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queers-gambit · 2 years ago

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Blue Moon Wreckage

prompt: your husband can often lose his temper and resort to the man he was before you. you grow tired of lashing your tongue, and learn your husband responds better to silence.

pairing: Daemon Targaryen x female!wife!reader

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

word count: 4.3k+

note: another stand alone, no sequel

warnings: cursing, talk of child abandonment, vulgar dialogue, old-fashioned views on marriage (maybe idk), not edited. small angst, small comfort. author probably missed some warnings.

The entire city cleaned up in preparation for Princess Rhaenyra's nuptials to the heir of Driftmark, Lord Laenor Velaryon. It was refreshing to see citizens rejoicing in a common theme and going around to hang different decorations; chandeliers of strung florals, wreaths woven and hung, lanterns set all around to create an ambiance in the street.

Romance was in the air.

It put people in jolly spirits, brought them elation, and gave the ability to decompress from the woes of life. Wine tasted sweeter, the food saltier, and many merchants came into town for the week-long celebration of Rhaenyra and Laenor in the hopes of selling enough wares to pay for three of their month's expenses. Every room at the inn was filled, brothels hosting the leftover stragglers; money was simply made in an abundance after taking advantage of the citizens come to celebrate.

And yet, deep within the halls of the Red Keep, not all were so at peace with the state of things.

Maids and servants all skidded around the corridor that housed your bedchambers shared with your husband. The walls almost vibrated with the sheer force of the yelling that took place, and while the sun shone on the rest of the Kingdom, there was a dark shadow over the Red Keep.

Rarely, and it was the truth, rarely did you and Daemon ever fight. He was your best friend, he was the love of your life, you've known him for years, and had long since developed an effective way to communicate. Daemon wasn't easy to deal with, in fact, even to those who knew how to handle him, he sometimes pushed past boundaries and threw curveballs into the mix. You were not immune to his sharp tongue and wicked-fast wit, but in reality, Daemon never actively sought conflict with you, so fighting was incredibly rare - though, not totally unheard of.

Like a blue moon - not totally unheard of, but still considered rare. And in pale moonlight, the ship you and Daemon found yourselves sailing on seemed to crash into a set of cliffside jagged rocks, all but imploding the balance you had found yourselves in.

A shipwreck during a blue moon.

Before you, Daemon was violent and volatile. He was irresponsible, impulsive, stubborn, hotheaded, and blood thirty. Many Ladies all vied for the Prince's attention, but as he grew older, he became more and more reckless and more Ladies started keeping their distance. Expect you. You heard rumor his grandmother, the Queen Alysanne, meant to marry him off to Rhea Royce but your father was almost too smart for his own good. He devised a tantalizing offer that the Crown would've been foolish to refuse - thus binding you and Daemon to fate.

Before you, Daemon wasn't a man. He was just a second son trapped in a shell of his body, full of anger with nowhere to expel himself. A boy with a temper. A lad with attitude. He was knighted at 16, an impressive feat, and not a full moon cycle later, you and Daemon wed. He wasn't easy to love, but that was because he was so defensive in his life living in his older brother's shadow.

Before you, Daemon never believed in love or acceptance. Yet everyday he spent with you, he was reminded of his value and worth as a person - not just a Prince, or a Targaryen. You worked every day for his trust and confidence, and once you had it, it was an unshakeable foundation. Daemon was everything to you, and before him, you were shy and awkward and overwhelmed in the glaring eyes of court. Now, you were confident, humble, and weeping with power.

You kept Daemon balanced in his head and heart.

Before you, he was like a wild dog. Now, he was domesticated for you and you alone. He realized how much his recklessness hurt you and never wanted to be the cause of your pain, so, Daemon cleaned himself up. Most days, he was perfectly content in life, and others, he was still as stubborn as ever, but every so often, Daemon loses sight of himself and resorts back to who he was before you.

Fighting with Daemon was always difficult. He wasn't accustomed to losing, so, when you two went toe-to-toe, he was out for blood. He loses himself in his anger, fueled only by the need to cause the most harm with his sharpest words. Daemon jumped to conclusions faster than a grasshopper hops from blades of grass because he was vastly insecure, and it took most of your will to restrain your anger enough to soothe him of his worries.

Daemon hated fighting with you, and you hated fighting with him. There was never a true victor because you both hated it so much. Perhaps that was why your once-in-a-blue-moon fights turned so gruesome and emotional; you both hated fighting that it made you fight even harder.

How you came to this, you didn't remember. One moment, you were enjoying a morning feast with your husband, and the next, you were locked in your chambers, lashing at each other's throats with hateful words.

"I do not understand!" You sobbed. "You agreed to this - "

"No! No, I did not! You did not consult me on this matter, you just accepted responsibility. For the both of us!"

"He is my little brother, Daemon!"

"He is not our responsibility!"

"He is now!"

"Because you took action without a word to me!"

"I did not need to consult you; he is my blood."

"But not mine."

You scoffed, "For fuck's sake, Daemon, do you hear yourself? You are whinging over a child - you're bloody jealous of a child! Where is the man I married?"

"I have done all I am expected and required as a husband, it is you who refuses my seed. Who refuses to grow our family!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake! Now you want a baby!? Married ten years, we are, and NOW you want to whinge about babies!? I am busy in case you've not bothered to look around every once in a while," you snapped, "and I understand having a baby is not ideal right now!"

"So, you will not take my seed because you are busy raising another man's?"

"He was my father - oh, Gods be good, why're we fighting over this?"

"You need to understand, he is not mine," Daemon seethed. "He will never be mine and I do not wish to treat him as such. The life and luxury we live in are not meant for a child that is neither of ours."

"What would you have me do!?"

"Send him to your brother."

"Oh, spare me this notion, Daemon! I will not hear of it! No! We are not discussing this again and again!"

"You mean to disobey me then, wife?" He snapped, making your mouth snap shut. "Huh? Think you're immune to the duties you must uphold as a woman? Think that allows you free rein? You are luckier than most that I allow you to have a fucking opinion; do not abuse my generosity. You want the child to stay, fine, I hear you, but I say he goes. Guess who's want will triumph?"

You blinked several times, unable to find words.

"Nothing to say?" He taunted. "That is a first, wife, you surprise me. In your moment of silence, do well to listen to me now: the child goes, or I do. You either get rid of the child or I will remove myself from this sham of a marriage."

"I do not recognize you, you are not my husband," you finally sighed. "Do me a favor and figure you may speak to me again once you're ready to apologize. If not, I assume by week's end, we will be celebrating both Rhaenyra's wedding and our annulment."

"Too much time has passed for such - "

"I know a Septon that will forge documents. Now," you eyed him up and down, "once more, do not think to speak to me unless to grovel for my forgiveness."

"You will die before that happens."

You nodded slowly, then shrugged and dodged around him to exit the room. You could not bear to be around him any longer, storming away to where your small brother was being looked after by a Septa. You did not speak to Daemon the rest of the day, feeling yourself brimming with anger as you replayed his words.

How dare he find insult in your desire to do "the right thing" by caring for your brother after your parents met their untimely demise? How dare he cite "wifely duties" to you? Just how dare he!

The day was supposed to be merry. It was supposed to be lighthearted and fun and romantic and exciting and gossip worthy. Yet now, you were feeling annoyed, frustrated, weighed down, and plain stupid. You felt alone. You felt tired and worn thin. Your little brother, Jamie, always put a smile on your face, but now, you were simply ready to cry just by looking at him. This planted the seed of resentment towards Daemon, and through the day, only festered.

"My Lady?" You glanced in the mirror to see your hand maiden, who was doing your hair, humming in question. "Alyria has arrived, she will watch young Lord Jamie for the evening."

"Good, thank you," you sighed. "Has Daemon come around?"

"No, my Lady."

"Hmm."

Not 30 minutes later, you were walking towards the decorated throne room with your hair braided back, make-up laid perfectly, and your dress a dark grey, black, and Targaryen red.

However, before you could walk in, someone called your name. You paused, letting Daemon approach you, his eyes raking you in as he realized you dressed to match him. "You look beautiful," he complimented, but you just stared; then sighed through your nose and straightened up. "What? You're not speaking to me?"

"I told you the terms in which you should find it acceptable to speak to me again."

Daemon scoffed, "You're still on that?" You did not answer, just stared forward. "Fine, be that way. Come," he offered his arm, but you brushed past him to finally enter the throne room. Your names were announced, albeit begrudgingly because most in the castle harbored ill-will towards Daemon. They just felt bad for you, not knowing of the man you had grown to know and love unconditionally.

You took long strides to shorten your journey, but behind you, your husband just sauntered in as if the center of attention. However, no matter where he was, Daemon was always the main character, and he was quite the peacock in flaunting himself. You bowed to the King and his daughter, heir to the Iron Throne, Princess Rhaenyra. You took your seat beside the Hand of the King, Ser Strong, as Daemon climbed the stone stairs with a smug expression before taking the seat beside you at the very end.

Needless to say, Daemon was not accustomed to being ignored. You did not look at him, did not speak to him, ignored his direct questions, even went as far as to slapping his hand away when he reached for your thigh. When your hand rested on the table and he laid his over yours, you pulled it back.

It drove Daemon absolutely up the wall.

"And how fairs your brother, my Lady?" Ser Strong asked gently. "How does he like life in the Capital?"

"He adores it," you hummed with a nod. "He is learning so much and loves watching the boats in the harbor."

"How old is he now?"

"Just shy of 4, my Lord."

"Well, what would the little Prince like for his nameday?"

"Oh, uh, no, he's not a Prince," you spoke gently.

"No? Well, I suppose until Viserys recognizes him."

"Well, Daemon's made it clear that if I do not give custody of my brother up, this marriage is null and void, so," you clicked your tongue cheekily, sipping your wine, "no use in titles."

You knew others heard you and smirked to yourself. Another gulp of wine and you were standing, excusing yourself, and moving onto the dance floor. Rhaenyra giggled when you gave her a playful twirl before taking your place with a partner, falling into rhythm with those around you. The entire time, you felt Daemon's eyes burning into you.

You didn't care. You carried on as if there wasn't a ring on your wedding finger weighing like a full fish net, like you weren't burdened by your marriage.

You danced with a Tully, Stark, Frey, and Lannister boy, all who looked at you like a delectable treat but were being effectively ignored, just like your handsome, white-haired husband. It was a lively time, twisting and turning and leaping and being lifted in ture with the instruments playing. Rhaenyra caught your eye a few times, grinning and giggling as she, too, let herself destress in the glee of the festivities. However, when the Frey lad spun you around, you had thought of the devil so much, there he bloody was.

Your husband smirked down at you, "You look startled, little bird."

You scoffed and moved to go around him, but Daemon's hand was darting out to grab your upper arm. He pulled you further into the crowd to use them as a layer of protection, turning sharply to leer over you. He snapped in High Valyrian, "What're you playing at? Hmm? You mean to embarrass my entire family by being so cold and shrewish?"

You scoffed, glaring at him for a moment before he reached forward to grab your neck and cheek in a possessive hold. "I dare you to raise a sharp word at me," he sneered quietly, keeping you in place. "You have ignored me all fucking day, these games are at an end. I have always known your voice to be a sweet remedy, do not deprive me of it longer."

"Then apologize," You snapped.

"For what? Speaking the truth? That you refuse to sire my children because you are too occupied with your wee brother? For taking in a child without so much as asking me? Tell me, what am I apologizing for?"

You scoffed, rolling your eyes, and swatting his hand from you. However, just as you meant to walk away from him, someone gasped and yelped from the people around you. Daemon brought you into his chest as a sudden crowd thickened, two bodies hitting the floor in a gruesome fight. This encouraged others to get rowdy, and before you could comprehend his actions, Daemon was stooping low to hoist you over his shoulder and stride away.

When out of the fray, Daemon slowed himself enough to set you down at the base of the stairs leading to the Royal banquet table, both his hands going to your cheeks. He panted lightly, looking you over, "All right? You hurt? They touch you?"

"No, I'm okay," you sighed gently, reaching up to hold his wrists in a brief show of affection. However, the crowd only grew in size and aggression; the Royals all taking refuge on the elevated landing to take a headcount. Not a moment later, Ser Harwin Strong, the Hand's eldest son, was emerging from the crowd with Rhaenyra hoisted up his shoulder.

But your attention was drawn elsewhere. You parted Daemon's side to get under Viserys' arm, lifting him up slightly as he coughed into a handkerchief. You frowned when you saw the blood, his eyes meeting your wide ones. You asked the only question you could think of, "Does Daemon know?"

"No," he matched your tone in a whisper.

You nodded and assisted him into the closest chair. After the death of Ser Laenor Velayron's paramour (Ser Joffrey, was it?) the hall was cleared of everyone to only leave the immediate family. In hopes of avoiding future turmoil, it was decided that the Realm's Delight, Rhaenyra, was to wed the Sea Snake's son, Laenor, now instead of at week's end. Viserys asked his brother to stay but you were quick to bow out, promising it was a family affair and you should get ready for bed anyways.

Daemon looked close to protesting your departure but was unable to utter a single word, only watching you scamper out of the throne room as the High Septon finally arrived.

Rhaenyra and Laenor married in front of his mother and father, Rhaenys and Corlys, and his sister, Laena. King Viserys was there with his brother Daemon and wife Alicent, leaving only the Hand present to pose as "unbiased witness".

Further into the castle, you collected your brother, Jamie, and quickly got him ready for bed. Your heart felt heavy with guilt as you looked at him, understanding on a deeper level that if it came down to it, you'd do anything to keep Daemon in your life... And if he said your brother had to go or he did, well, you feared to find out if he was serious.

Jamie fell asleep on the long bench at the base of your bed with a fire crackling in front of his face. He had fallen asleep listening to you read, your emotions catching up to you to let you finally sob quietly while preparing for bed. You hated the idea of losing either Daemon or Jamie, and the fact that you had to choose? It felt impossible. So, once ready for bed, you tied on your dressing robe and bent at the waist to kiss Jamie's forehead. You then found yourself standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, wine in hand, staring out into nothing as you were wrecked emotionally from considering Daemon's ultimatum.

You were overwhelmed.

The door opened behind you and your eyes screwed shut. You took an even breath in, heard the door shut quietly, and then turned to spy your husband already staring at you. His face was neutral, passive, and you knew he was sizing you up just as you were him; both waiting for the other to make the first move.

Your resolve crumbled.

As if your minds were connected by a string, you surged forward as Daemon took a few steps toward you, meeting in the middle, and wrapping your arms around one another. Daemon held your waist tightly as yours tied around his neck in a vice grip, breathing in his scent that seemed to mingle permanently with the smell of dragon. He felt gentle trembling from contained sobs, soothing you with hushed cooing; hand petting the back of your head.

When you pulled back, it was only just enough to find his lips; drenching yourself in sheer relief at the familiar taste and feel of your husband. Just before you could whimper you were sorry, truly being unsure what you were actually apologizing for, when he beat you to it.

The space between your lips was filled with Daemon's rushed words, both his hands cradling your cheeks as he spoke, "I'm so sorry, my love. I am. I am truly so sorry. I hate fighting, I hate us fighting, it just feels so fucking wrong, I'm so sorry."

"No, it is I who am sorry, husband."

"Nothing to apologize for," he rushed, forehead glued to yours as he moved you backwards to the bed. "You do not apologize to me; you have done no wrong. It's me, I am the one who should grovel. I do deserve your kindness; I am so sorry for what I've said." He took a long breath, just holding you carefully, "I was out of line."

"No, you were right. I did not consult you; I should have. It is not just you or I in this, but the two of us together. I shouldn't have acted without so much as a word."

"It is okay," he assured softly, "it is more than all right by me now. I just," he sighed, "I needed to think, process a little. I shouldn't have reacted the way I did, I should've listened to you and been a supportive husband, but instead, I just fought with you." He frowned, petting down your face with a dainty finger. "We fight because we care, but Gods do I hate it."

"I do, too," you whispered. "Can we just," you sighed, "go to bed or something? I'm exhausted."

He nodded, glancing at the foot of the bed before looking back at you, "One more thing."

"Hmm?"

"We will talk to Viserys in the morning about recognizing Jamie."

You frowned, "Well, hang on, I think I understand your point, too, Daemon. Listen, yes, I want us charged with Jamie's care, but I do not wish to replace his parents."

"He should still have a title, a place at court. Access to tutors and such."

You smiled fondly, whispering, "That is the man I married."

Daemon prepared for bed as you check Jamie, finding him fast asleep still. Your husband came to bed after blowing out all candles, leaving the fire simmering and you both under a single linen sheet. He laid on his back with you flush against his side, both hands holding your form and tracing idle patterns.

Every so often, he'd squeeze you tightly and kiss your forehead, but otherwise, you both just laid in peace. However, Daemon broke the silence, "I did not mean to cause you harm. I just felt panicked, I think, after the war."

You nodded with understanding, "Our time is on the horizon, Daemon, I promise, I just needed to find balance with Jamie. I've never been a mother before, 's very odd."

"Perhaps we can learn together, I've never been a father," Daemon offered softly. "I fear I have not been entirely welcoming."

"You've time to remedy it," you urged softly. "But you are not obligated."

"He will be our shared responsibility."

You smiled against his chest. "So, tell me of the wedding."

"Nothing special," he sighed. "Viserys fell ill. And I do mean literally fell."

"What? Is he all right?"

"Yes, he's being seen to... But I was thinking..."

"Of?"

"Us. Our family."

"Hm, and what of them, my love?"

Daemon sighed, reaching for your cheek in order to find your lips in the dark. "We will leave," he whispered, licking another kiss to your lips. "We'll go across the Narrow Sea together, raise a family away from the politics and chaos."

"You would miss your family."

"I would rue staying in this city. Away from here, we'd have liberties and freedoms Kings Landing does not offer us, nor our kids."

"I will think on it."

When morning broke through the window of consciousness, Daemon realized you were still sound and dead asleep, but there was something or someone poking his arm in an annoying repetition. When he blinked awake and looked to the culprit, he smiled slightly at Jamie. "What's wrong, little lad?" He asked quietly, voice heavy and hazy with sleep, seeing tears fill the kid's eyes.

"I-I didn't mean to."

"Mean to what?"

"I wet the bed," he frowned, looking at the lounge he slept on all night. "I didn't mean to. It was a scary dream."

"It's okay," he whispered, glancing at you before standing from bed. "C'mon, it's all right, we can clean it."

He nodded and let Daemon sit him at the bottom of the mattress, some two full feet from touching you. Jamie watched Daemon work, gathering any linens to set aside to be washed before plucking the child into his arms. He took his to the washroom and got him cleaned up before redressing him for the day, Daemon quickly doing the same, and then the two left for the day.

You slept while Daemon took Jaime to breakfast. You slept while the two ate and made merry; getting to know each other. You slept while Daemon answered little Jamie's questions. You slept while Daemon offered to introduce him to Caraxes, his dragon.

By the time you were awake, dressed, and approaching the mess hall, Daemon and Jamie were leaving to head for the Dragon Pit. When they saw you, Jamie grinned and squealed, "Sissy!"

You grinned when he rushed for your legs, greeting him with enthusiasm. You hoisted him onto your hip as Daemon approached you, pausing to lean in and kiss you. "Where are you two lads off to?"

"Dragons!"

You chuckled, "Yeah? Uncle's taking you to see the dragons? You're very lucky, not many people get to see them up close."

"Would you care to join us?" Daemon offered.

"No, no, that's quite all right. Thank you, my love, but perhaps this is best kept to a boy’s trip," you quipped, pecking Daemon's lips. "Bring him back in one piece, please."

"Of course," Daemon agreed, taking Jamie's hand when you set him on the ground. He stole one last kiss before leading Jamie away; where you watched them walk away and felt something stirring in your gut; suddenly come alive with tingling electricity. Instead of venturing into the mess hall, you instead continued your way to where you could meet the Grand Maester for a series of tests.

Learning you were pregnant was surreal, but incredibly elating. You were humored by the fact that, just hours ago, you and Daemon feuded for this very reason. However, after simply seeing your husband and little brother get along so effortlessly, you had no doubt in your mind you could handle this. Worrying about having Jamie and a newborn so close together was valid, of course - but it wasn't something you actually needed to worry about now.

Plenty of families had children with shorter age ranges, but none of that matters now - not when you were so explicably happy. All that was left to do now was tell Daemon and Jamie.

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

#daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen x y/n #daemon targaryen x fem!reader #daemon targaryen x female reader #daemon #daemon hotd #house of the dragon daemon #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd imagine #hotd x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd x you #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen fanfiction #daemon x reader #daemon x you

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solbaby7 · 1 year ago

Text

Run

pairing: azriel x reader

warnings: not edited, mentions home invasion, some swearing, violence, a bit angsty but fluffy at the end

summary: No one has ever once dared to try breaching the Night Courts walls—until now.

—

Nothing bad ever happened at your main residence in the Night Court.

Rhysand had been adamant that no one had ever once dared to try and breach these walls.

He’d said it so confidently; with such unwavering certainty that you’d never once questioned it. Never second guessed leaving open a window through the night or not always checking if you’d locked the front door behind you. It made you careless when wandering around the grounds with no weapons, brain on auto-pilot as you ran your fingers over the flowers Elaine and Lucien had spent all of Spring tending to together.

But the sound of glass crashing from down the hall was unmistakable and your brain scrambled to remember everyone telling you they’d all be gone today—that you and Elaine would be the only ones in the house until later in the day.

It had only been a couple of hours.

Elaine’s eyes snap to yours over her knitting needles when another crash sounds and now you can hear males voices; a handful of them overlapping against one another and you’re quick to jump into action. “Get up.” You snatch a sword from the display and anchor it between the doorhandles, wedging a heavy chair to the bottom for good measure before rushing over to the window. “It’ll be a little bit of a drop, so you’ll have to tuck your knees so you don’t break anything, okay?”

“You want me to jump out of the window?”

Another crash, one much closer and the panic you feel is all consuming but you force it away when you grip at her shoulders. This was the High Lady’s sister—Nesta’s most prized possession and you were certain she’d slice your head clean off your shoulders upon hearing something happening to her sister. “Elaine, you don’t have a choice. You need to get out of here and run—run for help. Find Azriel and the others and don’t stop until you do.”

Reality seems to set in when you’re collecting the layers of the bottom of her dress and bracing her arm on your shoulder as you ease her legs out of the window. “But,” Her eyes are frantic, heart hammering in her chest and you have to fight extra hard to seem calm; confident when you were honestly just trying to keep from passing out where you stood. “—what about you?”

A pause. “I’m going to distract them to give you enough time to find help.”

Elaine lets out a whine when the voices come closer and hers is barely audible as you’re bracing most of her weight out the window, doing your best to get her as low as possible before releasing her when you hear their fists banging against the door. “Please don’t make me leave you. If something happens to you, Azriel will—“

“You’ll just have to trust me.” You can hear the door creaking from the strain and you’re certain you’ve gotten her as low as possible without falling out yourself when you begin to loosen your grip. “Run, Elaine. Run and don’t stop until you’ve found him.”

The door opens with a bang but you’ve already turned around, body blocking the window to ensure they can’t see the bouncing pink dress frantically dashing across the garden. The sword is clutched tight in your grasp when you see them and immediately your heart sinks; there’s a lot more of them than you’d anticipated and a sob threatens to emerge off the sheer size of them alone but somehow you remain strong. You’re not sure what possess you to speak, the sword raising in warning as you stare each one dead in their eye. “I’ll give you one chance to turn around and leave.”

“Or what?”

A cool resolve settles into your body, heart rate lowering and senses focusing until you could hear a pin drop from ten miles away. Shadows slink over your figure, two coating your hands and two more stabilize your ankles and it only takes a few seconds to catch onto what was going to happen—Azriel had trained them for this, trained you for this. “Or I’ll show you exactly who lives here.”

They don’t believe you for a second, though you do notice one squinting at the darkness beginning to enclose over your fingers and it’s like you have no control over your own body. Most of them try and fail to get a hit on you, shadows guiding your hands to slice and dig and swipe your foot under their legs until they fell to the floor with a thud.

It feels like a dance—one you had to perfect or die and you could scream thank you from the highest of mountains to the clingy shadows that lingered back from their master. Their cool aura over your skin is grounding as they bend you to their will, forcing your legs to break off into a run before jumping to wrap your legs around the intruders shoulders and you can hear the oxygen leaving his lungs when you squeeze. You can feel the burn in your core when you heave your body up, thighs still clamping around his neck when you slam your elbow once, twice, three times against the top of his skull before his body crumbles beneath you.

Your knees are on the floor when another comes for you, sword slicing through the air and a grunt leaves you when a shadow pushes you down to duck before the sword can take your head clean off. You allow them complete control, a puppet submitting to the string attached to them as blood smears your clothing and stains your skin. Your hair sticks to your neck, blood spraying as the shadows ensured every swing of your weapon landed in its target.

A cry pulls from your throat when you turn, eyes frantic as you search the space to find no one but yourself remaining but you can’t seem to let the sword go. There’s so much blood; crimson red pooling in puddles near each slain body and your head whips around when you hear more footsteps. “In there—she’s in there!”

“Elaine,” Your voice croaks out and you hear the steps go faster until Azriel is standing in the doorway with cruel eyes; intent to kill clear until he sees you and it all fades away. “Don’t let her look.”

He nods wordlessly, urging a breathless Elaine away with nothing more than a look and his voice goes soft when he sees your hands shaking. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You can let it go now.”

“She’s safe?”

“She’s safe, she didn’t stop until she found us.” Your shoulders relax at the words, body crumpling to the floor and he’s there to catch you before you hit the ground. You’re nose is buried in his chest, hands clutching at his clothes as the adrenaline subsides and your body begins to tremble but as Azriel holds you tight, muttering soothing words into your hair.

All he can do is look at the carnage.

The blood that stains your body but there’s not a single scratch. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

A laugh pulls free, the sound easing his worry and calming his rage. “I guess all that training came in handy after all.”

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unboundprompts · 5 months ago

Note

hellooo!! i was wondering if you had any royalty themed title ideas? ive been wracking my brain for a while, and i haven't been able to come up with anything that stuck. thank you so much, i love your posts !!!

Royalty Themed Title Ideas

-> feel free to edit as you see fit.

The Weight of the Crown

The Crown's Shadow

The Throne's Burden

The Silent Reign

The Hidden Heir

The Queen's Labyrinth

Shadows of the Silver Court

Echoes from the Throne Room

The Fading Crest

The Prince's Enchanted Heart

The Crowned Lover's Promise

A Kingdom of Two Hearts

The Royal Affair

A Love Written in Gold

The Royal Illusion of Love

#writing prompts #creative writing #writeblr #story prompt #prompt list #book title ideas #ask box prompts #title ideas #title suggestions #title list #book titles

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tasteleeknow · 2 years ago

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EVERYTHING AND NO ONE

PAIRING: prince!minho x maidservant!reader GENRE: smut. fluff. angst. royal!au. forbidden love. CONTENT: 18+ minors dni. unprotected intercourse. major injury. pet names. WORD COUNT: 14.3k (and i could've kept going)

SUMMARY: you're a royal servant, someone who was supposed to sink into the shadows and speak only when spoken to. power: you had none... except when it came to the crown prince.

NOTE: thank you to @lino-nyangi, @tasteracha, and @therhythmafterthesummer for beta reading and helping me edit this beast.

do not repost to other sites, including translations.

You’d never forget the first time you saw him. Pushed forward by the momentum of the crowd, you found yourself in a prime position to see the royal procession through the city. Leading an annual hunt in celebration of his birth, Minho sat astride his horse, offering small waves to the cheering crowd as he passed. It was only then, seeing him in the flesh that the reality of your new role as a royal maidservant finally sunk in. You were due to start the next day, to train while they were away and be prepared to serve when they returned.

Two years later you prepare his bath in preparation for his first night returned from this year's hunt. It’s a process of lugging buckets of hot water from the pump at the end of the hallway, enough to fill the large tub that sat in the corner of his large room. Then, when the tub is full and you’ve tested the water temperature, you place a small offering on the stool beside it. A bar of soap. In the little free time you had, that is what you did: make soap. It was calming, and using the soap you’d infused with sumptuous scents was one of the few luxuries you had. You shared any extras with the prince. He was kind.

He wasn’t like the other members of the court, he’d acknowledge your presence, he’d speak to you like you were a person as complex as he was. It wasn’t the way things were supposed to be. When he’d started, it had thrown you off kilter. You weren’t prepared to have conversations with the crowned prince. You’d been told in your training to not be heard, and if you could help it, not seen either. Still, he’d persevered, chatting to you like you weren’t supposed to complete your tasks and get out of the way with as little disturbance as possible.

You stand as the door opens, brushing down your apron and making yourself presentable for his entrance, just as you were supposed to. He sweeps into the room as he always does, ignoring any sense of decorum and addressing you directly.

“Are you making me a bath, little dove?” he says, unbuckling his sword belt.

It wasn’t a new nickname. He’d taken to calling you that a year prior. You had no idea what to make of it, apart from that he couldn’t mean anything bad by it. He didn’t have an unkind bone in his body. Even towards someone like you.

“Stop calling me that,” you sigh, returning to your task of filling the large tub with warm water. You tip the final bucket in.

“What should I call you instead?”

“Nothing. You know you cannot talk to me at all.”

“Cannot?” he questions, a hint of amusement in his tone.

“Should not,” you correct. “Of course, you can do anything you like.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Is it not?” you question, placing the bucket down beside you.

“There are… many things you can do that I cannot.”

You huff out a laugh, swirling your fingers through the bath water to check its temperature. He may be kind, but he was still a prince, he couldn’t help his ignorance. “Unless you mean make a bed or scrub a floor, I’ll have to disagree.”

He ignores your snarky comment, like always. It’s a dangerous line you toe, you remind yourself.

“You can marry who you like,” he says.

You stand, lifting your now empty bucket onto your hip. “Can I?”

“Of course. You’ll marry someone you love. I’ll wed someone chosen for me.”

“I’m not sure I’ll marry at all.”

He takes a step towards you and holds his cuff out, silently asking for help to unfasten the buttons. You lower your bucket to the floor and close the distance between you.

“Why is that?” he asks as you work on unbuttoning each cuff.

“I have my work here.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and you think he’s dropped the subject. Then he speaks again.

“You wouldn’t leave for love?”

You shrug. “I love my life; my work. I don’t need anything else.” You don’t add that he was a major part of the reason why, that you enjoyed talking to him too. “Whoever is chosen for you, you might come to love her.”

He’s quiet.

“I don’t think I will,” he pauses, and when he speaks again, the sorrow leaking from his tone takes you off guard. “I don’t think I can love again.”

You lift your eyes to his. “Again?” you question. You had never known him to court anyone. Perhaps before you arrived? Although surely that’s gossip you would have overheard downstairs.

“No, little dove. Not again.”

“Are you courting? A secret courtship?”

He smiles. “No, I don’t think I’d call it a courtship.”

“But you’re in love?”

He nods.

“Don’t let them hurt you.”

“I don’t think I can promise that,” he says, one corner of his mouth tilting up into a sad smile.

“You think they’ll hurt you?”

“Not on purpose.”

He laughs when you frown, concerned. “Don’t fret, dove. I’m prepared for it. I’ve always known she wasn’t for me. I can’t have everything I want, remember.”

—

It’s only a few weeks later that an announcement is made: the crowned prince is to marry. You’re prepared for it, you knew it was coming any day and still… you cry. You let yourself have one night of tears. Then, the next morning, you put it from your mind. It’s not your place to mourn the loss of him, he was never yours in the first place. The only consolation you can take from the news is that it helped explain his low mood over the past week, he wasn’t losing interest in your company, he was processing his soon to be announced nuptials.

He’s quiet as you move around the room, preparing his room for the day. He sits solemnly on the edge of his bed. You can feel his eyes on you. His silence is unnerving, out of character. It’s so unnerving you eventually spin to face him.

“Are you going to continue staring until I leave the room?”

It’s enough to be thrown from the palace: addressing him directly, speaking to him like this. You were too comfortable. Sometimes you wondered if you’d ever slip up when you weren’t alone, speak to him in such a way when others could overhear.

He smiles. It’s a sad smile, all of his smiles were recently. You didn’t like it. It was only over the past week you’d realised how much his smiles got you through your days. He was depriving you.

“If you don’t mind,” he answers.

You replace your poker in the small stand beside the fireplace and pull yourself to your feet. He looks sunken, bare shoulders hunched over. Fix him, your heart instructs.

“She’s very beautiful, apparently,” you say, taking small steps towards him. “That’s all anyone downstairs could talk about this morning. She’s known for it.”

He frowns. “Do you think that matters to me? That it will make it better?”

“I just think you should be open to the idea that you might come to love her, that you might be happy.”

He stands suddenly, linen pants falling low on his hips. You saw him shirtless everyday, waking him in the morning, helping him change, it was a part of your job. Still, the way he’s looking at you now, chest bare and hair tousled from sleep….you unconsciously press your palm over your racing heart. He’s not for you, you beg it to understand.

“Will you be happy?” he asks.

You frown, confused. “What does this have to do with me?”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” he says, taking one step towards you. “You’ll be happy for me?”

“I’m your servant.”

He covers his face with his hands suddenly before turning away from you. You watch his shoulders rise and fall as he paces across the room and then turns. You stand across the room from each other, facing off.

“If you weren’t working here. If… you were—”

“Your equal?” you finish.

“Would you consider us friends? In a world where we were allowed to be.”

I’d tell you I love you. “I guess so.”

“So in this hypothetical world, where we are friends… you’ll be happy if I marry her?”

“When,” you correct. “When you marry her, I’ll be wishing you all the happiness in the world.”

He moves towards you suddenly, closing the distance between you. When he’s a few steps from you he stops. His lips part and press together a few times, like he’s struggling to find the words he wants to say next. You wait.

“I thought I’d prepared myself for this. I thought I’d talked myself through it, that I was ready to let—” he cuts himself off, running his fingers through his already messy hair. “I wasn’t meant to be this person, to be self-sacrificing and putting the good of the people above my own desires. I desire, I crave, and I’m selfish. I want to give in.”

It’s such a ridiculous thing to say, you have to keep yourself from laughing. You couldn’t imagine there was a person on earth more suited to have all the power he would inherit.

“You are not selfish. You are kind, and giving, and no one would be more suited to the role you’ve been given,” you say. He drops his arms to his side as you continue. “I’m happy. I’m happy now and I’ll be happy when you marry and I’ll be happy when you become King. I’ll be proud to have known you and happy that my life and everyone around me will be made better because of you.”

He narrows the space between you a little more. “I am selfish, little dove,” he says, his hushed tone is too intimate. You take a step back. He follows. “I don’t want to do it without you.”

“Will I be… let go?” you question, confused. “When you marry?”

He shakes his head.

“Then I’ll be here. I don’t plan on leaving.”

“I want you beside me.”

“Beside… you?”

He hums, fingers reaching out to play with the frills on your apron. You don’t understand where this conversation has led. You’d assumed he was gloomy because of the girl he loved, the secret courtship he’d mentioned a few weeks ago and the interference his arranged betrothal had caused. What did you have to do with any of this?

“Beside me, little dove. Doing it with me.”

“I don’t understand.”

His fingers trace the neckline of your apron, up to the straps over your shoulder. His eyes track his fingers, like there is something fascinating about the simple fabric that makes up your uniform.

“Have I ever touched you?” he mumbles as his finger brushes the skin at your neck, where your dress ends. A shiver runs up your spine. You’re sure he must notice. “I haven’t,” he says. “I would remember.”

You take a large step backwards, suddenly completely overwhelmed. “I have other duties. I should—I should go,” you say, curtseying quickly and escaping without looking back.

—

You replay it in your head that night, everything he’d said, the feeling of his fingers on your skin. You can’t make sense of it; why he was suddenly touching you, speaking to you about desire, like he—

You sit up suddenly, your bedsheets pooling around your hips. He loved someone. You were sure that was why he was upset, and then he’d started making it about you, asking you strange questions and touching your skin. It couldn’t be you. It didn’t make sense. Your heart races as you throw your legs over the side of your bed. Sliding your feet into your slippers, you stand and reach for your small oil lamp. Your fingers shake as you light it and you freeze as you knock your hairbrush onto the hard floor, silently praying no one was still walking the halls. Silence.

The path to his room is ingrained into your mind, you could make it there with your eyes closed tight. The guards outside his room don’t question you. They merely give you an odd look at your state of attire. You’d visited his room late previously, to stoke a fire in the dead of winter or deliver materials he might need when he was writing late.

You freeze when the door closes gently behind you, suddenly completely unsure what you were doing. The revelation you’d thought you had seems ridiculous now, standing here in his room, the crown prince sleeping soundly in his bed. Why would he love you? You were nothing. You press your hand over your heart. He’s not for you.

You turn just as his soft, sleep laden voice breaks the heavy silence. “Little dove?” he questions. “What’s wrong?”

You turn slowly, grateful the darkness might shield some of your shame. “Nothing is wrong, your highness.”

He huffs out a laugh, pulling himself up from the bed and swinging his legs over the side to stand. “Your highness?” he questions, amusement clear in his tone. He takes a few steps towards you before stopping suddenly, eyes dropping down your figure and then flicking back to your face. “What are you wearing?”

“I—”

“Has something happened?” he interrupts urgently.

You shake your head quickly. “I wanted to ask you about this morning.”

He sighs, shoulders sagging as he switches from panic to dejection. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched you, I was…. overwhelmed. This week has—”

“I didn’t come here for an apology.”

Interrupting the crown prince. You imagine your mother knowing. She’d likely drop dead from shock.

“I owe you one anyway,” he says.

“If you are going to start apologising for crossing boundaries, you have two years of talking to me like I’m not your servant to make up for.”

“Oh, I’m not sorry for that,” he says quickly, straightening a little.

“No, I didn’t think you were,” you murmur, smiling softly. Your kind prince.

“What are you here for, then? If not an apology,” he says, taking a step towards you.

You suck in a deep breath, preparing yourself. You were in his room in your nightgown. If you turned around and left now you’d toss and turn and get no sleep. Then tomorrow would be tortuous. You were exhausted enough on a normal day. That’s what you tell yourself. That’s how you force the question from your lips.

“What did you mean by ‘beside you’? You’ll be moving to another wing of the castle when you marry. I assume you mean you want me to come with you and if that’s the case it’s already decided that your staff will—” you cut yourself off, distracted by the amused smirk on his face. “What?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well for heaven’s sake would you just say what you mean?!” you blurt out.

He grins at your outburst. You’d officially shouted at the crown prince, at the man who would one day have absolute rule over you and everyone you knew. This was the danger of it all, of his treatment of you. You were too comfortable.

“I think you know what I mean, little dove. You came to me in the middle of the night, in your nightdress, to ask me. I think if you truly had no idea, this could have waited until morning.”

You want to hit him, to stomp across the room and beat against his chest. Could he not see he was hurting you? Dangling you on a string when you were so much less powerful than him, when he had all the power. It was for him to say. He had less to lose.

“You said you were prepared to be hurt, for this person you love to hurt you,” you say after calming yourself a little.

He frowns. “Yes.”

“What about her? Have you considered how you may hurt her? If she’s prepared?”

“Yes. It’s why I’ve tried my best to… resist her.”

Speak plainly! you want to scream. Break me out of this foolish delusion.

“What did you mean? Tell me what you meant. It’s cruel to play games with me, you know it is. I’m no one, I can’t afford to play games,” you plead.

“No one?” he laughs, taking another small step towards you. Then he smiles, a lopsided smile that doesn’t prepare you at all for what he says next. “I want you to be my Queen.”

He catches you by the wrist when you stagger back, taking the oil lamp from you before you can drop it. You were sure he’d have a reasonable explanation, anything but this. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t—

“Look at me,” he says, voice soothing and calm. Your eyes are fixed on where his fingers wrap around your wrist. “My love, look at me.”

Your eyes snap to his. His face is lit by the soft glow of the lamp he holds, brown eyes wide with worry and… something else. My love, my love, my love, your heart chants. “Love?” you whisper.

He nods. “Don’t hurt me,” he whispers.

You suck in a deep breath, suddenly feeling starved of oxygen. “You can’t,” you blurt out, pulling your wrist from his grip and taking a step backwards. “It’s not right.”

“I’ll make it right,” he says, taking your hand in his again. “I’ll refuse the marriage. They can’t force me down the aisle. We’ll wait until I’m King, until I can make any choice I like.”

You pull your hand from his again, backing up until your back hits the door. He takes one step towards you and then stops, letting his arm drop to his side. “You don’t want me?” he asks.

“It doesn’t matter what I—”

“It—” he interrupts.

“Listen to me,” you demand. “Just listen.”

He presses his lips together and nods reluctantly.

“I’m no one. You can argue with me about it for the rest of the night but it doesn’t change the fact that if anyone found out the way I spoke to you, the things you’ve just said to me, I’d be thrown out. I’d have nowhere to go and no way to make money and I’d be quickly, desperately hopeless. Everyone would know I’d been thrown out of the palace with no reference and I’d have to leave… somewhere far away. Do you understand?”

“I wouldn’t—

“Do you understand what I just said?” you interrupt. “This is less for you… this means less. You have nothing to lose.”

He closes the distance between you quickly and presses his hands to the wood either side of your head, caging you in. He’s quiet for a moment as he studies your face in the dim light, the oil lamp he’d placed on the small table beside the door the only illumination besides the fireplace. “Nothing to lose?” he whispers. “I could lose you.”

“I could lose everything.”

“Same thing,” he says easily.

“It’s not!” you shout as your eyes well with tears, shoving his chest until he’s forced to take a step away. “It’s not the same,” you repeat, lowering your voice.

“You think I don’t know that? I know that. I know what this means for you, how dangerous it is. Why do you think I’ve kept away.”

“Kept away?” you laugh. “I’m a servant, I’m your servant and you speak to me like I’m—”

“Yeah, well… I’m not a saint,” he interrupts. “I told you, I’m selfish. I did the best I could.”

When you say nothing in return he presses his hand to the wood again, the other lifting your chin to direct your eyes to his. “Tell me you love me, little dove,” he pleads, desperation leaking from his hushed tone.

You sigh, suddenly feeling incredibly drained. “What good would it do?”

“For me? A world of it.”

“Are you sure?” you whisper. “Are you sure it won’t…make it all worse.”

“Please,” he whispers.

You sigh again. He’s quiet as you cup his cheek with your palm, as you brush your thumb across his soft skin. You wonder if he’d smell like your soap, if you were to lean forward and press your nose to the crook of his neck. “Of course I love you,” you confess.

You can’t help matching the grin that spreads across his face, overwhelmed by the beauty of it. Then he’s pressing his lips to your forehead, a slow, drawn out kiss that he only pulls away from just when you think he might have attached himself to you permanently.

The spell breaks as he pulls away, reality crashing down onto your shoulders. “Not that it matters,” you mutter, dropping your eyes to the floor.

Then he’s laughing and you find yourself spinning around, feet dangling against his legs. He spins you around, his laughter vibrating through your chest. When he sets you on your feet he’s practically breathless and you find yourself unwilling to say anything at all, not when his eyes are so full of joy and his cheeks pink from laughter.

“Doesn’t matter?” he says, through the remnants of his laughter. “It changes everything, little dove. I didn’t realise… I didn’t realise how much until you said it. I’m going to keep you safe, I’m going to have you. I can.”

You frown, wondering if maybe he’d bumped his head at some point. Perhaps when he was catching you as you’d stumbled?

“It changes nothing,” you correct, stepping back out of his arms. “You will be getting married soon and I will stay your maidservant and that’s the way it was always going to be.”

“Have a little faith in me, dove? Hm?”

“I have faith in you. It’s everyone else, your parents, the court… you think they’ll let you back out of the arrangement they’ve agreed to?” you question. “You really think they’ll let you marry… me?”

“I won’t give them a choice.”

“It’s not up to you!” you cry, suddenly overwhelmed again. It’s all.. So much. So much. A tortuous sliver of hope in a world that had only ever been cruel to you. “Please—Please, just stop. It’s not—”

He steps towards you, taking each of your hands in his. “Give me a chance… give me a chance to try?”

When you say nothing he drops to his knees at your feet. You swear your heart skips a beat. You look to the door, imagining anyone walking in and seeing the crown prince kneeling at the feet of a servant; of someone who he shouldn’t even acknowledge.

“I have a chance… you’ve given me a chance at having everything I’ve ever wanted… I can taste it, I—” he pauses, pulling one of your palms to his lips and pressing a kiss to your skin. “I won’t let anything happen to you, I swear it. Let me try?”

It’s silly, childish, it’s everything you thought you werent, but seeing him there—gazing up at you like he might actually… love you—it feels like your knees are knocked out from under you as you collapse to the floor with him.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

He tugs you forward into his arms, wrapping you up tightly. Your nightdress is thin enough that the warmth from his bare chest easily radiates through to your skin. You sigh, dropping your face to the crook of his neck. He smells like your soap.

“You’ve taken care of me for so long… every day… let me take care of you now, hm?”

You want to say yes, to give in to him. Your heart thumps hard in your chest, like it’s begging you to give in, banging his fists against your ribs and screaming ‘Let me out! Let me have him!’. It would be foolish to trust someone with so much power, especially when you had none. You should walk away now, ideally find employment somewhere far away from him, before you can be hurt. It’s too late, a small voice reminds you. You’ll be hurt either way now.

“Do you promise?”

He lifts your face from his neck, warm hands cradling your face. You feel exposed, even in the dim light of the room. When he says nothing and merely trails his eyes over your features, you’re not sure what he’s looking for. There’s nothing interesting or unique about your face. You’d always thought you were well suited to a job where you were supposed to blend in.

“I’ve got you, little dove. I promise,” he whispers. He kisses your forehead again. “You should get some sleep,” he says before helping you to your feet. You expect him to drop your hand once you’re up, but he doesn’t. He stares down at where your hands join for a moment. It’s a comfortable silence. You were always comfortable with him, you realise.

When he finally releases you, it’s with a whispered goodnight and one last press of his lips to your forehead. You find yourself making your way back through the palace to the servants' wing on autopilot. You’re completely spaced out, trying to process what has just happened, how your life has changed. When you crawl into bed, you find yourself shaking. You roll onto your back and close your eyes, concentrating on the rise and fall of your chest as you inhale and exhale. He… loves you. You’d never even let yourself consider the idea before tonight and now you had his whispered promises bouncing around your head.

—

You’re pressed up to a wall the next morning, gathering yourself before you have to round the corner and enter his room to begin your morning routine. You had done the same thing almost every day for the past two years but never hours after he’d confessed… to loving you.

He’s still sleeping when you creep into the room. Usually you’d pull the curtains aside without hesitation, waking him with the bright morning sunlight, but not today. You creep around the room, completing all of your tasks as quickly and quietly as possible. He mumbles at one point and you freeze, fearing for a moment he’s awake. But his mumbling is incoherent and when he falls silent again, he doesn’t move. It isn’t long until you’re forced to face the task you’d been avoiding: the curtains. He’ll wake when you open them, he always did. You consider the distance to the doors, how long it will take you to reach them if you run. You suck in a deep breath. Be brave. You pull them open.

He stirs as you’re tying the first curtain aside. He mumbles something you don’t make out as you’re tying the second.

“Good morning,” he says as you turn to face him. He’s grinning, hair messed and flopping over his forehead. The sunlight streaming into the room lights his face. It’s blinding.

You head for the door.

“You’re leaving?” he asks. You pause.

“I’ve finished in here.”

He stands and makes his way towards you slowly. “Are you alright?” he questions.

“I have lots of work today. Do you need anything else?”

He frowns. “Have you changed your mind?”

“Have you?” you ask in return.

He smiles, closing the distance between you. His fingers play with the frills on your uniform, a new habit. You know the second the words leave your lips it's a stupid question. He didn’t make decisions lightly, not important ones. He’d spent the last two years chatting to you like you were a close friend and not someone employed to lay his clothes out and make his baths. You knew how long he spent thinking things through, how sure he had to be about someone before he trusted them. You remember when he started talking to you about things you’re sure he wasn’t supposed to. It felt like a shift. You sensed he trusted you, even if you weren’t sure what you’d done to warrant it.

“Do you trust me, little dove?” he asks.

You nod without hesitation. Whether it was foolish or not, you did trust him in return. A year into your time here you’d received news your brother had passed. You’d thought you could handle it, that working a normal day would take your mind off it. It had only taken him minutes to pick up on your mood. The second he’d questioned you, you’d broken into heavy sobs. He’d insisted you go to your family, that he’d cover for your absence. You’d thanked him meekly when you returned and he’d brushed it off, asking instead if there was anything else he could do. You trusted him. He was reliable and sure.

“I won’t change. I don’t make decisions until I know and I know this more than anything: I love you,” he says.

“Is my soap that nice?” you offer in return, unused to simple compliments let alone declarations of love.

He huffs out a laugh. “Mm,” he hums. “I simply can’t live without it.”

“You don’t have to wed me to get more soap.”

“Yes, but you could leave at any time.”

“Ah, so you have to entrap me into a marriage…”

He nods, failing to keep his lopsided grin at bay.

“For my soap,” you finish.

“For your soap,” he agrees.

—

You do your best to continue on as normal, to trust him to work on getting out of his betrothal. You were powerless and with everyday that passed (and with his increasing frustration) you were only evermore aware of that fact.

Then he falls. You’re just sitting down to a late lunch in the servants hall when everyone is suddenly rushing around, panicked commands and chaos throwing the entire servants wing into disarray. A pile of fresh linen is shoved in your hands with a quick, “Take these to the prince’s rooms.”

Your heart drops.

“What’s happened?!” you shout at her turned back.

“He’s injured,” she says impatiently. “Now will you go. Strip his bed. There may be blood.”

You stagger back a step, suddenly dizzy. Then someone shoves you from behind and you’re running. You expect the worst, for him to be dying. It’s not right, it’s not right. You crash into a body as you round a corner, struggling to keep the linens from falling onto the floor. You imagine never waking him again, never seeing the way the rays of morning sun would light his skin and deep brown eyes.

The room is full when you arrive, other servants scurrying around to light the fire and strip the bed of the expensive embroidered covers. You find yourself standing there, holding the pile of white linen in your arms, motionless.

Then he arrives.

You find yourself backed up into the wall as a swarm of bodies move into the room. All you can make out of your prince is a limp hand, dangling off the side of the makeshift stretcher he’s lying upon. Someone snatches the linens from your arms. Your eyes don’t shift from that hand, watching until it’s out of your sight, swallowed by the swarm of bodies.

“Go get more water!” someone shouts, and it’s only when a hand wraps around your arm that you realise they’re addressing you. “Water. Go.”

You obey, stumbling from the room.

—

You stare at the ceiling late that night. You hadn’t been allowed back in again. All you knew, all anyone knew, was that he was alive. You’ve talked yourself out of trying to see him over, and over, and over. Your uniform lays at the end of the bed from where you’d started dressing yourself and then undressing again. He’d be watched overnight; supervised. You couldn’t see him, not until morning.

Only, you find after a sleepless night that you can’t see him at all. No one is allowed to enter his room apart from a select few staff. Your superiors, longer serving and more trusted. You go about your days attempting to gather as much information about his progressing condition as possible. It isn’t suspicious to be curious about the wellbeing of the heir. No one questions your persistent enquiries. He’d fallen from his horse, thrown off. You couldn’t picture it, him being hurt. Vulnerable was the last word you’d ever associate with him. He was always strong, self-assured, calm. Him being anything but strong and healthy was wrong, unnatural.

You give in on the fourth night. The news had spread through the palace at lunch time that he was conscious; that he’d live. It’s too much to bear, to spend another night tossing and turning and having the last image of him in your mind be his limp muddy hand. So you dress as you prepare a speech for if he is still being supervised and you’re questioned. It’s risky to disobey clear orders. But you’d given into risk and danger the night he’d confessed.

To your surprise, the guards let you through. They recognise you and clearly assume you have permission to be here. You smile politely as you pass, pushing his doors open. You’re prepared to face an interrogation by his supervisor. He’s alone. It’s a good sign. He’s improved enough that there’s no fear of him worsening through the night. You approach slowly, reminding yourself you don’t know the extent of his injuries, to be prepared. He looks like himself, his expression peaceful and face free from any scars or bruises. You sigh, pressing your hand over your chest. A sense of calm falls over you for the first time in days. You can replace the image of his limp hand in your mind with his peaceful face, unmarred by injury.

You lean down to gently press your lips to his forehead. He doesn’t stir and you watch his chest rise and fall steadily for a minute or so before turning to leave. He was alive. You’d seen it. Now you can rest.

Three days after that you’re instructed to continue on as normal, to wake him and prepare him for the day as you had for the past two years. It seems too soon. But you have no power, so you say nothing. You hesitate at the door, sucking in one final deep breath.

You go for the curtains first this time, selfishly perhaps. You want to speak to him, to hear his voice, to have as much time with him as you can before you’re forced to continue on with your day. The first hum of his voice as he stirs is too much to resist. You rush to his bedside before you’ve finished tying the curtains aside.

He blinks up at you, eyes adjusting to the sunlight. Then he smiles. It takes your breath away.

“Good morning, little dove.”

You throw yourself over him, pressing your face into his neck and breathing him in. His short breath of laughter tickles your skin.

“I missed you,” he mumbles.

“You were unconscious for half of it,” you point out, lifting yourself off him. “Are you feeling okay? I don’t know why they’re letting me back in so soon. You should rest.”

He grins, tilting his head a little. Ah.

“You talked them into this?” you question, already knowing the answer.

His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Like I said, I missed you.”

“You’re not getting up.”

“I’m not?” he asks, smiling up at you.

“No.”

“Are you ordering me around, little dove?”

“Yes.”

“I like it.”

—

He agrees to rest three more days and then he’s done. You know it the moment you enter. The curtains are drawn and he’s pacing by the fireplace.

“There you are,” he says, marching towards you. You were no later than every other day. He takes your hands and pulls you towards the window seat, a long bench that fills the window alcove. “I’m leaving,” he announces once you’re both seated. “Today.”

Be calm, you self instruct. He’s alive.

“Leaving?”

He lifts your wrist to his mouth and brushes his lips lightly back and forth against your skin.

“Father is sending me to Draemore. He says if I want to back out of the arrangement, I have to negotiate a deal myself.”

The arrangement for his marriage. He was to marry Draemore’s princess, to unite the two powerful kingdoms. It was a long journey.

“You can’t go anywhere, you’re hurt,” you insist, sensing a panic rising in your chest.

“I’m fine.”

“You—”

“Trust me,” he says. “Let me do this. Please?”

“You can do what you like,” you say, attempting not to clench your jaw. Powerless.

“Tell me it’s okay. That I can go.”

A shameful part of you wants to tell him it isn’t okay. That you’re afraid he might be hurt again and leave you forever. An even more shameful part is even afraid he might meet Draemore’s princess and be tempted by her beauty. That he might realise she’s the better option, that you aren’t worth it. You aren’t ready to be parted from him. Each night you resist the temptation to visit him, to tell him you struggle to spend any time away from him at all.

“Is it… what you want?” you ask.

“I want to get out of this betrothal. I want to be free of it.”

You fiddle with his fingers. You’d always thought he had beautiful hands. “How long will you be gone?” you murmur.

“I don’t know. As long as I need to be.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll be gone as long as I need to be so that when I come back I’m yours,” he says, voice soft and soothing.

Mine, mine, mine, mine, your heart thrums. “I’ll miss you,” you whisper.

One corner of his mouth lifts. “Mm? How much?”

“Only a little.”

“Ah, only a little…”

“Don’t fall off another horse,” you mumble, adjusting his collar. “Please.”

“Is that an order?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, no falling,” he says, smile containing a hint of sorrow. “Can I ask something of you in return?”

“Is it more soap? Because you’ve got all I’ve made recently.”

“No.”

“Go on, then.”

“Kiss me goodbye,” he whispers.

You look to the door, reminding yourself that no one ever came in at this time of day besides you. It was always a risk, nonetheless. Everything you were doing with him was.

He has a soft smile on his face as he waits for you to decide. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist where your hand rests in his lap. If he does decide while away that you aren’t worth the hassle, that he can see something in her that he can come to love, you want to have this one moment to keep. To know that at one point he wanted to be yours. You know now that he could slip away at any moment, either because of a princess or an accident.

You watch the corner of his mouth lift slightly as you lean forward. Then you’re brushing his lips with yours, barely touching, sharing his breath. His hand lifts to the back of your head and then you’re joined. Your heart leaps. Finally, it rejoices as you get your fill of him. Don’t forget, you beg. Remember this, remember having him. His lips move over yours like he’s doing the same, savouring you.

You think about how his plush lips had felt on yours all day, up until you’re lined up with the rest of the staff to see him off. That’s the only moment that is more important, watching him climb into the carriage and disappear from your sight for the foreseeable future. You press your hand to your chest.

—

The first time you find yourself standing in front of his bedroom doors, he’s only been gone a week. There’s no guards. They have no one to guard. Minho isn’t here. Still, here you are.

You push the doors open and close them quietly behind you, not that there’s anyone around to hear. The room is dark, cold, and empty. Your small oil lamp is the only light and heat provided now that he’s gone.

You look at the door one last time before placing the lamp on the small table beside his bed and crawling onto the mattress. It’s a world away from the thin mattress on your own bed. You sink into it, resisting the urge to pull the covers back and fully envelop yourself.

It reminds of sneaking into your aunt and uncle's room with your brother while they were at the market. Of climbing into the bed with your dirty clothes and giggling as your brother bounced on the mattress at your feet. You’d spent some time with your cousins as a child, when your parents were struggling to feed you and your siblings. As the two oldest, you and your brother were sent away. You were just grateful to not be alone.

—

You spend some time at his bookshelves on some nights, perusing his personal library. You pick a new one out each time and crawl back into his bed. The words weren’t his, but he’d chosen them, decided to keep them in his room. You scour the pages as if he’d written them himself.

You save one book until last, he’d made you read it to him on one of the days he’d spent in bed. “Don’t stop,” he’d ordered. “Even if I fall asleep.”

He’d nearly died. He’d nearly left you and just as you’d been settled in the fact he was okay, he left you for real.

—

Any news you hear of him or his return is passed through a chain of whispers so long the information is entirely unreliable by the time it reaches you. Still, you grasp onto the whispers, they are all you have. No one knows the purpose of his visit. The assumption you hear passed around is that he’s simply gone to visit his soon to be bride, to get to know her, to fall in love with her.

“Perhaps he’ll be bringing her back,” someone comments from across the table as you shovel porridge into your mouth.

“I doubt it. It’s a long journey to have to do twice. She’ll come for the wedding in a few months,” someone else chimes in.

“What if he isn’t back until then? It’s been four months, what’s a few more?”

You stand abruptly, stool scraping along the floorboards. You feel a few eyes on you as you leave the room. Your appetite still hasn’t returned by supper.

—

You stab your finger with your sewing needle as the door slams open. You stick your bleeding finger in your mouth as the only person here (aside from Minho) you consider a friend rushes into the room and slams her hands on your small desk.

“He’s back,” she gasps, clearly out of breath.

You pull your finger from your mouth with a pop.

“What?”

“They’re having a dinner for his return and no one is prepared. It’s chaos out there.”

“He’s back?” you whisper.

She nods.

Chaos is an understatement. No one is prepared for his arrival. You’re one of many forced to help the cooks as they scramble to put together the celebratory meal. You narrowly miss cutting your fingers as you chop vegetables, distracted by the gossip surrounding you. No one knew if he’d arrived alone, if she was with him.

You’re reminded again how powerless you are, how little you are, when you realise there is no way you’ll be allowed anywhere near him the rest of the day. He’ll be surrounded by the members of the court, by his family, and you’re no one. You aren’t even allowed to be in the dining hall when dinner is served, too low on the staff pecking order for it to be considered appropriate. At least you discover he’d returned alone. He hadn’t brought her.

Late that night, when you’re finally released from cleaning, it’s the knowledge that he hadn’t returned with her that pushes you out of bed and towards his room. Whether he had failed in his mission to free himself from the arrangement hardly concerned you after months away from him. You needed to see him, hear his voice.

You don’t hesitate as you pass the guards, doing nothing to disguise your eagerness as you burst through the doors. Minho stands at the end of his bed with a book in hand, clearly taken off guard by your dramatic entrance.

It’s a protracted moment of silence that follows. You aren’t sure how long it lasts, too preoccupied with taking him in. After running your eyes over him for any obvious sign of injury, you do a more thorough inspection. His hair is longer, soft dark locks falling into his eyes as stares right back at you. You desperately want to brush it from his eyes, to run your fingers through it, to grasp a handful and hold him against you so he can’t leave you again.

“You’re back,” you finally breathe, disturbing the heavy silence.

“Ran out of soap.”

You burst into tears.

His warmth envelops you almost immediately as he wraps himself around you and tucks your face into the junction of his neck and shoulder. He’s quiet as you collect yourself, basking in the feeling of his body against yours. You snake your hands up around his neck to thread your fingers into his hair, the long strands giving you plenty to grasp onto. He hums when you begin pressing open mouthed kisses to his neck, trailing up to a small mole near his jaw.

“You missed me then?” he asks.

He attempts to pull back from you slightly when you don’t reply but your desperate grip around his neck prevents him. It’s enough to pull a breathy laugh from his lips.

“Don’t you want to know how I did?” he asks.

“Don’t care,” you mumble against his skin.

“You don’t wanna know if I’m yours?”

“You are. You’re mine. I don’t care what any of them say… you’re mine.”

He lifts you off your feet and falls back onto his bed, pulling you down onto him. Your leg slots between his and your dress bunches up at your thighs. He huffs out a small laugh at the squeak that escapes you at the sudden fall.

“Is that right?” he grins.

You lift yourself onto your elbows to take him in properly. He blinks and shakes his head a little, attempting to dislodge some hair from his eye. You brush it away for him, tucking it behind his ear gently.

“You’re mine, Minho.”

The smile drops from his face, a few slow blinks following. “Say it again,” he whispers.

“You’re mine.”

“Say my name.”

Ah. You suppose that’s the first time you’d ever addressed him by his name, the first time you’d ever spoken it aloud at all. You can’t help laughing a little at the idea of it, at anyone you worked with knowing you’d addressed him by his given name, while lying across his half naked form. Then you find yourself on your back, the heir to the throne hovering above you.

“Say it,” he commands again.

“Promise you won’t leave me again.”

“Hm?” he hums.

“Just…. promise you won’t leave me alone again. Promise me.”

“Did you miss me that much, little dove?” he asks, tone soft and gentle.

“Desperately.”

His lips curve into a sad smile. “I won’t leave you again.”

“Promise.”

“God himself will have to drag me from you, I promise.”

“No, not even that.”

“Alright, not even that. I’ll die a natural death many, many years from now.”

You nod, satisfied. “Can I stay with you?” you ask, feeling brave. His absence had unlocked something in you. Your fear of rejection seemed inconsequential compared to being parted from him.

“Stay… here?”

“I’ve… gotten used to your bed.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “Have you been slipping between my sheets while I’ve been away, little dove?”

“I read most of your books, too.”

“I like it, the idea of you making yourself at home in my space. Our little nest, hm?”

“So I can stay?”

“If you ask nicely.”

You roll your eyes and reach up to tug at his earlobe. “Please, can I stay with you?”

His nose scrunches. “Nicer.”

Nicer than—Oh.

“Please, Minho? Please can I sleep here with you?”

He hums. “Anytime, my love,” he whispers, brushing his lips over yours. You lift your head slightly, attempting to kiss him properly. He lets you have one taste, one taste of his upper lip and then he’s pulling you to your feet and detaching himself from you. It’s incredibly upsetting. Before you can announce your displeasure his fingers slip into the neckline of your uniform, barely ghosting over your skin.

“Are you going to sleep in your uniform?” he whispers.

“It’s clean. I—”

“Doesn’t look comfortable.”

“I’m okay,” you assure him.

“Get in,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead and nudging you gently towards the bed. You don’t hesitate, crawling up the huge mattress to settle under the covers.

It’s not until you’ve pulled the heavy blankets up to your chin that you notice what he’s doing: stoking the fire. You sit up to watch, unable to resist watching him do something so simple and yet entirely new. He smiles a little when he turns to see you staring.

“Warm enough?” he asks.

You nod eagerly. “I’m used to no fire at all.”

He frowns, halting where he’s climbing into the bed. “You don’t have a fire?”

“Downstairs? We have fires. I just—I didn’t want to risk lighting yours… while you were away.”

He crawls in beside you and you lower your head to the luxurious pillow to face him.

“It’s been freezing for weeks,” he mutters, shuffling closer. “You really slept in here with no fire at all?”

“You have lots of blankets.”

He grumbles something under his breath and then he’s tugging you towards him. He’s quiet once you’re settled against him, breathing even.

“These frills are scratchy,” he whines just when you think he’s fallen asleep.

You huff out a small laugh as you pull away from him. “Fine, since you want me unclothed that badly.”

“My intentions are pure. I want you to be comfortable.”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Your highness?” he huffs, offended.

You grin at him as you untie your apron and carefully fold it. His eyes don’t leave you as you work at removing your dress as well. You’re forced to look away first. When your flowy chemise is the only thing remaining, you crawl back in, avoiding his gaze. He tugs you towards him again, warmth seeping quickly through the single layer of fabric separating you.

“Better,” he hums.

He’s quiet again for a while, but you are never fooled twice and you’re prepared when he speaks up again. “I negotiated a new arrangement. I had to correspond back and forth with my father to figure out the details. That’s why I… was away longer than I would have liked.”

A new arrangement… one where he didn’t have to marry her?

“You’re… free?”

“Mm, little dove. I’m yours.”

You cling to him, wrapping your leg around his hip. “I want to be yours, too.”

“Hm? Who says you aren’t?”

“I’m no one,” you mumble.

“Says who?”

“Everyone except you. I’m invisible.”

“Well I say you’re everything,” he says softly. “I say you’re mine. Whose opinion matters more to you?”

“Yours,” you whisper.

“Mm, good girl,” he says, kissing your forehead. “Get some sleep.”

“Minho?” you whisper after a moment of silence.

“Mm?”

“Can I ask something of you?”

“If you’re going to say my name like that, anything.”

“Goodnight kiss?”

“That’s a big ask,” he says, clearly teasing. “Do I get something in return?”

“What do you want?”

“One tomorrow night.”

“Then I get one the night after that.”

“Then I—”

You cut him off with your lips.

—

You wake before him, used to a much earlier start. You can’t resist watching him for a while, taking in his longer hair and parted lips.

Then you get dressed, pulling your uniform on and tying yourself into it like you do any other morning. The guards should have changed shifts only a half hour ago, hopefully enough time to assume you’d simply started on your duties early—rather than… spent the night with your limbs wrapped around the crown prince. It was ridiculous to be paranoid at all, you tell yourself. You’re invisible.

When you return an hour later, Minho is still asleep. He’s rolled over, spread out across your side of the bed, like he’d been reaching out for you in his sleep. Your heart jumps a little at the idea of it.

He’s ready for you when you return that night, perched in bed with a book he wants to read with you. It’s a new one. You hadn’t found it on his shelves.

The night after that he kisses your neck, rolling over you and slipping your chemise off your shoulder a little to give him more skin to work with. It leaves you breathless.

A week later you wake to him pressed up against you, hardness grinding into you as he mumbles in his sleep. You kiss him awake, playing with his ear and asking him if he’d been dreaming. He pulls you into his chest, hiding his face from you.

Two nighters after that, he watches you prepare his bath. He’s been quiet all day, mind somewhere far away. You’d hoped he’d open up, trust you enough to share whatever was bothering him. He’d offered nothing.

“It’s ready,” you announce, placing a new bar of soap from your newest batch on the small stool beside the tub.

He says nothing, unmoving from his perch at the side of his mattress.

“Do you need help with your cuffs?”

He looks up at you, brows furrowed. “You should have it,” he says.

“The bath? Are you saying I smell?”

He laughs, the first laugh you’d seen from him today. “I just want you to have it. You’re always putting so much care into it, I—I don’t imagine you take as much care when you’re preparing your own.”

“Not usually, no.”

“I'll make sure no one disturbs you,” he says as he stands.

“I—”

“I’m not using it. Don’t let it go to waste,” he says, marching for the door and leaving you there, dumbstruck.

It’s the nicest bath you’ve had in your life. You can’t remember the last time you’d bothered to heat the water, let alone soak for an entire hour.

When he wraps himself around you later that night, you whisper a thank you into his neck. “Don’t thank me, little dove. I’ve done nothing.”

—

“Remember when I said I was selfish?” he murmurs in between open mouthed kisses to your neck.

“Mm,” you hum, only partially listening.

“I’m greedy too, and impatient, and—”

“What are you talking about?”

“I want you, little dove. I want you so badly.”

“I’m yours.”

“I want to taste you, I want to feel you, I want to bury myself inside you and hear my name on your lips.”

“I-I want that too.”

He groans. “Don’t… don’t say that. It’s not—”

“Right?” you finish. “According to everyone else, we’re not right at all..”

“I shouldn’t be letting you sleep here, I should wait. You deserve—”

He was royalty, tradition and formality was baked into his blood. He believed in virtue and consummation on the night of a wedding and everything proper.

“You think I care about any of that nonsense?”

“But I do. The fact we’ve been sharing a bed together before—”

“We’re married?” you grin.

When he doesn’t return your smile, you know he’s serious.

“We can wait,” you soothe, playing with the hair that hangs down between you. “If it’s what you want.”

“I want to strip you bare and bury myself inside you.”

“Alright,” you grin. “If that’s what you want.”

He rolls off you with a groan before grumbling a goodnight, keeping his distance until he falls asleep. He reaches towards you a little while later, mumbling something incomprehensible into your hair as he drapes himself over you.

—

“I was wondering… if maybe I could bathe in here again?” you ask from the end of his bed.

You suppose it’s cruel to tease him. But it’s fun. You haven’t had much time for fun in your life, nor opportunity for it. It makes you feel powerful, seeing the way he clenches his jaw and drops his eyes down your legs each time you step out of your dress. You weren’t used to power either.

“It’s… late. You want to… now?”

“Please?”

“I—Yeah, if that’s what you’d like.”

“I’d like it.”

He throws the covers back. “I’ll be in the library if—”

“You can stay,” you interrupt.

He stumbles over nothing and whips his head over to you. It’s so comical you can’t hold back the tiny huff of laughter that escapes your lips.

His eyes darken at the sound. “Are you teasing me, little dove?”

“I’d like you to stay.”

A switch back to timidity. “You want me to… stay as you…”

“Bathe, yes.”

He sits at the edge of the mattress as you prepare the bath, standing only to take full buckets of water from you when you enter the room. He’d taken to doing things like that, take up some of the tasks that fell under your job description. You’d even found the bed made up one morning. You’d had to redo it, it was a sincere effort, but not quite up to standard. He’d noticed of course and the next morning he’d asked if you could teach him to do it properly.

He blinks at you from the side of his bed as you walk towards him. Then he holds his hand up, palm facing you. The universal symbol for stop. You do.

“I can’t—I—”

“You don’t have to touch me,” you whisper. “Is it wrong if you don’t touch me?”

“Yes.”

“It’s also wrong to want to marry me though, isn’t it? You’re ignoring that rule.”

He’s quiet as you undress… apron… dress… stockings… His eyes fix on the piece of ribbon tied together at your chemise’s neckline. It’s the only thing keeping the fabric from slipping off your shoulders and falling to your ankles, leaving you entirely bare.

“No touching?” he whispers.

“No touching.”

His hand drops to his lap. You tug the ribbon free, keeping your eyes on him as the fabric slips off one of your shoulders. This was as much as he’d seen up until now, as much as he’d dared to explore when he presses kisses down your neck at night.

You shrug the other shoulder off, then let the flimsy fabric drop down to your ankles. It should be scary, being this vulnerable, completely bare. His eyes rake over you. It’s the way he looks at you, like he was starved and you were something he desperately craved. How could you possibly be afraid when he looked at you like that?

When you move closer, he leans slightly back, like you’re a threat. “Are you okay?” you whisper as you reach him.

He doesn’t look up from your breasts and when he speaks, his warm breath ghosts over your nipples. “No touching,” he breathes.

“Good boy,” you whisper.

You’re tempted to close the distance, to feel the brush of his plush lips against you. You resist. He stands as you take a few steps away from him, following you as if there’s an invisible line of string attaching him to you. Power.

When you nudge the small stool by the side of the tub with your calf, the sound of the wood bumping against the tub snaps him from his haze. He pauses, hands limp at his sides as you climb over the side and into the warm water. It’s heaven, the tub curving perfectly around your spine and neck, offering a relaxing headrest. You drop your head back and close your eyes, aware of the silent prince watching from the sidelines.

“The stool might be more comfortable,” you mutter after a moment of silence. “Unless you prefer to stand.”

You blink your eyes open when he doesn’t answer to find him still standing, looking completely lost.

“Minho?”

He blinks slowly, then tugs his eyes up to yours.

“You can sit on the stool,” you repeat.

He nods slightly then clumsily positions himself on the small wooden stool at the side of the tub. Clumsy wasn’t a word you’d found yourself associating with him. He was poised, talented with a sword. He’d dance around his opponent like it was no effort at all. He was in control, always, even of his own body.

“Could you pass me the soap?” you ask after a moment.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he mumbles, reaching for the soap without pulling his eyes from you. He passes it to you absentmindedly, like his fulfilment of your request was entirely subconscious.

“Says who?”

He smiles, catching on quickly. He was quick, your prince. Witty and smart and kind.

“Everyone except you.”

“And whose opinion matters more?”

“Yours, my love.”

“Good boy.”

He grins.

He looks forlorn as you slip back into your chemise when you’re done. You can’t help laughing a little at his sad eyes and pouty bottom lip. He suggests you take another bath the following night.

—

Your encounters with the rest of the royal family were few and far between. You were assigned to the prince’s wing, that was where you spent most of your days. So when you’re summoned to the Queen’s rooms, your heart drops into your stomach. You’ve been found out, it screams. They’ll take him from you. Or more accurately, take you from him. It’s all that races through your mind as you climb the stairs with shaky legs. You wonder if you’ll even get a chance to say goodbye, to tell him you don’t regret it. That the only thing you regret is not having him completely, just once.

She doesn’t look up as you enter, preoccupied with something on her dresser. You stand patiently, attempting to calm your breathing.

When she eventually stands and turns to face you, a tiny sliver of hope creeps its way into your chest at her lack of apparent anger. She doesn’t look like she’s about to scream at you to leave the palace and never return for threat of imprisonment. Her eyes trail up and down your form, inspecting you. She knows.

“I want my son to be happy,” she says finally. “I want it more than anything else. You will understand that feeling one day, I’m sure.”

You’re quiet, waiting for permission to speak. She doesn’t give it.

“He has been distracted for a long while,” she continues, taking a few slow steps towards you. “It became evident to me why, when he expressed how displeased he was at his betrothal. He was in love.”

She closes the distance between you and lifts her hand to adjust the apron strap over your shoulder. It feels entirely different to the way Minho does it.

“I want my son to be happy but I also want him to be a good King, a glorious King. A king who puts his people above his own wants and desires. I’m sure you understand.”

You understood, you understood completely. You were his ‘wants and desires’ and clearly he was putting you above what was best for everyone else. Remove yourself, she was saying.

“Do you think he will make a good King, child?”

“Yes, your grace. I—I know he will.”

“I do not blame you for loving him, he is easy to love. But you cannot encourage him any longer. You have intelligent eyes, I’ve learned over these many years to understand people very soon after I make their acquaintance. You are not foolish. My son would not love a fool. You must know it’s unreasonable to expect him to make you Queen.”

“I—”

“I imagine he’ll be just as happy to have you by his side as his concubine.”

“His… concubine?”

“It is not unheard of for concubines to come from common families, my dear. I hope you… can understand my position. I do not consider myself a cruel or unreasonable woman. I want my son to be happy and the kingdom to thrive. This is for the good of all, you understand.”

“I—I understand.”

“Good. As long as you remain discreet, and you make him understand the importance of him marrying for the good of the kingdom, then we shall put this behind us.”

“Me?”

“You must make him understand. I’m afraid, my dear, you have found yourself in a position of great influence over him.”

“I… can’t make him do anything.”

“Are you sure of that?”

—

You hardly sleep that night, shaken from your encounter with Minho’s mother—the Queen—and unused to sleeping alone. It makes the next morning even harder as you trudge up the many stairs and hallways to his room. You’re not prepared, but you have no choice. This is your role.

You’re not surprised when you find him pacing, curtains drawn and bed made. If you weren’t so consumed with anxiety you’d find it amusing, how you had the crown prince trained.

He marches towards you, placing each hand on your shoulder and running his eyes over you. “Has something happened?” he questions, panic evident in his voice. “You didn’t come. Are you ill?”

“I’m well,” you answer simply.

He drops his arms and takes a small step back. “You didn’t come.”

“Must I sleep here every night?”

He frowns. “I—I suppose not. I just thought—”

“The Queen summoned me to her rooms.”

“What?”

“She knows.”

Panic flickers across his face before he can mask it. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Minho.”

“They won’t take you from me,” he continues. “It’s not—”

“She wants me to convince you to make me your concubine, when you become King. To convince you to choose a Queen who is… right for the kingdom.”

“I have. You are right.”

“Be serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious. I’m not making you—” he pauses, sucking in a deep breath and drawing his hands down his face. “I will not demean you by giving you a position in my life less than anyone else. You’ll be my Queen, you’ll be beside me and below no one. That’s it.”

“She knows, Minho. If you…refuse. I think she’ll take it into her own hands.”

“She won’t take you from me. I’ll make it clear I’ll never forgive her if she tries.”

You sigh, tempted to drop to the floor where you stand. You’ve been in denial, blissful denial, and so—clearly—was he. He steps into you, lifting your chin with his fingers.

“I will have you, little dove. I’ve decided. I decided long ago,” he says, brown eyes swirling with emotion. “Have faith in me. That’s all you have to do.”

You offer him a sad smile and a small nod. He pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms so tightly around you, you almost can’t breathe. You bask in it.

“Come to me tonight. Please,” he pleads. “Tell me you’ll come.”

“Okay.”

—

He’s quieter than usual in the following days, offering little conversation and simply wrapping himself around you when you come to him at night. It hurts, seeing him anything but full of joy. You have no power, you’re reminded yet again. You want to have power over everyone and everything that dares to make him feel anything but joy.

Then he’s angry, you feel it the minute you enter his room. He’s hunched over his desk and doesn’t look up at you when you enter. He doesn’t yell, he doesn’t even grumble, he just radiates anger. It’s not directed at you, you know that. He drapes his leg over you and presses his lips to your neck when he finally crawls into bed with you.

When his mood still hasn’t lifted the following night, you’ve had enough. You roll over him, pressing his hands into the bed beside his head. “Tell me,” you command. “Tell me what’s bothering you. I want to help you.”

“You help me every night.”

“I want to be more than a warm body. You’ve… stopped telling me things.”

“Let me handle it. You don’t need to be upset by them.”

“Beside you, you told me you wanted me beside you, not behind you.”

His lips curve into a small smile. “Will you release me first? Please?”

You lift your weight from his hands, letting him stroke the hair from your face.

“She’s threatening to tell my father. He… won’t be as agreeable as my mother was. I don’t know what he’ll do if—”

“She wants you to agree to another marriage?”

“She wants me to promise I’ll consider someone else, that I’ll consider making you—”

“Agree to it, then,” you interrupt.

“What?” he frowns, hand dropping from where he’d been idly playing with your hair.

“Tell her you won’t marry until you’re King, that you’ll consider making me a concubine but you won’t marry anyone else until then.”

He frowns. “It would be a lie.”

“She wants you to be happy, Minho. She loves you and if she can see hope for having what she believes to be best for you, she’ll take it.”

“I’ll think about it,” he mumbles, pulling you into his chest again.

You trace over his chest with your finger, something you often did when lying in his arms this way. You want him stress free. He doesn’t react at first when you snake you arm up over his hip to fiddle with the waistband of his linen pants. It’s not until your fingers slip beneath the fabric that he jolts, practically jumping away from you.

“What are you doing?” he whispers.

“I want to feel you.”

“We can’t.”

“You don’t want to?”

“You know that’s not why.”

“Let me feel you, Minho. Please? It’s just touching, it’s not—”

He lips are on yours before you finish. He tugs you over him, slipping his hand up from your waist to hold the back of your head as he takes his fill of you. You imagine pulling your chemise over your head, feeling his skin against yours properly for the first time. Just the thought of it pulls a small noise from your throat. He hums into your mouth, fingers tightening their desperate grip in your hair.

It’s all the encouragement you need to slip your hand down between you and into his pants. He gasps into your mouth as you wrap your fingers around him, smooth, and warm, and only for you.

“Is that nice?” you whisper against his lips.

He squeezes his eyes shut, plush lips brushing yours as he takes deep uneven breaths.

There’s no going back, you realise. Now you’ve seen the way his pretty features transform with pleasure. The way you touch him is not based on knowledge or experience, you’re guided by his reactions. The way his hips jump off the mattress or the small noises he releases into your mouth.

Then he’s over you, consuming you, hips rolling into your thigh. “Just touching,” he gasps as he tears and claws at your chemise, practically ripping it off your shoulders. He pauses his frantic exploration when your nipples are freed, that same trance falling over him from the first time you’d bathed in his presence.

His hand hovers over your breasts as you watch the way his lips press together and part again, wet from kisses. “Just touching,” he breathes again, still hovering. You reach up to take his hand, pressing lightly until his warm palm cups you. His thumb moves back and forth instantly, brushing over your nipple as he squeezes a little. Then he sits back, readjusting himself over you so he can do the same with the other.

You lie there under him, chemise pulled down under your breasts as he palms them, eyes glazed and lips parted. The way he looks at you has always made up for the way others don’t. When you aren’t with him you are nothing, unseen and unimportant. But your prince? He sees you when you speak and he sees you when you don’t, he sees you and he looks at you like no one more important has ever lived.

“More,” you whisper. “Touch me more.”

His eyes flick up to yours and at first you think he might be about to cry. They’re almost watery and so full of emotion, it takes your breath away.

He leans forward, lips brushing over yours and then pressing firm. It’s almost punishing before he melts, leaving messy, lazy kisses across your mouth.

When he begins kissing a trail from your lips down to your neck you wrap your arms around his neck, holding him to you. His ear is perfectly positioned at your mouth. You can’t resist tugging his earlobe between your teeth. “Touch me, Minho,” you whisper into his ear.

“Shouldn’t,” he mumbles into your neck.

You entangle your fingers in his hair and tug his face from your shoulder, forcing him to look at you.

“You’re going to marry me?”

“Yes,” he answers simply.

“I trust you,” you whisper. “I want you to touch me. I’m yours now. I’m yours—”

He kisses the words from your lips, desperate and consuming. It’s been months, months of tangling your limbs around each other and being pinned beneath him when you roll your hips one too many times against him. He’d bite into your shoulder, a gentle reprimand for teasing, for seeking more when he thought he couldn’t. It’s been months of desperately wishing he’d venture below your neckline, or up your thighs.

He leaves open mouthed kisses down your neck, laving his tongue across your skin until he reaches your breasts. You throw your head back as he tears at the fabric still covering your lower half, like after months and months of restraint he can’t bear to wait another second. He tugs it down your legs and tosses it aside before covering you again, pressing his bare torso down over you. Skin to skin, finally.

He’s warm… and heavy… and safe… and yours. You inhale deeply as he drops his face to your neck again, the smell of your handmade soap seeping out of him. It felt a little like a mark, like leaving a trace of you on him he could carry around with him throughout the day. Mine, it said. Mine.

“Just touching,” he mumbles into your neck again, like he’s attempting to remind himself of his own rule.

You tug at his hair, forcing him up onto his elbows. It gives you the space you need to reach down between your bodies and tug a little at his waistband. He squeezes his eyes shut again.

“Just touching,” you breathe.

His eyes flutter open. He blinks down at you for a moment, then you see it, the decision being formed. His jaw clenches and he leans down, tugging his linen pants down his legs. You tug him back down before he finishes, desperate to feel all of him against you. He fits against you perfectly, one of his thick thighs slotting between your legs.

You can also feel him pressing against your lower stomach, hard and warm and leaking a little wetness onto your skin. You wonder for a moment if anyone else has had him like this, pressed up against them, skin to skin. He hasn’t mentioned anyone else, never showed interest.

“So soft,” he mutters against your temple, wet lips brushing your skin. “My love, my heart, my little do—”

“Yours,” you gasp, clawing at his shoulders like he can’t possibly ever be close enough. Inside, inside, you want him inside you, as close as it’s conceivable to be. There’s an emptiness inside you, one that throbs between your legs, one that begs to be filled.

You’re completely pinned beneath him, unable to lift your hips even a little despite your desperation. You find yourself whimpering instead.

“What is it, hm? Need me to touch you?”

He lifts off you a little so he can move down your body and press kisses between your breasts, slow and soft, so soft they almost tickle.

“Say my name.”

“Mi-Min—”

He latches onto your breast, sucking the soft skin into his mouth. You tangle your fingers into his hair as he works, a slow methodical marking across your chest that only relents when he spends a few minutes at each nipple. His tongue flicks out across each one, leaving them wet.

“You can’t take these from me now, little dove. I’ve tasted you.”

“Won’t,” you gasp. “Yours.”

Then he’s wrapping his lips around one and sucking hard, tongue lapping over it once he frees you, like he’s trying to apologise, to soothe you. But then he does the same to the other, roughly sucking your nipple into his mouth and trapping you in a state of bliss.

You can feel him against your thigh, heavy and thick. He finally detaches from you with a groan when you roll a little against him.

He lifts off you. Your heart leaps at the loss.

But then he’s between your legs. You rise onto your elbows to watch him. He keeps his eyes closed as he kisses the inside of your thighs, trailing his way towards your centre. Hurry, you want to whine. Kick your legs and beg him to go faster like an insolent child.

He doesn’t.

He takes his time, practically worshipping the soft skin between your legs so leisurely you start to doubt he ever intends to stop.

“Minho,” you gasp eventually.

He looks up from between your legs, hair flopping down into his eyes. You snake your hand down your stomach, fingers slipping down to your folds. “Here,” you breathe.

He blinks slowly, then you watch as his eyes fall to where you want him most. He mutters something under his breath, something you can’t make out. Then he lifts his finger and lightly traces it down to your opening, collecting your wetness as he goes. You watch him part his lips as he presses slightly, not enough to enter, just a slight pressure, like he’s testing you. Then he pulls away and presses his finger between his lips up to his knuckle, sucking you from his skin.

He crawls up your body and hovers over you, mouth hovering over yours so closely they brush you when he speaks. “Sweetheart,” he whispers. “I’ve been starved of you all my life.”

You can’t help laughing as he kisses you, struggling to return the way his lips caress yours.

“Are you laughing at me, little dove?” he says, amusement clear in his tone. He lifts himself off you a little, giving you a clear view of his smile.

“I want you inside me.”

His smile drops.

You watch as he gets shy, as he avoids your eyes. This was one of your favourite things about him, his gentle core, the way he could be in line to be the most powerful person in the kingdom and still get shy. The first time you’d seen his ears tinge red you’d only been working here a little over two months. He’d been quietly reading when you’d snagged your stocking on a loose nail in the floorboards. The tearing had been audible. His eyes had dropped down your legs, to the skin that was now newly bare.

“Are you… alright?” he’d asked.

“Just some ruined stockings,” you’d shyly smiled back, still unused to a member of the royal family paying any attention to you at all.

You flicked your eyes over to him once he’d settled back down with his book, noticing the way the tips of his ears had clearly darkened to a pretty red. It was a reaction you’d become familiar with over the next two years.

“Are you getting shy on me, my love?” you whisper now, cupping his cheek with your hand and drawing his attention back to you.

“We can’t—”

“I have five younger siblings. I know the risks.”

“I can’t be… inside you until we’re—I won’t risk you—”

“Just a little… please. I need you,” you plead, lifting your head a little to taste his swollen lips. “I’m so empty.”

His brow furrows as he hums into your mouth, almost a pained sound. Then he’s moving back down your body to trace his fingers through your folds again. “Empty,” he mutters. His finger presses into you, a gradual, almost hesitant, exploration into your tight heat. It’s enough to have you squeezing your eyes shut, having him inside you even in this way. “So hot…” he mutters, breath brushing over you. “You’re so warm here…”

“You’re warm,” you mutter.

He pulls out of you, lifting his head to look up at you.

“What was that?”

“You’re warm,” you repeat a little clearer, stronger. “You’re so warm.”

“Am I?” he asks, a little amusement leaking into his tone.

“Mm, warm and kind and—”

“Have you gone and fallen in love with me, little dove? You sound hopelessly in love.”

“Love? That sounds horribly embarrassing.”

“Horribly,” he agrees, crawling up to cover you with his body again. “It makes me want to do foolish things.”

“Wha—”

You’re interrupted by the feeling of his heavy cock slipping through your thighs and through your folds.

“Like this, little dove. I want to be foolish, I want to feel your heat around me. Tell me not to, tell me—”

“Please,” you whine, rolling your hips against him.

He lifts off you before you can grab at him, hands reaching out at his retreating form. Then he’s grasping at your thighs, tugging you down the bed a little and settling himself between your legs. He drapes your thighs over his, using them to spread you open for him. “Not inside,” he says, more to himself than anything.

Then he lays his heavy cock over your cunt. It’s too much, too close. You plant your feet on the bed so you can lift your hips to milk any friction you can.

One of his hands grips your thigh, the other wraps around his cock, guiding it through your folds as you roll your hips. You’re whimpering at this point, desperate little sounds that do more than any words to convey your craving. You keep your eyes open as much as you can, entranced by the way he gazes down at your core.

“Can’t be inside,” he mutters, reminding himself.

The way you roll your hips makes it dangerous, twisting and writhing against the head of his cock. It nudges at your entrance occasionally, but then he takes control, readjusting himself before you can fuck down onto him.

“Minho,” you whimper. “Minho, please. So empty…” you practically sob.

His eyes flick up to yours. You plead with your eyes, one small tear leaking out and rolling down your cheek. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Just a little,” you beg. “I’m warm, I promise, I’m so warm for you.”

With his eyes fixed between your legs again, you rub your hungry cunt against him, languorous rolls of your hips. This time, when he nudges your entrance, he doesn’t pull back. There’s a slight nudge of resistance, and then his tip is inside you, warm walls gripping him. You freeze, watching your gentle prince pant as his brows draw together.

“Gonna have you,” he mutters breathlessly. “Gonna keep you… beside me… have you like this every night. I will.”

You nod, even knowing he can’t see you, eyes still squeezed shut. He pulls back a little as they flutter open. Then he moves forward, drooling cockhead pressing back into you before you can beg him not to stop. He fucks you like this, just pressing the fat tip into you again and again. It's a risk, you both know it. He knows it well. He was always so responsible, thinking everything he did through and weighing the pros and cons. You’ve corrupted him. If he didn’t feel so delicious pressing into you right now, you might work up a little guilt about it.

Your cunt throbs at the feeling of him pressing into you and retreating, pushing and retreating. You clench down over him when he pushes inside, a small part of you hoping he’ll be tempted to venture further. You’d be so full, so close to him. He’d stretch you so perfectly, you know it. He’d make pretty noises and you’d bask in this one small way you could give. Power to give him joy.

Then he gasps your name and falls over you, lips attaching to your neck. He grinds against you, cock throbbing against your sensitive cunt. You’re leaking wetness onto the sheets now. You can feel it on your thighs. “I’ll have you properly,” he mumbles into your skin. “I’ll—”

He cuts himself off with a low groan, reaching down to tug his cock from between your legs and up your body. He rolls against your stomach, one, two, three, four times, then he’s releasing—warm cum spilling over you. He continues grinding into you, only falling limp after one final whimper.

It clicks in your head as you bask in the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, of his heavy breath against your neck. If someone tried to take him from you, you’d fight them with your bare hands. You were no one, but he was everything, and he was yours.

please don’t forget to leave feedback, it took me lots of time and effort and hearing your thoughts is what makes me want to write more. thank you.

#lee know smut #lee know x reader #lee know fanfic #kpop smut #stray kids smut #kpop imagines #skz smut #stray kids imagines #stray kids imagine #kpop scenarios #stray kids scenarios #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #minho smut #minho x reader #skz imagines #stray kids fanfic #skz scenarios #x reader

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frostedclock-writes · 4 months ago

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Alastor x Reader

Headcanons

----

Dating Edition

When Alastor first asks you, it is very formal. You might find it a bit endearing that he refers to it as courting. He pulls you aside from everyone else and he seems stiff and perhaps even nervous in the way his eyes won't quite meet yours, despite his ever present smile.

When you agree, you swear you saw the lights in the hallway flicker. But you wouldn't see the satisfaction that passed in his eyes, no you see him make his cane disappear in a flourish and him state in a chipper filtered voice " Splendid! Yes, I can see this partnership will be quite an experience for the both of us!"

Expect gifts, lavish and simple. New clothes in your room perfectly folded and placed with a simple magnolia blossom on top, breakfast waiting for you on the terrace where you usually took it.

Sometimes you felt like you are being watched from the shadows. He isn't overt in his companionship with you, in fact most of the hotel might not even know. But a few will take notice of the change in temper of the Radio Demon. Husk definitely does.

Actual outings the two of you go on are sparse because of his schedule, but when he does he makes it an evening. A walk through cannibal town, a bar he used to frequent in his early years in hell, brings you back to the hotel for a meal he prepped beforehand and just need to make the finishing touches on.

Finishing in his broadcast room with the sounds of Duke Ellington's music as he pulled you against his tall frame and the way he swayed you to the music made you forget you were dancing with a serial killer in hell.

#hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #headcanons

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court-jobi · 3 months ago

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The Bet

((banner by me! I don't own Horikoshi's work/characters))

Pairing: Hawks x reader (fem!reader)

Words: 4.2k

Rating: T

Warnings: flirty FLUFF hours, yall, quirkless!reader/Pro-Hero Hawks, tame dressing room shenanigans, light teasing, he fell first she fell harder vibes

Summary:

Hawks loves a playful game, and you're a sucker for each and every one. Till now, you've taken his harmless flirting as just that, but it is starting to seep into you. You're a four time best-selling author– brought low by a boy calling you the most darling things… only today, you'd profit off of his attentions by way of a bet-- or was this just another way for him to spoil you?

A/N: this is one of the first Hawks ideas I had, based on the hc that he'd have an eye for fashion given all those gorgeous accessories he wears... pretty bird likes pretty things. gosh I just love this man. oh gosh, do I part 2 this one? Might be fun… and spicy… edit: now available HERE

For my My Hero Academia Masterlist, check it out here!

Read on Ao3

“Alright m’dear, I'm impressed,” your Winged Hero pins up his wings with a slow clap, “You win!”

As you’re stepping out of the car, suave cheers are the flirty taunt you hear over your shoulder– well, up on the lightpost.

“Win?” you fire back to the source of shadow over you -Hawks- as he hops off and strides over to you, “-were we playing something?”

“The race,” he shares plain as day. “Thought I’d race ya back to the Commission's office, see if I could beat your- charming- chauffeur here since I was on my way too~”

Ah, so it was a one-sided game, it seems. The driver who picked you up from the conference center passes you, poorly masking his exhaustion at the flyboy’s presence at just about every turn. When it involves transporting you, the poor man knows Hawks won’t be far behind.

It’s not like you encourage this behavior… but you don’t stop it either.

Between the two of you, the money on who could remain the most professional in public would sit squarely in your court. But to say it didn’t interest you, this mysterious focus of affection from the #2 Hero in the country? Well, riddle you intrigued. So you let him talk- as long as you keep your ironclad guard up, you tell yourself you’ll resist his teasing just fine.

You shoulder your belongings in order to follow the driver, but slow your pace for Hawks to catch up. He’s earned a bite, with those pretty eyes of his.

“And just how did you know I was even going to the Commission's office?”

“You really gotta start setting your calendar to ‘private’ if you don’t want me seein’ where you’re heading, lovedove.”

You really should be better about changing your working location on your calendar– because if it involves your contract with the Hero Commission, Hawks inevitably will see it. All in all, he's not wrong, so you can't really call him nosy when you've advertised where you'll be. He's notably observant as per his profession, and the dearly devoted attention is… sweet, in its own way.

And the pet names. You’re a sucker for the pet names. How pathetic.

You’re a four time best-selling author– brought low by a boy calling you the most darling things… There’s something oddly American about Hawks’ forwardness, indeed. There’s hardly an ounce of propriety on him. All gorgeous grins, fawning compliments spouting from his lips, and hearts in his eyes.

“But!” Hawks sighs in faux dejection, “since you beat me here fair and square, I guess that makes you the winner this time.”

You bite the inner of your cheek, “And what have I won?”

“That's up to the victor- whoever got through all that traffic to the office fastest gets a favor of their choice. I bet a nice dinner out, buuuut I don’t believe you’ve decided just yet...”

“Don’t you have enter a race in order to win it.”

Hawks lifts his hands, “Nnnope~ I don’t make the rules, I’m just telling you what they are.”

How generous.

“A hero’s favor: I’m speechless,” you fein sarcasm, but it comes out just as flirtatious.

Boyish charm on full blast, Hawks starts walking in reverse a few extra steps: to get a better look at you as you set each perfect stride forward.

“So. What'll it be? Office hours with yours truly? New tablet? Maybe treat you to a subscription for those shnazzy glasses you like so much? I know a pretty neat brand deal who'll be happy to set you up~”

He’s laying it on thick… but from the back of your mind -the part you really try to silence while on the clock as a consummate professional- you throw Hawks a curveball:

”A dress.”

Hawks pauses and blinks, “Say again?”

“You heard me. I want a nice dress. I can't remember the last time I went shopping, plus I certainly don't have my wardrobe from New York– and there's a board dinner coming up next week. So, I'll need a dress.”

“Oh really?” Hawks comes to scritch at what little, tailored facial hair he has, “Done!”

Yes, you needed a dress. Yes, you have a particularly dashing hero willing to wine and dine and hold a childish bet as the excuse for him to buy it for you. Yes, you even have full plans to send some photos of the excursion to him as a little treat for his efforts.

But yes, you’re regretting everything.

Taking a personal day, you drag out your morning routine to maximum enjoyment. A quick, efficient breakfast wouldn’t do today; this called for a home-baked casserole moment to start your time off at home. Light and easy, it held you over through some oddball errands, which you humored your friend back home with as you called her up on the way to the shopping complex,

“//It’s a blend of formal and not, here– like, you’ll have someone dressed to the nines in a full suit, then a girl walks up onto the train looking straight out of a k-pop video!//”

You chatter away in your first language, brain taking a sufficient backseat from the Japanese your father raised you on.

“//Yeah, I mean, I love the looks, it’s just fashion whiplash sometimes. There’s also an insane amount of hero merch- it’d put Iron Man to shame… Oh, for sure, you’d have a field day– and no bank accou–... you’ve gotta be kidding me.//”

Your bestie asks what happened on your end of the line; why your voice suddenly fell to a groaning whisper.

Peeping down from the rooftop of the dress shop was Hawks– a pleased smirk on full display and waving, having lifted your sights with a little whistle that a bird a fraction of his size might have made.

Somehow, you knew better- hearing the utter tease in that bird call.

“//My god… I’m an idiot.//”

Hindsight working as it wills, you realized your regret at telling him where you were interested in going to shop around, and blamed your bogged-down memory that still failed to update your shared calendar and remove some pesky permissions for privacy’s sake. Can’t even say he didn’t warn you- Hawks teased you of it straight up.

These two slips combined meant you should not have thought any freedom would be yours when a muted flash of red rains a couple of stray, baby feathers atop you as you approach the storefront.

“Hiya~!” he calls to your stunned face, which gives way to resignation. Tender, willing resignation.

Hand shielding your face from the sun, you make out where he’s cocked his head at you and simply offer a little crook of your finger to make him come down.

“--I’ll call you back~” you tactfully ignore all of your bestie’s spot-on assumptions that the fabled flyboy had arrived to collect on your winnings.

He was a grown man. Surely a picture to approve the purchase and details for wiring the money at checkout would have sufficed for this little venture- did he have to accompany you?

"Ahhh time for you to model for me, eh gorgeous?" Hawks croons once he arrives by your side.

Your gentleel, pacifying nature mutes the barest flicker of an eye roll. "Please don't make me regret this, dear."

"No funny business, promise," he held his hands out in defense. "A bet is a bet. You claimed your terms, I deliver. I'm just here honoring our deal."

You pause now that you were four feet from the door. For some reason, you felt a pang of nerves underneath your cool exterior. To double it, you were positive his attention should likely be anywhere but here. Seeing as he’s dressed down in street clothes settles that worry, but you still think he should surely be needed somewhere other than a women’s dressing room.

"I never meant you had to be present for redemption, though."

“Course I do. Fine print; ‘must provide adequate supervision’. For posterity’s sake– you know how it is, dove.”

“Seems I don’t know a lot of these ‘terms’ when it comes to you…”

"Humor a poor, losing man's wish. After you."

You couldn't lie, Hawks was a pro at sweet talking and complimenting you- and seemingly only towards you. Press conferences and bathroom trips alike, he seeks out an opening to ask you something so down-to-earth that you never consider a chat with him to be strictly ‘small talk’. Truly it didn't matter the duration– Hawks flew to you like a magnet, but never carried out the same saucy line twice. It’s enough to make you think whatever’s happening between you is not something casual for him…

Not since the night you met, where talk between you lifted the persona of ‘Hawks’ and revealed the man underneath bit by bit. He shed that outer bravado almost immediately with you; you could tell that’s a rare (and perhaps dangerous) move on his part.

To be true, you liked that part. That felt real. It was that rationale which you hung onto. Let yourself be tugged by the side of your brain that allowed Hawks to usher you into a particular formalwear shop you’d heard rave reviews from a coworker a few months into your life in Japan.

This one-on-one time together could be a sweet fever dream– or a horrendous case of honey-dipped hives. You’d focus on the positives for now: so long as he minds his hold on your heartstrings, perhaps your new crimson shadow would prove your mistrusting gut wrong…

Hawks follows companionably behind once you walk in. His wings are shucked a touch shorter today, and elicit a few double takes from some folks between racks.

You note the peeping and low gasps, and cast a look back to him as you turned a corner,

"Second thoughts about a public appearance in daylight?"

Hawks grins back without missing a beat.

"Not a chance~ Wouldn't miss this time for the world."

You start up the escalators and he keeps one step lower. Ever the faithful duckling, when you veer off towards the formalwear, a woman came right to greet you both– immediately recognizing the pro hero at your heels. After you assure her that you were alright managing on your own, you were happy to find Hawks mimic your reasoning when asked again– and kept the interaction short and sweet.

Then the teasing started.

‘D’ya like this one?’ ‘This would hug you in all sortsa good ways.’ ‘Watch out gents, here comes trouble~’

“Red would look stunning on you.”

You eye Hawks playfully– both at what he suggests and the proof that stems from below his shoulders: where he prominently featured the color on his person.

"It's a better color on you, hon,” you hedge against his push for that dress. “Besides, I'm looking for length and cut, not just color."

Less than happy with your objectives, he picks one up anyway. "Sure about that? Give it a real look."

Red, of course, and while you nearly straight-up ignored the selection outright– you thought it over once you saw the dress he was referring to. From an exasperated cock of the head, you straighten up, consider, and hold it yourself. It wasn't bad, actually… The fabric was divine.

You ask for a couple sizes for him to check. Making out the Japanese characters on these tiny SKU cards was still hard to read, so you are genuinely thankful for his presence now more than when you came in.

"Hmmm…” Hawks put himself to work, but fell just as puzzled as you. “Euro sizes here, it looks like."

"Oh crap, that's right..." you mumble through the ‘dress math’ after a quick conversion chart lookup and notice they do have it in your size.

“I’ll– think about it,” you placate him.

Hawks conveniently pulls out his phone and makes a note by your contact– listing your dress size ‘for future reference’.

He didn’t make a show of it, but wasn’t subtle with what’s on his screen, either… so you clear out your phone's notifications with thinly veiled sass and an overactive thumb.

"Are you blushing?" Hawks calls to break you out of your stewing.

"Hush you~" You pocket your phone again while he chuckles.

"Okay okay, back to business. What about this one?"

A deep gunmetal floor length gown is what catches Hawks’ attention next. It’s downright elegant, but a bit over the top.

"Hm, shame. I can see that one for maybe an embassy event..."

Watching Hawks peruse is amusing. He stays away from the flashy, multi-textured colors, but the muted metallics and jewel tones draw him to finger through racks consistently. More to match his suit selection, you figure. So, you entertain him when you circle back to the red dress in your size, and hand it over to him to carry. You ignore the way Hawks’ eyes light up and follow after you, humming some happy little earworm.

"Ooo~ what's this black one by its lonesome over there?"

By the off-yellow tag, he spots a factory sample: ideal length, asymmetrical cut, appealing neckline and just your type. Hawks couldn’t hide his appreciative look your way as he holds it out and imagines it on your body type.

“Well now, that’s cute~”

"Try it?"

You agree and read off the dress size again (more for your memory than his). For a second, you catch sight of the reverse side of the tag, and almost choke as you return to the few items he held draped across his arm, inspecting each of their tags as well, "//Holy hell-//"

“Language," Hawks chuckles.

Your eyes fire humorously back at him, with a firm grip on the price tag of the one in your hand.

"This dress -here- is over a thousand dollars!!" you stage-whisper.

Hawks conspiratorially looks around, and matches your whispered tone, "--You're trying it on!"

"Hawks."

"Keigo–" He reminds you, softer still, and relieves it from your hands to join the red one. "And you're wearing it. What else? You need more than two options."

Avoidant of the pricepoint, you find one in a navy satin and another deeper purple number till you sit Hawks down forcibly on a bench outside when he proceeds to follow you into a room as a gag.

While the blue could use a different size, the black was your favorite so far. You’d be pleased that you won’t leave here unhappy, certainly, if you still weren’t so sticker-shocked.

But then the red dress -perfectly hung and whispering to you- reminds you he was still out there, waiting to see it.

"You still alive in there, sunshine? Haven't heard a peep in a while."

"What, you wanna see every one?" You fire back confidently, but with your pulse racing.

"Only fair. I'm here as a second pair of eyes."

"Hm. That's what I'm worried about."

He laughs it off. "Come out, I wanna see you."

So you slip out of your room in the black midi dress with a little shuffle of your hair, looking damn gorgeous and an ideal knockout in any professional circle. There’s a perfectly-structured, white accented jacket in your arm that you slide on and look across to a mirror.

No second-guessing filled your mind at all when you took in the full ensemble. Pleased, you made your third immediate regret looking through the mirror’s forced perspective at the man sitting behind you.

Yes, Hawks -the #2 fan-favored Pro-Hero- is GAWKING.

"So? What’s the verdict?"

His eyes roam, but meet yours when prompted. "I .. didn't expect anything less than gorgeous on you, but... you are stunning."

The flatterer was present, but the undertone carried out from his compliment seems utterly adoring. Those golden eyes aren't far off from hungry, yet he respectfully rests his sights to your eyes more than anywhere else.

"Do you like it?" Hawks craves your opinion above all.

"I really do." You turn to the side to check your posture, and take the outer layer off again. "I'll have the jacket for other things too, if I go with this one. But I think the straps should be fine for Endeavor’s agency, right?"

"Have you seen Bubble Girl?" Hawks mouths off, now standing by you. "She's one nip slip away from an x rated advertisement."

"Hey!"

"To put it kindly! No, this is- tastefully sexy." The backs of his fingers brush by your elbow. He takes care not to let the touch linger but enjoys the view all the same while he has it.

You smirk back and feel great about your top choice.

"--What about the red one?"

–and there it is.

You fix the jacket collar absently so it doesn’t crease, "Haven't tried it yet."

"It’s next, right?"

You roll your eyes. "You're incorrigible."

"I'm a man of my tastes~ and I have a good feeling about it."

So you change, with a few impatient remarks from outside the door. This one has you a bit more nervous.

The leg slit had you hot flashing on your neck and up your jaw– standing vulnerable in your stall. Checking over yourself, you’re suddenly aware of Hawks’ comments at the apartment that one night after he dropped you off from a spur-of-the-moment karaoke night. Something about the high cut that reminded you that Hawks was a leg man for sure, and he'd surely have a field day seeing a dress with this much skin. The sleeves were shimmering and gorgeous, and you felt comfortable otherwise. So... nothing left but to strut it out and get it over with.

Coming out, you could have snorted at the way Hawks melted.

Wings drooped, the man slack-jawed and eyes blown into an awestruck stare, you feel 90% more proud. Sauntering to the mirror, you fuss over the look in perfect confidence now- spinning to give him the first once-over before you could get the first grand look yourself.

"I'll admit, good find,” you praise appreciatively, thankful he didn’t start howling the second you emerged. “You saw it first. Happy?"

Hawks is quiet for a beat but lifts to your gaze again shyly before looking back.

"Ah... You’re.. really beautiful. I mean, wow," he hides behind some propped up hands.

You smile and don't care now fast your heart flutters. The butterflies warm you all the same, in that special way he seems to bring out in you. What were once nerves turn to calm as he watches you turn and joins your side again, a bit closer.

A strong, soothing hand slightly correcting where the seam fell along your side, you kept your focus on the event itself and not on his touchiness. Much easier to do than reading into Hawks’ reaction and attention on you.

"It’s a little formal for next week, but... I may have to remember to come back for this one some other time. When the right occasion strikes."

That decision seems to break him from his trance: "Oh no– you're getting that one, too."

You whip your head aside fast, "No way. Deal was one dress. That last one is already over 800- plus whatever the jacket was, technically-"

"I don't believe it's your job to worry about cost, sunshine." Hawks pockets his hands confidently, staring you down exclusively in the mirror’s view.

“Haw----Keigo…”

“You won. Winner called for dress shopping. You never specified how many.”

“I’m pretty sure I did name a one, singular event in mind-”

“Nonetheless, I am indeed the loser and therefore the payor of said bet.” Hawks fixes you a firmer look than usual. “I say you get both. Black set for next week, the red for… call it a rainy day.”

You believe his seriousness, but can’t shake a twinge of guilt at the cost. This was a silly bet; a saucy wager between two people that tests the waters of what you’d call this friendship…

“Look– I’m sure money isn’t an object for you, but this would—”

“--be my pleasure.” Hawks won’t let you finish- “C’mon- When was the last time you bought something like this for yourself?”

Hawks holds you by the shoulders to turn back to the mirror. At your quick study over the red semi-formal gown again, you flip your sleeve cuff into place and miss the loving look he gave while pulling your hair back softly.

His fingers return to your shoulders but with the gentlest, experimental touches to your neck in its path.

“You -my darling wordsmith- have, no doubt, the kindest heart I’ve ever met in one of the hardest cities in Japan. Those two things shouldn’t coexist in this kinda world, but you thrive in it. You’re… so good. You haven’t let the hard stuff touch you, even when you’re neck deep in it. Not only that, I’d say you're also easily the most resourceful mind PR’s had in years; hell, of any agency on the field. You’re brilliant, funny, and as I've so recently discovered today– downright gorgeous, no matter what you’ve got on.”

His gaze separates in favor of fixing a portion of hair back into place– light preening, by his standards.

“Gems like you come once in a lifetime; if anyone is that lucky to meet one nearly as great as you… they should consider it a blessing…”

You hadn’t realized you'd leaned back into his space until you register his hand sliding down to caress your elbow, and his other fingers resting right on your waist.

He tilts ever so slightly to speak towards your ear; his eyes meeting yours again, a sparkle in them that has you wrecked.

“You won a stupid bet, sure; but you deserve to be treated more often than once-in-a-blue-moon. Call me selfish for taking the role of the guy who gets the pleasure.”

Your polite smile turns lopsided, just listening to this rare show of heart.

“Please let me do this for you, lovedove. Please?”

Sorry gut, you’ve been proven wrong. He’s a verified angel, and to be frank, you’re tired of avoiding the flip in your tummy when you see him. With Hawks pressed against your back, you’re not troubled by what fleeting intentions he may or may not have– not when you can see them plainly in that pretty face looking back at you.

While your standards had always been on sharp lookout for the catch behind his behavior, what made Hawks’ company something you looked forward to was the heart behind the charm... that soft feeling you caught every now and then when you two spoke behind closed doors or in passing. He carried a depth with him, but also a lightness that seemed to shine whenever he took to your presence– like he was chasing after joy, not just chasing some tail.

Perhaps that was enough for you to want something more than these quick interludes, and draw out this little dress date into lunch.

You nudge your head toward his. “Red, for a rainy day, huh?”

He nuzzles you back perfectly. “Mhm~”

“Rainy days call for rainy dates, don’t they?”

Interest lifts the hero’s wings, but he keeps his voice sure and calm, “Sure would be poetic~”

You don’t break eye contact with him in the mirror while you mesh your fingers with his on your waistline,

“Then I guess a certain someone should ask me. Get something on the calendar he’s actually invited to.”

Hawks matches his hold on your waist fully now, relishing the touchpoints he’s sharing with you.

“Now that sounds like a great idea, sunshine.”

“Maybe.. swap some time slots– over lunch?”

A soft glint in his eye, Hawks dips to give your shoulder a small peck, “Done.”

Happy with your bravery - as well as the amount of eye contact that will last you the next four to six business days- you finally cut away from watching Hawks in that damn mirror, and sway side to side enough to give him the hint you were ready to get changed again. Only before he steps completely away, you catch his wrist with a quick, blind question over your shoulder.

“Hey– help unzip me?”

You’d zipped yourself perfectly fine… this was for him.

A happy little exhale leaving him as he snugs back up to you, Hawks flares out his wings a bit as he catches that tiny zipper until it reaches your mid back right where you could normally reach- and then a tad lower.

“There y’go~” Hawks murmurs to your ear again, “I’ll make sure no one catches an eyeful that they shouldn’t.”

You look back to him over your shoulder, “No one?”

An invitation offered, Hawks gives an appreciative glance down where your dress barely splits open.

“Not trying to jump straight to dessert here, yknow. Sounds like I’ve got a hot date.”

Chuckling, you finally twist and keep your new dress up by the front,

“You’re right– it’s not like it’ll be the last time you see me in this. You wanted dinner out, right?”

Hawks gave an agreeable hum, nodding along the way.

You chip his chin toward you for him to listen,

“Then call me a sore loser next time, so you can collect~”

Part 2

#keigo takami #hawks #mha hawks #bnha hawks #keigo x reader #keigo takami x reader #hawks x reader #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #mha x reader #bnha x reader #mha #bnha

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