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marcyvamp1re-blog · 14 days ago

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⋆ ˚ 🦋 �� ICHOR ────── Yandere! Prince ⋆˚

⊹ ٬ Headcanon. Yandere! Prince x Knight! Fem! Reader

In a world marked by betrayal and the struggle for power, two souls find themselves caught between loyalty and desire. As the shadows of tragedy loom, a shared destiny binds them, though the cost of that love may be higher than either is willing to pay.

⊹ ٬ Word Count. 6.5k

⊹ ٬ Content. MDNI. Dark themes, violence/death, age gap, blood, trauma, invasion of privacy, kidnapping, Angst, disturbing content, corruption, isolation, paranoia, manipulation, emotional abuse, emotional manipulation, stalking, cultural exchange, war, dehumanization, loss of loved ones, family conflict, moral dilemmas, betrayal, race conflicts, colonialism.

「 the fluid that flows like blood in the veins of the gods 」

You must be a lady.

That’s what your mother told you when, panting and with dusty knees, she found you wielding a wooden sword alongside your older brother. Her lips would tighten into a thin line, the same one she traced with the needle while embroidering war banners for men who would never return home.

Ladies don’t wear pants.

Your dress had to be long, puffy, of a red so deep it matched the blood that cemented the glory of Vexoria. It didn’t matter that the annals of the continent recorded the name of your nation with equal respect and fear, nor that its military exploits were narrated in the voice of victory and the echo of silenced laments. Women were not warriors but banners waving over the battlefields, prizes for those strong enough to claim them.

Having a daughter was securing alliances, perpetuating dynasties of tough men and well-tempered steel. Having a son was birthing war flesh, blood spilled too soon over distant lands.

Never fight.

Women do not throw the first punch, but they are the ones who end wars. A scratch on a man’s skin was a battle wound; on a woman’s body, it was a portent that war had found its way home.

If they tell you to kneel, you obey and remain silent.

That’s what they taught you from the cradle, whispered among the cold walls of the fortress and repeated by the wet nurses as they wove tales of submissive queens and devoted wives. But that morning, when your father found you among the sons of lords, your feet planted firmly in the training ground sand, you did not obey. You did not remain silent.

You screamed like the bronze of a trumpet in the cornucopia, your voice tearing through the heavy morning air.

—I want to be a knight!

Your trembling fingers gripped the fabric of your dress and tore it in one pull, shedding the cage they had sewn for you. Your father turned red, anger surging like a torrent up his neck. It was the color of shame, of humiliation, of the certainty that his daughter had been born with the tongue of a warrior and not with the smile of a wife.

It was not him who struck you. It was your mother.

Her delicate, cared-for hand cut through the air before crashing against your cheek. There was no fury in her eyes, but something worse: a resigned sadness, a frustration contained in years of drowned dreams. Her face, once smooth and hopeful, was now marked by the invisible scars of obedience.

—You will be a lady —she told you, her voice firm, though her tears betrayed her strength—. You will marry one of the sons of the great lords. You will have children. And that is final.

But you did not yield.

—I will follow my dreams —your voice replied, ignited with the conviction of an oath.

It was too much. Your father could not allow it. He could not bear the thought that his firstborn, his pride, had sown in you the seed of disobedience. So he sent your brother to war. Not because it was his duty, but because he could not conceive that his own son had contaminated his little daughter with ideas of freedom.

No one in Vexoria was free from their fate.

The word fate was spoken in whispers, like a distant echo resonating through the castle halls, but no one dared to defy it. It was not an ethereal concept but an unquestionable truth, an invisible rope binding each person to the role they were to play in the play that their nation was writing with fire and blood. You were eight springs old when the kingdom of Castamar, the ancestral enemy, revealed itself as a shadow that devoured the light.

That night, your skin still bore the softness of childhood, and your dreams were woven with the golden threads of a carefree world. You slept peacefully, under the silk and goose feather sheets that wrapped you in a false sense of security, when the sound of screams shattered the air, tearing it apart with an intensity so harrowing it seemed to come from the very bowels of the earth.

Fire consumed everything. Flames engulfed the city, wrapping buildings in a dance of destruction that lit the sky like a hellish signal. Blood flowed in torrents, red and hot, watering the streets that had once been the pride of your family, of your nation. Vexoria, the unstoppable, the invincible, had finally succumbed. For the first time, the kingdom that had always dictated war, that instilled fear and glory, was the one losing.

You were the daughter of a great lord, a noble born under the seal of strength and supremacy of your lineage. Your family had been named for the Golden Bull, that macabre prize awarded to those whose lineage was so prestigious that their fall would serve as a warning to others. It was the most feared death penalty in all of Vexoria, a brutal fate in which the nominees were placed in the golden belly of an iron bull, a searing cauldron, and roasted alive as sacrifices to an ancient power.

You knew what it meant to be part of that list. You knew that, sooner or later, the blade of the scythe would fall upon you, but at that moment, your entire being crumbled before the certainty of condemnation. You were going to die. And there was nothing you could do. It didn’t matter that your mother, with her trembling hands and face marked by years of dutiful submission, embraced you desperately, crying inconsolably as she prayed to your gods. There was no prayer that could save you from that fate.

But something changed in that moment. Something that, though fleeting, altered the course of your existence forever.

He appeared, a man in worn armor and a face aged by the years, but still with the steely gaze of those who have lived to witness death, like a shadow slipping through the flames. Sir Orion Casterly, an elderly knight from the enemy kingdom of Castamar, took pity on you. He did not think, he did not hesitate. He took you from your mother’s arms, who was already undone by helplessness, and pulled you away from her embrace, as if he knew there was no time for tears or empty promises.

She looked at you with the anguish of one who knows she is delivering you to hell. With eyes filled with despair, she told you not to part from him, that this man, this knight, would be your protector, the last vestige of hope in a crumbling world. The uncertainty of that farewell, the coldness of death lurking in every corner, made you feel as if everything you knew was fading into darkness. The weight of your mother’s sacrifice settled in your heart, a weight you would carry for the rest of your days.

You left with him, unable to understand the magnitude of what had just occurred, not realizing that the decision your mother was making would perhaps be the last thing she would give you in her life.

────── 🦋 ──────

Your face was that of millions of battles won, but none satisfying. A face forged in the iron of war, bearing the marks of victories that never filled the void within you. It wasn't trophies or crowns you sought; wars, in all their forms, were merely an endless succession of losses, even if hymns were sung in your honor. You left your horse in the stable, and as you stripped off the reins, a long, heavy sigh escaped your lips, as if it were the last vestige of the fatigue accumulated during the long journey.

It had been two months, two endless months of riding without rest, escorting the king to the kingdom of Valdracia, to negotiate a marriage alliance. You didn’t know if it would be the elder prince, the one with the cold gaze, or the second, whose warm smile did not hide the dark intentions visible in his eyes. Perhaps it was the third, the youngest and least experienced, still carrying his untainted hopes. Which of the three? You didn’t know, and you cared even less. At that moment, the political intrigues, the marriages, and the pacts between kingdoms were just distant echoes that failed to penetrate the wall of exhaustion that enveloped you.

All you desired, all your soul needed, was stillness, rest, even if only for a few minutes. A place where the noise of war, the demands of the kingdom, and despair could finally be silenced. You walked to the palace garden, where the fountain of the seven awaited. The water fell in a hypnotic dance, striking the stones and trickling between them with the serenity of something that needed nothing more than to exist. You sat on a marble bench, allowing the sound of the water to drown out the voices still resonating in your head. It allowed you the luxury of not thinking of anything, for once.

You looked at Vixen, grazing in the nearby grass. The horse had been your only faithful companion for so many years. It was a gift from your father on your ninth spring, twenty winters ago. Back then, Vixen was just an inexperienced colt, with spindly legs and tangled manes, but you loved him with the intensity of a young heart, eager to seal a pact that would never be broken. Now, Vixen was strong and old, with fur hardened by years of battles, yet he remained your refuge. As you stroked his mane, you remembered those moments of youth when the world seemed simpler, when your dreams were not stained by the sweat of war or the thirst for power.

You and that horse had lived through it all: the relentless cold of winters, the scorching sun of summers, the ground soaked with blood and sweat, and the contained rage of a life that, though lived in the shadows of war, never ceased to burn. Stroking his mane was like returning to a time when the purity of loyalty and friendship was not corrupted by politics or duty. The memories you shared with Vixen were, in their simplicity, the only truth that remained. The water continued to fall gently from the fountain, and for a moment, you forgot everything else.

It was just you, the horse, and the stillness of the world.

And then that disgusting laugh of the charming prince echoed like an unpleasant reminder in your eardrum, bouncing in every corner of your mind with the persistence of a plague.

—Lady Casterly! What a pleasant surprise to see you here. I was so worried when I saw you step away from the group as soon as the king arrived in Valdracia.

George of Castamar's voice was like a deafening whisper, smooth and exasperating, the kind of voice that seemed designed to enchant any foolish lady crossing his path, yet for you, it was a constant hammering. It was one of those voices that crawled on your skin, one that seemed to envelop everything, even though there was nothing in him that warranted such attention.

George, bearer of the unicorn shield, second in line to the throne of Castamar, with his prince charming attitude, as unreachable as the reflection of a vain dream, represented everything you disliked about the nobility. He was the headache that never went away, the fly buzzing around your face just when you thought you might finally find some peace. He, with his well-fed boyish face and eyes shining with such crude arrogance that left you speechless, seemed to not understand that not everyone fell at his charming façade.

You were twenty-one springs into the cavalry, but you had seen enough of that world not to be fooled by the facade of youth he so proudly displayed. You had served for years in the Royal Guard, fought and sweated under the blue insignia, in the trenches where loyalty was tested in blood and sweat, not in empty smiles. Yet this young man, who had barely seen twenty winters, followed you everywhere like an unruly dog, always surprised that a woman held a position of power, that a woman was the sub-captain of the blue division, the one tasked with protecting the king.

The same George who, despite having been in the royal cavalry for six months, barely knew how to wield a sword without someone having to put his hands on the hilt, the one who needed a squire to do what a true knight did by instinct. The irony of his existence bit you like a slow and constant poison. You didn’t know whether to be more exasperated by his lack of skill or his tireless insistence on proving to himself that nobility and lineage were all that mattered.

The sun reflected off his armor with the same brilliance as his ignorance, and there he was, in front of you, as if his title and position at court could erase his uselessness.

"Our captain, in his unusual gesture of generosity, granted me a few hours of solitary peace to compensate for the fatigue accumulated from my hard work protecting the king," you said firmly, not even looking at him, lost in the stillness of your own thoughts. Your cold hands, from the spring water, slowly dipped into the fountain, seeking a small comfort in its coolness. The sound of the water falling over the stones was a silent reminder of how fleeting tranquility is in this world that never ceases to revolve around war and politics.

The young man from Castamar approached, his presence as imposing as it was unnecessary. "Lady Casterly," he began with that tone you found so unbearable, filled with forced courtesy, "it is an honor for me to have the opportunity to speak with you at such solemn moments. Your devotion to the king is admirable, as always."

You sighed, looking up at the sky for a moment, seeking some peace in the vastness of blue. Then, without turning completely, you were direct in your response, your voice calm but laden with an authority that needed no backing from titles. "And as I have already mentioned before, young Castamar," you replied, your words sharp as a well-honed sword, "it is Sir Y/n Casterly for you. And if you must address me, I would appreciate it if you did so accordingly."

The young prince, seemingly taken aback by your frankness, hesitated for a moment. His eyes shone with a mixture of surprise and curiosity, as if he truly did not understand why someone of your standing would not be swept away by courtly conventions. "My apologies, Sir Casterly," he said finally, his tone lowering slightly, though still retaining the glow of his unmistakable arrogance. "It is not my intention to offend you."

"I know," you replied with a slight smile on your lips, though devoid of warmth. "It is not my intention to offend you either, but formality is reserved for those who truly deserve it, young Castamar. And at this moment, it seems there is no space for it between us."

A silent tension settled between the two of you. George of Castamar's eyes sparkled with the typical discomfort nobles felt when confronted with something they could not control. There was something in your demeanor he could not decipher, something that bewildered him, as if your position and rank did not hold the same importance as they did for others.

You focused again on the water, letting the gentle movements of the spring allow you a breath. You knew you would gain nothing by arguing with him, that his words would be empty, as they always were. The court's ego war, with its constant push and pull, was no longer something that interested you. Loyalty, true loyalty, did not come from titles or empty smiles; it came from sacrifice, from spilled blood, and from decisions made under the stars, not in palace halls.

Silence stretched between you, dense and palpable, as if words had gotten trapped in the air, fearful of being spoken. George's eyes watched you with that expression that, though masked in feigned curiosity, betrayed the palpable tension between you. He awaited a response, though he was merely a child playing at being an adult in a battlefield where he did not understand the rules.

"I heard about the altercation the king had when we passed through the kingdom of Eldorath," he said, finally breaking the silence, his voice somewhat lower, as if the weight of the question frightened him a bit. "Is it true what Sir Caspian said? That some assassins with a Valdraco accent tried to take the king's life?"

His words collided against your ears like a contained explosion, awakening dark and murky memories of that night, a night when danger lurked in the shadows of the Eldorian kingdom. You took a deep breath, letting the air fill your lungs, while your eyes fixed on the horizon, as if there you could find an answer you had yet to formulate.

You finally looked at him, and for an instant, your gazes met with the intensity of unspoken truth. This young prince, with his pristine face and arrogant smile, did not comprehend the magnitude of what had really happened. For him, it was merely court gossip, a story to tell at the next dinner. But you knew that the king's life had been in danger, and that danger did not retreat; it lurked, waiting for the curtain to fall.

"Yes..." you said, your voice calm, but with a coldness that cut like steel. "The king was very frightened throughout the night after that. His men were not enough to protect him at that moment, and despair was reflected on his face."

A heavy sigh escaped your lips, as if the mere act of recalling what had happened drained you of energy. That night, the king had been vulnerable, his body tired and frail, already too old to bear the blows of a fate that did not forgive the weak. You, however, stayed with him, while the other knights, including men like George, distanced themselves to seek solace in the brothels of Eldorath, forgetting their duty.

The contrast between duty and indulgence was more evident than ever. While they lost themselves in vice, you kept vigil over a man who could no longer hold himself up. But that was not a choice. Not when the king was under your protection, and even less when the echoes of betrayal whispered in every corner of the kingdom.

"But Queen Selenia..." you continued, your voice taking on a darker, more somber tone. "She explicitly asked me not to tell anyone else. To keep silent about what happened." A slight sigh escaped your lips, filled with resignation, as if the queen's decisions were just another burden on your shoulders. "Unfortunately for Queen Selenia, I only serve the king. My loyalty is not divided."

The young prince seemed momentarily disoriented, as if the words could not fit into his mind, but in the end, he nodded with a mix of discomfort and disdain. He knew that this was not a matter he could meddle in, but he also perceived the weight of the loyalty that bound you to the king, something he would never fully comprehend. Loyalty was not something that was negotiated, something that could be asked for in a whisper over cups of wine and empty laughter. Loyalty was proven, and you had proven more than enough during your years in service to the king.

"Really, the Valdracos disagree with my brother's betrothal to the princess, don’t they?" George's voice slid between the shadows of the hall, laden with a rather empty curiosity, as if the intrigues of the kingdom were just a pastime for him. His gaze fixed on you awaited a response, but you already knew he was not seeking understanding, but merely a small glimmer of confirmation for his own conjectures.

The question hung in the air for a moment as you carefully considered your words. "All the kingdoms and noble houses are opposed," you said with a tense calmness, your eyes reflecting a shadow of disdain. "After... the fall of Vexoria, no kingdom has felt comfortable with King Alistair's decisions. Distrust has sown deeply, and few dare to look forward without remembering what happened."

A slight sigh escaped your lips, as if the words themselves weighed down on you. The disaster of Vexoria had left scars, not just physical but deep in the souls of all who witnessed the fall of an empire that was once great. But the consequences of that fall did not limit themselves to a single kingdom. They had reached all, even Castamar, though many insisted on denying it.

George, however, seemed not to grasp the gravity of the matter. His arrogance still failed to see beyond the surface, as always. "That invasion was my grandfather's decision," he said with a shrug, as if the responsibility for what had happened held no more weight than a forgotten story. "I don’t understand why everything keeps coming back to this. What matters now is the future, right?"

"What does it matter what king it would have been?" you retorted, your voice lower, colder, but equally sharp. "Castamar will bear the cross on its back for its disloyalty to its family, for its betrayal of those who once trusted them." Your words cut through the air with the hardness of a well-honed sword, the truth striking with the force of a hammer on the anvil. "The weight of that betrayal cannot be erased with kind gestures or empty promises."

George fell silent, as if the weight of your words began to seep into his mind, if only a little. You knew comprehension would not come easily, not now, not ever. For him, the concept of loyalty was something that shifted with the wind, something that changed according to the convenience of his position. He did not understand the value of spilled blood nor the difficult decisions that marked the lives of those who truly served their kingdom.

"It’s easy to forget what is lost when everything surrounding you remains intact," you continued, looking to the horizon as if the future were there, waiting to be claimed. "But the damage is already done, and alliances, promises, are not easily forgotten."

The young prince, unable to comprehend the magnitude of what true loyalty entailed, remained silent. His face, still marked by youth and ignorance of political complexities, reflected the frustration of not finding the answers he sought. But you already knew there were no easy answers in this game. The fate of nations, the decisions of kings, the betrayals of houses, all that wove into a net so complex it was impossible to unravel with simple words.

You looked at Vixen for a few seconds, his dark coat and robust body, feeling how the stillness of the moment contrasted with the storm of thoughts crowding your mind. Then, your eyes returned to George, who seemed lost in his own thoughts, staring off into the distance without seeing anything in particular. You had no patience for his games, but he, it seemed, did not understand what it meant to be a knight in truth, what that life full of sacrifices represented. He did not understand that the price of loyalty was not always paid with pretty words, nor with comfortable alliances.

"Don’t you think about marrying, like your brother Rodrigo?" you asked, letting the question linger in the air, giving it an ironic and biting tone. "You know, to favor your shield, as many do to maintain power in the wrong hands."

George shook his head, as if the idea of marriage were an abomination in his eyes. "No, I swear loyalty to the royal guard," he said with a firmness that seemed no more than an attempt to evade what it truly meant to belong to that order.

"And what of it?" you replied without hesitation, your words falling like a dry blow. "Knight Banneret Orion Casterly is married to Lady Mikaela, and several knights have bastards out there. You wouldn’t be the first or the last knight in this world to fall in love and follow a path not filled solely with duty. Everyone, even those who swear devotion, have their lives, their desires... Why be different?"

The look George returned was one of discomfort, but the conversation was far from over. He seemed to think that with the simple oath of loyalty he had finished his responsibility, as if a mere vow could erase the desires and internal struggles that defined him as a man. But you knew better than that.

"And you, Sir Casterly, don’t you think about marrying?" he asked, attempting to steer the conversation toward your own commitment, or the lack thereof. His tone, a mix of curiosity and disdain, sent a pang of contempt through you. The young man did not know what it meant to be a true knight, what it meant to live a life of sacrifices. He did not understand that the price of loyalty was not always paid with pretty words, nor with comfortable alliances.

You looked at him with a hatred as cold as steel, a hatred that needed no words to express, but nonetheless, you decided to articulate it. "The only man I kneel to," you continued, letting your words land as a final blow, "is the king." The silence that followed your declaration was profound, like an abyss that separated you even further, though you needed nothing more than your own duty to feel complete in this world of false promises.

George smiled at that.

────── 🦋 ──────

"I swear by Cica and the king's hand that we did it behind the stable," shouted Sir Dorik, his voice resonating powerfully in the air. He slammed the table with such fury that the echo seemed to thrum against the walls, his frustration palpable. "She may be old, but by the gods, she has a technique that even the youngest courtesan cannot match. The damned woman knows what she's doing!"

The room fell silent for a moment before Sir Clemond, no stranger to fits of rage, let out a bitter laugh. "Don't lie, Doo! Queen Selenia is so arrogant and pretentious that she would never do something so... vulgar. Remember what that old witch told us all, huh? 'You are just worms looking for rain.' Well, if I'm a worm, she’s a cockroach, a damn cockroach who crawls to get what she wants."

Tension grew like a storm about to burst. Clemond, as impetuous as ever, threw his flowery beer to the ground with such anger that the liquid almost spilled across the table. The sound of shattering glass barely calmed the heat that erupted from his words. "How dare she treat us like this? I'm fed up with her poison!"

The annoyance was evident, but you remained seated, calm, your face impassive as you slowly drank from your own beer. Your gaze fixed on the foam in your cup, you took a moment before speaking. The resentment and fatigue of hearing the same old rant often reflected in your eyes, but the discipline and professionalism you had learned over the years kept you steady.

"Please," you finally said, your tone soft but laden with a latent tension. "Even if Sir Dorik speaks the truth, we cannot simply speak ill of Queen Selenia. It’s not our style, no matter how justified our anger may be." You set your cup on the table with a slow gesture, looking at the men present. "It’s not about what we believe or what that woman has done. Queen Selenia has her place, and although we all know what she thinks of us, we must maintain our composure. Loyalty to our king and the realm must be greater than our personal frustrations."

However, you couldn't help but let your words carry a slight bitterness. "And if we ever say what we really think, tremble, for the very Queen you despise is capable of swallowing whole those who dare to contradict her. Don’t forget what we are up against."

Sir Clemond, visibly irritated but still holding a hint of respect, clenched his teeth tightly, biting his lower lip as his eyes burned with contained anger. He knew you were right, though admitting it felt like swallowing ash. Castamar had never distinguished itself for its wisdom in dealing with its subjects, nor for its courtesy towards those who served it. No, the realm was ruled by the edge of swords and the weight of coins, and those who had neither were at the mercy of their lords' whims.

Around you, the tavern vibrated with coarse laughter and words slurred by wine. The knights of the Blue Division, battle-hardened yet fragile before the temptation of a well-served mug, drank with the carefree attitude of those who know war too well and understand that death can come at any corner. The sun had barely reached its zenith, and already the stench of liquor filled the air. They spoke unabashedly, ranting about the highborn nobility, the hypocrisy of great names, about Queen Selenia and her disdain for those who fought for the realm while she paraded in her silks and perfumes.

Such was your group. A handful of men with no loyalty but to their steel and to the king. Rugged men, loyal to each other, yet broken by the reality of serving a crown that rarely showed them gratitude.

It was then that George appeared.

You saw him enter with his carefree stride, that air of nobility contrasting with the roughness of the surroundings. It was not unusual for him to show up at knights' meetings, though he was never truly welcome. He invited himself, as if his lineage entitled him to share the table with soldiers who had spilled more blood than he would ever see. There was a brief silence upon noticing his presence, not of respect, but of resignation.

You, without averting your gaze from your cup, remembered the first time you met him. You recalled his impeccable manners, his easy smile, his exasperating naivety. And you remembered the words you told him then, with the edge of one who has no patience for princes playing soldier:

"This is no place for a prince."

George seemed unfazed by the hostility in the air. He walked between the tables with the same confidence with which a noble walks through his own hall, though everyone present knew this was not his territory. Here, in the dim light of a tavern filled with soldiers hardened by war, his lineage meant nothing. His name could not stop a thrust, nor did his royal blood grant him respect among men who had killed and bled for a king who barely spared them a glance.

And yet, he smiled.

"Sir Casterly," he greeted with that affected voice that so many ladies in Castamar found charming, but which only provoked annoyance in you. His tone, perfectly measured, his posture impeccable... As if he felt no tension in the air, as if he did not notice the wary glances fixed on his back.

"May I sit?"

You did not respond immediately. Instead, you took another sip of your beer, letting the silence weigh heavily. Sir Clemond snorted softly, and some of the knights exchanged mocking glances. They all knew George would stay regardless. He always did.

"Does it matter if I say no, Your Highness?" you finally replied, not bothering to conceal the fatigue in your tone.

George let out a brief laugh, as if he had expected exactly that response.

"It flatters me that you know me so well, Sir Casterly."

With an almost insulting nonchalance, he took a seat across from you, resting an elbow on the table as he scanned the room with his gaze. He examined the men around him, soldiers seasoned by a thousand battles, men who owed him neither loyalty nor sympathy. And yet, he looked at them with that arrogant curiosity that only someone like him could afford.

"Shouldn't you be training?" he asked with feigned innocence, his eyes dancing with barely contained mischief. "Don’t get me wrong, I know a good beer can warm the spirit, but I doubt it does the same for the sword."

Sir Dorik let out a hoarse laugh, slamming his mug against the table with a noise that made the furniture vibrate.

"Bah! We don’t need training to deal with brats like you, prince. Give us a sword and we’ll beat you blindfolded."

"I don’t doubt that," George admitted with an easy smile, as if the comment amused him rather than offended him. "But my duty is to learn from the best, right?"

The tavern erupted in rough laughter and sarcastic murmurs. Men who had known war since childhood mocked the idea that a spoiled prince could understand what duty truly meant.

You, however, did not laugh.

You looked at him intently, searching for the purpose behind his relaxed demeanor. George could be many things: a clumsy noble, an inexperienced soldier, a courtly brat. But he was not stupid. He knew perfectly well what he was doing by mingling with the guard, by sharing drinks with the men his own family considered expendable. He knew what his mere presence provoked, how his words ignited a fire that could be both entertainment and distraction.

"What do you want, George?" you asked, cutting into the conversation like a dagger to the neck.

The prince tilted his head slightly, his smile barely wavering.

"To converse," he replied at last, with a lightness that contrasted with the intensity of his gaze. "To enjoy good company. Yours, specifically."

You said nothing immediately. You let the weight of his words hang in the air, like the smoke from the candles around you. Because you knew, as well as he did, that George of Castamar never did anything without a motive.

The murmur of the tavern continued to resonate around you: the sound of mugs clinking, coarse laughter, and conversations peppered with curses. However, at the table where you sat, a bubble of barely concealed tension had formed.

George of Castamar tilted his head slightly, with that damned smile of his, the one he wore when he thought he had control of the situation.

"I didn't know I had the capacity to leave the legendary Sir Casterly speechless," he murmured with feigned surprise. "I feel honored."

You did not respond. You simply took another sip of your beer, as if his presence were nothing more than an annoying shadow in your peripheral vision. George, however, did not give up.

"I must say it's impressive. Not every knight can drink with such grace after weeks of hard work protecting my father. Although, of course, I imagine for someone with your temperament, that’s just another ordinary day."

You knew what he was trying to do. The flattery disguised as jest, the casual tone with which he wove each word. A clumsy attempt to stroke your pride to gain your attention.

He was failing miserably.

"The next time you flatter me, Your Highness, make sure it doesn’t sound like you’re speaking to a courtesan at a court party," you said without looking up from your mug.

Sir Clemond stifled a laugh in his drink. George, for his part, tilted his head with an even broader smile, as if he found every snub you dealt him amusing.

"Touché," he admitted. "But I'm afraid I don’t have the habit of flattering in vain. If I say it’s impressive, it’s because it is. There aren’t many knights who could do what you do. And certainly no lady in this realm who can match you."

"Because there is no lady in this realm foolish enough to waste her life in the royal guard," you replied indifferently, leaning slightly forward to place the empty mug on the table.

"I wouldn’t say that," he countered, with a look that grew sharper. "I would say there is no lady in this realm who has your courage."

This time you did look at him. Not because the words had caused the effect he expected, but because you wanted to ensure he understood something very clear.

"Courage is a luxury, prince. What I did wasn’t a choice."

The glint in George's eyes intensified, as if your response had intrigued him rather than repelled him.

"Everything in life is a choice, Sir Casterly," he murmured, and for the first time his voice sounded lower, more serious. "Including this conversation."

You stood up without answering, taking your mug and walking away from the table with the same indifference you had received his presence. You could feel his gaze following you, expectant, as if he were waiting for you to stop, to turn back to him.

You did not.

George of Castamar could be charming, persistent, and, deep down, more astute than people gave him credit for. But if he thought he could court you like a lady of nobility, he was wasting his time.

────── 🦋 ──────

The light of the lamp flickered faintly in the barrack, casting elongated shadows on the bare stone walls. The place was devoid of any luxury, as befit a knight of the royal guard, yet it was still your refuge. A place where you could exist without the burden of armor or inquisitive gazes.

And now, he was there.

George of Castamar stood at the entrance, wearing the same arrogant smile as always, but this time accompanied by an unexpectedly soft gesture: a bouquet of Razina flowers rested in his hands. Their fragrance filled the room as he raised them toward you, an intoxicating aroma, a blend of roses and something stronger, almost ethereal.

You recognized them instantly.

Your expression hardened.

“I don’t want them,” you said, your voice sharp as the edge of a well-tempered sword.

The prince tilted his head, unfazed by the disdain in your tone.

“Don’t you even want to know how I got them?” he asked, using that lazy tone he adopted when trying to draw you into a conversation.

Your eyes fell back to the flowers. Beautiful, delicate... and born from destruction. The Razinas only grew in lands that had known ash and blood, where death had fertilized the soil better than any peasant could. They were the flowers that the women of your nation wore in their hair as a symbol of resilience, of mourning, of belonging to a home that no longer existed.

That George would bring you those flowers, here, in the dimness of your barrack, dressed only in a nightgown, on a night he had no right to invade...

It was grotesque.

“Do you know what these flowers symbolize?” you asked, not bothering to hide the contempt in your voice.

“Of course,” he replied, with the confidence of someone who does not truly understand the weight of his words. “They are the flowers of Vexoria, right? A tribute. A gesture of goodwill.”

A tribute.

A humorless laugh escaped your lips as you crossed your arms over your chest, holding his gaze.

“A tribute?” you repeated, with a biting incredulity. “Is that how you see it? As an exotic gift to woo a knight?”

George let out a sigh, but his smile did not fade.

“Not everything I do has a hidden intention, Ser Casterly,” he said, stepping further into the room. “Maybe I just wanted to remind you that, despite everything, you are still more than just a sword in the service of Castamar.”

Silence stretched between you, laden with unspoken meanings.

The flames of the lamp danced in his eyes, reflecting a mix of stubbornness and something deeper, something you were not willing to unravel.

Slowly, you approached him, but not to take the flowers. Instead, you raised your hand and gently pushed them against his chest, forcing him to hold them more firmly.

“If you really want to prove something to me, George,” you said, your voice low, firm, unyielding, “stop treating me like a damned damsel.”

George’s smile faded for just a moment before reappearing on his face, yet it no longer held the same lightness as before. Something in his gaze had changed, as if the mask of the charming noble had cracked just enough to reveal another facet, one less naïve, more aware.

“I’m not trying to see you as a damsel, Casterly,” he said softly, but with a latent edge. “I just wanted to have a simple gesture with you.”

His fingers tightened around the bouquet of Razinas, as if the warmth of the flowers could soften the ice in your gaze.

“King Alistair advised me to give you this,” he continued, “and perhaps... to invite you for a walk.”

The air in the barrack seemed to grow denser, trapped between the stone walls and the flickering dimness of the lamp. You wondered if it was mere courtesy or if the old monarch had a more sinister purpose in mind.

“I don’t want to go with you.”

Your words fell like lead, with no intention of softening the rejection.

George sighed, as if he had expected that response, but that didn’t mean he would accept it.

“Well, then I order you, as the Second Prince of Castamar, to accompany me for a walk through the beautiful gardens of Valdracia Castle.”

His tone remained light, almost playful, but the command seeped into his words like poison in sweet wine.

Your lips curved into a bitter smile.

“Someone like me cannot walk in those places.”

“And who says that?”

“Society.”

George tilted his head slightly, studying you with renewed interest, as if he had just discovered a new piece on a board he thought he knew by heart.

“Maybe,” he murmured, “but the gardens of Valdracia are used to beautiful things born from tragedy. After all, Razinas grow there too.”

His gaze fell back to the bouquet in his hands, and for the first time in the entire conversation, you didn’t know what expression crossed his face.

You looked at him for a long moment, and although your body tensed, you didn’t say a word. Finally, with disdain and a barely audible sigh, you took the flowers and set them on the bed, in a gesture that made your disinterest clear. His presence was unwelcome, but what bothered you even more was that slight smile on his lips, as if he enjoyed your resistance.

“Shall we go, Sir Casterly?” he asked, his voice warm but with a palpable tension that he could barely hide.

His gaze continued to roam the room, though he knew he wasn’t looking for details on the walls. He was watching you, waiting for the silence to force you to respond.

“I’m still in my nightgown.”

George’s laugh was low, almost mocking, but there was something in his tone that threw you off.

“It doesn’t matter, much better,” he said with that unshakeable confidence that usually irritated you.

A slight flush crept up your neck, and you couldn’t help but look at him sternly, though George’s face remained impassive, clearly enjoying the discomfort he had caused.

“Much better?” you asked, with a tone that bordered on acidic, but you couldn’t deny that the idea of going out in your nightgown, under his gaze, made you feel a strange mix of anger and something harder to identify.

George didn’t seem bothered by your response. On the contrary, his smile grew a little wider, as if what he had said had achieved its goal.

He stepped closer to you, his eyes shining under the dim light of the hallway lamps. Without a word, he took your hands gently, as if they were glass, and that gesture was enough for a shiver to run down your spine. There was an obvious contrast between his hands and yours. Yours, hardened by years of combat and sacrifice, were calloused, marked by the scars of the battles you had fought. Each finger was adorned with bruises, each line of your skin told stories of struggle. His, on the other hand, were soft, fine, without marks of pain or effort. They had been shielded from the same fate as yours.

Yet George didn’t seem to notice the difference. He looked at your hands with a smile full of something you couldn’t identify, before gently leaning down to kiss them, with a softness that was almost inaudible, as if he didn’t want to break the magic of the moment. "They're perfect," he whispered, a statement that made you feel uncomfortable, yet something in your chest tightened at the same time.

He gently tugged you along, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And although your mind screamed that this was a mistake, that you shouldn't let yourself be swept away, your steps led you outside the barrack, right beside him. The warm darkness of the night enveloped the castle, and the echo of your boots resonated against the cobblestones.

The city of Valdracia seemed to be asleep, but the air in the garden brought with it a light breeze that rustled the leaves of the trees. As you walked together along the lantern-lit pathways, your eyes were drawn to the portraits of the Seven, the imposing statues that adorned the castle grounds. They were the figures of gods, but you saw something more in them. Those stone-carved figures, those faces you had once revered fervently, now appeared colder than ever. It was as if the promises of the gods could no longer save you from your fate.

The night breeze caressed the garden softly, wrapping both of you in its chilly embrace. You moved toward the center of the garden, where, on a stone pedestal, stood the imposing Statue of the Seven. The sculpture, carved with an inhuman perfection, depicted the monarchs of each of the Seven Kingdoms, their eternal forms and fixed gazes looking toward the horizon, as if they could foresee the fate of those who passed before them. The figures, despite their great beauty, showed the wear of time, with cracks beginning to mar the stone, as if the years had left their mark, yet their power remained unyielding.

George stopped in front of the statue, observing it with an expression that could not conceal his bewilderment. The figure of an elderly monarch, with a crown that seemed more a burden than a symbol of power, dominated the center. "I don’t understand," he began, his tone contemplative, almost mocking. "Why do so many people hold these kings in such devotion? They are just... very old people, some almost dead, others already buried in their graves, aren't they?"

The question escaped his lips with a lack of understanding that bordered on insensitivity, and the way he posed it, casual and devoid of any reverence, ignited a fire in your chest. The Statue of the Seven was more than just a monument to you; it was a symbol of rebirth, of unity, of what had been made possible after the wars, the struggles, and the losses that the Kingdoms had endured. What you saw in those figures was not merely the passage of time, but the hope that even in decay and death, the land could rise again, that the people could rebuild.

Your gaze hardened, and for a moment, your fingers clenched against the edges of your cloak as if trying to contain the anger that surged within you.

"What you don’t understand," you began, your voice low but firm, "is that those kings, those men and women you see here, represent something greater than just their years of life. They are symbols of what the Seven Kingdoms were able to build after devastation. Yes, some died in their old age, but their vision, their sacrifice, their struggle, has not vanished. They are the pillars upon which we stand now. Their devotion is not merely a matter of revering their bodies, but honoring the legacy they left behind."

George looked at the statue, puzzled by the intensity of your words, not fully grasping the fervor behind them. His face showed a mix of interest and a hint of amusement, as if he were trying to understand the blind loyalty people felt for those kings of bygone eras.

"So, you believe that devotion to the dead is... necessary?" he asked with a slight smile, as if testing your limits.

"Yes," you replied with a vehemence you hadn’t anticipated from yourself. "It is necessary. What you see as 'the dead' are the foundations of our destinies. They forged the unity of the kingdoms, created the peace that allows us to live in these castles, fight our battles, and sit in these gardens. Without them, there would be no rebirth. There would be no hope of moving forward."

Silence filled the space between you, but you did not step away from the statue. Its empty eyes seemed to look at you, not at George. It felt as if, in its silence, it understood you better than any spoken word ever could.

"Perhaps what you don’t understand," you continued, your eyes fixed on the stone, "is that not everything in this world can be measured by a person's age or their physical presence. People like the Seven Kingdoms... they are ideals, dreams of what we can become when we stop fighting among ourselves and unite our strengths. And although those kings are no longer alive, their influence does not die. It never does."

George watched you for a moment longer, and although his smile remained light, there seemed to be something in his gaze that, for the first time, was not mocking. Instead of responding immediately, he took a step closer, his eyes tracing the lines and details of the statue as if he were trying, in some way, to understand what you had just expressed.

With surprising delicacy, George guided you to a stone bench located right in front of the Statue of the Seven. The night air felt cool, and the crunch of leaves beneath your boots resonated softly in the stillness of the garden as you sat down. He followed suit, taking a seat beside you, and for a moment, the silence between you was only interrupted by the whisper of the wind.

Even with the gentleness with which he had touched your hands, there was something in the tension of his posture that made it clear he was not willing to remain silent for long. Finally, his voice, soft yet inquisitive, broke the calm.

"Why do you hate me so much, Ser Casterly?" he asked with a slight smile, but his eyes, fixed on you, reflected genuine curiosity.

You turned to him, your face still marked by the discomfort his words provoked. His questions always seemed to carry an irreverence that you couldn't overlook. However, you decided not to evade the answer this time. You were too tired of doing so.

"Why do I hate you?" you repeated, almost with a sigh, as if uttering it aloud gave the answer more weight. "It’s complicated, George. I have my reasons. But there are so many that it would be a waste of time to list them all."

George leaned back slightly, not breaking eye contact. His laughter, soft yet sincere, emerged with a teasing tone. "I suppose you have many reasons then," he said, with a spark of amusement in his eyes. "But I, for my part, do not hate you, Ser Casterly."

You turned slightly, surprised by the serenity of his declaration. "Really?" you asked, with a mix of skepticism and a hint of disdain. "Do you not hate the woman who has ignored and rejected you at every turn?"

George shrugged, his smile widening, almost a challenge. "No, in fact... I admire you." His tone was firm, as if he spoke with certainty. "There’s something about you that captivates me, Ser Casterly. That determination, that strength you always carry with you. You have impressed me since the moment we met."

For a brief instant, your lips parted as if you were about to say something, but the surprise held you back. "Admire me, huh?" you murmured with a tone of disbelief, but without irritation. "It’s curious... because that doesn’t change anything."

"What do you mean?" George leaned his head, observing you with attention. "Do you think that my admiration changes who I am or what I do? I wouldn’t, but the truth is, I see no reason why someone like me shouldn’t court someone like you."

You shook your head, your eyes fixed on the garden before you, but no longer looking at the statue. Your thoughts seemed darker, as if the shadows surrounding the Statue of the Seven reflected the reality you saw in the world.

"It doesn’t matter how much you admire me, George," you said with a coldness that left no room for doubt. "It’s not wise for a prince to court a mere knight, even if you don’t see it that way. You are a prince, of royal blood, the future of Castamar. And I... I am just a guardian, destined to protect the king until the day I become cannon fodder. The moment the king dies or Castamar is defeated, I will be nothing more than that, flesh for the sacrifice of some other kingdom, or of our own allies. The life of someone like me holds no value when war and death loom."

Your voice cracked only slightly at the end, but your gaze remained firm, as if resisting the idea that anyone could see you as vulnerable. The wind blew gently, rustling some branches around, as if nature itself were a witness to what you had just said.

George did not respond immediately. The silence between you extended, heavy, dense. He seemed to be processing what you had said, perhaps for the first time looking beyond the nobility that surrounded him, understanding, albeit belatedly, the lives of those who served, sacrificing themselves without receiving glory or recognition.

Finally, in a low, almost whispered voice, he said, "I don’t want you to become cannon fodder. I want you to know that, although I don’t share your view of life, I believe there is something you could achieve beyond this war. You are not just a knight... You are a woman with courage, and perhaps, just perhaps, you could see beyond what you are meant to be."

Your eyes met his for a long moment, and for the first time that night, perhaps for a fleeting second, you wondered if he, deep down, could understand something of what you had just told him. But reality returned swiftly, like a sharp blow. The difference between his world and yours could not vanish with a simple exchange of words.

"It doesn’t matter what you say, George," you replied, turning back to face forward, "you have no idea what that means."

The sky was clear, and the stars, like distant beacons, twinkled softly above them. The night air seemed suspended in time, while the garden of Valdracia, with its long, silent shadows, stretched around. The stillness of the night made even the whispers of the trees sound muted, as if the whole world were watching the two lonely figures beneath the starry mantle.

George remained by your side, and although at first he seemed uncomfortable with the silence, gradually, his presence became more reassuring, like a familiar shadow. Finally, without warning, his hand gently rested on yours. It was an unexpected gesture, yet at the same time, it felt like a natural extension of what had begun between you that night. Without saying a word, joining in that contact seemed the only possible path in that moment.

Your heart raced for a moment, and your mind wanted to rebel, but something in his touch made you pause. George, without taking his gaze off the sky, slowly leaned his head until it rested softly on your shoulder, as if he were seeking comfort or understanding from you in some way.

"For me," he said softly, filled with a sincerity that sought neither applause nor boastfulness, "you are not just a knight."

You tensed for a second, but he continued without withdrawing.

"You are not just the guardian of the king, nor the soldier who faces battles with a strong heart," he continued. "To me, Ser Casterly, you are the most beautiful and courageous knight I have ever known in my life. I truly believe that. My parents... your parents should feel incredibly proud to have you as their daughter."

His words were slow, yet laden with a warmth that you could not ignore. His closeness, his whisper made the air thick, almost suffocating, but not from discomfort, rather from something deeper that seemed to bloom between you, a feeling neither he nor you dared to name.

A tear, treacherous, slipped slowly down your cheek, barely perceptible but enough for him to notice. You did not wipe it away, as somehow you felt it deserved to fall. The weight of his words, so unexpected and so different from everything you had heard before, stirred something in you that you thought had long been buried.

"Thank you," you murmured, unable to help it, your voice trembling, almost choked. "I hope that is true."

The shadow of the Statue of the Seven watched over you in silence, as immutable as ever, while the stars continued their dance in the sky. George did not speak further. In that moment, all that remained in the air was the softness of his presence, the warmth of his words, and the gentle brush of his face against your shoulder.

And for an instant, the outside world faded away. There were no kingdoms, no struggles, no bloodshed. There were just the two of you, beneath the stars, sharing a silence that spoke more than any words could.

The prince, though so distant in his lineage, seemed suddenly so close, so real, so... human, in comparison to the coldness of his position. And you, despite the scars of war, despite your life marked by sword and duty, were not merely what the world thought you were. Not in that moment. In that instant, you were just two souls in the vastness of the night, searching for something that lay beyond everyone else's expectations.

────── 🦋 ──────

The sun, which had once seemed warm and promising, now fell upon the scene with an unrelenting harshness. The murmurs around you seemed to resonate like distant echoes, distorted by the fog of anguish that had taken hold of you. Silent tears fell, heavy but without sound, rolling down your cheeks as though the pain accompanying them was too deep to express aloud. You couldn’t stop staring at the bodies—those who had once been close friends, comrades in battle, and now were nothing but cold corpses, their humanity ripped away by the cruelty of fate.

George, seeing you there, unable to hold back, approached and enveloped you in his arms with a strength only someone who cares deeply can have. He held you with such intensity that, for a brief moment, it seemed like he could stop the pain that consumed you. His hands moved gently across your back, trying to offer comfort, but all he could do was hold you as he felt his heart break with every stifled sob you tried to suppress.

"You’re not alone, Casterly," he whispered in your ear, his voice deep and gentle at the same time. Then, with tenderness, he kissed your cheek, leaving a warm kiss on the skin that pulsed from the tension. A gesture of affection that didn’t ease the weight of the tragedy, but in that moment, it was all he could offer.

You trembled, not just from the morning cold, but from the emotional blow that had shaken you to your core. Your mind struggled to process what had happened. It was as if everything were happening in slow motion, like the pieces of the puzzle were crumbling before you and you couldn’t do anything to stop it.

With a broken voice, you murmured, almost without realizing it:

"I’ve never failed... I was always alert... how could this happen?"

The words hung in the air, empty of hope. You couldn’t understand how the tragedy had reached you. In all those years of struggle, sacrifice, and preparation, you had never imagined an end like this. You had always believed that constant vigilance, the strength of your spirit, and your loyalty to your kingdom would protect you from any misfortune. But in this moment, you were being shattered by the weight of the truth: none of that had saved you.

George held you tighter, as if his body could offer you some comfort in the midst of the storm. His face was close to yours, his warm breath against your neck. Despite the pain he felt, he knew his words had to be as firm as possible.

"What happened isn’t your fault," he said, with a deep sincerity. Though he couldn’t erase what had happened, he wanted you to know that you didn’t have to carry the blame. It wasn’t fair, nor realistic, to bear that weight.

You didn’t respond, but your body relaxed slightly, as if his words were a rope to hold onto, even if you couldn’t fully understand them.

In that moment, he gently pulled away from the embrace, guiding you through the garden. Every step you took felt heavier than the last, but George never let you go. He looked at you with an expression full of compassion, but also with a quiet determination.

"Come on, Casterly," he said, almost gently. "You can’t stay here. There’s a future we still have to face, and no matter how hard it is now, you’re still the knight you’ve always been. Don’t let this destroy you."

You didn’t say anything, but you kept walking, your mind still trapped in the horror of what you had seen, of the loss you felt deep within you. However, the fact that George was by your side, in some way, gave you a small breath of relief. At least, for a moment, you weren’t alone.

As you both walked through the garden, the first rays of sunlight illuminated the figures of the trees, making the shadows stretch toward you like spectral fingers. The air felt heavy, filled with palpable pain, as if nature itself mourned what had just occurred. But you didn’t want to look back. You couldn’t. The only option was to keep moving forward, even though you didn’t know where this uncertain future would take you.

"Will you stay with me?" you suddenly asked, your voice broken but determined, as you walked together, your steps resonating on the ground covered with dry leaves.

George looked at you and, with a faint smile that didn’t hide the pain in his eyes, replied:

"Always."

The embrace between you lasted longer than either of you had expected, a silent comfort that seemed to stop time for a moment. George held you with a soft but persistent strength, as if he wanted to protect you from everything that had happened, even though he knew he couldn’t. The air was thick with anguish, and the weight of the pain on your shoulders was palpable. You, with your head resting on his chest, could feel his heart beating fast and hard, as if, in that embrace, you could find some semblance of calm, even if it was momentary. Your breathing, initially erratic, slowly softened.

Yet, the sadness still weighed on you, a cruel reminder of the tragedy that had unfolded. It was he who broke the silence, his voice deep and firm, but also laced with a strange concern that you hadn’t expected to hear.

"There must be an assassin among us... or maybe someone from another kingdom is sending assassins to eliminate the royal family," he said, the tension clear in his words. His gaze was fixed on some distant point, as if he were searching for an answer in the air. Though he didn’t have any concrete suspicions about who might be responsible, the certainty that something was happening left no room for doubt in his mind.

"It’s likely we’re being attacked by other kingdoms... Maybe this isn’t an isolated incident."

You looked up at him, your face marked with concern, but also with a determination that hadn’t been there before. Your eyes, red from crying, still held that spark of fire that had always been yours. You weren’t going to give up, no matter what happened.

"I'll be more vigilant from now on," you reply, your voice firm, though still trembling. You've learned over time to be alert, to detect any sign of danger, but things are never that simple when the enemy hides in the shadows, within your own home. George looks at you with a mix of sadness and gratitude, but his expression is serious, as if he understands that the situation has changed irrevocably.

"It won't be enough, Casterly," he says in a soft, almost desolate tone. "You can't do it all alone. This is bigger than you think. We need to act, and not just you. The whole kingdom is in danger."

You watch him for a moment, feeling the weight of his words sink in. There’s something in his tone that leaves no room for doubt. It’s not just an assassin, nor even an isolated betrayal; it’s something much bigger, a conspiracy stretching across every corner of the kingdom and beyond. Enemy kingdoms could be conspiring together to bring down the royal family, and in the process, you would be the first to be dragged down. The thought chills you, but also makes you more resolute. No matter how many enemies are lurking in the shadows, you won’t let your people fall without a fight.

"So, what are we going to do?" you ask, your voice now harder, more determined.

George looks you directly in the eyes, not breaking his gaze for a second. His words are a promise, a plea, but also a warning.

"Whatever it takes. And we’ll do it together."

The silence that follows is heavy, as if the universe itself is waiting for the decision you just made. There’s no turning back. Both of you know that the path ahead will be long and dangerous, but you also know that the fight for the kingdom, for your family, and for your very life, is about to begin.

You nod slowly, your heart beating fast. Though the shadow of tragedy still follows you, you feel a spark of determination growing within you. The battle for your kingdom has just begun.

The silence that follows your words grows even heavier. George, as if aware of the tension that has grown between you, lets out an enigmatic smile, one that contrasts with the weight of what he just said. The smile is neither comforting nor sorrowful, but one that reflects deep, almost malicious interest.

"Now I’m the heir to the throne," he says with unsettling calm, as if the words are just a simple fact of life. His gaze rests on you, almost challenging you.

"And most likely, they’ll let me court you now, don’t you think?"

You stare at him, as if you've just woken up from a horrendous nightmare. His words make you feel a deep rage, a burn that spreads throughout your entire being. How can he be talking about courting you in the midst of such tragedy? Your brother has brutally died, and he, the man who just lost his greatest rival for the throne, seems to find comfort in the possibility of courting you. You can’t believe what you're hearing.

"Are you serious, George? Are you thinking about that now?" your voice breaks, but the fury you feel is evident. "Your brother just died. He was literally just murdered. And here you are, the only thing you can think about is what they’ve allowed you to do."

George watches you without losing his smile, as if your words are nothing more than a step in the inevitable power game he's trapped in.

"It’s true, his brother has died. But, who was dictating the law until now?" His tone softens, as if explaining a fundamental truth of life. "The king, and now, thanks to his departure, I’m the one in control. So, as the heir to the throne, I have the right to decide who can be by my side. And honestly, I’d like it to be you."

The blood in your veins boils at hearing those words, but you can’t help but feel a strange revulsion, a mixture of disgust and pity. It’s as if your brother’s death had been nothing more than just another piece in a game he has already won. A piece that opens the door to what he truly wants: to have you, as if you were a trophy, another step toward his ambition.

"Don’t forget that I’m still a knight, George. And you... you’re just a prince," you reply with a voice full of disdain, trying to regain control over your own emotions. But the truth is, you feel like you’re fighting against a tide that drags you along, a power play where it no longer matters who has died and who has survived.

George doesn’t respond immediately. He just moves closer to you, his face reflecting an unwavering satisfaction, as if nothing could change his fate. With one hand, he gently lifts your face, his fingers touching the soft curve of your cheek.

"Now, dear Casterly," he whispers, his warm breath brushing against your skin, "I’m the heir to the throne. And my word is law."

You fall silent, a mix of disbelief and fury building in your chest. There’s no doubt in George’s gaze, nor in his voice. He believes that, as the heir to the throne, everything he wants will be within his reach. And you... you can do nothing but listen as your fate, now in the hands of that man, turns into a nightmare.

He smiles again, this time with no trace of doubt.

"So, I ask that you consider what I’m offering you. Power is at my feet now. Don’t you think what binds us is greater than anything else?"

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to suppress the wave of emotions that overwhelm you. How did it all get this far? How could the death of one man have become another’s opportunity to take what he wanted? The reality was clear. Your brother’s death, and George’s rise to power, meant that you, as always, were nothing more than a pawn in the kings and princes' chess game. And worst of all, your life, your future, now also depended on the will of the man who looked at you with a smile on his lips, seeing you not as an honorable knight, but as just an opportunity to further solidify his power.

You take a step back, the sharp pain in your chest reflected in every movement you make.

"And if my loyalty isn’t in your hands, George... what will you do?" you ask, your voice dark, almost defiant.

George looks at you intently, the smile never leaving his face. He knows that everything now depends on him, that the final word is his. And he doesn’t plan to let you go so easily.

"You can ask those three"

Note ───── There was a moment when euphoria hit me so intensely that, in less than three hours, I had already created an entire universe. It was a burst of creativity that, while satisfying, I feel ended up being a bit shorter than what I usually do. As always, I tend to expand ideas much more, but this time I kept it more concise. However, even though the result was a bit brief, I sincerely hope you enjoyed this first original piece from me.

As for the character of George, I have to say that my friend was really fond of him. I'm glad to know he made a good impression, although personally, I feel like his interactions were too limited. Maybe I didn’t delve enough into his development or his dynamics with other characters. I’m not sure if you felt the same way, but it’s something I’d like to know. Despite my own doubts, I hope the overall idea was still enjoyable.

As always, any feedback or suggestions are more than welcome. Don’t hesitate to message me whenever you want to share your thoughts or discuss any aspect.

#oc #yandere oc #fem reader #knigth #yandere oc x reader #oc x you #oc x reader #oc x y/n #yandere prince #prince x reader

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darkcrowprincess · 4 months ago

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They could never make me hate you the dark knight trilogy

Its the only movies where batman and catwoman get a happy ending.

(Don't like don't read. Post hate and I'll block you!)

#batcat #selina kyle #catwoman #bruce x selina #bruce wayne x selina kyle #catwoman x batman #bruce wayne #batman #the dark knigth rises #the dark knight trilogy #movies #happy ending #happy endings

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ladyantiheroine · 1 year ago

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#batcat #bruce x selina #the batman 2022 #batman returns #telltale batman #batman the telltale series #the dark knigth rises #bruce wayne #selina kyle #batman x catwoman #brulina #selina x bruce #bruce wayne x selina kyle #selina kyle x bruce wayne #catwoman x batman #dc #dc comics #the dark knight trilogy #battinson

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selinas · 2 years ago

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THE DARK KNIGHT RISES (2012) dir. Christopher Nolan

#filmedit #dcugifs #dcuedit #the dark knigth rises #userrobin #usergina #userlily #dcmultiverse #userlenny #zanisummers #my gif #my gif: dc

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harmslength · 1 year ago

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Molt —

Pairing | Jonathan Crane x Reader

Word Count | 8.3k

Summary | In the aftermath of an untimely event, you find yourself struggling to get back to the life you had once before. Luckily (or unluckily), a certain psychologist might be able to help you with that.

TLDR - Jonathan and you meet at an annual conference, there’s tension, sex and one reference to It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia

Info | SMUT (18+ only), brief mentions of gore, brief mention of suicide, angst and lots of it, it’s awkward I’m ngl, they’re both getting something out of this, dare I say meet-cute?, Jonathan has a subtle breeding kink, use of y/n forgive me

Notes | this is my firstborn, so be nice. Or don’t, I’m into that.

Build Your Own Adventure | This is for the babes that like a little more freedom and a little more interaction with their plot/porn. I present to you my Jonathan Crane C.ai. Hate or love it, that’s your business but I do plan on releasing one for each story. (this was also made very quickly so if it’s off or not working just lemme know and I can fix it)

Empty boxes sat with gaping mouths, swallowing the remnants of a life once lived. It pained you to be here, both physically and mentally, but it had to be done. This was the first significant stride back toward normalcy, and so you embraced it, as best as you could.

Of course things were lost along the way. Anything yellow had to go–clothes, books, decor, anything. Some things passed in trash bags that smelled of lemon, some items met their untimely death much quicker. Shards of glass littered your dining room floor, bits and pieces cracking underneath your worn down slippers as you made your way across the room.

Today marked a year and half since the incident. The incident.. Oh, how those two words held so much and still couldn’t fully portray the horrors of it all.

You had abandoned your career at the door. Promises of returning yet to be fulfilled. You weren’t ready; not yet. You just needed more time–that's what you’ve been telling yourself, at least.

For the first few months your phone wouldn’t stop ringing. That damn incessant ringing. If it wasn't clients asking for a return date then it was news outlets begging to get an insider's perspective. ‘Oh how terrifying that must’ve been,’ they’d coo into the phone.

You grew to despise the ringing, so much so that you had yanked the chords right out the receiver and let it dangle there by one copper thread. It swayed every time you passed it, mocking you, taunting you.

This act of course had denied you the opportunity of listening to the monotone voice of a woman who would ‘cordially invite you’ to this year's annual Gothams Psychological Association conference. Don’t fret though, a decorative written letter arrived in the mail just a few weeks later, wax sealed and signed by the mayor.

The invitation laid amongst the mess that was your dining room table now. Collecting dust like everything else in this apartment.

When it had first arrived you had torn the paper in half and tossed it into the trash, but after much contemplation (and not so gentle pushing from Janine–your therapist) you dug out the two halves of the invitation, taped them together and decided that this was something you had to do.

For you.

—

The first time you saw Jonathan was in the paper.

As you packed away the last remnants of your home, vase in hand, crinkled newspaper in the other, your eye was immediately drawn to a headline.

Gothams own Donald Hebb: Dr. Jonathan Crane – it read.

The article was a mouthful of praise and spoon-fed accolades, heralding the doctor as a distinguished figure in the field. You didn’t get very far due to the fact that his picture had stolen your attention.

Your thumb skimmed over the calloused paper, engrossed in the way his intense stare seemed to burn through the pages.

You’ve heard of the great Dr. Jonathan Crane before, of course you had, who hadn’t? But you had never seen the man. He was.. prettier than you would’ve expected, and surprisingly young for his accomplishments.

He was also remarkably small. As he stood to get his photo taken with a man who was nearly twice his size, it became very apparent. You examined the way Jonathan stood, the distance between the two gentleman’s heads. The way his hands were laced together in front of him, and that stare. That goddamn stare. Like he was looking through you, barely even seeing you. Just taking notes of your bones and the red meat that encased them.

It interested you, at least for a few minutes before you got distracted and left the wrinkled paper and vase sitting there on your dining room table.

Now as you’ve officially seen him for the second time, finally seeing the great Dr. Jonathan Crane in the flesh, you remembered the photo.

You had first caught a glimpse at him from the corner of the room. He was sitting, perched to the side, waiting for his turn to speak as a small group of doctors coalesced on the stage.

He looked different, so to speak. Different in the way that his sardonic displeasure permeated the whole room, instead of just the flimsy pages of a newspaper.

He held nothing in his eyes but grief. His lips cut into a thin line, hands placed ever so gently on his knees. You could see it and you were sure everyone else in the room could too—he couldn’t stand being here.

To be fair, you didn't blame him. Enduring a barrage of regurgitated monologues can drive anyone to the brink of insanity. This sentiment echoed in the long weekend's itinerary, filled with hotels, cocktails, and seemingly endless speeches. All courtesy of GPA—Gotham’s Psychological Association.

So here you sat, a few rows back, sitting in heels that have started to pinch at your toes and a dress that has long ago started to itch. You grew flimsy and snippy, in the mood for a drink or a little less talking.

Dr. Crane stood and took his spot at the podium. For the first time that night, your attention was held.

His voice was lower than you expected too. Before speaking, Jonathan cleared his throat, surveyed the room and then leaned in close. His full, pink lips parted slightly just to let out the most wistful voice you’ve ever heard. A mixture of annoyance and deep longing blending together in this almost angelic way. It drew you in, made the skin on your back tingle and your eyes dilate just ever so slightly.

Subconsciously, you edged closer to the end of your seat, as if that would bring you any closer to the revered man.

“I respect the mind's power over the body. It’s why I do what I do.” He spoke calmly, lips pursed and waiting patiently for his applause.

People clapped generously and another doctor moved up to take his place. You watched as he made his way down the line of chairs and returned to his designated seat.

“I would like to thank everyone for coming out to our annual celebration. Now to commence the rest of the evening, the bar is officially open, time to pick some brains!”

—

Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of listening to mindless chatter, listening to ice clinking against glass, heels clicking against marble and laughter. Sweet, joyous laughter. That’s all the time it took for you to officially give up.

It was almost laughable how quickly you had found yourself at the bar; sipping on what was already your second drink of the night.

You had spent some time perusing between conversations, meeting up with some old colleagues and sharing times of when things were much simpler.

It was good for a minute, casual, but then the eyes would linger on you just a little bit longer than what was normal. Bushes would be beaten around, and then suddenly you felt small again. Like a bug under a microscope, being poked and prodded. Trapped.

You weren’t trapped of course. As soon as you entered the room you made sure to note where each exit was. Four emergency exit doors to the left, two grand doors on the right.

Regardless of your efforts, you ended up here, sitting alone at the bar—and god you swore it never looked this depressing in the movies.

You checked your phone, but after a while that only made you feel worse. Texts and missed calls from friends and family, wondering where you’ve been and if you’d call them back. Some of the worst messages saying that they’re ‘worried about you’ and they’re ‘scared for your health.’

It made the distance grow. There were just some things that others couldn’t understand. Right now, especially right now, you didn’t want to think about this, you just wanted to sit here and drink your drink and socialize and not think about this. Stop thinking about this, stop thinking about it stop thinking��

“Tonic water.”

You recognized that voice. Your eyes slipped from the martini in your hand and moved to the man now standing beside you.

Your eyes traveled from his tailored black trousers up to his finely combed dark hair. He was wearing the same polished, silver frames that he wore in the photo.

You knew his eyes were blue, but now seeing them up close and under the dim light of the chandelier—he was gorgeous. You stared perhaps a little too long, liking the way his dark lashes fluttered when he blinked.

Jonathan cleared his throat, tapping his fingers against the glass of the bar. Impatient and perceptive, he caught the subtle movement from the corner of his eye— your gaze lingering on him. His blue eyes turned, fixing upon you with an intensity that hinted at both curiosity and acknowledgment. Caught off guard, you quickly averted your eyes, stirring your drink, hoping the faint flush in your cheeks went unnoticed.

You didn’t understand why exactly he had the ability to make you so nervous but he did.

You weren’t one for shyness or beating around the bush, in fact quite the opposite. You were a go-getter, at times a charmer. But with him, and due to recent events, you grew timid, meek. So unrecognizable to whom you used to be.

When the bartender finally supplied him with his drink of choice — tonic water, he took a sip and raked over the man with a dead stare.

“Start a tab.” Is all he said, simple and cold, before placing his credit card on the counter.

You watched him walk away, damning yourself for not having the courage to say anything, but also not sure at all what you would say.

—

“Dr. L/N, come here my dear!” You were mindlessly wandering around when Dr. Patel, a former colleague of yours, called you over.

“Have you met my constituents Dr. David and Dr. Cr—“

Jonathan Crane.

The man needed no introduction. You knew who he was and by the way he was looking at you—or well, looking through you, perhaps he knew who you were as well. Hopefully, not just as the woman who couldn’t keep her eyes to herself.

"-Jonathan Crane," he finished for Patel, offering a small smile that, to him, might be considered slight, but to the rest of the world, appeared as a hollowed smirk. He cocked his head, subtly leaning back as if sizing you up, assessing what was on the menu for tonight. Not in a sexual manner, but in an almost carnivorous way.

You stuck your hand out politely to shake his, and with some hesitation he met yours. His grip was intense and loose at the same time. Something like a stiff fish, fresh out of the water.

He was the first to pull back, quick like he was afraid of catching something. You let your hand fall back at your side and tried to hide the shame of the interaction.

Was he always this.. abnormal or was it you?

No one seemed to notice though, Dr. Patel and Dr. David broke out into another conversation, often trying to rope Jonathan in but he wasn’t interested.

You both drowned out the people around you, both sets of eyes fixed on each other, completely entranced.

It didn’t feel like a collective decision, it felt like he had locked you in with his oceanic stare and was picking you apart, piece by wretched piece.

It wasn’t until Dr. David nudged you lightly that you were finally brought back down to earth.

“So, how have things been business wise?” Patel asked and all three of the men turned their attention to you.

“They’ve been.. good.” You lied casually. You hadn’t seen a client in almost two years.

“That’s so good to hear, and how are the clients?” Patel dug further, almost as if he was reading your mind.

You could tell by the look he was giving you that something was at the end of his questions, like there was some joke you weren’t in on.

“Fine.” You said a bit more sharply.

Patel carried on as if it was nothing. He nudged Jonathan playfully, clearing not picking up on, or not caring to notice, the way Jonathan shifted away.

“Crane, you’ll love this. This woman has a knack for collecting some of the most strange and peculiar people, I swear!” He said as if it was the most interesting thing ever.

“I mean, talk about some of the most mentally deranged people you could ever meet— outside of what you do of course.” Patel added, gesturing towards Crane.

“Oh yeah, if they’re not serving time, then trust she has them on her books.” David joined in.

The two older gentlemen shared a look of amusement, nasty smirks plastering their wrinkled faces.

“Is that so?” Crane asked, his interest for once slightly peaked.

You took a sip of the drink in your hand, once again, not quite sure of what to say.

You wouldn’t say you collect the mentally deranged, you’d call it something much more appropriate. Like counseling the mentally ill, whichever level of ill that may be.

“I suppose some may say so.” You said, with a dull smile.

Dr. Patel chuckled and clapped a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder, once again making him shrink away.

“She’s being humble, don’t listen to her. Trust me, this is a woman you could spend years picking apart and still never scrape the bottom of the barrel.” Patel gripped Jonathan by the shoulder, holding him place as he wiggled his wrinkly finger at you.

“The only thing you’d find is the bottom of a shotgun barrel.” David jabbed Patel before both of them bursted into heavy laughter, clutching their guts and wiping their metaphorical tears.

You felt the air leave your lungs; a choked cough escaping from your lips in the process. You clutched your drink in your hand and averted your gaze. Anger, resentment, guilt peeling away at you, shucking you of your skin.

You clenched your fist so hard around your glass you thought it was going to break, you hoped that it would so you could proceed to lodge the end through both of the men’s chicken-chinned gullets.

You opened your mouth to throw a gargled insult their way. More likely though, storm off and drink away your imminent sorrows.

“I assume discretion isn’t something you gentlemen like to practice.” Jonathan interjected, taking both of them off guard.

Dr. Patel’s laugh faded as he narrowed his eyes and took a sip of his aged whiskey. “There’s nothing wrong with a few jokes Crane. We all work in the same field, do the same work. If we don’t have humor, then what do we have?”

“Self preservation.” Jonathan replied, as if it was so simple.

Patel could argue, he could go on and on about how one of the core parts of being human is the humor— the joy. But what joy was there to have here? An inside joke that seemingly everyone was a part of but you? That came at the expense of you?

Luckily, the older men knew to not argue, not with Crane at least, so they took the hint.

Patel tossed back the rest of his drink, taking the melted ice cubes into his loquacious lips and swallowing.

You stood, teeth clenched and yet—surprised. You almost admired Jonathan in this moment. He stood before you, his unrelenting stare boring a hole through what used to be a dignified man and now was just a petty, arrogant prick. Be gone with him, be gone with them both.

“We’ll leave you two to talk, excuse us.” The two men left without another word. As they turned to walk away, you relished the way David’s face burned red like a freshly, boiled lobster.

When you looked back at Jonathan he held his empty glass in his hand.

“I'm getting another refreshment and I encourage you to join me.” With that he walked away and like some curious dog, you followed. Snout in the dirt following his ghostly scent.

You both reached the bar. With the swipe of his fingers and the swipe of his credit card, a tonic water and martini appeared.

You watched him take a sip and look into the glass. Once satisfied he set it down and motioned the bartender away.

You waited for him to ask you anything but before he could open his mouth to speak, you beat him to it.

“Tonic water?” You gestured to the fizzy drink in his hand.

“I don’t drink.” He said simply, not aiding you with anymore information.

You knew there were probably a million and one reasons why he didn’t. It was terrible on the body, highly addictive, past traumatic experiences. A million and one reasons that were truly none of your business.

“Why?” You spoke again, surprising yourself.

“I don’t like to drink.” Jonathan said like it was the simplest thing in the world and that you were just too stupid to realize.

Your eyes glazed over what was in front of you, a gentle hum of acknowledgement leaving your lips.

“I don’t like what it does to the body or the brain. Makes people vapid— careless, really.” You nodded, but didn’t have much to say.

You had to wonder now if that’s what he thought of you. Vapid and careless?

“Isn’t carelessness what brings opportunity? Aren’t we supposed to be drawn to the impulsive actions of others?” You pointed out, trying your best to keep up with his idea of conversation.

Jonathan swallowed down his excuse for a drink and looked at you. “Maybe not impulse as much as instinct.”

Touché.

You couldn’t argue with that, and so you didn’t. There was a pregnant pause before either of you spoke again.

“So is what Patel said true?”

“Hm?” You raise a brow to him, curious to what he was thinking.

“That you’re a collector of the mentally deranged?”

“Oh um—“ A door slams to your right, immediately stealing your attention.

“No, no I wouldn’t say that,” you replied honestly, turning back to face him.

“No?” He cocked his head at you. “Your name has been dropped in every conversation I’ve been in now. I can’t seem to escape you..”

You felt a subtle ache grow inside your chest, the kind that made you want to run and hide.

“Have you now?” You asked, hiding your unease in your words.

“I have.” Jonathan took a moment to sip at his drink. The edge of the glass met his lips and you watched as his adams apple bobbed against his cool-toned neck.

You averted your gaze. Swollen with discomfort, you tossed back the rest of yours.

“Especially with the recent news.” He added casually.

You watched him from the corner of your eye, your palms growing sweaty, your touch shaky.

Jonathan waited to gauge your reaction, probably wanting to see if the rumors were true. Probably trying to dissect you and ring you out like every other lizard brained psychologist here.

The thought made you more sick and soon your martini tasted a lot less like vermouth and more like bile.

“Excuse me—“ you reached for your purse and abruptly stood up, your eye firmly on the exit.

“Your dissertation.” He spoke quickly, his cold, dead hand now wrapping around your bare forearm.

You looked at his hand and then into his eyes.

“My dissertation?”

“Yes,” Jonathan cleared his throat and promptly pulled his hand away. “The news that your paper on psychosexual experiences on the youth—you were awarded the Fieldsman achievement..” His words trailed off.

Something finally clicked in your brain. “Oh—oh. Yes, my paper on the—yeah.” You rubbed two fingers across the crease on your forehead, it was slowly coming back.

“You know about that?” You asked, slightly surprised that he— let alone, anyone knew about it.

It was true, about a month ago you had received a letter in the mail stating that the paper you had written almost 6 years ago was being awarded for its contribution to science.

You were flattered of course, ecstatic even. But amongst the crushing chaos of what has been your life for the past year and a half, the victory fell a bit short.

“I do.” Jonathan set his glass down. “I like to keep tabs on the people that matter.”

You couldn’t help but become a little flustered at his words. Once again, this man had proven himself unpredictable, challenging to read, and irresistibly intriguing.

——

“Have you ever thought of working for Arkham? We could use someone like you.”

You felt your face heat up from the subtle compliment. Over the past hour of talking with Jonathan, you grew to realize that not much impressed the man. He wasn’t swooned by shiny objects or mouths full of intricate words. He certainly didn’t care much for his so-called ‘constituents’. Jonathan was a man of simplicity and high standards and you couldn’t deny that you were quite pleased to meet them.

“No, no. I don’t think asylums are quite my forte.” You said with ease, a warm smile crinkling at your lips. “Plus, I live so far away it would take forever to get there.”

Jonathan cocked his head, scrutinizing you as you both chatted at the dimly lit bar. "Don't you live in the city?"

You hesitated for a moment, swirling the ice in your glass. "Not anymore. The city lights hurt my eyes." A half-truth.

"So where do you live then?" He prodded.

"Kind of on the outskirts of the city... and then some more."

"That’s a shame," is all he could say. A subtle pause settled between you both, the hum of the bar providing background noise.

Jonathan's eyes flickered with an unreadable intensity. "So you have a room here then?"

You nodded, a slight unease in your expression.

"Yes." The admission lingered, allowing a new level of possibilities to transpire.

Pursing his lips, he let himself conjure up a thought—an idea.

Jonathan glanced over at you, a faint glint in his eyes. "Your dissertation.. it really is fascinating work," he remarked, sipping his drink. "I'd love to read it in more detail, perhaps even get a physical copy to show my subordinates."

You traced the rim of your glass with your fingertips, nerves, of all kinds, pricking beneath your skin. Jonathan's words hung in the air as you debated internally. Finally, you ventured, "Well, I do have a copy on hand... if you'd like to borrow it?"

He raised an eyebrow, a subtle yet intriguing shift in his demeanor. "Now? Or..later?"

A hesitant smile played on your lips. "Now works."

Jonathan stood, motioning towards the hotel's elevator. "Lead the way, then."

The journey to your room felt like a dance on ice. A slippery slope you were allowing yourself to teeter. As you fumbled with the key card, he spoke again.

"I must admit, I didn’t think I’d find you this intriguing."

His words tingled in your ear, his body close and warm, his hand reaching toward you—

The sensor on the door flickered green and before you could say anything he opened it, gesturing you inside.

The room was in slight disarray, a few clothing items on the floor, the bed wrinkled from use, your suitcase spilling with clothes and accessories.

The pain in your feet was enough to throw care aside. You briskly propped yourself up in the hotel room’s chair and kicked off your heels. A deep sigh of relief exhaled between your lips.

You thought about Jonathan’s doorknob confession and grew curious. “Were you expecting to meet me?”

Jonathan held his tongue as he made his way around the room, finding interest in the most inconsequential things.

You continued to watch him, nervous and yet emboldened.

“I was hoping.” He had his back to you now, pulling the drapes open long enough to peak outside. A soft smile pulled on your lips long enough for you to realize what you were really here for.

Standing up, you shuffled to the scrambled suitcase beside the bed, extracting a brown folder containing exactly what you needed.

“The paper—“ you spoke, handing it directly to him, his pale hand lingered on yours for just a second too long.

Now that he was in your room, part of you felt as if maybe you had made a mistake. Asking a man you hardly knew up to your room for a copy of a dissertation you wrote over 6 years ago…

It was all about the implication.

Jonathan took the paper in his hands and briskly skimmed through the pages. Unbeknownst to you, he could almost recite it word for word.

"Excellent, once I've made a copy, I'll send the original back to you," he assured.

“Keep it,” you insisted, “It’s only a copy.”

Jonathan nodded gently and folded it in his hands. “Very well.”

Underneath his layers of clothes was a man. Disgusting and vile, desirous and new. As he spoke, a subtle ache stirred within you, igniting a curiosity to unravel the enigma that was Jonathan Crane.

Mentally you scrambled for a reason for him to stay. His off-putting, almost antisocial behaviors did not deter you. In fact it was quite the opposite. Perhaps Dr. Patel was right—you did have a knack for the strange and peculiar.

“Would you like a drink?” You asked suddenly, wishful that he would accept the invitation.

“I don’t drink.” He reminded you, cool as ever.

“Right.” You averted your gaze, a warm tint filling your cheeks.

“If you’re wanting to have sex with me, it’s best if you just say it. There’s no use in waffling.”

You wished his words had come as a surprise, but once again—The implication.

“Is that what we’re doing here, preparing for sex?” You asked, finding the strength to be a bit more bold.

“No, but do people not converse before sex?” He responded absentmindedly, but he minded, he did. He was purposefully being indecisive, leaving it up to you to put a label on where this was going.

Sex or discussion. Sex or self preservation.

“It’s up to your discretion.” He added, making this all sound like some business deal.

“I suppose they do.” You replied after a moment of contemplation.

“So do you?” He tempted you, his words sultry and his intentions so very clear.

“Yes..” you said honestly. The words escaped your lips before you had time to think. Before you could ruminate and worry and run away in fear like a coward. This is different, you reminded yourself.

You want this.

Jonathan drew closer to you. His hand crept to your exposed shoulder, and for once you felt how cold his hands really were. He trembled slightly as he touched you, his own body betraying him, showing light underneath his darkened exterior.

“Is this something you do often?” He asked once his face had grown closer to yours. It was your turn to swallow, pinning back your own set of nerves that seemed to be growing on you, like fuzzy mold over leftovers.

“And if I do?” You asked, but you know you didn’t. It’s been at least a year since you’ve even gotten a passing glance. Two since you’ve had any form of actual I ntimacy. But you wanted to see his reaction, so you prodded.

“Then you do.” He said simply.

Then you do.

“Do you?” You counteracted. His hand slid down to cup at your fingers as they dangled, hot and probably sweaty from the tension.

“Does it matter?” He threw back at you easily. It’s like he had a response to everything.

Your eyes shifted to the hotel room door, then to the window to your left. Two exits.

You looked to the table beside you. A pen, a journal and a packet of Marlboro Lights. You looked at your purse, noticing that you tossed it haphazardly by the door.

You could use the pen as a weapon. If you’re quick you could lodge it into his jugular, maybe even in the eye or chest if need be. If that doesn’t work you can attempt to make a run for it to your purse, pull out the tiny pistol you stashed away for emergencies. Remember to take the safety off, grip with two—

The pressure of his hand squeezing yours brought you back. “Does it?” He repeated.

“No— I guess not.” You wanted this. Did you want this? Your head was spinning just a little. You could hear the crunching of your anxiety biting at you. Your prescription of Zoloft doing absolutely nothing for you at this moment, in more ways than one.

There was an almost unfamiliar dampness between your legs. Foreign and alien— you wanted to pry away at it, test it and finally, send it home back to its creator: Dr. Jonathan Crane.

He kissed you, slow and almost pubescent, like he’s never had the pleasure of a goodbye kiss.

Over time his soft lips met yours with ease, a vibration falling between the two of you as what seemed to be the peak of the night so far.

He pulled you into him quickly, chests hitting each other with a thump. You stumbled forward a bit, not expecting the act of feverish desire but not rejecting it either.

A warmth spread through your body, a gentle ache creaking inside your bones. You wanted out of this dress, and into the soft, delicate fabrics of the floral bedspread. But you had time, no need to rush this.

Jonathan had other plans, of course. With cold shaky hands and his own pleasure on his mind. He gripped at your zipper and yanked so hard you swore he snapped the dangling metal right off.

Your heart sped up immediately. You put your hands to his chest, the words “slow down” ready on the tip of your tongue.

His lips dove in, licking and sucking the perfume right off your neck. It felt good for a minute. Especially if you closed your eyes and imagined you were someone else.

That only worked for so long of course. Memories crept in. They found the key to the vault that was your safe space, the last place you had that wasn’t tainted.

When Jonathan’s cold hand reached up to caress your breast through the fabric of your dress it almost resembled a blade. The cold steel taunting you before slipping behind the fabric and dancing across your skin.

“S-Stop.” You froze. He froze.

Jonathan lifted his face from your neck and peered at you. “Something wrong?”

Jonathan could sense your hesitation, your fear, your dissonance. But he let you have the floor. He let you decide if this was going to continue, how this was going to play out.

You chewed on your bottom lip and mentally pushed back the fears that clung to you.

“I— I just need a moment. I uh, I like to take things slow.” You compromised.

Jonathan watched you through his silver lens, reading you, dissecting you like he’s been known to do. After a moment of contemplation, he agreed with a slight nod of the head.

Both hands cupped your cheeks, bringing you in close so your lips were only a breath away.

“Slow it is.” He murmured before kissing you with vigor and passion. The red warning signs going off in your head were slowly drowned out as his tongue pressed against your bottom lip. Asking—no, demanding entry.

This, you didn’t mind so much. Jonathan kind of reminded you of your first high school boyfriend. Subtly eager, clean yet filthy. He was your honey brewed arsenic.

Things stayed slow yet intense. The wetness between your legs growing as his hands cascaded down your body and gripped at the most unwelcome places.

You found comfort in his unpredictability and within that, you found pride in yourself. You knew you weren’t ruined. By all diagnostics and logistics, you weren’t ruined— just.. horrifically scarred. Like a burn victim or a C-section that was poorly sutured.

Unfortunately though, memories lingered like shadows, hurling nightmare fuel and the echoes of your muffled screams every time a room fell silent.

Closing your eyes, all you could see was blood and brain matter splattered against your eggshell stained walls. Sulfur—heavy in the air, so pungent it burned the insides of your nostrils. A festering wound would be left, soaking through your mustard colored shirt. Breathing choppy and unstable. Wrists splintered with plastic fibers of the rope that held you in place. You could barely move and so you’d stay like that for the next 36 hours.

As your noses brushed, stomachs pressed, and lips danced— you believed you caught a whiff of that suffocating night, but you were mistaken. He wasn’t here, and for now, you could feel safe.

This time, you leaned into Jonathan’s touch as he pulled back the fabric of your dress. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you let his fingers dance against the bare skin of your back, tracing down your spine and up over your shoulder blades.

You moaned aloud between your smushed lips. His breathing picked up as he exhaled air through his nose.

The dress slipped off your shoulders and into a heap on the floor. For a moment, you stood there. Brazenly bare for the whole 37 sq ft room to see.

He took a small step back, drinking you in. Hands dangling at his sides as he discovered what lies beneath the layers.

There was a long, ugly scar that ran from the top of your belly button to your sternum. It was hideous.

Each jagged edge told a story, but not one of triumph. The scar seemed to mock, a constant reminder of just how horrifically you were violated. Its presence screamed of a wound that had healed with reluctance, a silent testimony to the resilience of skin and the brutality of life's unpredictable encounters.

There was little-to-no beauty in it. The only thing it left in its wake was you. Still alive, still fighting.

You.

He stared at it like it was nothing more than a mole or a stretch mark. The only form of real attention he bothered to give it was the gentle slide of his thumb trailing its seams. He felt the bumps and the craters under his digit but he didn’t utter a word.

Maybe if you knew Jonathan just a little bit more - or at all for that matter - Maybe you could at least try to decipher what was running through his head. What that blank stare really meant..

Did he understand now? Did he understand the petty remarks and pitied glances? The way people seemed to stiffen around you or play all too nice? You were a victim in all forms, but calling yourself that made you feel sick.

You just wanted to be fine—to be okay. To be perceived as both of those things. But you weren’t sure if that day would ever come again.

“You’re so beautiful.”

You swore it was the slip of his tongue, niceties pouring out so he didn’t have to face the uncomfortable stench that followed you.

“So beautiful.” He echoed. He cupped your breast and trailed kisses down your neck. You swallowed the golf ball sized lump in your throat and tried to pretend that three simple words didn’t just thaw the coldest part of you.

It was in that moment that you decided that he had to have known what had happened, or at least as much as anyone else but he chose not to pry. That was enough for you.

Undressing Jonathan proved to be a challenge, a hurdle you hadn't anticipated in the wake of your own triumph.

Jonathan was skittish. Like a roach under a light, he fought to stay out of your view. He wanted no return on his investments. No gentle trailing of fingers or sweet nothings softly cooed between parted lips.

When you had finally removed his dress shirt and tie, you noticed the way he held himself back from wrapping his arms around his slender frame. Instead he opted to kiss you hard and messily.

You ran your hands through his hair, taking note of the residual gel and products that coated your fingers.

“Jonathan,“ you peeled away from him, but he held you so tightly.

“Just kiss me.” He ordered in desperation. His eyes were closed, he refused to look at you. So you did. You kissed him till you both fumbled your way to the bed.

He pushed you down gently onto the mattress before shucking away his trousers and underwear. You could only get a quick view of him before he turned you over and yanked your hips up so your ass was in the air.

Finally, undressed and malleable—he took you from behind. You craned your head back to look at him as he held you in place. One palm pushing down the arch of your back and the other on your hips.

He still had his glasses on, slightly fogged from the breaths of exerted air, and the pure arousal of it all.

He gripped at his cock, sliding through your folds, relishing the sounds of your arousal dampening his erection.

He moaned and lined it along the sweet spot, already feeling you wanting to pull him in.

“You’re so wet.” He exhaled, his voice whiner than it was before. You blushed and shook beneath him, taking in his words.

Without hesitation he pushed in, moaning at the feeling of your velvety walls enveloping him. First the head, then the base, and when he was finally inside of you, he put a little more weight onto your hips, pushing himself that much deeper.

You both let out a shaky breath. You felt full and a subtle burning from the stretch. He was already pushing against your cervix, jabbing at it with each subtle movement. You shifted in his grip, trying to pull away ever so slightly, but it was useless, he would just pull your hips back into place each time.

“Shit.” He groaned. The first time you’ve heard him cuss all night.

You watched him take off his glasses finally and blow out a breath of air.

The drag of his hips backwards sent the bundle of nerves in your guts ablaze. You scrambled to grip at the pillows as he thrusted back in. They were slow and hard for a minute, allowing you to get acquainted with the full sheer size of him.

Jonathan grunted and huffed behind you, getting lost in his own bouts of pleasure as he sped up his movements. You could feel his thighs pressed into yours and you wished that you could see him. See his moans leave his pouty lips, or the way his eyes rolled back in pleasure.

You tried to sit up, eager for a better angle when his hand pushed you down gently. “Just—“ He moaned, desperate and needy. “— stay like that a little longer.”

You obeyed, till he sped up once again, rutting against you like some fleshy hole in the wall. His pistoled his cock in and out, fucking you like it was a task and not an experience—a choice.

“Dr. Crane.” You objected, your discomfort growing. the words feeling out of place in this moment.

“Jonathan.. fuck, call me Jonathan.” He all but growled out. You couldn’t take this anymore.

“Stop—wait, wait.” You pushed a hand to his stomach and pulled yourself forward, making his cock slip most of the way out.

“What is it?” He asked, his concentration snapped.

“I—we need to change positions. This isn’t working for me.” You explained as calmly as you could.

Jonathan let out a short sigh and pulled away. “What do you suggest?”

“We could try facing each other?”

“Like missionary?”

“Would that be so bad?”

“No.. I suppose not.” He said nervously. You could see it in his face, his hesitation, but you prevailed.

Lying down against the mattress, your body on full display; he followed, slotting himself between your legs.

His tongue slid out, as his hands trailed down your body. You were an equation to him it seemed. Daring to solve, yet knowing none of the rules.

You wrapped your legs around his hips, beckoning him to make a move. Jonathan pressed himself against your chest as he slid in, in one good thrust he was filling you once again.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and let him slowly rock against you. Each thrust was milking your body of tension and frustration from the night. Fuck—from the past two years.

It felt good, impeccably good. His lips were next to your ear, embedded in your hair, breathing hard and yet never uttering a word. It turned you on even more, fueling each thrust with your slick arousal.

“Fuck..” you pulled at the ends of his hair, your back arching and eyes fluttering shut. Jonathan took that as his chance and adjusted his hips ever so slightly.

He was still shaking in your grasp, hands still cold as they gripped at your shoulders; using you as leverage to fuck you and fuck you good at that.

At one particular thrust he finally hit that sweet spot inside of you. Both of you finally releasing all that pent up frustration in the sound of a mewl.

You gripped his face in your hands, needing some form of intimacy to this animalistic act.

“Fuck—Jonathan. Kiss me.” You demanded, reeling and hungry for him.

He did as he was told, pushing his lips into yours as he pounded his cock deeper into you.

You gasped in between his lips and held him for dear life as he grunted and hissed out your name like some slur.

He lazily moved his lips against yours once he finally tired himself out from the brutal pace. His movements were clumsy, teeth knocking together; vicious with the way he bit down on your bottom lip and pulled.

You let out a whimper which finally made him take the chance to look at you. Mental snapshots of what he’d probably be jerking off to for the next few weeks.

“Fuck..” he groaned aloud, filthy as ever. His hands fumbled for your tits, before hungrily latching onto them and sucking. His tongue slithered over your nipple, his mouth holding a strange coursing heat that his body tended to lack.

Jonathan wasn’t a very vocal man, but you enjoyed the sight of his eyes rolling to the back of his head as his hands and mouth desperately tried to encase you.

He was succumbing to his bodily urges much quicker than he anticipated. You could feel it too. His hips stuttering, thrusts becoming erratic. You didn’t mind, it was a good run after all. Perhaps, you’d wait another year to actually orgasm from something else besides your own hands or flimsy silicone toys.

Jonathan snapped his eyes open, as if reading your mind, he detached himself from your nipple and moved so you were now on top and his back was pressed against the headboard.

“Just.. give me a second.” He said between labored breaths.

You sat there for a moment, clenching around his pulsing cock. Every few seconds you would clamp down on him and each time he would grip your hips as a warning.

You were growing antsy just sitting here on top of him, so you cupped his face in your hands and brought his lips to yours. Jonathan was grateful for it.

He moaned into the kiss, his grip tender and yet ravaging. He touched your shoulders down to your breasts, one hand rubbing and twisting the sensitive nubs, one hand pressed to your spine.

It wasn’t until you felt his fingers slip past your navel and reach the bundle of nerves that your abandoned arousal was reignited.

You moaned into his mouth and trembled in his lap like a virgin. You hadn’t been touched like this in so long, you basically felt like one.

“Right there?” He teased you. His thumb ghosted over it at first, giving you a little taste of a friend you dearly missed. You clutched him now, both of you looking down; heads pressed together, watching as he worked you into a frenzy.

You nodded helplessly as he added pressure, moving his thumb in circles.

“Yes. Please don’t stop.” You begged, making Jonathan smile, a warm glow filling his cheeks. He didn’t stop, wouldn’t ever stop as long as you kept making those noises.

Feeling you grip around him, soaking him as you moaned like nobody has ever properly fucked you before— it sent a whole new wave of desire through him. A feeling that he’s never bothered to know before.

He kept his thumb moving in circles as he gripped your hips and humped into you. You couldn’t believe the pleasure that rippled through you, you couldn’t remember the last time you had ever been this turned on.

Jonathan rested his head between your breasts, mouthing at them as they bounced against his face, each thrust making you jirate more and more.

“So tight, god you’re so fucking tight.” He whimpered against your chest. You could feel that heat again, that bubbling heat coiling around inside you; tickling your toes and bones. “Feels.. so fucking good.”

“Oh—Jonathan, Jonathan.. Jonathan,” you praised his name like a mantra. He snaked his free hand up to the back of your neck, adding pressure and pulling you down to meet each thrust. Holding you there, making you take it, take all of it.

“Are you going to come for me?” He whispered, glassy eyes staring up at you. It felt addictive to bask in his insatiable gaze.

You couldn’t even offer him a confirmation. The orgasm was ripped from your hands and displayed right before his very eyes.

“Yes—keep going, come all over my cock darling. Just like that.” He encouraged, his own orgasm right around the corner.

You were too fucked out to even pick up on the casual pet name he threw your way.

He kept the pounding of his hips going, each punch upward hitting you like a sledgehammer and knocking all the air out of you.

“Jo..na..than,” you spoke brokenly. The air was thick and filled with the sound of your slapping thighs and his grunts.

“I’m so close.. Y/N I’m so close.” He repeated over and over again. His thumb still continued to rub you till the room went blurry. Little zaps filling your body, making your hips stutter over his.

“I-It’s too much-“ you tried to protest, weakly prying at his iron grip.

“—feels so good Y/N, I want to come, please let me come inside you,” he gripped tighter at your neck, making you feel slightly lightheaded.

Your arousal was immediately brought back to life. Just thinking about his come oozing out of you, nice and slow, so filthy, so wrong, so freeing.

You felt this part of you that haven’t felt in a long time. An absence of shame or fear. To act and to do as you please in accordance to you.

“Fuck—Yes, please..” you begged loudly, rifling your hands through his hair. You pulled on the ends, forcing him to look at you. You wanted to watch him as he came.

“Oh my god.” He gaped, slowly reaching the precipice of his orgasm, looking at how absolutely fucked you looked right now.

You put your hips into motion, and tightened your insides, desperate to come again before both of you finally gave out. You were already there, right there, little jabs of heat scoring the inside of your body.

“Hold on—just a little longer, please.” You gasped between breaths. You were the one now begging for time. You’ve never been this starved for something.

Jonathan gritted his teeth, muscles clenching and relaxing. He rested his head against your chest and took a deep breath before working his sore thumb harder but not faster, careful not to send the orgasm fleeting.

“Fuck—look at you.” he moaned, “I just—“

His hand dragged into your hair and pulled you down to meet his vivacious kiss. Tongues swapping spit and rubbing against each other.

Both mouths vibrated as moans slipped from them. You rolled your hips once, twice and by the third time you were crashing down on him. Sputtering obscenities and some niceties, you came like you never had before.

Jonathan gasped, gripping you with so much force you thought you’d collapse in on yourself. His hips stuttered, but only harsh thrusts were granted as his cock flexed inside of you. Warmth pooled inside and around you.

You watched his face contort into a look of tension and pain and then finally, slowly relax as his mouth hung agape; eyes slotted in the back of his head. Pretty lashes fluttering and chest heaving.

He was truly a sight to behold.

The motions slowed down to where he was just mindlessly rutting against your heat. You could feel a hot, sticky coating where you both were connected. It felt like gorilla glue as he finally stopped, neither of you wanting or ready to pull away quite yet.

Jonathan’s sweat stained forehead was pressed to your chest, hands still gripping you like you were his only life force.

“Fuck.. I-“ Jonathan tried to speak but a hesitation filled him. Suddenly becoming very aware of where he was and whom he was in, he grew needy. The act being so much more vulnerable than he had ever intended, it weakened him. Cracked him open and now he had no other choice but to cling.

You placed your hands on his shoulders, trying to lift yourself off of him to give your aching hole some rest, but it was futile.

“Don’t— can we just stay like this?” He pleaded against your warm breasts. “Just a little longer..”

He sounded so small, fragile and expendable. But you didn’t toss him to the side, didn’t clammer off of him and dress yourself in record speed.

You stayed.. keenly aware of the softening cock on the verge of dribbling out of you now, you stayed.

Your body ached like you had ran a marathon, Jonathan’s hands rubbed at your skin, eyes closed like he was in another world.

“You don’t do this often do you?” You asked now. You spoke softly, hands reaching down to cup his chin so he’d look at you.

Jonathan caught his breath before lightly smiling up at you. “And if I don’t?” He asked.

It didn’t really matter now anyways.

“Then you don’t.”

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #jonathan crane x reader #jonathancranexreader #little freaks #cillian murphy characters #cillian x fem!reader #the dark knight #the dark knigth rises #it’s smut #cillian murphy smut #use of y/n #y/n #Jonathan crane is insecure hehehehe #writing this was like pulling out my teeth and putting them back in but we did it yall crooked teeth and all #becs fics

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bumblebeesfromvenus · 1 year ago

Text

My precious Jewel ♧

Bale!Bruce Wayne x soon-to-be wife!reader

A/N: I got carried away. I'm very passionate about Bale!Bruce and just lost control at one point. I'm not sorry, hehe! This is for all my Bale!Bruce girlies. Can be read for any Bruce, though! Enjoy!

~Fi 🪻

Prompt: Bruce spoiling you to the high heavens and only wanting your love in return.

Requested by: my lovely mutual @vampkennedy

Warnings: NFSW CONTENT. proceed with caution. PiV, creampie, very very fluffy, kinda possessive Bruce

Word count: 3.6k

PART 2 ♡

Please don't copy my work. I put a lot of effort and heart into the things I write.

❤️◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇💍◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇❤️

There was not a morning where you didn't wake up like this. You were alone, yes, but you knew he wasn't far. He never was. This had turned into a game of sorts. A spiel where he would shower you in lavish gifts every single morning. It was his way of showing you just how much you meant to him and that you held his heart in your hands.

You sat up in your shared bed and stretched your arms, letting out a yawn. Your gaze fell to the sliver of light that your curtains couldn't keep out. Getting up, you followed it carefully, knowing that he wanted you to. He was Bruce Wayne, nothing was a coincidence. Everything was intenional. A small, red box sat on your vanity, a note right next to it. It was being perfectly illuminated by the slice of sunshine cutting through the darkness of the room. A smile crept onto your face as you read the note your lover had left you.

My beloved,

May this bring a sparkle to your life, just as you have brought to mine.

Love,

Bruce ♡

You rolled your eyes at how corny this was, but it still tugged at your heart strings in the best way possible. Every day there would be a new box and note for you to discover. Placing the gifts in just the right spot and, like today, draping the curtain just at the perfect angle to guide the way to his love. He was always awake before you were but that didn't stop him. He'd never missed a day and you doubt he ever would.

You looked forward to this as well, but not because of the jewelry or whatever other expensive gifts he had prepared. No. It was the notes. It were the cruelly scribbled down words that made your heart beat out of your chest.

You loved the gifts as well, but the notes held a special place in your heart. Putting down the piece of paper, you carefully picked up the tiny box and opened the lid. Your mouth fell slightly agape at the sight before you. In the smooth, white pillows sat a delicate necklace. It was glistening in the morning glow ever so nicely.

A beautifully crafted rose pendant hung from it, the intricate petals were cold to the touch as you gently grazed the tips of your fingers over them. This had been one of most extravagant presents he'd ever given you. Bruce did always call you his flower. You brought so much to his once dull and gray life; his heart and soul bloomed like the delicate daffodils did in early spring everytime he thought of you. You brought color and joy. Just like flowers did.

"Oh, Bruce..." you sniffled, the smile on your face hurting your cheeks. Carefully picking it up, you placed it around your neck and fastened the clasp. It fit perfectly, sitting ever so delicately on your skin. You admired yourself in your vanity mirror, your fingers slightly grazing the skin just around the necklace.

You couldn't wait to show Bruce. Yes, he'd picked it out but it looked so different on you than it did on the silken interior of the small box.

Throwing on one of your many, many silk robes that Bruce insisted on getting in every single color, you quickly made your way down the grand staircase. The cold marble tiles sending a delightfully cool feeling up your spine each time you took a step. You rushed down the stairs, a steady grasp on the railing. The sunlight streaming in through the many windows fell right onto your ring.

Slowing your pace, you held your hand up to the light and examined the shimmering band. A reminder of his love. He had proposed to you just a few days ago. It was incredibly special, just the two of you under the stars. He popped the question in the stunning garden of Wayne manor that Alfred worked so hard on.

Speaking of Alfred, he was more excited than either of you. He had to sit down and went through an entire box of tissues when you broke the news. What a kind soul. You had the dumbest smile on your face recalling the events from a couple of days ago. Letting out a squeal, you pressed your hands to your heart. You were getting married. Not only that, but to him. The love of your life.

You couldn't wait any longer, you had to see him. Hurrying the rest of the way to the dinning hall, you composed yourself before entering. And the sight. Dear God. Bruce was sat at the head of the table in his boxers and a white T-shirt, coffee cup in one hand, newspaper in the other. He looked so domestic, so peaceful. Not like previous nights where he'd limp in, all battered and bruised.

Slightly looking up, his furrowed brows were immediately replaced with a wide grin when he spotted you. Putting down the mug and the paper he got out of his chair, walking your way. You met him halfway, your arms thrown loosely around his neck as his snaked around your waist.

"If it isn't my beautiful wife." He grinned, tracing circles on your waist with his thumb. "Ah, soon-to-be wife." You corrected him, the smile on your cheeks never leaving. He chuckled lowly and shook his head. "What took you so long, Honey?" He questioned softly. You laughed at his eagerness to see you. "I was held up by your generosity, Mr. Wayne." You teased, taking one of his hands and placing it on your collarbone, right next to the stunning piece of jewelry.

His gaze fell to your neck and his smile faded, leaving him wide-eyed and with his mouth slightly agape. He tenderly caressed your soft skin with his thumb, tracing the shape of the necklace. "I knew it'd be perfect," He breathed out, followed by a breathy chuckle. Your cheeks flushed and you brought his hand up to your lips, placing a kiss on his knuckles.

"Thank you, Sweetheart. For all these precious gifts. For always making me wake up with a smile on my face. You've made me the happiest girl in the world." You confessed, the softest smile on your face. Bruce swear his heart just melted inside his chest. He made you the happiest girl in the world? You have no idea how happy you made him. He felt invincible, like the king of the world. He was convinced he only needed your love to accomplish whatever he set his mind to. You were his oxygen, the blood in his veins, the very spirit of his soul.

Bruce was determined to show you just how much you meant to him, if that was possible. "Anything for you, my love." He said, having the most adoring look in his eyes. You'd placed your hand on his cheek in the meantime, the golden engagement band cold against his skin. "I love you, Bruce." You whispered, gently leaning in for a tender kiss. He didn't hesitate, pulling you closer to him by your waist. You relaxed against his lips, tightening the grip you had on the back of his neck.

You needed more, you needed him. He chuckled against your lips but complied, deepening the kiss. Pulling away for air, you were breathless and your lips were puffy. He would kiss you breathless forever if he could. And God knows you would let him. His playboy days paid off for something because this man could kiss. And you loved how you were the only one to feel those kisses.

"Look at you. My eager, little wife." A sly smirk was on his face and he made sure to emphasize the last word. You opened your mouth to correct him again, but he quickly interrupted you with another breathtaking yet soft kiss. You didn't now why you were so easily flustered by his kisses, you'd been together for years. There just something so electric and new about being his. Truly being his. Him being yours.

"I know we're not married yet, but I can call you whatever I want. You're mine." He said lowly, pupils dilated. His grip on your waist tightend. He's never done that. Never called you his. Told you you were his. It was implied, of course, but he'd never said the actual words. You just stood there, face flushed to the high heavens with the biggest lovesick smile on your face. His tone softened again when he spoke.

"I want you to wear the necklace to the Gala tonight." Your brows furrowed and you slightly tilted your head in confusion. "What Gala?" You asked, no idea what he was talking about. "Oh, it's a... spontaneous thing. There's a new dress in the closet." He answered. You squinted your eyes in suspicion. "Spontaneous, huh? Also, we talked about this, Sweetheart. I don't need a new dress for every event! I've barely worn the other hundreds." You laughed.

He just grinned in response. You knew he loved to see you in something new each time, he loved spoiling you. Only the best for his love. "That's where we disagree. Would you wrap a diamond ring in used wrapping paper?" He teased. You playfully rolled your eyes at him. "No, I wouldn't." You sighed.

"All the other dress just can't keep up with your inner beauty." He breathed, a soft look in his eyes. You folded. You could never be upset with him for long, you loved him too much. "Fine, I'll wear it. You're lucky I love you," you pouted. He wanted you to never stop saying that. That you loved him. Something he'd longed for, for so long. To be loved, truly loved. Not for his money, his status, his looks. But because of who he was. And you did just that. From the odd noises he made when he slept, to the extremely bad jokes he made. You were always there, tending to his wounds, whether they affected his body or his soul. Holding him so softly after a hard night, he feared you'd crumble under his calloused hands.

"Well, I'll get ready for the day. I'll see you later, okay?" You said, pressing a quick peck to his lips. He hummed in response as you slipped from his grasp.

"Honey?" you turned around, already halfway up the stairs.

"There will be a lot more press and paparazzi there today," he said. "Why?" You asked curiously, fully turning around on the stairs. "They're expecting Mrs. Wayne." He shot you a wink and gave you one of those signature smiles as he walked away.

He was right. There were a lot more people. The streets leading up to the location were lined completely with camera wielding, and very nosy paparazzi and news anchors. Everyone was hoping to catch a glimpse. This was huge for the press. They probably thought that this day would never come. Bruce Wayne, Gothams millionaire playboy was settling down? Impossible. The moment you stepped out of the car they were all over you. Invading your personal space, shoving cameras and microphones in your face. This was sensational. They wanted to know more about the woman who tightly held Bruce Wayne's heart in her delicate hands.

They had written some pretty bad stuff about Bruce in the past, not that he cared. But when one peticular news article labeled you as just a trophy wife, all hell broke loose. He sued them until bankruptcy. How dare they. How dare they lable his wife, his world, his precious jewel, as just a trophy. You were the light of his life, you loved him and he loved you. He loved you more than they would ever know and he would burn them to the ground if they ever suggested otherwise again. No press had the guts to call you names again, or they would feel the wrath of a very in love Bruce Wayne.

He came to your rescue pretty quickly. Positioning himself between you and the paparazzi, acting as human shield. Bruce gently placed a hand on the small of your back and pushed you through the doors. You let out a breath you didn't know you held.

"Jesus, do they not have better things to do.." you mumbled, hooking your arm with his. "This is their job, so no, Honey." He grinned. You rolled your eyes at him. You knew that, but did they have to be so obnoxious? If they asked nicely maybe you would actually answer some of their absurd questions. You made your way into the center of the room where the upper class of Gotham was already mingling with a glass of very expensive champagne in hand.

Bruce couldn't stop glancing over at you. The floor length, satin gown was tailored to perfection, showing of your body in the best way. The rose necklace sat nicely around your neck, sparkling under the bright light of the many chandeliers. Your hair was in an updo, showing off your earrings perfectly as they lightly swaying as you walked. Your soft hands were decorated with the many rings he had showered you with, the extravagant engagement band catching everyone's eye.

God, you looked so elegant on his arm, almost floating along the granite floor. The bright smile on your lips melted his heart as you greeted people. Unimportant people, if you ask him. "You look absolutely beautiful, my love," he whispered in your ear, his breath fanning over your neck, sending a chill down your spine.

"You flatter me, Darling. I'm glad you wore this suit, it's my favorite," you gently ran your hand down his chest. It too, was tailored just right. His heart beat faster. He didn't know you had a favorite suit. One that you longed to see him wear because it just made him look that good. "What's this Gala for anyway?" You asked, toying with the lapel of his jacket.

"Oh, you know, just some... charity," he responded with a breathy laugh. You raised your eyebrows at him. Your eyes widened in realization and a knowing smirk made its way on your pretty face. "Did you plan this whole thing just to show me off?" You questioned amused. He stumbled over his words, a very rare occurrence.

"What? Of course not, Honey, that-that'd be absurd-" you interrupted him by pressing a finger over his lips. "Fine. Let them see. Let them see how much I love you." You whispered, smashing your lips to his in a hungry kiss. One hand was on the back of his neck, keeping him close to you, the other was steadied on his chest. His hands instinctively snaked around your middle, holding you tightly.

All eyes were on you, hushed whispers and gasps filling the room. You pulled away, chest heaving. Bruce's pupils were dilated. "God, you're perfect..." he whispered breathlessly. He couldn't wait to leave this stupid event and shower you in his affection.

The Gala was a success and you were finally back at the manor. You were standing in front of the mirror in your bedroom and admired yourself one last time before you'd take it all off. Bruce came up behind you, the jacket of his suit discarded and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. He wrapped his strong arms around your waist and dropped his head into the crook of your neck, trailing kisses along your exposed skin. You let out a breathy laugh. "Look who's eager now," you teased.

Bruce chuckled against your neck. "Can you blame me when you look like that?" He said lowly. He dragged his hands up your back and slowly pulled the zipper to your dress down. With a gentle brush of his hand, he let the dress slip off your shoulders and onto the floor. You were left in nothing but your panties, which quickly joined your gown and the floor as he pushed them down your plush hips.

"You're a little overdressed, don't you think?" You said softly, yet seductively as he continued placing wet kisses along your bare shoulder and neck. "You tell me, Honey," he answered. The taste of your skin was intoxicating. You turned around, putting your hands on his chest and slowly pushing him towards the bed. When the back of his thighs hit the bed, he sat down, pulling you into his lap.

"I think you are," you mumbled hazily, unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it on the ground. You moved your hips over his hard cock, straining against his pants. A low groan erupted from his throat at your actions. You could feel your wetness dripping from you, leaving a wet patch on his crotch. He pulled you in for a desperate kiss as you reached down to unbuckle his belt and slip off his pants.

Bruce was left in his boxers, which were quickly taken care of. His throbbing cock sprung free, hitting his stomach. You took his dick into your ring clad hand and pumped up and down a few times, making his head fall back. "Fuck, Baby..." he groaned, squeezing your hips. Lifting your hips, you lined his length up with your pussy and sank down onto it, a long moan falling from your lips. "G-God.. you fit so well. It's like you were made for me.." you mumbled out, your hands finding their place on his shoulders. He was made for you, he was sure of it. He was yours, until the end.

He moaned out your name when you started moving your hips, which he guided with his hands. You tangled your fingers in his soft hair, occasionally tugging and pulling at it. Bruce looked up at you as you bounced on his cock. Your beautiful face was contorted in pleasure, and the jewelry he had bought you still adorned you so nicely. There was a layer of sweat covering your skin, making you shine. Just like your necklace glistened in the dimly lit room. You looked like a Goddess above him, decorated with delicate pieces of jewelry. Jewelry he bought for you.

God, he wasn't sure he wanted to fuck you another way ever again. Your ring was cold against his skin, reminding him that you were his. For him to take, however he pleased. He would buy every diamond in Gotham if it meant having a sight like this before him. Your hips started moving faster, as you moaned. "Shit...M'getting c-close," you breathed out, letting your head fall against his shoulder.

He was almost upset at you for taking away his privilege of admiring you, but he never got the chance once he heard your cute little moans and whines right beside his ear. "Me too, Honey, keep going.." he panted. You pressed your body to his, your tits sitting beautifully against his chest. Bruce glanced down and saw the curves of your soft tits adorned with the stunning necklace.

It molded to their curve so perfectly, making him tighten the grip on your hips, frantically moving you up and down his cock. He chased his release, your warm, wet walls feeling too good. You gasped as his dick hit that one that that made your head spin. "Oh fuck, I can't wait to call you my husband.." you rambled out, barely registering what you'd confessed.

That pushed him over the edge as he shot his load inside you with a guttural groan, filling you up. Your husband. That was music to his ears. That's all he wants, to be yours, to be loved by you. You clenched around him and came with a cry of his name. Panting, you pressed a tender kiss to his lips. "Did you mean that?" He asked quietly, kneading the flesh of your hips.

"Did I mean what?" You asked, breathing heavily. Bruce hestitated, letting out a nervous chuckle. "That you can't wait to call me your husband."

"Oh.. I did. I love you so much, Sweetheart. More than you'll ever know. My heart is yours, Bruce," you said softly, stroking his cheek. "I love you too, Honey." He responded, kissing you passionately.

"I'll draw us a bath," you breathed, raking your fingers through his locks. He hummed in response, reluctantly letting go of you. You slipped off his cock. He watched his cum trickling down your thigh as you walked towards the bathroom. He groaned at the sight, falling back onto the bed with a smile.

Bruce was laying with his head against your chest, surrounded by bubbles and soap. His back was pressed to your front and your hands were wrapped around him. You could feel him relax against you, the tension in his shoulders fading. "I keep them, you know," you said softly from behind him. The water rippled as he turned his head to look at you.

"Keep what?" He asked. "The notes. The ones you always place next to my gifts? I keep all of them," you spoke, tracing patterns on his pecs. "You do?" He smiled. "Yeah, I read them when you're gone and I'm feeling sad. They're in a box in my nightstand." You mumbled, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "I love you so much, Honey," he said quietly. "I love you more, Bruce."

From that moment on, he put more effort into his notes. They keep getting longer and longer, almost turning into letters as he confessed his love to you every single day. You would still read them when you're old and gray, because his love for you would never fade. Just like how your love for him would never be lost to time, you would love him until the end, continuing in your next life. Your souls and hearts were bound, and they would never stop searching until they found eachother once again.

❤️◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇💍◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇❤️

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