectations pressing down on her like a vice. How many more dinners like this would she endure? How many more nights would she be forced to smile, nod, and pretend that her life was something she could control?

No. She wouldn’t accept this.

“Y/N,” her mother’s voice cut through her thoughts like a blade, sharp and sudden. Y/N blinked, realizing she had been staring down at her untouched plate for far too long. Her mother’s gaze was fixed on her, cool and assessing. “What fare you? You have been rather quiet.”

Y/N looked up, her heart racing as she met her mother’s eyes. For a brief moment, she considered telling her the truth—telling her that she wasn’t well, that she couldn’t bear the thought of marrying Leonardo, that the life they had planned for her was suffocating her.

But the words died in her throat. Her mother would never understand. To Lady Candela, duty was everything, and love was nothing more than a foolish indulgence.

Y/N straightened her spine, steeling herself against the rising tide of emotions that threatened to betray her in front of her family. Her voice, when it finally came, was measured and cool. “I am well, Mother. Merely tired.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she did not press further, turning her attention back to the meal with a dismissive wave of her hand. Y/N, however, could feel the weight of her father’s gaze lingering on her for just a moment longer. He was quieter than her mother, but no less powerful in his expectations.

The remainder of the dinner passed in a blur, with Y/N’s mind distant from the conversation at the table. As soon as the final course was cleared and her parents rose from their seats, she made her excuses and slipped away, retreating to the sanctuary of her chambers.

Once inside, Y/N locked the door behind her and pressed her back against it, her heart pounding in her chest. The events of the evening, the threat of her future being sealed with a man like Leonardo, weighed heavily on her. She crossed the room to the window, her hands trembling as she gripped the edge of the sill and stared out into the night.

The city of Florence lay before her, bathed in the soft glow of lanterns and moonlight. From her window, it looked peaceful, almost serene, but Y/N knew better. The world outside her family’s palazzo was teeming with life, with freedom that she could only dream of.

And in that world, somewhere amidst the winding streets and narrow alleyways, was Harry.

Her thoughts drifted to him once again, to the way his eyes had softened when he spoke to her, the quiet understanding that passed between them without words. In his studio, she had felt something she had never known before—something raw and unburdened by the chains of her family’s name. It wasn’t just attraction, though she couldn’t deny the pull she felt toward him. It was more than that. It was the promise of escape, of possibility. With him, she could breathe.

Y/N closed her eyes, letting the cool night air wash over her as she made a decision.

She could not stay in this gilded prison any longer. She could not marry Leonardo. She would not be used as a pawn in her family’s games. And if there was anyone who could help her find a way out, it was Harry.

Her heart raced at the thought, a mixture of fear and excitement coursing through her veins. It was reckless, perhaps even dangerous, but she had no other choice. She had to act before it was too late, before her fate was sealed by forces beyond her control.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Y/N slipped into a simple cloak, pulling the hood over her head to shield her face. She moved quickly and quietly, slipping through the darkened corridors of the palazzo until she reached a small, hidden door that led to the courtyard.

As she stepped outside, the cool night air wrapped around her like a cloak of freedom. She paused for a moment, glancing back at the towering walls of her family’s home, the place that had held her captive for so long. And then, with a determined breath, she turned and disappeared into the shadows of the city, her feet carrying her toward Harry’s studio.

The narrow streets of Florence were quiet at this hour, save for the occasional flicker of lamplight or the soft murmur of voices carried on the breeze. Y/N kept her hood low, her steps quick and purposeful as she moved through the labyrinth of alleyways. She had walked these streets before—many times in the dark of night—but tonight felt different. Tonight, the weight of her decision pressed down on her like the stone arches above.

As she neared Harry’s studio, her heart raced with a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. What was she even doing? She had no plan, no real escape beyond the hope that Harry would understand, that he might offer her a path out of this life she couldn’t bear. A reckless hope, she knew, but it was the only thing she had left.

The studio was tucked away behind a row of trees, secluded from the main roads. The small building, though unremarkable to most, had become a haven for her—one of the few places where she could let go of the expectations that had weighed her down for so long. And Harry, with his quiet strength and sad, knowing eyes, had become the embodiment of the freedom she craved.

As Y/N reached the door, her breath hitched in her chest. She hesitated for a moment, her hand hovering over the handle. What if she had misread everything? What if Harry did not want to be a part of her rebellion, her escape?

Yet she stood at his door anyway.

She pushed the door open, the familiar creak breaking the stillness of the night. Inside, the soft glow of a few candles lit the room, casting long shadows over the walls. The scent of drying oils and turpentine filled the air, mingling with the earthy smell of wet canvas. Harry was at his easel, his back to the door, lost in the rhythm of his work.

For a moment, Y/N stood there, watching him in the golden light. His dark curls fell over his brow, and his hand moved with a kind of precision that made her chest tighten. He was absorbed, unaware of her presence, and the sight of him in his element, so quietly powerful, made her heart ache with something she couldn’t name.

“Harry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the stillness.

He froze for a moment, his brush poised in mid-air. Slowly, he turned to face her, his eyes widening in surprise as he took in the sight of her standing there, cloaked in shadow. “Dove?” His voice was soft, but there was an edge of concern in it. “What are you doing here?”

She stepped further into the room, her hands trembling beneath the folds of her cloak. “I had to see you.”

His brow furrowed, and he set his brush down, wiping his hands on a rag before crossing the room toward her. “It’s late. If anyone sees you—”

“I bear no sentiment to it,” she interrupted, her voice sharper than she intended. Her breath came quickly, the weight of everything catching up with her all at once. “I cannot stay there any longer, Harry. I can’t marry Leonardo Montellini. I cannot live that life.”

He studied her for a moment, his green eyes searching hers, and she saw the conflict in his gaze—the pull between wanting to help her and knowing the dangers of what she was asking. “What are you saying, Y/N?” he asked quietly, though there was a heaviness in his tone.

“I’m saying I need to leave. I need to escape before they lock me into a life I never wanted.” Her voice trembled with the intensity of the confession, and she took a step closer to him. “I don’t know where to go or how to do it, but I cannot stay here.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. His eyes flickered with something—worry, perhaps, or fear for what this might mean for both of them. He glanced at the door, then back to her, the weight of her words sinking in.”

“Do you know what you’re asking?” he said, his voice low. “If you leave, there’s no going back. Your family—Florence—”

“I know,” Y/N whispered, her eyes pleading with him to understand. “But what is the alternative? To be sold off to a man who does not care about me? To live my life in a cage, pretending to be something I am not? I cannot bear it, Harry. I won’t.”

He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair as he tried to process what she was saying. She could see the battle in his eyes, the part of him that wanted to protect her warring with the part that understood the gravity of the situation. “And what do you desire from me?” he asked softly, though she could hear the strain in his voice.

Y/N stepped closer, her heart pounding in her chest as she met his gaze. “I want you to come with me.”

The words hung in the air between them, charged with a kind of desperate hope. She knew it was asking too much, knew that she had no right to pull him into her escape, but in that moment, Harry was the only person she trusted. The only person who understood her enough to help her break free.

Harry’s eyes softened, and for a moment, he looked as though he might say yes. His hand reached out, brushing against hers in a gesture so small, so intimate, it made her chest tighten.

But then he pulled away, shaking his head. “Y/N, I—”

“I know it’s reckless,” she cut him off, her voice filled with a kind of raw vulnerability she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years. “But I can’t do this alone. I need you.”

Harry’s expression was torn, his hand still hovering near hers as if he wanted to take it, to pull her into his arms and promise her everything. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice heavy with regret. “If we run, they will come after us. Your family will not let you go so easily. You know this.”

Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to let the weight of his words crush her hope. “Then we’ll be careful. We’ll go somewhere they can’t find us. Please, Harry.” Her voice broke, and she reached out, gripping his arm as though she could will him to say yes. “I know not of heaven nor hell. I know not of Lucifer or God, I know only what I see before me, and If i were to draw my last breath tomorrow, I would perish with all this regret—my soul bound to my grave for eternity.”

For a long moment, Harry didn’t move. He stood there, staring down at her with an expression so conflicted it made her heart ache. And then, finally, he sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat.

“We’ll need to leave before first light,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Pack only what y’can carry.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, a mixture of relief and disbelief washing over her as his words sank in. “You’ll come with me?”

Harry met her gaze, and though his eyes were filled with uncertainty, there was a quiet determination in them as well. “Wherever.” He murmured. “But we must be careful.”

A flood of emotions rushed through Y/N all at once—relief, fear, gratitude, and something else she couldn’t quite name. She threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest as tears of both joy and fear slipped down her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice muffled against him. “Thank you, Harry.”

He held her for a moment, his hand resting on the back of her head as if trying to steady them both in the face of what they were about to do. “We shall figure it out,” he said quietly, though she could hear the weight of the uncertainty in his voice.

But for the first time in what felt like forever, Y/N believed him.

As they stood there in the quiet of the studio, the world outside slowly fading into darkness, Y/N felt a small spark of hope flicker to life within her. She didn’t know what the future would hold, but for now, she wasn’t alone.

The night air outside the palazzo was thick with the scent of jasmine and damp stone, but to Y/N, it felt more like freedom than anything else. The distant sounds of Florence, the murmur of distant conversations and the soft rush of water from the Arno, filled the silence as she made her way through the narrow streets, her bag slung over her shoulder. Her heart raced, but her steps were sure now. This was her choice, her rebellion.

The moon hung high in the sky, casting its pale light over the winding alleys and quiet courtyards as Y/N hurried back to Harry’s studio. Her thoughts were a whirlwind—but she couldn’t think of it now. The only thing that mattered was what lay ahead. She had to believe that there was a life waiting for her beyond the walls of Florence, beyond the expectations that had shackled her for so long. And with Harry by her side, perhaps—just perhaps—she could find it.

As she reached the secluded courtyard where Harry’s studio stood, Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. The small building was bathed in moonlight, its wooden door slightly ajar, as if waiting for her. She paused for a moment, her hand resting on the doorframe, listening to the soft rustle of the wind in the olive trees.

Inside, the studio was quiet, save for the gentle flicker of the remaining candle on the windowsill. Harry stood at the far end of the room, packing his own bag—his movements careful and deliberate. When he heard her enter, he turned, his eyes immediately meeting hers. There was no need for words; he could see the decision in her gaze, the finality of it. She was here, and there was no going back.

“You are prepared?” His voice was soft, but there was an edge of tension there, a quiet understanding of what they were about to do.

Y/N nodded, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. “I am.”

Harry’s eyes softened as he crossed the room toward her, his hand reaching out to brush against her arm in a gesture of comfort. “We shall be leaving soon. I’ve made arrangements to head south, toward Siena. s’not far, but far enough. We will be out of reach, at least for now.”

Siena. The name sounded distant and unfamiliar to Y/N, but it didn’t matter. Anywhere was better than here, better than the fate that awaited her if she stayed. She met Harry’s gaze, a flicker of gratitude in her eyes as she nodded.

“I trust you,” she whispered, the weight of her words hanging in the air between them.

Harry held her gaze for a moment longer, his green eyes full of that quiet, steady strength that had always made her feel safe. “Then we’ll make it through this,” he said softly. “Together.”

He moved to the door, pulling it fully open and stepping outside into the cool night air. Y/N followed close behind, her heart pounding in her chest as the reality of what they were about to do sank in. They were running. Not just from Florence, but from the lives they had known, from the expectations and the rules that had governed them for so long.

The streets of Florence stretched out before them, dark and silent, like a sleeping beast. They would have to move quickly, before the city woke, before her family realized she was gone. Harry led the way, his pace measured but urgent as they slipped through the narrow alleyways, avoiding the more well-lit streets where guards might patrol.

Y/N kept her hood pulled low over her face, her heart racing with every step they took. She glanced over her shoulder more than once, half-expecting to see her father or Leonardo rounding the corner, chasing her down. But the streets were empty, save for the occasional whisper of the wind.

They moved in silence, the weight of their decision hanging heavy between them, but there was no hesitation now. They had crossed the line, and there was no turning back.

It wasn’t long before they reached the outskirts of the city, where the walls of Florence loomed high above them, casting long shadows over the ground. The gates were closed, but Harry had anticipated this. He led Y/N to a small passageway, hidden between the stones and covered with vines. It was narrow, barely wide enough for one person at a time, but it led out of the city—an old smuggler’s route, known only to a few.

“This way.” Harry whispered, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they hadn’t been followed.

Y/N nodded, following him through the narrow gap in the wall, her heart pounding in her chest as they squeezed through the passage. The air was cooler on the other side, the scent of the open countryside replacing the dense smell of the city. When they finally emerged, they found themselves on a small, winding road that led away from Florence, disappearing into the hills beyond.

Y/N paused for a moment, turning back to look at the city she was leaving behind. The towering domes and spires of Florence rose into the night sky, bathed in moonlight. It was beautiful—so beautiful it made her chest ache. But it was also a prison, a place that had tried to shape her into something she could never be.

She turned back to Harry, her breath catching as she realized the full weight of what they had done. They were free. But freedom came with a price—a price they had only just begun to pay.

Harry met her gaze, his expression soft but serious. “There’s no going back now,” he said quietly, as if reading the thoughts running through her mind.

Y/N nodded, her hand instinctively reaching for his, their fingers brushing in the cool night air. “I know,” she whispered. “And I am ready.”

Together, they turned and started down the road, leaving Florence behind them—its walls, its expectations, its suffocating weight—everything. The future was uncertain, full of dangers and unknowns. But for the first time in her life, Y/N felt a spark of hope flicker within her. She was free. And with Harry by her side, perhaps—just perhaps—she could build a life that was truly her own.

As they walked through the quiet countryside, the stars above them shining like tiny, distant beacons, Y/N knew that they were only at the beginning of their journey. There would be challenges ahead, and dangers they couldn’t yet foresee. But for now, she allowed herself to breathe in the cool night air, to feel the weight of the past slowly lift from her shoulders.

She glanced at Harry, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the moon, and felt a sense of calm wash over her. Whatever lay ahead, they would face it together. And that, she thought, was more than enough.

It had been two days since they left Florence behind, and the journey had been long, filled with the quiet tension of fear that someone might catch up to them, might discover their flight. The sun had dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the rolling hills as Y/N and Harry approached a small inn nestled at the edge of a sleepy village. The inn was humble, tucked between groves of olive trees and fields dotted with grazing sheep. It wasn’t much—just a small stone building with weathered shutters and a modest stable for travelers’ horses—but it was enough. For the first time since leaving the city, they could breathe.

Inside, the inn was warm, the smell of bread baking in the hearth mingling with the faint scent of wood smoke. The innkeeper, a woman with kind eyes and silver streaks in her hair, greeted them with little more than a nod, motioning them toward the narrow staircase that led to their room.

As they climbed the stairs, the weight of the past two days seemed to settle over Y/N like a heavy cloak. The adrenaline that had carried her through the journey was fading, replaced by the quiet realization of what they had done. They had left everything behind—their lives, their families, their very identities—and now, here they were, standing on the precipice of a future they had yet to define.

Their room was small, with a single window that overlooked the fields beyond the village. A modest bed stood against one wall, and a small wooden table with two chairs sat near the hearth. The fire had already been lit, the flames flickering softly in the dim light of the evening.

Harry set their bags down by the door, glancing around the room before turning to Y/N. His expression was calm, but there was a tension in his eyes—a quiet awareness that they had crossed a line they could never uncross.

Y/N crossed the room to the window, her fingers brushing against the cool glass as she looked out at the fading light. The sky was a deep, dusky blue, and the first stars were beginning to appear, faint and far away. For a moment, she said nothing, her thoughts swirling like leaves caught in the wind.

Y/N finally broke the silence, her voice soft and uncertain. "Do you think we made the right choice?"

Harry turned from the window, his gaze settling on her. His green eyes, illuminated by the firelight, were filled with something unreadable-fear, perhaps, but also a quiet determination. He stepped closer, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots as he walked toward her.

"There was no other choice, Y/N.” He said gently, kneeling beside her. His hand reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against hers, grounding her in the reality of their shared decision. "Not for you, not for me. Remaining in Florence..it would have destroyed you.”

She looked up at him, her heart aching with the weight of his words. "But what have we done, Harry?" she whispered “I–” her voice trembling. "I have abandoned my family, my name. What if they find us? What if–" Her words trailed off, the enormity of their flight catching up with her. Her thoughts tangled in Fear. Fear of what might come, fear of the unknown future they now faced together.

Harry's gaze softened, and he took her hand fully in his, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a soothing motion. "I do not know what will come," he admitted, his voice low and steady. "But I know that staying in Florence vould have been a life you could not live. You would have been chained, Y/N, to a life of duty, of expectations that would have suffocated you. What we have now, it may be uncertain, but it is ours."

She blinked, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "And you, Harry? What have you given up for me?"

Harry smiled faintly, shaking his head as if the question was unnecessary. "Florence never belonged to me.” He murmured. "| painted for men who looked down on me, for families who never saw what I could truly do. l've left behind nothing of importance." He paused, his gaze deepening as he looked into her eyes. "But y–you are the first thing that's ever felt real to me."

Y/N's breath caught at his words, her heart thudding in her chest. She had never expected this-never imagined that leaving Florence would mean finding something, someone, who saw her not as the Candela daughter but as herself, YN, in all her flawed and wild glory. "And what do we do now?" she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "We are not nobility here, Harry. We bear no titles, no claims to protect us."

Harry stood then, his hand still holding hers as he pulled her gently to her feet. His expression softened, though there was a hint of something deeper in his eyes, something that made her pulse quicken. "We live Y/N.” he said simply, his voice low and intimate. “For the first time, we live as we choose. I have land in Siena, now—it isn’t much, but it’s a roof and four walls.”

He drew her closer, their bodies inches apart, the warmth from the fire mingling with the heat of his presence. Y/N could feel her heart pounding in her chest, her breath hitching as his gaze settled on her lips for a brief, tantalizing moment. “You are free now.” Harry murmured, his voice a whisper in the quiet of the room. "Whatever comes next, we face it together."

Y/N swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling deep within her. She could feel the walls between them crumbling, the barriers they had built around themselves dissolving in the heat of the fire. And as she looked up at him, her heart in her throat, she knew that whatever lay ahead, she wanted him beside her—no matter the cost.

Slowly, tentatively, she reached up, her fingers brushing against his jaw, feeling the roughness of his stubble beneath her touch. Harry inhaled sharply, his hand sliding to her waist, pulling her closer still. The air between them seemed to crackle, the unspoken tension that had simmered for so long finally rising to the surface. "Y/N," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "Are you sure?"

She nodded, drawing her lips closer to his. Their kiss is slow, appreciative—full of months that had gone without it. He cupped her cheek as he parted briefly, holding her eyes into her own before he smiled. Harry's lips crashed against hers in a fierce, desperate kiss, his hands tangling in her hair as he pulled her closer still. Y/N gasped against his mouth, her fingers gripping his tunic as the heat of the fire surrounded them, enveloping them in warmth. The kiss deepened, becoming something raw, something that spoke of all the things they had left unsaid —their fear, their hope, their unspoken love.

They stumbled back toward the hearth, their bodies pressed together as Harry's hands roamed over her, pulling at the ties of her gown, freeing her from the constraints of fabric. Y/N's breath hitched as the cool air touched her bare skin, but Harry's warmth, his touch, was all she needed. He held her close, his lips tracing a path down her neck, sending shivers of pleasure through her body.

The heat between them became unbearable, a fire that consumed all reason. Harry's hands moved with purpose, deftly undoing the ties of Y/ N's gown, his fingertips brushing against her skin with a tenderness that belied the hunger in his gaze. Her breath came in shallow gasps as the fabric fell away, baring her to him. His eyes, darkened with desire, roamed over her with reverence, as though he was seeing her not as a woman of noble birth, but as someone entirely his, a secret kept only for him.

Her pulse quickened under the weight of his gaze, and her hands, trembling slightly, moved to the front of his tunic. She tugged at the laces, fumbling as her fingers brushed the hard planes of his chest beneath the linen. Harry let out a low groan, his own need palpable in the way his breath hitched, the way his body responded to her touch. He shrugged out of his tunic, tossing it aside, revealing the lean, muscled form that had been hidden beneath.

For a moment, they simply stood there, the space between them charged with a tension that was nearly unbearable. The firelight flickered across their skin, casting shadows that danced along the stone walls of the inn, but all Y/N could focus on was Harry—the way his chest rose and fell with each labored breath, the way his eyes darkened as they traced the curves of her body. Her heart pounded in her chest as she reached for him, her hands sliup his arms, feeling the strength in his muscles. Their breaths mingled, and as Harry leaned in to kiss her, the tension between them reached a breaking point. His lips were soft but insistent, claiming hers with a need that mirrored her own.

Y/N's hands found his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to feel him against her, to erase the distance that had always lingered between them until now.

He guided her down onto the fur-lined rug before the fire, his hands caressing her with a tenderness that made her breath catch. The warmth of the flames flickered around them, casting their shadows on the walls, but in this moment, there was only the heat between them, the way their bodies fit together as if they had been made for this. They had stripped away the layers of propriety, both figuratively and literally, leaving only the raw desire that now pulsed between them. Y/N's heart raced as Harry’s body hovered over hers, his eyes dark with a hunger she had never seen before. Her skin flushed under his gaze, the anticipation swirling in her belly like a storm.

He kissed her softly, his lips moving against hers with a tenderness that made her melt into him, but there was something else in his touch—something deeper, something more primal. As his hands roamed her body, tracing every curve and dip, Y/N felt a strange mix of excitement and nerves coiling inside her. She had never known this kind of intimacy before, never been touched in such a way.

Harry pulled back slightly, his breath warm against her neck as he pressed a trail of soft, lingering kisses down her throat, over her collarbone, and lower still, to the curve of her breasts. His hands slid down her sides, gently parting her legs as he kissed his way lower, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. Y/N's breath hitched, her body trembling beneath his touch, and she instinctively pressed her thighs together.

Harry paused, his lips hovering just above her skin, his hands still resting on her hips as he looked up at her with a soft, knowing smile. "Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice low, rough with desire but tender, too.

Y/N nodded, her breath trembling as she met his gaze, the flickering firelight casting shadows across his face. “I do, H." She whispered.

Harry's smile deepened, and he pressed a soft kiss to her inner thigh, his hands gently coaxing her legs apart once more. "I got you, dove. Promise.” He murmured, his voice a quiet, confident assurance that sent a shiver of anticipation through her.

Y/N's pulse quickened as Harry kissed his way higher, his lips brushing her skin in a way that made her body ache with a need she had never known before. Her hands gripped the fur beneath her as his mouth hovered just above her most intimate place, and when his lips finally made contact, a gasp escaped her, her body tensing with the unfamiliar sensation. It was unlike anything she had ever felt—a warmth, a softness, and then the slow, deliberate flick of his tongue against her bud, sending a jolt of pleasure through her core.

Y/N's head fell back, her breath catching in her throat as Harry continued, his mouth working with skill and precision. He moved with confidence, as though he knew exactly what she needed, exactly how to coax the pleasure from her body.

Harry's hands slid up her thighs, his fingers pressing gently into her skin, grounding her in the moment. His tongue moved in slow, teasing strokes, building a rhythm that made Y/N's body tremble with each touch. Her hips moved instinctively toward him, a soft moan escaping her lips as the pleasure began to build, layer upon layer, each stroke of his tongue pushing her closer to a place she had never been.

"Harry," she gasped, her voice breathless, her fingers tangling in his hair as she arched her back, the heat between her legs overwhelming. She had never imagined this kind of pleasure, had never known it was even possible.

Harry hummed softly against her, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure through her as his tongue moved faster, more insistently. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer to his mouth, and Y/N's entire body shuddered with the intensity of it, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The world around her blurred, the crackle of the fire fading into the background as she became lost in the sensation of his mouth, his tongue, his touch.

The tension in her belly coiled tighter and tighter, the pleasure building with every movement of his lips, every flick of his tongue. Y/N had never felt anything like it before—this burning, all-consuming need that made her body tremble, her breath catch, her heart race. She was on the edge, teetering between control and surrender, and with one final, skilled movement of his tongue, she fell.

A cry tore from her lips as the pleasure crested, washing over her in waves that left her breathless, her body trembling beneath him. Her fingers tightened in his hair, her hips lifting off the rug as the pleasure pulsed through her, intense and overwhelming. Harry didn't stop, his mouth working her through the height of her release, his hands holding her steady as she writhed beneath him, lost in the sensation.

When the waves of pleasure finally began to ebb, Y/N collapsed back onto the rug, her body spent, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. Her limbs felt heavy, her skin flushed and sensitive, and as Harry pressed a final, soft kiss to her inner thigh, she shivered, her body still tingling from the intensity of it all.

Slowly, Harry rose, his hands sliding up her body as he kissed his way back up to her lips, his breath warm and soft against her skin. He settled beside her, pulling her into his arms, his lips brushing her forehead as she nestled against his chest, her heart still pounding from the intensity of her release. “Told you I had you, hm?” He cooed, combing his fingers through her disheveled hair.

She nodded, the sound of her heart thumping in her ears as she cupped his cheek, pulling him into another kiss. His hands roamed from her hips to her breasts, rolling back on top of her with a smirk. His hands roamed her body, caressing, exploring, a though trying to commit every inch of her to memory.

Y/N arched beneath him, her body responding to his touch with a need that had been building for weeks, months even. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, desperate for the connection she had longed for, and Harry groaned, his body trembling with the weight of his desire. Slowly, reverently, he guided himself into her, his movements gentle, careful, as though afraid to break the fragile spell between them. She gasped at the sensation, her fingers gripping his shoulders as he filled her, their bodies finally coming together in a way that felt inevitable, as if they had been meant for this moment all along.

For a heartbeat, they stayed like that, perfectly still, their breaths mingling, their hearts pounding in unison. He was entranced by the feeling of her walls fluttering around his cock, the way she stretched around him.

Then, slowly, Harry began to move, his hips rocking against hers in a rhythm that sent waves of pleasure coursing through her body. Y/N’s head fell back further into the rug, a moan escaping her lips as she gave herself over to the sensation, to the connection that seemed to bind them together more deeply than any words ever could.

Harry's movements were slow at first, deliberate, each thrust sending a jolt of pleasure through her body, but soon the restraint he had tried to maintain began to slip. His pace quickened, his body moving against hers with a raw, desperate need that matched her own. The sound of their breathing, of their bodies moving together, filled the room, mingling with the crackle of the fire and the whisper of the wind outside.

Y/N's fingers dug into his back, her nails leaving faint marks on his skin as her body arched beneath him, her breath coming in gasps. Every touch, every kiss, every thrust was a promise, a declaration that neither of them could speak but both understood.

"Harry," she whispered, her voice trembling with the intensity of her need, with the overwhelming sensation building inside her. "I–” But she couldn't finish the sentence. Words seemed inadequate to describe what she felt, the way her body and soul seemed to be unraveling in his arms.

Harry's lips found hers again, silencing her with a kiss that was all-consuming, his body moving against hers with an urgency that mirrored her own. He groaned against her mouth, his breath ragged, his hands gripping her hips as though afraid to let her go. “Y’like that, huh?” He grunted, bottoming out with each thrust. “Sound so pretty, the way you sing f’me.”

She nodded, eyes glossed over in pleasure as she wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder with whimpers of praises. And then, with one final, desperate thrust, Y/N felt herself fall over the edge, her body trembling with release as the pleasure crashed over her like a wave. She cried out, her fingers tangled in his curls, her heart pounding in her chest as the world seemed to fall away around her.

In that moment, Harry pulled away, his breath hot against her neck as he pressed his forehead against her shoulder, his body shuddering with restraint. His hands tightened on her hips as he pulled back, separating them just before the inevitable.

A moan fell from his lips, and Y/N swore it was the prettiest melody she’s ever heard.

He fisted his cock, coaxing his hand back and forth before he lets out a low whimper, spilling himself right onto her abdomen—decorating her in opaque that marked her as his.

His sigh was heavy as he fell back beside her, placing a kiss to her temple as she lie there breathlessly. For a moment, they lay there in the quiet, their bodies still trembling from the intensity of it all, the only sound in the room the soft crackling of the fire. Y/N's chest rose and fell with the aftershocks of pleasure, her heart still racing, but she felt safe. “S’warm.” She giggled, his release glistening in the flames of the fire.

He couldn’t help but smile as he maneuvered his arm beneath her neck, turning to his side as he rested his chin atop her head. “Promise I’ll clean y’up.” He chuckled, draping his other arm across her chest, to which she reaches up and holds his bicep with a smile.

He presses a kiss into her hair, breathing her in. “Ad vitam aeternam.” He murmured, listening to the fire crackle and her even breaths.

Her eyebrows furrowed, recognizing some of the words but she figured the meanings are different, because what she interpreted made no sense at all. He tilted her head back, looking at the man expectantly as he shifted his own head ever so slightly to place a soft kiss against her lips. “To eternal life.”

Her cheeks flushed as she stared into him, the color almost as red as the cherries from the other day. She runs her fingers through his curls, a small smile spreading across her lips.

His own eyes searches hers, the tips of their nose almost touching. His hands cup her face, thumbing gentle strokes onto her cheek. “What?”

She lied her hand atop the one on her face, dipping the tips of her fingers to hold onto his grasp. “I’m falling in love with you.”

He exhales through his nose, a chuckle laced with content emitting from his mouth. He nudges his nose with hers, brushing their lips together softly before pressing it into a kiss. He smiles, pulling back after a beat. “I already have.”

#harry styles #harry edward styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles concept #harry styles x reader #harry styles au #harry styles prince #harry styles royal #harry styles fan #harry styles fanfic #harry styles smut #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff

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taichea · 4 months ago

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;; lil illustrations for chapter 15 of @cyanide-e-pistachio‘s lovely fanfic …

for everyone who yearns for more postcanon shuake .

over here ;;; read it.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

#persona 5 #p5 #p5r #persona 5 royal #goro akechi #ren amamiya #akira kurusu #shuake #akeshu #persona 5 art #shuake fanfiction #those gays from persona 5 #one day i’ll never wake up and it’ll be because of them probably

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dolicekiss · 7 months ago

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Cherry Tree

PAIRING: Johann Struensee x Princess!Reader

CONTENT WARNINGS: SMUT (18+ only, mdni) age gap (reader is nineteen, Johann is in his 30s as his age isn't specified in the movie), unprotected sex, body worshipping, oral (female receiving) fingering, slight food play, teasing, forbidden romance/affair, exhibitionism, praise kink, cold shoulder (reader is a sassy little princess), angst, fluff, johann is completely whipped for reader, just overall cute and sad shit because i bawled my eyes out watching a royal affair and johann deserves a happy ending.

SYNOPSIS: You were not fond of the new physician hired for your father, the king as the man led him astray, especially from your mother to brothels. So you always gave him the cold shoulder, not missing a chance to disrespect him but what you didn't know was the man was already attracted to you, stealing glances from you and finding you endearing everytime you insulted him.

You watched your father, throwing a fit, drunk in the hallway of the palace while your mother watched, drowning further in the humiliation of being married to such a hopeless and destroyed man.

Alongside stood Johann Struensee, and two new faces you didn't deem important. You couldn't hold back the quip that settled like poison at your tongue when Johann had told your mother that they were merely having fun. Having fun while humiliating her in brothels.

Your fingers scratched against the parapet, watching it unfold.

“I don't think the queen is interested in what a mere doctor has got to say, Struensee.” Everyone's attention shifted to you. They all knew how bold and fierce of a princess you were, your mother's pride and joy. The kingdom’s rebellious little princess. Just at the age of nineteen, you'd already mastered the art of raw manipulation.

Knowing that docile little women were trampled underneath the foot of court men.

Struensee’s gaze found you standing at the parapet from above and he smiled, his wrinkles appearing. Then he nodded his head and went silent, disappearing along with the king somewhere. Your father didn't care much for you, since you were a girl. Producing an heir was the only thing that mattered and he'd already done that.

Relieved himself of his duties to indulge in alcohol and prostitutes.

Your mother sent you a look of sadness but also a nod of appreciation, leaving for her chambers. The night passed by like nothing while you stirred in bed, clouded by thoughts on how to get rid of Struensee.

He clung onto the king and that displeased you.

Tomorrow came by and you were prepared for the day, to roam around the halls of the palace but you found more solace in the massive gardens. Filled with flowers and all sorts of fruits. Dressed in lace and net, you headed for breakfast. Everyone else was already situated at the table, including the man you despised.

As you sat down on the chair, in front of Johann’s, you began your breakfast. The conversation happening at the table was of no interest to you but then your father, the king spoke up. Catching everyone's attention.

“Johann will be becoming a part of the court soon enough.” His tone cheerful, as if everyone was pleased with the idea as much as he was.

Your fingers tightened around the metallic fork, stabbing it into the egg. It was an act you wished you'd done to Johann instead of the egg — biting down the inside of your cheek. Your mother was a frail woman, she didn't like the idea of Johann joining court but she couldn't do much to oppose it.

You, on the other hand, smiled.

“Forgive me for my words, but the court is full of respectful and renowned people.” The sound of metallic utensils colliding against one another stalled. “Johann Struensee is only a doctor, he would do the court no good.”

Your father thought but laughed out, pointing his finger at you. Everyone else stared at the scene unfold as Johann also joined in the king to laugh along, fuelling the anger that boiled inside you like a damn volcano.

“What would a woman know about the court? Eat your breakfast, stupid girl.” You sucked in your cheek, glancing at your mother who looked at you with an apologetic look. There was a voice inside you telling you to raise the fork and stab Johann with it.

But with your poorly containerd rage, you stood up from the seat. “I am sated.”

You left the room but not before throwing a vicious glare at the man with dirty blonde hair, who stared back at you. With a smug of victory on his face. Upon entering your room, you tossed your gloves off and kicked your shoes off.

Angered and irritated.

Hating the way your breasts felt plush against the tight corset. Having such feminine thighs or a cunt, which changed the way people saw perceived you as. Your word would have mattered if you were a man, if you possessed a fucking cock and not the parts which made you a woman.

There was a knock on the door and when you allowed the person in, it was your maiden.

“Doctor Johan Struensee wishes to enter your chambers, Princess.”

You wanted to tell her to forbade him. To abandon him from entering your chambers ever but you couldn't let him win by expressing your anger so you nodded. When you felt his presence, you turned around on your sock cladded feet and smiled at him.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Struensee?”

Your tone venomous and sarcastic.

Johann returned your smile, knowing very well it was fake. He didn't like how your father had spoken to you as he was a firm believer of women deserving the same respect as men did. Though voicing out such daring opinions could lead to his execution. Even if you had expressed your distaste against him, seemingly believing he was a bad influence to the king, he still thought you deserved respect.

“I apologize.” He said, firmly and you blinked on confusion.

Why was he apologising?

Your smile stayed tight. “And why are you apologizing, Doctor?”

He took a step closer, shrinking the space between the two of you. You didn't know if it was your mind playing games with you or if Struensee’s gaze had lingered to the pink hue of your lips. “I'm aware of the crown Princess’ distaste towards the King’s friends, specifically me.”

You crossed your arms over your chest and oblivious to you, Johann inhaled a sharp breath when your plush breasts nearly spilled out from beneath your tight corset. Pinkish color decorating the skin. You turned around from him, walking towards the books decorating your wooden shelf.

“Then you should not be here, Doctor. I'm very against the idea of you being on court, knowing you're the one who influences the royal highness to visit brothels.” Your voice was sweet but it was laced with a poisonous warning. Your delicate fingers ran across the books and Johann closed his eyes.

Mind taking him to a different place, imagining just how your fingers would look entangled with his.

This was immoral and a crime.

You were the Princess and he was a mere Doctor, twice your age too. There was no way you'd give in to him or even consider him attractive. He was here to apologize, he reminded himself. To be reprimanded by you for laughing along with the King at his humiliation of you.

Instead you were enticing him unknowingly.

“A man cannot be influenced by anyone if he swears loyalty to his woman.” Johann’s words made a bitter frown to cease your features. Even before his arrival, you'd known of your father's indulgence in women outside his marriage. In a way you only wanted to blame someone and seeing how Johann only increased your father’s visits to the disgusting brothels, he was the perfect vessel.

You scoffed. “I don't understand. A cunt is a cunt, no matter who it is attached to.”

His eyes widened at your choice of bold and immoral words. He knew you possessed ferocity and boldnesd, both perfect to rule over the kingdom but he didn't know you had such a filthy tongue too.

Johann was impressed and in complete awe.

He suppressed a smile. “How much power and resistance can it take to stay loyal to a woman? You men have and will always find ways to disappoint us women throughout the history.”

You hated the idea of serving under a man, obeying his every command and dealing with the non stop disrespect. You wanted to be queen, to fix the laws set by your ancestors and to rid people of this delusion under the pretense of religion.

Johann found himself more attracted to you now, seeing you in a different light. Before you were only a little girl who threw fits because she disliked him but now, you were a woman with big dreams and strength.

“I'm impressed, Princess.”

You looked at him, with a fake smile. “I wish I could say the same for you, Doctor Stuensee.”

A chuckle nearly slipped him. He soon excused himself from your company, leaving your chambers. The whole night he thought about you, how delicate you were but also strong and resilient. Having lived between women who were docile, weak and often easily silenced, you were a breath of fresh air for him.

— ♡ —

Your maidens had dressed you up. In frills and lace. The stupid, endless routine boring you to death. Denmark was a beautiful country and you wished to explore it yet your gender did not allow you to. You skipped breakfast, not wanting to face your father or Johann, aftwe the humiliation he'd caused you and headed for the garden. You grasped onto your book and dismissed your maidens for a moment of solitude.

Away from all the bickering and banter of royalty.

You sat on a cemented bench, parting open your book to read it. The birds sung in beautiful, minor chirps and the sound of the water droplets falling from the tip of leaves was comforting to the ears. Next to you was a cherry tree and you reached out for it, plucking a fresh cherry and plopping it into your mouth.

Almost moaning at the taste of how delicious ripe and fresh fruits were.

Continuing to read your book and enjoy the fruit, you soon lifted your gaze up to scan the area and found Struensee situated on a bench far away from yours, eyes fixed on you. You were slightly taken aback but covered it up nonetheless.

He too had a book in his hand and you squinted your eyes, to find the same book you were reading in your hand.

The fact that you both shared the same taste slightly bothered you, but you shifted your attention back to the ink stamped into the biege paper.

Your curiosity though, would get the best of you from time to time as you'd raise your gaze and steal glances from him. Only to find that he did the same, raising his eyes from the contents of his book to admire you. Johann had always found you beautiful, if not endearing.

He saw it that you cared about your people, that you wanted to do more than just parade around in beautiful dresses with maidens tending to all your needs. Born a girl was a curse, you saw it that way always and Johann was aware.

You plucked out a cherry and instead of plopping it into your mouth, you bit on it and traced it along your lower lip. Its juices leaving a red trail over your rosette lips. Johann watched you with a penetrative gaze, his adams apple bobbing up and down. Catching onto the little act done under lost thought.

The juice from the cherry dropped down your chin, leaving a messy trail and you giggled at the ticklish coldness of it. Not paying any mind to the man that was drinking you in like cherry wine.

Before you could delve deeper into what your book had to offer, Johann stood up to his feet and made his way towards you. You stared at him for a moment before finally scooting away.

An invitation for him to sit next to you.

“I did not know you were a fan of such books, Princess.” He commented and you let out a soft laugh, for the first time dropping your cold demeanor. The sugar from the cherries had definitely affected you.

You licked your lips, wetting the cherry tainted skin. “Love stories are a foreign concept for someone like me. It is best to read about them and forget.”

“You don't believe in love?”

You shook your head, teeth digging into your lower lip. He caught onto that and his fingers curved around the bench, tightening. There was so much self control he could possess after all. Being a man didn't help either.

“I'm nineteen. They will soon marry me off to someone I don't even know and I will face the same fate as my mother did.” Your tone was soft, different from your usual cold tone, sadness lingering underneath it. Johann understood you, but didn't feel you as he could never feel what a woman felt.

Johann’s eyes dropped to your hand and he almost held it. He stayed silence, watching as you reached for a cherry and bit into it, the juices squirting and making a mess over your lips. He couldn't accuse you of purposely enticing him but fuck, you were such a gorgeous girl.

He wanted nothing more than to claim you as his.

“Would you like some, Doctor Struensee?”

Instead of answering you, his hand moved on its own accord. Reaching for your small delicate wrist, fingers trapping it. He brought it to his lips and your breathing became uneven the moment your fingertips coming in contact with his lips. Johann’s gaze swallowed yours, while taking a the cherry into his mouth. You flinched when your fingers felt the inside of his mouth, teeth running over your skin.

Then he let you go.

A turmoil had been caused inside you.

He watched as your plump chest rose up and down, noticing the attraction swirling like wildfire in your darkened eyes. Johann knew he was playing with fire. You could tell anyone, get him executed for daring to hold your wrist.

But instead you stood up and left.

Running out of the garden, leaving behind your book and georgette scarf.

— ♡ —

You were in the garden again, late at night.

This time searching for your book by the bench, sneakily hoping no one would catch you. The bustling of bushes caught you off guard and when you stood up straight, it was Johann.

In his hand was your book and georgette scarf.

“Looking for this, Princess?”

You blinked your eyes. “Yes, I must've dropped it.”

You reached over to take a hold of your book but he pulled it back, leaving you confused. You blinked and reached for it once more, this time around more firmly but Johann only smiled, taking a step back from you.

Johann found you completely captivating. There was not an ounce of makeup on your face, skin bare. Your silky night gown exposed your shoulders and reached your ankles, covering most of you. No longer were your breasts plumped up and Johann wanted to unveil them. Expose them to his gaze, to his touch.

Your hair cascaded down in beautiful waves and he sharply took in a breath.

“Doctor, I am in no mood to be playing games. Hand me my book right this very instant.” You took a step forward but because it was dark, your foot rolled over a branch and you lost balance — finding yourself right in his arms.

Johann held you, staring down at you, lips shuddering from the proximity. You swallowed tightly and Johann noticed that, your gaze following his lips. An urge to crash your lips against his took over you and you'd almost leaned in but then you pulled back from him, fixing your hair.

You stared at him.

He returned it.

And then the curtain of patience cand crashing down. He closed the distance between the two of you, crashing his lips against yours. The kiss desperate and impatient. Your hands found his nape while he feverishly consumed you.

You didn't care for the customs of your family anymore. Ever since you'd left the garden, you thought about Johann. This time not to get rid of him but to meet him, to satiate this hunger of yours that he had awakened within you.

His hands flew to your silky night dress, aggressively slipping it off you meanwhile your fingers moved skilfully underneath his loose white shirt, trying to slip it off him. Johann held your face with both his hands, tongue battling with yours. He'd claimed you like no one had.

The fact that you two were indulging in such a daring act out in the open where anyone could see you, it only added more to the thrill of it all. Johann broke the kiss, pulling apart but before he could say something, you already pushed against him. Occupying his lips again.

You were inexperienced but well aware of what happened between a man and a woman.

Teeth colliding with teeth, tongue producing saliva and lips becoming wet, the kissing sounds were drowned out by the sound of the river. Mother nature coming in hand to help you both conceal the debauchery perfomed in its grasp.

Your fingers tugged at his roots, your body going flaccid against his. He could feel your breasts and he groaned in your mouth at the contact. His own shirt was discarded and he laid you down on the grass, holding your body gently.

You finally tore from him, in dire need of oxygen.

“This is wrong.” You whispered, staring into his eyes. “So wrong.”

Johann nodded and went back to kissing you, pulling onto your lower lip with this sharp teeth. You could feel his hands dropping down, fondling with your breasts. One hand fitting over the two — thumbs flicking the hardened peaks back and forth. Your back arched off the grass, feeling its pointy tips prickle your skin a little.

Johann leaned down, face hovering right over your breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth and to conceal your sounds, you forced your palms over your mouth while staring down at him. Feeling his wet tongue lap at your nipple, as he sucked on it and nipped around it.

“Doctor, please.” You pleaded, oblivious to what you were begging for.

He pulled back with a pop and stared at you, his darkened pupils reflecting your desire for him. “Call me Johann. I need you to say my name when I'm buried inside you, my beautiful Princess.”

You nodded your head. Heat pooling into your stomach at how hoarse voice, the embers delivered right to your moist cunt. Your hands reached for his face, wrapping around the ridges of it, fingers flicking his strands back to their old position.

“You're so pretty.” You complemented him, running your tongue over your swollen and red lips. Johann nearly lost all restraint, dropping his face between your thighs. Brawny hands slithering over your them as he buried his face deep into your cunt.

“Princess, remember when you said a cunt is a cunt no matter who is it attached to.” Johann recalled your words and you panted in anticipation. “I think it matters, Crown Princess as I have tried to fuck many cunts to satiate my hunger for yours.”

Your lips fell apart a little, a soft gasp of shock leaving you. Before you could register his words and how he was fucking other women to fulfill his desire for you, Johann had commited to bringing you otherworldly pleasure. His tongue running up and down your virgin pussy, catching a taste he knew he'd become obsessed with.

Your hips wormed on the grass, teeth sinking into the side of your hand to prevent you from screaming. Chills dressed you up under the dark, sinful night as Johann continued devouring your cunt. Flicking your swollen clit with his licentious tongue, then circling it around.

Your one hand snuck into his hair, pulling and gripping while the other bled from all the harsh biting.

“Johann. Johann, I feel weird. It all feels weird.” You cried out his name like a mantra, in soft little whimpers and barely audible whispers. If anyone were to find out about this, you'd both be done for. You'd be exiled and Johann would face a fate worse than yours.

Yet he was risking it.

Just to get a taste of you.

Butterflies flooded in your stomach when your foggy mind registered that.

Your abdomen was being pinched and nipped at from all the overwhelming pleasure but more was yet to come when Johann slid his fingers inside your virgin hole. One finger and you were gasping like he'd slid his cock inside you.

He looked up at you, the moonlight illuminating his beautiful features and the gloss over his lips told you it was your arousal that had branded him. “My doll, just let it go. Don't hold it in, okay?”

You nodded.

He began to finger you. Curving the digits in a search for that spot of yours and when he earned himself a cry straight from your throat, Johann realized he found his crown princess’ sensitive spot.

So he hit it, repeatedly, feeling the jelly spot with his fingertips. All while you released muffled whimpers of desire, abdomen tightening and reflexing. Your hands desperately cupped his face, a plea of silence in your blurry vision.

“Kiss me, please. Need you to kiss me, Johann.” How could he deny you when you were asking with such politeness, staring back at him with blown out pupils and a sweaty face. Flesh raw and flustered.

He crawled up and captured your lips in a tight lock, swallowing all your whimpers when you came all over his fingers. His moving fingers coaxing more sounds out of you, only to drink them like a thirsty man who'd found an oasis in the middle of a desert.

“Princess, are you with me?” He saw how out of breath you were, staring above at the sky which sparkled with stars.

“Y-Yes.” You responded, still in a daze from the raw pleasure that surged through you like waves of electric.

He pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead, arms circling around you. “Do you wish to go further, Doll? Or shall I st—”

“Doctor you talk a lot.” You said, gaze finally focusing on him. Your bare breasts heaved up and down, in attempts to inhale as much oxygen as you could. “Fuck me before I change my mind. Before I condemn you to the pits of hell for laying a hand on me. Before I forget how good you make me feel.”

Johann pressed his tongue against the inside of his mouth, forming a bulge on his cheek and chuckled. He pried your legs open, revealing your glossy pussy to him.

“Your wish id my command, Princess.” Johann’s comment made you let out a subtle smile. Johann maneuvered his cock into your hole, feeling it tight just when he slipped in his thick cockhead.

Your thighs reflxed, hole clenching.

“At ease, Princess. You have to let me in.” He whispered, arms wrapped around you. He held you, slightly lifying you up from the grass as he slid into you slowly. Inch by inch. Your tears spilled at the stretch and how much it burned — feeling like it'll incinerate you.

You were still gripping him tightly, not allowing him in and the man grunted at how tight you were. It was obvious you were a virgin and he'd taken that virtue from you, feeling guilt spread in his heart but something dark also followed along.

He'd taken you.

Claimed you.

“It hurts, Johann.” You whimpered out, tears profusely decorating your face like fallen pearls. The man nodded his head, acknowledging your pain. He placed kisses all over your face, distracting you and the moment he felt you loosen up, he pushed all the way in.

Your body jerked. Arms tossing themselves around him. Clinging to him tightly as you felt him stretch your walls past their limits. Is this what it felt like sleeping with a man? Johann’s cock was thick and he did not lack when it came to length. It was too much to bear but your wanton helped you deal with the pain.

“See, all the way in. Are you okay, my doll?”

“Yes. Just continue, please.” Johann obliged and pulled out, only to forcefully thrust back inside. Your arousal helped slick his cock as he slid in and out of you. His growl was low and slipped right into your ear.

Johann held you while he fucked you, thrusting in you like he was claiming you. He loved how tight you were and as the cloud revealed the moon, he witnessed the blood of your virtue in the form of a ring around his length.

“You're like the moon itself. So beautiful and so heavenly, Princess.” Johann grunted, his hips stuttering into yours. His hands roaming down to caress each curve, each beauty spot and each part of you. You were blessed by the gods in such immense quantity, it was difficult to ignore.

Johann saw a goddess laid before him, not a human. A powerful beauty who had him on his knees by just mere stolen glances. You felt it too, the way he caressed you. Held you and felt your skin against his own. Appreciation oozing out of his actions.

As he delivered solid strokes into your cunt, driving himself deeper and abusing your sensitive area. “My pretty fucking Princess. If you'd asked me once, just once that you wanted this. I would've followed you myself into your chambers, would've taken you right then and there.”

Your body twitched. Cunt throbbing and walls gripping him tightly at his words. The idea of him taking you by force was supposed to be immoral and repulsive but maybe that is what you liked, enjoyed. Found delight in. Johann slipping into your chambers and taking you while you slept.

The idea didn't vex you, as it should have.

“Johann—my god. Just, keep going. Please keep fucking me.”

He couldn't explain how much he loved it when you moaned out his name. Your voice like a siren song, calling him to his doom and Johann would willingly follow you to the depths of the roaring sea.

Just the way your fingernails dug into his back, searing down and leaving him bloodied. You were a fucking feline, in heat. Leaving him covered in marks like some wild animal.

If anyone were to find out that their dear Princess was this disgusting, they would banish you forever. Practicing such debauchery and sinfulness.

The same feeling from before greeted you, but this time more intense, more strong and all consuming. Your body surged forward into the grass as Johann fucked himself into you deeper, to the point you could feel the man in your womb. Oh how fucking good it felt. To have him caress such deep, intimate parts of yours.

“Johann, Johann— It's happening again.” You sobbed, tightly holding him. Arms and legs both wrapped around him. He buried his face in your neck and left kisses all over, while encouraging out your release. You descended to heaven for a moment, feeling your soul leave your body when you came over his cock.

Johann felt you tremor in his hand, holding you down as you sobbed and tightened around him. The man hissed at how tightly you were sucking him in and after a few snaps of his hips, he too came. His seed filling you to the brim, staining your virgin walls with its thickness.

Your sobs died out, turning into little sniffles as your sensitivity heightened. Johann laid on top of you, but his weight was supported by his elbows. He dragged his face out of your throat and looked at you. Seeing how fucked out you were.

Face sweaty and saturated, swollen lips parted and chest rising up and down. You slowly flit your across over him and hugged him tightly, hiding your face in his chest. There was no regret, no guilt. You would do it again in a heartbeat.

“Princess?”

“I'm fine, Johann.” You responded, kissing his shoulder, dragging your nails down his spine to leave more marks.

The man pulled out of you soon causing you to gasp. He grabbed your night dress from the grass and pulled it down your head, fixing your frame. His big hands pushed back the hair from your face and his lips pressed over your nose, affectionately.

You couldn't stand up but when you did, you grabbed your book. Johann attempted to wrap the georgette scarf around you but you pushed at it, shaking your head. Getting on your tippy toes, you brushed your lips over the shell of his ear.

“Keep it. Keep it so when you recall back to claiming the Crown Princess’ virgin cunt, you use this to fuck your hand.” Your voice was drowsy, a sultry whisper and then you pulled back, disappearing into the bushes.

Leaving Johann Struensee completely obsessed and in love. He couldn't wait to enter your chambers.

#mads mikkelsen #Johann struensee #a royal affair #mads mikkelsen x reader #johann oneshot #johann struensee one shot #johann struensee smut #smut #fanfiction #hannibal #mads mikkelsen smut #polar #duncan polar #hannibal lecter x reader

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isabel-lillah · 9 months ago

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may 1 - prompt: rose - @rosekillermicrofic - word count: 209

"Fair warning, Pandora is about to come here to ask what your favourite flower is, and she doesn't take I don't know, I don't think about fucking flowers as an answer," Barty says, bursting in their dorm, where Evan and Regulus are trying to get their potions work done.

"She literally didn't let me leave until I told her a flower. I'm kind of afraid of whatever she needs this information for," Barty continues, oblivious to how little attention his friends are paying to what he has to say: "If she shows up with a bunch of roses, I don't know what I'll do."

And with that, he finally caught the other two boys' attention. Except, they burst out laughing.

"Roses? You told her your favourite flower is a rose?"

"It was the first thing I could think of!"

"Yeah, I'm sure rosie is the first thing that comes to mind," Regulus comments, and Evan laughs again. With the amount of rosie, black and crouching jokes that are being thrown around their dorm every day, he would have been more surprised if Regulus didn't point this pun out.

However, as he turns around, he notices something that normally doesn't happen when these jokes are thrown around.

Barty is blushing.

#barty crouch jr #barty crouch junior #evan rosier #regulus black #rosekiller #evan x barty #barty x evan #rosekiller microfic #marauders microfic #dead gay wizards #marauders era #marauders #the marauders #the royal court #the slytherin skittles #slytherin skittles #rosekiller fanfiction #rosekillermicrofic

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leirastar · 22 days ago

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new world | chapter 8

Pairing: Ot8 Ateez x reader AU: fantasy AU | stranger -> mates Summary: A tragic accident left you unable to use your wings and, with that, claimed your father's life, leaving you in the care of your noble uncle. In Hala, a house of eight kingdoms, each boasting its own wonders, you never imagined that amidst the pain, you would also fall—this time, in love. Word Count: 4k | 17 minutes A/n: I'M BACK! this is the best chapter i've written so far although it is quite...scary hihi. i also decided to change my username!! Warning: violence (physical assault, knife wounds), blood, injury, threats, emotional distress, storm, suspense, disturbing content, danger, manipulation

The storm had rolled in without warning, the kind that seemed to devour the world in sheets of rain and roaring winds. Thunder rumbled deep and low, as if the earth itself was groaning, and the wind howled through the trees, bending them to its will. You sat curled near the window, your knees drawn to your chest as you watched the rain lash violently against the glass. Each drop exploded on impact, a thousand tiny reminders of how fragile the barrier was between you and the chaos outside. The air in the room felt heavy—like the storm wasn’t just outside, but pressing into the walls, seeping into the cracks and corners, creeping closer with every distant flash of lightning.

It had only been a few days since Yunho left.

Time had stretched since then, moving sluggishly, dragging you along with it. The memory of his presence clung to the room, an invisible ghost that refused to fade. You could almost see him now, standing by the door, dripping from the rain, his coat weighed down and his shoulders slumped as if the storm itself had carried him here. He hadn’t said much that night—Yunho was always sparing with his words—but the way he looked at you said everything he couldn’t. Eyes soft but tired, as though he were asking you for something he couldn’t name.

The last storm had felt different, though. There had been a strange comfort in it, as if it was ushering him toward you, not driving him away. You had watched him wring water from his sleeves, his hair plastered to his forehead, and you’d laughed despite the tension in the air, offering him a towel you knew he’d refuse at first, insisting he was fine. He always did that—tried to be stronger than he needed to be.

But now, the storm felt cruel. There was no gentle promise of someone appearing at your door. Only the emptiness of the room, the silence made louder by the cacophony outside. The glass rattled faintly under the force of the wind, and you wondered if it could shatter, if the storm could simply sweep you away, erase the space Yunho had once occupied, and leave nothing behind.

You leaned your forehead against your knees, closing your eyes for a moment, trying to steady yourself. It was just a storm, you told yourself—just rain and wind and noise. But your heart ached in your chest, and deep down, you knew the truth: storms like this didn’t just pass through. They left things broken. Torn apart. And you couldn’t help but wonder if Yunho knew that too when he walked away.

Flashback

The knock on your door had been sharp, almost frantic, cutting through the low rumble of thunder that had been steadily growing closer. You hurried to answer, your heart leaping in your chest, hands fumbling with the latch. When you finally pulled it open, the gust of wind that blew in stole the breath from your lungs, carrying with it the sharp chill of rain and the storm’s raw, electric energy.

And standing there, like he had walked straight out of the storm itself, was Yunho.

“Yunho?” you breathed, stunned, your voice barely carrying over the howl of the wind.

He stood in the doorway, drenched from head to toe. Water streamed down the length of his muted gray cloak, pooling on the wooden floor beneath him. His dark hair hung in soaked strands across his face, plastered to his forehead and cheeks, and the heavy fabric clung to his broad frame like the weight of the storm itself.

Droplets rolled from his jaw, dripping steadily from his chin, and despite the wildness of his appearance, his golden-brown eyes met yours—steady, calm—unshaken by the chaos that surrounded him.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the storm raging behind him, the wind howling as though trying to sweep him back out into the darkness. Then he stepped inside, water pooling where he stood.

“Yunho, oh my—” You reached for him instinctively, pulling him further inside before the storm could tear him away. “You’re soaked!”

“It’s just rain,” he murmured, as if the water running off him and the weight of his clothes didn’t matter at all.

“It’s freezing,” you snapped, half out of concern and half out of disbelief that he could even say something like that. “What were you thinking, coming here in this weather?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and it only made your worry grow as you shut the door behind him with a heavy thud. The room, which had felt so small and quiet before, now seemed to expand with his presence, filled with the sound of the storm battering the walls outside and the sharp drip of water falling from his cloak.

“Take it off,” you said, not unkindly, tugging at the heavy cloak hanging from his shoulders. “You’re going to catch a fever, Yunho.”

There was a hesitation before he relented, his strong hands reaching up to unclasp the soaked fabric. You helped him shrug it off, grimacing at the sheer weight of it as it slumped into your arms like an unwelcome guest. “This is soaked through,” you muttered, carrying it to hang near the hearth. “You must have been flying for hours.”

Yunho didn’t respond, at least not right away. He stood there, water still dripping onto the floor, his broad shoulders sagging slightly as though he were finally letting himself feel the toll of the journey. He seemed almost out of place—like something wild that had wandered into your small, warm home. You glanced back at him and sighed. “Come closer to the fire. You’re going to freeze standing there.”

He moved quietly, sinking down onto the hearth’s edge without complaint, stretching his long frame toward the flames. You knelt beside him, stirring the embers until the fire leapt higher, flames crackling as they licked up the fresh log you’d thrown on. Warmth began to creep back into the room, chasing away the sharp chill the storm had brought in.

Yunho didn’t say a word as he sat there, his arms resting on his knees, hands dangling loosely. The firelight painted his features in gold, softening the sharp edges of his jaw and the faint crease between his brows. He looked tired—more than tired. He looked worn.

You stood up, grabbing a dry towel from the small shelf nearby, and returned to kneel in front of him. “Here,” you said, unfolding it. “Dry your hair before you get sick.”

He blinked at you, as if surprised, but didn’t resist when you reached up and gently pressed the towel against his soaked hair. The strands were still icy cold, and you frowned, shaking your head. “What were you thinking, Yunho? You shouldn’t have been out there in this kind of weather. It’s dangerous.”

His gaze distant, as though part of him had been left out there in the storm. Yunho had always been quiet, his presence like a still lake, but tonight something about him felt…unsettled. The silence was heavier than usual.

You took a seat beside him, the fire crackling between you as it filled the silence. The rain pounded against the roof in a steady rhythm, the wind still howling beyond the walls. It felt as though the storm had wrapped itself around your small home, refusing to let go.

Finally, Yunho spoke, his voice low, nearly lost in the sound of rain. “I like that you worry about me.”

Your hands stilled, the towel slipping slightly as you glanced up at him. “What?”

He turned his head just slightly to meet your eyes, the firelight reflecting in his gaze, warm and steady. “Because it means you cared enough to miss me.”

The confession hit you in a way you didn’t expect, something tightening in your chest as the storm outside seemed to pull away. You swallowed, trying to hold back the emotion threatening to spill over. “Of course I care, Yunho,” you whispered.

“Why are you here?” you asked softly, not to demand an answer but to understand.

He glanced at you, the firelight catching in his golden-brown eyes, giving them an almost ethereal glow. “Because you’re here.”

The words settled between you like a fragile thing, unspoken feelings curling in their shadows. Yunho leaned back against the wall, his hands loosely resting on his knee, though you could see the tension in his shoulders—the kind of tension that never fully went away.

“It’s been weeks,” you murmured, almost afraid to break the stillness. “I thought—”

“I’ve been busy,” he interrupted, his voice low but gentle. His words brushed the surface of the truth without revealing what lay beneath.

You frowned faintly but let it go, your gaze drifting to the fire as the flames flickered and danced. For a while, neither of you spoke. The storm raged outside, a relentless force, but in here, the world was quiet save for the crackling of the fire. Its warmth seeped into your skin, settling the chill in your bones, though nothing could touch the ache that had begun to build in your chest.

Yunho’s breathing was steady beside you, and when you glanced at him, you saw the shadows of exhaustion carved into his features. The firelight painted him in soft gold, his sharp edges blurring into something gentler, something more familiar.

“You look tired,” you said softly, more observation than accusation.

He didn’t look at you. “It’s been a long journey.”

You hesitated before reaching for the kettle by the fire, pouring tea into the two cups that sat nearby. Yunho watched you this time, his expression unreadable but his gaze steady, following every small movement. When you handed him the cup, he accepted it without a word, cradling it between his large hands as though letting the warmth sink in.

A heavy pause lingered between you both, unspoken truths pressing at the edges. You sipped your tea, the steam curling gently into the air, a fleeting reminder of comfort. Yunho finally spoke, his voice softer this time. “I need to leave again soon.”

The words settled into the quiet like a stone dropped into water, their weight rippling through the stillness.

“Where will you go?” you asked after a beat, your voice almost too soft to hear.

“Charadyn,” he replied, his tone matter-of-fact, though it didn’t stop the ache that spread through you. “I’m needed.”

“And after that?” you pressed, though you already knew the answer.

Yunho’s gaze softened as he looked at you again, his voice gentler this time. “I’ll come back.”

You stared at him, at the faint curve of his lips that wasn’t quite a smile, at the firelight that danced across his features. It was a promise—one spoken with such quiet conviction that it made your chest ache. And yet, part of you couldn’t shake the fear that promises made in the midst of storms didn’t always hold.

He must have seen the doubt in your eyes, because Yunho leaned just slightly closer, his voice so quiet it was barely more than a whisper.

“I always come back to you.”

The words anchored you, as steady as the man beside you. You didn’t answer, but Yunho seemed to know. Slowly, you leaned closer, hesitating for only a moment before resting your head against his shoulder. Yunho didn’t move, his breathing steady and calm as he let you settle beside him.

Yunho broke the silence first, his voice quieter than before. “Sometimes I wonder if I stayed too long.”

You turned to him, your brows knitting together. “Why?”

His gaze lingered on the fire, the flames reflecting in his golden eyes, flickering with something unreadable. “Because I knew you’d make it harder to leave.”

The confession hit you like a weight, your chest tightening as his words sank in. Yunho didn’t look at you when he said it, his expression carefully neutral, but you could hear the truth in his voice—soft and unsteady, a whisper of something he didn’t dare say out loud.

“Yunho…” you murmured, searching for words you couldn’t find.

He finally looked at you then, his gaze holding yours like an anchor. The room felt smaller, the storm quieter, as though it too had paused to listen. For a moment, it felt like he might say something more, like the space between you could be bridged with just one word—one movement.

You set your tea down and leaned into him, your head resting gently against his shoulder. For a moment, he didn’t move, but then you felt the slightest shift, his arm resting around you with careful hesitance, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed this.

And in his hands, the weight of the day suddenly hit you all at once, and a yawn escaped your lips. Your eyes began to flutter shut, and you blinked, trying to chase away the drowsiness creeping in.

“Rest, my love,” he murmured, his voice like a quiet hum in the stillness. “I’ll stay here till you sleep.”

The words wrapped around you like a blanket, easing the tightness in your chest as you allowed your eyes to flutter closed. Yunho stayed perfectly still, his warmth and the soft rhythm of his breathing grounding you like an anchor.

And just as you began to drift into the quiet pull of sleep, you felt it—a soft press of lips against your forehead, light as a whisper but carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken things. A spark flickered through you, brief but electric, chasing away the last lingering chill from the storm.

You wanted to open your eyes, to say something, but you couldn’t. Yunho didn’t pull away, staying there as the fire crackled and the storm howled outside, and you let yourself sink deeper into sleep, safe in the warmth of his presence.

Present

The memory slipped away, leaving only the storm outside and the silence inside. You pressed a hand to your chest, feeling the cool weight of the pendant Yunho had given you days before—a lifeline, a promise he would come back. You missed him. More than you’d ever admit, even to yourself.

In the days since he had left, the house had felt quieter, emptier. Your uncle had visited a couple of times, bringing with him small comforts—a loaf of bread, a bottle of honeyed tea—but his presence, while kind, had never lingered long. He always seemed to glance at you with quiet understanding, as if he knew the weight you were carrying but couldn’t find the words to ease it.

And then there were the letters from Yunho. A handful of them had arrived over the past few weeks, carried by owls that had braved the cold winds and sharp rain to deliver them. The sound of their wings against the window at dawn had startled you the first time, but now you almost looked forward to it, searching the skies in the early mornings for a shadow on the horizon.

The writing had been Yunho’s, his penmanship careful yet hurried, as if he had written them in the midst of something urgent. The words were simple, but they had been enough to keep you tethered: I’m safe. I’ll come back soon. Another had arrived two days later, shorter still but somehow sweeter: Don’t worry about me. I miss you.

The last letter sat on the table now, its edges slightly crumpled from where your thumb had lingered over the page. Yunho’s words had been hastier this time, written with ink that smudged faintly in places, as though his hand had been shaking or rushed: I hope you’re warm. I’ll be there before you know it.

You had read those words more times than you could count, holding onto them like an anchor. But tonight, even the comfort of Yunho’s letters couldn’t ease the weight in your chest. The fire had burned low, the light barely enough to hold back the shadows, and the storm outside roared as though it might swallow the world whole.

Then came the knock.

It shattered the stillness like a crack of lightning, loud and deliberate. You jumped, your pulse racing, fingers tightening reflexively around the pendant.

It came again—three sharp knocks, purposeful, as though someone was waiting for you.

Who would be here in a storm like this?

“Yunho?” you whispered under your breath, a ridiculous flicker of hope sparking in your chest. You hurried to the door, pausing only to steady your breath before pulling it open.

But there was no one there.

The wind howled, whipping through the trees, rain soaking the ground at your feet. You leaned out slightly, peering into the dark. “Hello?” you called.

Silence.

You stepped back, shutting the door firmly behind you, your fingers trembling. Then a sharp crash sounded from behind you—the window had blown open. Curtains flailed wildly, the wind carrying sprays of rain into the room. You rushed to close it, your heart pounding.

The back door slammed open next.

You froze.

The silence after was unbearable, the air thick with tension.

“We finally meet,” a deep voice intoned, slow and deliberate, each word drawn out as though he were savoring the moment.

The voice startled you, low and chillingly calm, cutting through the sound of the storm outside. Sharply, you turned toward the dining room, the storm outside suddenly seeming distant.

And there he was.

A man sat casually at your table, legs crossed as though he’d been there all along. His features were young, sharp, and unnervingly handsome, but there was something off about him—something you couldn’t quite place. A smile curved his lips, too pleasant, too practiced.

His smile widened as his sharp gaze swept over you, lingering just a little too long. “You’re a pretty one,” he murmured, his tone smooth, almost admiring.

You didn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Every instinct screamed at you to run, but your feet felt rooted to the floor.

“Who… who are you?”

The man tilted his head, his smile never wavering. “Oh you know, just a traveler. Though I’d say your door was a bit difficult to get through.”

“You broke in,” you said, your voice trembling.

He shrugged lightly. “A formality, really.” He leaned back, his sharp gaze sweeping over you, lingering just a moment too long.

“Shame, I thought he’d hide you better.”

You stiffened. “Who?”

“Oh, you know who.” His eyes glinted, the smile widening ever so slightly.

“Yunho.”

Your chest tightened painfully. He knows Yunho.

“What do you want?” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he tilted his head and unfolded himself from the chair, his movements slow and deliberate, every step he took drawing him closer. You stumbled back instinctively, your heart thundering in your ears.

“You’re important, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice almost admiring. “He wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble if you weren’t.”

Your back hit the wall, and you flinched as he closed the distance. He approached, every step measured, closing the distance between you far too quickly. He stopped just short of you, his presence suffocating. The storm outside seemed quieter now, as though it too were holding its breath.

“What… do you want?” you repeated.

You flinched as he reached into his coat and withdrew a slender, gleaming knife. The metal caught the faint glow of lightning streaking through the window, its edge ironed and sharp.

“Hmm… I wonder.” he hummed thoughtfully, almost to himself, the knife spinning lazily between his fingers.

“Shall I hurt the pretty mate of the king?” His tone was almost thoughtful as he tilted the thin, ironed knife in his hand, its edge catching the faint glow of lightning outside.

“Wouldn’t that be something?”

With deliberate slowness, he lowered it, the blade grazing the skin at the curve of your jaw—just enough to sting, just enough to make you freeze.

The edge of the blade met your skin—cold, grazing along your jawline at a delicate angle. Your pulse pounded painfully in your ears, and you forced yourself not to flinch, not to give him the satisfaction.

“A little cut on your pretty face wouldn’t bother you, right, my dear?” He tilted his head, watching your reaction, his smile never faltering.

“Sweetheart?”

His voice was a murmur, far too calm for the situation. You flinched as the blade’s edge pressed just slightly deeper—not enough to cut, but enough to promise he could.

You forced yourself not to move, not to give him the satisfaction of seeing your fear, but your heartbeat roared in your ears.

“You’re a pretty one,” he added after a moment, his voice dropping lower, almost a whisper. “Wouldn’t want to get hurt.”

The knife’s edge lifted, and you exhaled sharply, relief warring with terror. The man straightened, his smile widening into something far more dangerous as he stepped back just enough to let you breathe.

“What… do you want?”

The storm outside seemed to rage harder, the windows rattling as though the house itself feared the man’s presence. Your chest heaved as you stared at him, your mind screaming at you to move, to fight, to do something.

He was still too close, that cruel blade grazing the line of your jaw, his dark smile lingering like a shadow.

“Tell King Yunho he’s running out of time,” he murmured, his voice dripping with venomous satisfaction.

And then something snapped inside you.

With a sharp intake of breath, you lashed out, shoving him with all the strength you could muster. His balance faltered just slightly, his smile twisting into a surprised sneer. You seized the moment, grabbing the first thing you could—a heavy iron candlestick from the nearby table—and swung it toward him.

The impact wasn’t clean, but it was enough. The edge of the candlestick struck his shoulder, and he grunted, staggering back a step. His dark coat was torn, and a thin line of red bloomed where you’d hit him.

“You little—” His voice cut off as he surged forward. Before you could react, his hand shot out, shoving you back hard.

The air left your lungs in a painful rush as you slammed against the wall. Your head spun, the hard impact leaving stars in your vision. You tried to push yourself up, but he was already there, pinning you in place with terrifying ease.

His face was inches from yours now, his eyes cold and glittering, his cruel smile returning. “I was going to let you go, you know.” He tilted his head, voice mocking. “But this? This feels like it counts for something, doesn’t it?”

Your heart thundered as he reached into his coat again. This time, he withdrew a dagger—thinner than the last, its blade sleek and gleaming with an unnatural purple sheen. It caught the dim light like poison.

“Let’s give her a little something to remember me by,” he murmured, almost to himself, his voice calm and sickeningly sweet.

You barely had time to react before the cold kiss of the blade pressed against your cheek. The skin stung instantly where it grazed you, a faint burn left in its wake. You gasped sharply, jerking your head back, but there was no escaping him.

“Shh, don’t squirm now,” he said, his tone dripping mockery as the blade lingered, the purple sheen staining your skin. The burning sensation spread faintly, like ice creeping beneath the surface.

And then, as if to add insult to injury, he shoved you back hard—your head thudded against the wall once more, and the world swam dizzily. You slumped to the floor, your body heavy, your cheek throbbing where the blade had touched it.

Through blurred vision, you saw him crouch slightly, his smile widening into something truly cruel as he tilted his head. “Looks like it worked, doesn’t it?”

Your breathing came ragged as his voice dropped to a whisper.

“See you soon.”

And with that, he stood, his silhouette blurring as he turned toward the shadows, the storm roaring louder as if swallowing him whole. The last thing you heard was the slow, deliberate sound of his boots as he disappeared, leaving only silence and the faint burn of the blade on your cheek.

The man’s words echoed in your mind, over and over, until they were all you could hear:

“Tell King Yunho he’s running out of time.”

Masterlist

seven | nine

Taglist (CLOSED):

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@ffenjoyerdazme @lostxxgirl @xh01bri @neemaxx @furfoxsake22 @Thejentheredhead @soulphoenix1618 @pixie0627

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thegunistop · 2 months ago

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henry gives alex his ring because for the first time in forever, he feels comfortable enough to share the burden of the cage he was put in. alex gives henry the key to his childhood home because he wants to share the love he grew up with. in this ted talk i will

#firstprince #alex claremont diaz #henry mountchristen windsor #henry fox mountchristen windsor #rwrb #prince henry rwrb #alex rwrb #rwrb book #rwrb fanfiction #rwrb movie #red white and royal blue

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aisiedaisie · 3 months ago

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hiiii ʚ₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ɞ i just found your page this morning and read through your entire masterlist and i loveeee your writing! is it possible to get royal poly!marauders at a ball or something and they catch sight of the reader (can be whatever role you wanna give them) and they are like 'damn'

Hello hello~!!!

First of all, thank you so much for patiently waiting for me to get to your request. Life has been pretty hectic on my end, so writing had to take a back seat for a little while. But today, I finally had some time to sit down and write!

Now, let me just say— this idea is absolutely amazing! I’m completely in love with royal and historical AUs, so there’s a good chance I’ll revisit this concept and or turn it into a series of drabbles. (Not that I’m particularly skilled at keeping things short!!!)

I really hope you enjoy my take on your idea 💖

edit: I got a bit carried away-

Royal Flush

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

Pairing: Poly!Marauders x Fem!Reader WC: 3.7k

The night after the neighboring kingdom’s delegation arrives, the Griffyn Kingdom buzzes with anticipation. To honor their esteemed guests— especially the visiting princess —the King and Queen have announced a grand ball. This celebration is more than an act of hospitality; it is a shining declaration of unity, a glittering prelude to alliances and promises that will shape their shared future.

You find yourself standing in Princess Lily’s chambers, the soft glow of candlelight casting flickering shadows against the ornate walls.

Before you, Lily examines herself in a floor-length mirror, her emerald-green gown a masterpiece of silk and embroidery. You and Mary fuss over the gathered fabric at her hips, smoothing it into place with careful precision.

“I can manage the rest,” Lily murmurs, her voice gentle but decisive. She steps away, gliding toward the gilded jewelry box on her dressing table. Its lid is open, revealing an array of jewels she brought for the journey— diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires glittering alongside an assortment of tiaras.

“You two should get ready as well,” she adds, her tone as light as the shimmering necklace she picks up, its facets catching the firelight.

You pause, caught off guard. “What?” The word escapes before you can stop yourself.

Normally, Marlene would stand guard in her knightly uniform, Mary would accompany Lily throughout the event, and you would remain behind— content to watch the festivities from a quiet corner of the castle, keeping a vigilant eye on the princess’s chambers.

“There’s no need for that tonight,” Mary says, her voice warm with reassurance. She steps forward, deftly fastening the diamond necklace around Lily’s neck. The glittering stones resting perfectly against the princess’s pale freckled skin. “We’re on excellent terms with the Potters. No one here will mean us harm.”

The words hang in the air, both an assurance and an invitation. Tonight is different, you realize.

A diamond tiara rests atop Lily’s head, its intricate design sparkling like a constellation of stars nestled in her fiery red locks. She adjusts it briefly, her reflection regal and resplendent. “You rarely get a chance to enjoy yourself during visits like this,” she says softly, her tone kind but firm. “Go on, get ready.”

You nod, a small smile playing on your lips, touched by Lily’s thoughtfulness. Her generosity warms you in a way words could never fully express.

With her gentle urging, you retreat to your own room to prepare. A quick bath washes away the lingering weariness of the day, and you do your best to ready yourself for the night ahead.

Despite your efforts, a sense of inadequacy lingers.

For such grand occasions, it’s expected that the lady's maids and companions are impeccably dressed, each carrying at least one formal gown for travels like these.

You do have such a dress— a blush colored piece gifted to you by your mother when you first joined the palace as Lily’s lady’s maid.

The fabric clings just a little too tightly at the waist, its once flawless seams now strained from years of careful reuse. The soft blush color, though elegant, has faded slightly with time, its original vibrancy dulled by repeated wear. The bodice is adorned with modest embroidery— delicate vines and blossoms stitched in pale gold thread that catches the light just enough to hint at refinement. The skirt, while gracefully cut, feels heavier than you remember, its weight pulling at your movements as if to remind you of the weight of high society.

It was the best your family could afford when you first came to the palace— a gift from your mother, its fabric chosen to honor both simplicity and a touch of nobility. Back then, it had been a symbol of hope, a token of pride for a baroness’s daughter stepping into the royal household.

Now, however, standing before the mirror, you can’t help but feel its inadequacy in the face of tonight’s grandeur.

Even so, you smooth the skirt with steady hands, letting your fingers trace the faint ridges of the embroidery. This night, you remind yourself, is not about the richness of your gown, but the confidence you bring and the memories you make.

Perfection may elude you, but presence—your presence—is more than enough.

When you step back into Lily’s chambers, it’s clear everyone is ready to go. Lily, as expected, looks effortlessly regal in her emerald green dress, the rich color complementing her fiery red hair that cascades down her back in elegant waves. Mary, ever composed, is radiant in a soft yellow gown that perfectly flatters her figure, her dark hair neatly arranged in a low bun at the nape of her neck.

“You look darling,” Lily murmurs, stepping forward to gently brush a stray lock of hair from your forehead. Her touch is as light as her tone, her emerald eyes warm with affection.

You roll your eyes playfully, unable to suppress a grin. “Says the actual goddess standing before me.”

“Truly,” Mary chimes in, her voice sweet as she adjusts the clasp of your necklace, ensuring it sits perfectly centered. “You’ll be the belle of the ball.”

Before you can protest their kind words, a knock at the door interrupts the moment. Marlene peeks her head in, her light blonde hair swept back into a tidy low ponytail. “Ladies,” she announces with a bright grin, “it’s time to head down.”

Excitement ripples through the room as the evening’s promise beckons.

_____

You weren’t quite sure what to do once you stepped onto the crowded ballroom floor. Back home, state balls were familiar territory, their routines and customs etched into your memory. But here, in a foreign kingdom, uncertainty clouded your thoughts.

Was the etiquette the same?

Would it be seen as rude to linger by the walls, content to watch the swirl of color and movement before you?

Must you be drawn into the heart of the celebration?

Apparently so.

You stand near one of the grand marble pillars circling the ballroom, the cool stone a comforting anchor amidst the overwhelming splendor. A glass of white wine rests in your hand, a half-hearted shield against your unease. From the corner of your eye, you notice movement—a man approaching with easy confidence. His dark hair is tied into a loose, messy bun, strands slipping free to frame his sharp features. His attire marks him as a knight of the Griffyn Kingdom, though the smirk curling at his lips carries a roguish charm and confidence uncommon in most knights you’ve met.

“You must be part of the delegation,” he says, his voice smooth, his smirk deepening as his gray eyes fix on yours.

You hesitate, biting back the urge to fidget. He’s handsome, undeniably so, but you can’t quite place why he’s chosen to speak to you. With a soft sigh, you nod. “I am.”

“I thought so,” he replies, a playful lilt to his tone. “I remember seeing you earlier, standing just behind the little princess. So, why aren’t you out there, dancing?” He gestures toward the center of the room, where couples spin and sway beneath glittering chandeliers.

“I’m not particularly fond of dancing,” you say, your voice quieter than intended. It’s not entirely true, but you hope the excuse is convincing enough to deter him.

“Nonsense,” he says with a laugh, his hand extending toward you. “Anyone can see you want to. Prove me wrong, if you’d like.”

The invitation lingers between you, daring yet strangely kind.

You hesitate for just a moment, glancing at the glass in your hand before setting it down on the corner of the nearest table. Then, with a small breath of resolve, you place your hand in his. “Don’t get mad if my heels end up on your toes,” you quip, a touch of nervousness slipping into your tone.

“Trust me, I’m quite nimble. Dodging danger is part of the job,” he replies with an easy smirk, already guiding you toward the dance floor with a confidence that leaves little room for argument.

Normally, you might have countered with a quick remark of your own, but your mind is too distracted. The pounding of your heart fills your ears, drowning out coherent thought.

The lull in the music amplifies every other sound—the clack of your heels against the polished marble, the low hum of whispered voices as heads turn to watch you pass. The weight of their gazes burns into your skin, and your hands tremble slightly as the knight clears a path through the crowd, his presence commanding in a way that both unsettles and reassures you.

Other couples filter onto the dance floor as the musicians shuffle their sheet music, preparing for the next song. The murmurs of the room settle, anticipation hanging in the air.

“Well,” you manage, your voice soft as you cling to anything that might distract you from the dozens of eyes still following your every move, “it seems you’re rather popular.”

“What can I say?” he responds, a teasing lilt in his voice. “I am rather handsome.” The smirk that accompanies his words is maddeningly self-assured.

Before you can respond, his hand presses gently against the middle of your back, drawing you closer. His other hand takes yours in a firm yet careful clasp, guiding you into the proper frame with a natural grace that makes it seem effortless. You barely notice the band striking the first notes of the song, your attention fixed on the storm gray eyes studying you with something close to intrigue.

You set your hand clumsily on his shoulder, your fingers brushing the smooth fabric of his maroon jacket. He doesn’t seem to mind your hesitation, his movements assured and steady as he begins to lead you through a simple waltz.

To your relief, the steps come naturally, your body quickly attuning to the rhythm of the music and the gentle guidance of his lead.

“What’s your name?” he asks, his voice soft, nearly lost beneath the rising swell of the orchestra.

You glance up at him, your voice barely above a whisper as you give your name.

“A beautiful name for a beautiful lady,” he replies smoothly, his lips curving into a charming smile paired with a wink that, despite yourself, pulls a smile to your face.

“And you?” you counter, a touch of playfulness creeping into your tone. “Who might this oh-so-charming knight be standing before me?”

His eyes glint with amusement, their gray depths catching the light like polished steel. “Sirius,” he says simply, the name rolling off his tongue with a quiet confidence.

You nod thoughtfully, letting the music and his lead guide you effortlessly across the floor. “An attention grabbing star for an attention grabbing knight,” you muse aloud, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Seems fitting, I suppose.”

His laugh is low and warm, the sound wrapping around you like the melody. “Well, I do strive to live up to my name.”

“I doubt you have any trouble with that,” you say, a soft smile playing on your lips as you hold his gaze.

The music begins to fade, the elegant notes giving way to the quiet hum of conversations around you. As the dance slows to a stop, you take a small step back, though his presence still lingers like the warmth of the ballroom’s golden glow.

“So much for not being a dancer,” he teases, his smirk as effortless as the steps he led you through.

You turn to him, unable to suppress your grin. “Maybe you were just that good of a lead,” you say sweetly, your voice light with sincerity. But before he can respond, you catch sight of Mary and Lily across the room.

“I ought to check in on my lady,” you add, inclining your head slightly. “Thank you for the dance, Sir Sirius—”

“Sirius,” he interrupts gently, his tone almost playful. “Just Sirius is fine.”

You nod, your smile softening as you take a small step back. “Fine, then. Thank you for the dance, Sirius. It was... unexpected, but I truly enjoyed it.”

With a final glance, you turn and make your way toward Mary and Lily, weaving through the gathered crowd. The warmth of his hand on yours still lingers faintly, and his name echoes in your thoughts like the fading strains of the music— a memory you suspect will stay with you far longer than the evening itself.

_____

James and Remus stepped out of the nearest sitting room, the faint hum of ballroom music echoing down the corridor. Remus, ever meticulous, adjusted James’s slightly askew collar, his fingers deftly hiding the newly formed love bites that marked the prince’s neck—evidence of their brief but heated absence.

“We need to get back before anyone notices,” James murmured, his voice low but tinged with amusement as he fixed his tousled hair.

Remus smirked. “We’re already late. Let’s hope Sirius hasn’t set the place on fire in our absence.”

But as they approached the ballroom’s grand entrance, what they saw made both men falter. There, on the dancefloor, Sirius Black was leading a woman in a waltz.

The sight itself was striking. Her blush colored dress stood out in gentle contrast against the bold, jewel toned gowns of the others swirling around her. The simplicity of her attire only seemed to magnify her elegance, and for once, Sirius appeared utterly focused, his usual roguishness tempered by something softer.

“Sirius never asks a woman to dance,” a sharp voice cut through the hum of the crowd. James and Remus glanced toward a cluster of women, their faces half hidden behind delicate feathered fans. The speaker, a haughty looking noblewoman, tilted her head knowingly, her words drawing murmurs of agreement from those around her.

Remus’s brows knit together. Sirius was notorious for politely but firmly declining the endless stream of invitations to dance he received at events like these. Yet, watching him now, Remus found he could understand why Sirius had sought out this particular partner.

She was... radiant.

“Well, isn’t she a sight to see,” James murmured, his voice just low enough for Remus to hear.

Remus nodded, his hazel eyes tracking the woman’s graceful movements. “If I’m not mistaken, she’s one of Princess Lily’s lady’s maids,” he said, his tone thoughtful.

James’s eyes widened slightly in recognition, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Is that so?” he drawled, the spark of an idea lighting his gaze.

Remus sighed, already sensing trouble. “What are you thinking, James?”

The prince’s grin only grew. “I think,” he said, “we should pay a visit to the princess. Seems like her lady’s maid could use some... royal introductions.”

_____

After reuniting with a gushing Mary and Lily, a server approaches, bowing their head politely before handing you a fresh glass of wine. You thank them quietly, though you can’t help but find their deference a little peculiar. Still, you accept the drink, shifting your attention back to the princess as she launches into a spirited account of your performance on the dance floor.

“You looked absolutely stunning out there,” Lily exclaims, her cheeks slightly flushed from the excitement of the evening—or perhaps the wine.

“She’s right,” Mary agrees with a hum, a bright smile lighting her face. “Everyone was watching. You two were the talk of the room.”

Both women had taken their turns dancing with high-ranking gentlemen throughout the night. Suitors vying for the honor of even a single waltz. Yet, they seemed convinced that your dance was the highlight.

“He’s quite a talented dancer for a knight,” Mary observes, taking a sip from her own glass.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I figured he’d be good, considering how confident he seemed. But he led me effortlessly. I barely had to think about the steps.”

“Well,” Lily interjects with a soft laugh, her hand fluttering to her lips as though trying to stifle her amusement, “that’s hardly surprising. He’s a noble, after all.”

“What?” Both you and Mary turn to her in confusion, the notion catching you both off guard. Nobles rarely became knights, considering the station beneath them. Sirius hardly seemed the exception, yet here you were.

“He’s the son of Duchess Black,” Lily explains with a slight grimace, lowering her voice. “Her sons are far more tolerable than she ever will be.”

“Lily!” Mary scolds, her eyes darting around to ensure no one overheard the princess’s blunt critique. Fortunately, the surrounding hum of conversation seemed to swallow the comment whole.

“But...” you trail off, your brows furrowing as you ask. “Did you not just dance with the heir to the duchy?”

“That would be my younger brother,” a smooth, familiar voice cuts into the conversation, making you turn sharply.

Sirius stands behind you, his easy smirk firmly in place, though there’s a glimmer of amusement in his gray eyes. Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you instinctively dip your head in greeting, murmuring, “Sir Sirius.”

“Sirius,” he corrects lightly, his gaze softening as it lingers on you.

“Sirius,” you murmur, correcting yourself softly.

His smirk softens into something warmer. “You danced with Regulus, Your Highness?”

“Lily,” the princess corrects, her tone mirroring his own.

Sirius chuckles, his attention shifting to her. “Of course, Lily. So, you danced with Reg?”

“As I always do, Sirius,” she replies with a sigh, clearly anticipating where the conversation might lead. Her expression brightens, however, as her gaze lands beyond him. “Oh, James, Remus! A pleasure to see you.”

Both Mary and you instinctively bow your heads, mirroring Lily’s graceful greeting as two men approach.

“Leave the formalities for the elders,” James teases, waving his hand dismissively. “Raise your heads, ladies.”

James Potter is every bit the image of royalty, dressed in a pristine white suit adorned with a red sash. The high collar adds to his regal air, but it’s his confident posture and easy smile —so warm and almost boyish—that truly captivate.

Beside him stands a tall, broad shouldered man with tousled brown hair. The scars that trace his skin catch your eye briefly before you hastily return your attention to the prince, unwilling to appear rude. Yet, the man’s hazel gaze, calm and piercing, seems to notice everything.

“Are you all enjoying the ball?” James asks, his voice warm and smooth as his signature smile graces his lips.

Lily answers first, her response polite and poised as ever. Her agreement prompts Mary and you to nod along.

“Glad to hear it,” James replies, his smile widening. “I know Sirius was enjoying himself not too long ago,” he adds with a teasing lilt, his hand clapping Sirius on the shoulder and lingering there in a way that seems deliberate.

“It was one dance,” Sirius groans, tilting his head toward the prince in exasperation.

“One dance more than usual,” Remus chimes in, his deep, steady voice carrying a hint of humor. His hazel eyes flicker to Sirius, glinting with quiet amusement as he observes his discomfort.

James turns his gaze to you, his teasing grin softening into something gentler. “He didn’t step on your toes, did he, my lady?” he asks, the mock solemnity of his tone bringing a smile to your lips.

You shake your head, your amusement showing clearly. “Of course not.”

James bursts into laughter, the sound rich and full, drawing a few curious glances from those nearby.

“Having women cover for your clumsy footwork now— what a shame,” Remus adds, his tone dripping with mock disappointment as he shakes his head.

Sirius turns to you, lips curling into an exaggerated pout. “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve egged them on.”

You shrug, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Now, why would I do that, Sirius?”

“You’re killing me, doll,” he groans dramatically, prompting laughter to ripple through the small group.

The conversation shifts back to something closer to polite, though the teasing undercurrent remains. Mary moves subtly closer to you, her hand brushing comfortingly over your back. It’s then you notice the weight of the many gazes lingering on your group, a pressure you hadn’t fully realized until now.

Your eyes lower to the polished marble floor as you focus on listening to James and Lily’s easy banter, their words melding with the hum of the ballroom.

“You alright?” Remus’s voice pulls your attention. He steps closer, his question soft, laced with genuine concern.

You nod lightly. “It seems all of a sudden I’ve run out of energy,” you say, a polite fib. The truth is, this entire night has been draining, though you don’t want him to think he’s dull company. “I’m not used to parties like this,” you add quickly to clarify.

Remus’s lips curve into a smile, his expression warm and understanding. “We have lounges on the top floor for guests who need a break. You’d be welcome to rest there if you’d like.”

You shake your head gently. “I really shouldn’t, but thank you for the suggestion–”

“That’s a great idea,” Lily interjects with an encouraging smile. “Let’s rest our feet for a while.”

“I’ll let Marlene know we’re heading upstairs,” Mary offers before slipping away, likely toward one of the food tables where Marlene is undoubtedly stationed.

“We’ll escort you,” Sirius says smoothly, but Lily raises a hand, declining the offer with a polite smile.

“We’ll be fine on our own, but thank you,” she assures him.

“Of course,” James replies, bowing his head slightly.

Mary returns soon after, accompanied by Marlene, who carries a golden plate piled high with delicate finger foods.

“Enjoy your rest,” James says with a gracious nod, his tone sincere though his smile holds a trace of teasing warmth.

The women dip their heads in thanks before retreating upstairs to find a quiet lounge.

_____

As soon as they’re out of earshot, James turns to Sirius with a mischievous smirk. “Well, wasn’t she a sweetheart?” he asks, his teasing tone unmistakable.

“She’s polite but knows how to hold her own. I’d say you’ve chosen well, Sirius,” Remus adds with an approving nod.

“If you two hadn’t left me—” Sirius starts, a hint of irritation coloring his words.

“We did say you could join us,” James cuts in, raising his hand as if to defend himself.

“And you know damn well if all three of us disappeared, people would notice,” Sirius counters, arching an eyebrow.

James shrugs, entirely unbothered. “Your loss.”

“Not entirely,” Sirius says with a wolfish grin. “It just means we can take our time later.”

“No visible marks,” Remus warns, his voice carrying the weight of experience. “We’ll have guests for a while.”

Sirius rolls his eyes, his grin unwavering. “It’ll be fine—it’s never stopped us before.”

Remus sighs, his lips twitching upward despite himself. “Fair enough.”

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