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mingyuonlyfans · 24 days ago

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Between The Heavens and The Earth

You remind yourself. You're just a measly baker, an apprentice, and he's the crown prince, the successor to the throne that you'll serve for most of your life. Yet you take his hand anyway, and let him pull you into his luxurious chambers as he playfully blows out your candle.

featuring: Prince!Mingyu x Baker's Apprentice!Reader

genre: smut, angst

note: if this looks familiar to you, send me an ask 😝

You shouldn't be here. It's half past midnight and you should be in bed, resting well in preparation for a long, hard day tomorrow, not out and about wandering the halls of the castle with a candlestick in hand. And you most definitely should not be making your way to the crown prince's quarters.

Well, when you think about it, you're not really all to blame for this. As the royal baker's apprentice, it is technically your duty to serve the prince, make whatever sweet and flaky pastry or cake the young royal craves.

You were only doing your job when you hand-fed Prince Mingyu the strawberry tarts he'd commissioned, you were only doing your job when you wiped the fluffy whipped cream from the corner of his lips, and you were definitely only doing your job when you let him suckle on your thumb to clean it of the thick cream.

It doesn't matter that you felt yourself heat up and slicken in various parts of your body, doesn't matter that you had to suppress a weak moan when his tongue swirled around the digit, it doesn't fucking matter that in less than a second the prince was kneeling before you and eating out your cunt like it tasted better than the strawberry tarts while you looked around to make sure nobody was near the kitchens to catch you before succumbing to the bliss of having his mouth on you.

And now... well now you're ready to succumb to your forbidden pleasure once again.

This isn't the second time, nor will it be the last. The prince and yourself know it's wrong, it is so fucking wrong but it's so hard to keep your hands off each other. All those longing glances and searing but fleeting touches in the dining hall, it's not enough. Even your nearly nightly rendezvous aren't enough. It's almost sickening how much you miss him during the day and even after he'd just made you cry and drool into his silk sheets. Surely, the king and queen would have your head if they knew what went on in their castle, especially in their precious son’s room.

Speaking of the prince's room– you sigh as you take your final steps towards its heavy oak door. Just as you’re about to meekly knock on the door, it swings open to reveal the prince in his slacks and flowy dress shirt from dinner, the two top buttons open and offering a tempting view of his golden skin. The young royal grins at you like a schoolboy who’s been told he’s allowed to have sweets after dinner.

“My love,” it's quiet, almost cautious, the way he calls out to you. Especially with those warm, sparkling eyes, looking at you like you hung the moon and the stars for him.

Immediately you're engulfed in his arms, the floral scent of the royal gardens and his natural musk greeting your senses. It's intoxicating, and it's so, so bad for you. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, a fond smile etching into your heated skin. He inhales your scent just like you did his and sighs, voice dreamy and floaty. It only ever does become that light when he's with you, and you try not to read into it too much. It'd only hurt if you do. But there's a painful heaviness weighing down on you anyway. “I missed you.”

You deflect, you always do. And you have to wonder if he's sick of it yet. “You just saw me not two hours ago, Your Highness.”

The smile pressed against your skin falters for a second before it's pulling away. Yet when you meet Mingyu's gaze, the eye-crinkling grin is ever-present. "Baby, I thought we were past formalities at this point." He jests, tilting his head and making you think of a confused puppy. Forcing out a chuckle, you shake your head, heart ridiculously heavy in your chest. "Right, right. Sorry, Gyu. Old habits."

The nickname appeases him and the prince's smile brightens if that was even possible. Old habits indeed; ones you can only drop when you're in his bedroom, away from prying and judgmental eyes, away from whispers of you seducing a royal to advance yourself in society. Away from everything that's been haunting you ever since you and the prince let your bodies entangle. He doesn't need to know your current thoughts, nor will he ever hear of them.

"It's alright," he says, and he tries so hard to convince you as well as himself. Mingyu leans in, kisses you gently, and holds you just as carefully. He unloops his arms around your waist and leads you to his bed, large and luxurious and expensive. The silk will never not feel foreign against your skin, too used the worn-out linen of your own bed. You let yourself fall into its strange comfort anyway. “I’ll take care of you, darling.”

The prince is a man of his word, evident in the way he slowly and carefully undoes every button on the back of your blouse, how his fingers -- foreign to labor and free of callouses -- dance their way to push your underthings out of the way. The warmth of his soft, unsoiled hands travel all across your body, from your chest, to your waist, and to where your plain, linen skirt is tied and holding up the remaining layers separating your skin from his.

All the while his lips were marking you wherever they could. For every inch of skin his hands reveal to his eyes, his lips follow diligently like a moth to a flame. But as enamored as the prince is with you, as dizzy as your scent makes him, he still has enough sense in him to be careful. Whatever marks he leaves are for his eyes only; he couldn’t even bear to think of what would happen to you if someone else were to notice how you would wince when you accidentally touch one of the tender spots under your clothes.

“So beautiful,” you hear him mutter under his breath as he finally swipes your underwear down your legs and kisses the gentle swell of your abdomen. You’ve heard that from him countless of times– you could never understand how something so sweet could tug at your heartstrings so painfully. You only let out a smile and soft exhale in response, a hand coming down to rest on the back of his head.

Mingyu settles himself between your legs, handsome face nearly pressing into your apex. With your fingers now treading and tugging at his soft hair in impatience, you could simply push him forward. You could, but you’d never. Even now, when your prince is quite literally preparing himself to worship you and show you his love in the most blissful way he could think of– you still have to remember your place.

The prince finally dives in, moaning against your heat at the taste of your arousal, and your other hand clamps down on your mouth. There would be nothing more incriminating than noises of pleasure coming from the prince’s quarters when he’s not wed and not one to bring women to his bed when he pleases. No, not your prince. Never your prince.

He has your hips bucking against his face in no time– you hate nothing more than feeding his ego, but your heart flutters anyway when you feel his lips stretch into an intoxicated smile against your folds. It’s dirty, but he’s so sweet, so caring, so considerate. Mingyu pulls away for a second to nip at your thigh before soothing it with a kiss.

“G-gyu,” you breathe out, nails scratching deliciously against his scalp. He makes a humming noise, quite clearly enjoying himself a little too much. “My love, stop. I… I need you.”

His response is immediate if not a little embarrassing for someone of his title. “But you haven’t-”

“I need you, Gyu.” You’ve never asked him for anything until now; that has always bothered him. He had hopes that you’d be convinced that he sees you as an equal at this point– as his lover, for god’s sake– but you regrettably cannot seem to shake your role of a royal servant off. You still act like your only purpose is to heed to his every beck and call when truly all Mingyu wants is to take care of you. To show you what he cannot when you’re outside the solitude of his room. To love you as you deserve.

He sees it in your eyes– the desperation, the sorrow, the longing, and most especially, the love you could never bring yourself to profess. So, Mingyu rises, swipes his hair back from obscuring his sight, and reaches down to grip your thighs. They melt at his touch, almost perfectly malleable. Your thighs are slightly pressing against your stomach; the position completely exposes your puffy, glistening cunt to your lover and you grow bashful at the realization.

You try calling out to him, to maybe make your shyness known, but Mingyu is just awestruck. No matter how many times he’s seen you bare, you always manage to blow him away. He sucks in a breath when his finger touches your wetness, tempted to once again dive in and lap up your nectar. He’d have to ask you to shirk out on your kitchen duties and let him spend the entire day between your legs one of these days. Mingyu shakes the incredulous thought out of his head and instead focuses on the way your cunt is eagerly sucking in his digit.

“I’ll take care of you,” he sighs, almost to himself. He pumps his finger inside you a few times before adding another, checking on your expression for any discomfort. When he sees none, he continues. You fight off any pathetically needy sounds that might escape you all the while. Mingyu notices, he always does. With a reassuring kiss to your calf, he repeats himself. “I’ll take care of you, my love.”

You’re seeing stars by the time he pushes his cock inside you. Mingyu exhales shakily, steeling his self-control so as not to pound you in the mattress and make you miss your duties for a week. Oh, truly, he would if he could. Your thighs are shaking and your hands are almost frantic, searching for something to hold onto.

“Sshh, darling, I’m right here. I’m here.” Mingyu spreads your legs, allowing him to rest his body on yours, hand interlacing with your wandering one and face pressed into your neck. You’ve also found purchase on the pillow supporting your head. His weight embracing you is comforting and serves to push him deeper inside you. Soon you find your hips rolling against his, eager for the mind-numbing pleasure of thickness drilling into you over and over again.

“M-move, please,” you choke out; it’s only then that either of you notice the tears welling in your eyes. Before Mingyu could speak, you exhale something that almost sounds like an order. “Move, my love. Please take care of me.”

Mingyu makes a sound of pleasure that sounds just on the edge of cockiness; you fight the smile that was just starting to spread on your face because of his antics. It’s no use as your expression quickly distorts to that of pleasure as the prince slowly but surely picks up the pace of his hips. He groans out praise after praise into the crook of your neck. Then he’s moving, planting words of affection into your skin with a kiss until he reaches the swell of your chest. Your legs are pushed up higher both to accommodate the prince’s comfort and to drive him deeper into you.

He suckles on the bud of your left breast, hand squeezing yours in ecstacy, a reminder of sorts. You once again slap your hand over your mouth, muffling your wanton moans that were riser higher and higher. Mingyu rises from your chest and pulls you up with him so that you’re on top instead. You gasp at the feeling of him being so deep inside you, thickness stretching your velvet walls so deliciously that you couldn’t help but clench around him. It seems it’s not only your heart that doesn’t want to let go of your prince.

“F-fuck, baby,” Mingyu lets out a breathy laugh, the warmth of his words hitting your collarbone. You look down at him as if to say that you’re listening; you’re met with dazzling brown eyes, love and passion and pure dedication simmering underneath his almost honey-like irises. It takes your breath away. “S-so beautiful like this, feels so good.”

You gyrate your hips on top of his, suppressing a moan at how he continues to fill you up still, bullying your insides and the tip of his cock nudging your most sensitive spot. Your arms are now looped behind his shoulders, pulling him close to your chest. Mingyu goes back to mouthing at your breasts, hands firmly planted on your hips and encouraging you to start bouncing on him.

He realizes that to be a mistake as he nearly cums from the feeling of your cunt gripping him as you bounce, his grip aiding you in your movements. Mingyu marvels at your self control; you’re already so cockdrunk yet your words are stable as you gently sigh, “Touch me, Gyu, please.”

The prince nods, eager to please you and make you feel good. Sometimes he thinks about being at your beck and call– and not only in the bedroom.

His fingers expertly find your clit, teasing the sensitive bundle until he feels you leaking all over his lap. When he feels your hips stutter, a surge of determination washes over him, and suddenly his fingers are rubbing fast circles. He watches you in awe as you throw your head back, hand silencing your whorish sounds. Oh, how your prince longs to hear those sounds.

You don’t even manage to choke out a warning before your whole body seizes up, your sticky and warm arousal making a mess of your lover’s lap and his silk sheets. Without missing a beat, you leap off his lap with trembling legs and take his cock into your mouth, stroking with a passionate hand what you don’t currently have the energy to fit back inside you.

Mingyu shudders and bites his forearm as he floods your mouth with his cum. You help him ride it out, stroking and stroking while he calms down and subdues his moans. A contented hum emanates from your chest as you swallow his release, looking up at him. Mingyu loves you even more like this; when you don’t have a care in the world and hold the purest of love in your eyes as you look at him. He wishes you could look at him like that without having to worry for your life.

His hand soothes your hair as you rest your cheek on his thigh, your own legs still shaking. A few moments later, Mingyu scoops you up, just holds you against his chest and leaves drops of kisses onto the crown of your head. He lays you both down soon after, chests pressed against each other.

"There's something I must tell you," he starts off slowly once you've both caught your breath, cautious and afraid, and you realize this is the same tone he greeted you with earlier. Your gaze catches his, and it bothers you just how foreign the worry on his face looks. Yes, you've seen him worried before, but not like this. Not like his world would end the moment he told you whatever's causing him anxiety like this. It doesn't belong on his face; all there should be is happiness and love and kisses, not whatever the fuck this is that's hurting him. "I'm sure you've heard it already-"

"No, I haven't." you cut him off, precise and final. It's true; you've been doing your best to avoid any and every hot piece of gossip circulating in the kitchens and amongst the servants. You lean into his chest, breathing in the fading familiarity of his scent. Mingyu's hand comes up to caress your hair, afraid to look down at you and see the pain that will undoubtedly paint your face once he unburdens himself of the news.

You nod, cheek squishing against his broad and firm chest. Mingyu sighs when he feels you tracing nondescript patterns on his warm skin. "You can tell me, Gyu. It's all right, you can tell me."

The nickname squeezes at his heart so painfully he actually feels his chest tightening. He leaves one more kiss on your forehead. It feels like a goodbye. He prepares the three words on the tip of his tongue and prays to what powerful being above that you reciprocate it like he knows you want to.

“I love you.” A strong-willed declaration, and your heart simply flutters. After all, how could it not? Your very own prince charming is proclaiming the strongest of feelings for you. Your forehead is pressed against his chest; the loud thumping of his heart chokes your own.

“I love you too, my prince.”

The next time you see Prince Mingyu is when you’re arranging tarts at the buffet, making sure they look presentable and will not teeter off the edge of the tower to be wasted. You catch his eye, and you hope yours are mirroring his– full of sadness and longing and desperation. You look away first.

“Staring at the prince again?” your fellow apprentice Chan nudges your arm, grinning like he’s just said the funniest joke to ever exist. “Aren’t you getting sick of your crush on him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Chan. This is his engagement party, for heaven’s sake.”

#seventeen angst #mingyu angst #seventeen smut #mingyu smut #seventeen drabbles #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #mingyu x reader #seventeen x reader #liv.🎀.docx

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mymitochondriaforpresident · 2 years ago

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breaking news: i’m soft

kiss

#we must never forget this epic scene #the music the lighting the *chemistry* were all just so gorgeous #theeeem. 💜#wilmon #young royals #otp #prince wilhelm #simon eriksson #ELECTRIC CHEMISTRY #i know that’s right #otp: i like you and that is not fake #otp: you were singing from your heart #otp: i want to be with you #otp: it was me #that’s how they actually say i love you to each other #i love them so much.#the prince and the schoolboy #awwwww #🎵💜👑

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bebx · 1 year ago

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So Loki, the God with the silver tongue ... stammers when talking to a middle-aged, midwest, single-father jet ski salesman.

...right.

insane that Don the Mustached Jet Ski Salesman is the first and the only person to ever get Loki the God of Mischief, Odinson, Prince of Asgard and the Rightful King of Jotunheim to blush and stutter like a lovesick schoolboy trying to ask his crush out on a date

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cameronspecial · 1 year ago

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The First Son And The First Spare

Pairing: FSOTUS!Rafe Cameron x Princess!Reader

Warnings: Panic Attack, Swearing, Mentions of An Attempted Murder, and SMUT.

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 10.1K

Summary: Just because they are the children of world leaders, it doesn't mean that Y/N and Rafe have to like each other. But what happens when they have to get along with each other for the sake of their countries?

A/N: This is inspired by Red, White, and Royal Blue.

Masterlist

The traditional wedding march plays as Y/N watches her soon-to-be sister-in-law walk down the aisle. However, Y/N’s eyes can only see one person. She narrows in on the rude, egotistical, pain in her ass, who also happens to be the First Son of the United States. What she wouldn’t do to bash his head in with her bouquet? Unfortunately, it would be unbecoming of the Princess of England. Fiona finally makes it in front of Y/N’s brother, Prince George. The ceremony begins and Y/N feels as though time slows down. The only thing that can keep her sane is the hateful glares she sends Rafe. She prays no cameras to capture her un-Princess-like scowl. After an hour and fifteen minutes, George and Fiona kiss and leave the chapel. Y/N follows her siblings into the open air, catching Rafe’s gaze as she passes his pew.

———

Greeting guests is one of Y/N’s duties for today as well as maintaining her family's reputation. While the newlyweds enjoy a moment in private, Princesses Y/N and Amelia exchange pleasantries with all the arriving guests. “I may not be into men, but I get why girls desperately fawn over him,” Amelia whispers to her sister while waiting for the Canadian Prime Minister and his wife to approach. Y/N addresses the foreign leader with a shake of her head before addressing her sister, “Thank you for coming, Prime Minister. Who are you talking about, Lia?” The younger girl’s flicks her eyes over to the next people in line. Y/N follows Amelia’s eyeline to Rafe. She lets out a low scoff, “You have to be insane to say that.”

“Right, I forgot you have this irrational feud with him.”

“It is not irrational. It is not my fault that he likes to bother me like a schoolboy. He is immature and a playboy.”

“Y/N/N, it’s called flirting. How can you not understand that he is delicious? I mean look at those ocean-blue eyes.”

“Being annoying is not flirting. I really do not understand the attraction of him. My Phelan is handsome and gentlemanly. That is attractive. Not whatever Rafe is.”

Y/N shouldn’t lie to her sister, but she would rather be stuck in a room with her most conservative relatives than admit to finding Rafe hot. Little do the two royals know two children of a president are also having a similar conversation. “What did I do to Dad to make him send me here? He knows I hate England. Wheezie would kill to be here with you,” he mumbles to Sarah. She gives him a teasing smile, “You don’t hate this country. You hate the fact that one of its Princesses would rather be anywhere but near you.” “Please, I could care less about where Y/N wants to be,” he huffs, chancing a glance at the mentioned princess. “Funny how I didn’t need to mention her name for you to know who I was talking about. And before you try to argue, even if she likes girls, Amelia is a Princess, who can be places.” Sarah skips ahead of her brother without waiting for him to answer. He rushes after his sister to stand in front of the sisters of the groom.

“Sarah, it is lovely to see you again. Thank you for coming,” Y/N greets the First Daughter and sends her to Amelia. She turns to who is next in line, internally groaning once she sees him, “Rafe… Thank you for coming.” “What? It’s not lovely to see me, Princess?” Rafe taunts, feeling her fingers grip him tighter than necessary. She holds her head high and away from him, “You are meant to address me as Your Royal Highness.” She doesn’t say anything else; instead, she has her eyes set on the next people in line. Rafe walks toward the ballroom where the reception is being held. “How can someone so pretty have such a huge stick up her ass?” he grumbles under his breath. He thinks it goes unnoticed by everyone, yet Ms. Stick Up Her Ass hears it all.

———

Y/N’s hands rest on Phelan’s shoulder and hand. They twirl around the room in time with the music, oblivious to Rafe’s stare. The lip of the glass meets his as he takes a sip of his drink. The rum burns his throat. He doesn’t get what she sees in Duke Phelan. The pompous ass looks like a massive buzzkill. Rafe doesn’t care though. Why would he? There is no care in him for the woman in Phelan’s arms. He must admit, when he first saw Y/N, fifteen-year-old him couldn’t believe she was as beautiful as her pictures. It was the first event he had to go to with his new presidential father and she was the only person there around his age. He was in anticipation of meeting her throughout the opening. Their meeting didn’t go how Rafe planned. He had no idea what he did to set Y/N off because he was only met with an icy gaze. It was nothing like the warm glow he saw her give other teens on television or even the adults today at the Olympics. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” she quips quickly. The words were polite; the tone was not. It differed greatly from how she addressed the others. From that day on, it left Rafe with so many questions and the only ability to return her behaviour.

The song comes to an end and Phelan breaks away from her with a kiss on the cheek. “I must use the lavatory. I will be right back, Darling,” he informs her. She spends the time searching for a flute of champagne, heading to examine the cake her brother spent an exorbitant amount of pounds on once she found her drink. The flute is placed on the cake table. She doesn’t notice the other person waiting near the cake. “You looked so serious dancing up there. Do you ever have fun with that snooze,” Rafe comments, not turning in her direction. She rolls her eyes at him, allowing herself to go against decorum for him, “For your information, I have plenty of fun with Duke Phelan. Although, it is none of your business, sir.” He can detect her lies easily. He knows her tell. Her lies are given away by the slight tucking of her inner lip between her teeth. The minuscule tell keeps up with her royal appearance and is recognizable solely by people who know how to look for it.

This is the longest they have gone without sarcasm dripping from their voices, so Rafe takes it as an opportunity to have a decent conversation with her. “Do you ever think about getting married?” he asks, giving her his attention for the first time since they started talking. She gives him a soft smile, “I do. I’ve always wanted a smaller wedding, even though it is virtually impossible because I am a royal. I imagine something more intimate, exchanging vows with the person whom I love. I could pretend for once that my whole country does not place me on a pedestal.” He doesn’t mock her for her dreams like she expected, which surprises her. Maybe, they can be civil with each other. She spots Phelan in the crowd and starts to make her way toward him. Rafe spots her champagne and gently places his hand on her shoulder to point it out to her. He overestimates his strength, causing her to stumble backwards from his pull. She slips on her dress and backpedals into Rafe, sending both of them flying into the giant white cake. The buttercream and sponge of the cake paint their skin and turn them into an abstract painting. Rafe tries to get out from under her. He slips on some icing and this causes him to fall on top of Y/N. She groans at his sudden weight hitting her ribs, placing her hands on his shoulder to push him off of her. He plops to his side at the same time that Phelan comes running to her.

Phelan hands her his handkerchief to wipe her hands off prior to him helping her up. Rafe wants to laugh at the ridiculous notion of getting her to clean up before she can be aided. If required to get her standing, he would’ve picked her up by her waist without a care for the cake getting on his suit. The handkerchief is handed to a waiter and Phelan brings Y/N to her feet. Rafe stands up with no help, going over to apologize to Y/N. “This is all your fault,” she grits through her teeth. She and Phelan make their exit for her to return to her spotless manner.

———

“This is an absolute disaster, Y/N. We are supposed to be presenting a united relationship with the United States because of the upcoming deal the Prime Minister has with President Cameron,” her mother criticizes, showing the multiple headlines of the cake incident on the screen. Y/N’s head bows, “I am sorry, Mother. I will make a public apology to George and the public for wasting the money by destroying the cake.” “That will be added to the list of damage control. Nevertheless, that is not the main focus of this meeting. I called you here to inform you that you will be heading to America tomorrow,” Queen Isabel states, rounding her desk to sit in her chair. Y/N leans forward, “I am not sure I heard you correctly, Mother. Did you say that I am to be in America tomorrow?” “Yes, Y/N. You and Rafe shall pretend that you are actually the best of friends. You will appear at events and hold interviews together,” Isabel begins. “I do not care how much you both hate each other, you will act as if you love each other. Did I make myself clear?” Y/N nods at her mother’s warning, “Yes, Mother.”

———

Y/N always prefers to fly commercial flights. Her mother rarely approves of such flights, except because this flight is not in the original travel budget for the year, a commercial flight was needed to stay within budget. It allowed Y/N to feel normal for once. She could people-watch without the stares of other people, not being recognized because of her coppery-brown wig. The different hair causes people to hesitate if they think she is her and they eventually chalk her up to being a look alike. The copper colour was chosen because it stood out but not too much. She spent her flight people-watching and reading over the dossier on Rafe. It doesn’t surprise her that he is studying Business at UNC-Chapel Hill, Ward after all comes from a business background. Even with the insistence of helping her from her bodyguards and assistant, Y/N persists in getting her bags herself.

During the car ride, Drew, her bodyguard, quizzes her on Rafe for the upcoming interviews. “Where did he grow up?” Drew questions. Y/N doesn’t bat an eye, “Outer Banks, North Carolina. His father was from the Cut, which is the working-class side of the island, but with his developmental firm, he bought a house on Figure Eight, which is the wealthy side.” “You didn’t have to go through that whole backstory. You had it correct after the first sentence,” he notes. She gives him a knowing look, “You know I like to be thorough. Next question, we are almost at the White House.” “Right, who are his best friends?” Drew continues. She thinks about the question for a second, “Topper Thornton. Son of Dr. Cynthia Thornton and Cyrus Thornton, a lawyer. As well as Kelce Smith. Son of Linda Smith, CEO of Smith Enterprises, and Scott Smith, an investment banker.” “A very detailed answer as always,” he is about to come up with another question when the limo comes to a halt. “Your Royal Highness, we are here,” the chauffeur calls out from the front.

The car door swings open and Drew shuffles out of the car, holding out his hand for her. She brings her knees together and shifts her legs to hang out of the car. She looks around the North lawn to find it void of a certain presidential son. “You would think he would be here to greet his own guest,” she snarks when a fancy dark green car comes drifting dangerously close to her. Rafe exits the car with a smirk, “Don’t worry, Princess. You don’t have to be without my presence for very long.” She ignores his remark and pursues the Deputy Chief of Staff, Zahra, to where the interviews are being held.

Y/N sits on the sofa with her back straight, which contrasts Rafe’s slouched position. The first interviewer arrives with a notepad and camera. “It’s nice to meet you, Your Highness and Mr. Cameron. I’m Esther Sparks from British Times,” Esther salutes, shaking both of their hands. “It is lovely to meet you,” Y/N returns with a smile. Rafe mocks her, “It IS lovely to meet you, Ms. Sparks.” He sends a devious smirk and she brings her eyelids close together. They answer generic questions about each other by different interviewers until they each ask one question that they both use to take turns to embarrass each other. “Tell us about the cake incident,” they would each press.

“He very much wanted to try the cake.”

“She was so distracted by my beauty that she didn’t notice where she was walking.”

“He was very inebriated and he fell into the cake.”

“She was so jealous about her brother getting all of the attention.”

Each answer received a laugh from the interviewers. During the final recording, the man behind the camera actually had a different eye-widening query. He lays out pictures from the wedding. “In all of these pictures, there is a fire within both of your eyes. Is there something more than a friendship that you have been hiding?” Rafe’s water spews all over the coffee table. Y/N hides her disgust whilst responding, “That is certainly incorrect. I am in a very happy relationship with Duke Phelan. Anything you have interpreted is not based on facts.” Only the camera captures the slight waiver of Rafe’s mouth into a frown as he processes her answer. Even he won’t admit it happened.

———

Rafe waits by her bedroom door while she gets ready as ordered by Zahra. He didn’t want to escort the princess to the car, but Zahra argued that it would look good optics-wise if they went out to the car together. Right at twelve-forty-five, her door creaks to reveal the most laid-back outfit he has seen her in. She is wearing jeans with a plain pastel pink T-shirt. He has only ever seen her in formal pants, skirts or dresses. The most casual she has been in pictures is semi-formal. “Are you finished staring? We have somewhere to be,” she quips, leaving him to watch as her hair swishes from side to side. He chases after her and holds the door open to get brownie points with the media for being a gentleman. Once he catches up to her, he clarifies his reason for his earlier gaze. “I was staring because I didn’t know you owned jeans.”

“I didn’t know you kept up with my wardrobe.”

“I… I don’t. You just always dress like you are going to a wedding or something.”

“Well, I’m sorry that I can’t always dress like I just rolled out of bed. I, for one, have to maintain my appearance.”

He chuckles at her retort, “Damn, look who finally got some good bite to her bark.” Her eyes form a circle and she has to stop the small stutter in her step when he opens each door they pass for her. He has to admit he really does like her new style. She looks more relaxed and comfortable. They both slide into the car, waiting patiently to arrive at the hospital.

———

How can someone so rude be so good with children? They all sit in front of Rafe, listening to him read from the storybook. He would change his voice for different characters and the hand not holding the book would gesture wildly. The moment would be interrupted if she tried to join in on the reading, so she silently observed the scene. He really does enjoy entertaining the children. They feed off of his relaxed demeanour and return it back to him. A toddler waddles up to her, leaning back against her knees. She hasn’t exactly interacted with a lot of children, so she doesn’t know what to do with him. At this time, Rafe finishes his book and glances at the uncomfortable look on her face. He leans in, letting his lips meet the shell of her ear. “He wants to sit on your lap. Pick him up by the waist and put him on your lap.” She gives him a hesitant look, doing as he instructs. She struggles a little and Rafe helps her by gently pushing the boy onto her lap. The young child is satisfied with the result. He turns into her hold, sucking his thumb with his head in her neck.

A thought pops into Rafe’s mind that makes him reevaluate his life. Y/N holding the toddler brings up the image of her doing the same with their own children. To have those thoughts, he would have to like her and that can’t be right. He can’t have feelings for Y/N. He doesn’t even know her last name. She speaks like an old person all the time and she can’t stand him. This must be a mistake. A trick of his brain. Because there is no way that he is falling for her.

———

After a successful afternoon of spending time with children in the pediatric unit, Y/N and Rafe are heading back to the car. A pop sounds throughout the room and Y/N docks for cover in a panic. Rafe reacts on instinct, using his body to shield the crouching Y/N. Drew rushes the two public figures into a storage closet and orders them to stay there until he comes to get them. Her breathing starts to quicken, feeling like she can’t get enough air into her lungs. He hears the gasps she lets out and he grows concerned. She must be having a panic attack, yet he doesn’t know what to do. He hesitates in bringing her head to his chest and he demonstrates his controlled breathing. “In. Out. In. Out,” he mumbles, cupping her ear to muffle the commotion outside. She mimics his pattern. Her feet take a step back, “Thank you.” “No problem. I didn’t know you got panic attacks triggered by loud noises. It’s not in your file,” he voices. She shrugs, “I do not desire it to be public knowledge. It does not uphold a royal’s controlled behaviour.” “Did… did you want to talk about it?” he offers, sitting against the shelving unit.

“During my first royal tour, I was five, a gunman tried shooting my mother. In the chaos, I was knocked to the floor whilst everyone around me tried moving away,” she begins to recount. “I remember how much it hurt to feel the toes of everyone’s shoes hit against my skin. I was so scared I was not going to be found. However, I was more terrified of going back to a family that no longer had a mother. I had no idea what happened to her.” Tiny globs of water form in the corner of her eyes and he pulls her in for a hug. “Since then, loud sounds remind me of that day,” she explains. The mood in the closet holds a dark cloud over both of them. Their arms fall to the ground and their fingers gently brush against each other. He can’t think of a way of cheering her up; therefore, he tries to cheer her up by moving the conversation along.

“Why do you always sound like you have a stick up your ass?”

She chokes a little on a laugh, “What is it with you and sticks up my arse?”

“It’s always funny to get a princess to say ass.”

“That is very immature. And to answer your question, I may be the second born but I am still the first spare. If god forbid something happens to my brother or he chooses not to have a baby. I would be up to bat. No one wants a normal queen. They want an exceptional one.”

“That sounds like a lot of pressure.”

“It is but it is the pressure I was born to handle.”

There is strength within her, except he can see how this expectation is chipping away at her. His pinky reaches for hers to provide comfort, “You may be born into the pressure, but it doesn’t mean you should have to deal with it by yourself.” Before she can answer, the door opens and the both of them jump apart. Drew’s eyebrows almost met his hairline at the sight of the pair. “The scene has been assessed and it is safe, Your Royal Highness. It was a child who brought a firework for his friend. No plans of harming you or Rafe,” Drew shares, holding his hand out for Y/N to take. The connection of her hand with another man’s causes jealousy to burn in Rafe’s stomach.

———

Rafe felt victorious once he finally got Y/N to use a contraction. It was over text, but it still counted. Ever since the day at the hospital, they have been texting each other. He had asked Zahra for the princess’ number because he missed being snarky with her after she left for home. He hates how his heart tickles upon seeing her contact name pop up in a notification. Princess. His hand reaches for his phone, not being able to hold his smile in. If this photographer tells me to smile bigger one more time, then I’m going to cut my lips off and staple them to his camera. Rafe chuckles at her gruesomeness. It was surprising to him when Y/N divulged her love of gruesome movies. He couldn’t believe the prim and proper princess of England enjoyed the sight of bloody murders. It wasn’t just any kind of horror movie though. It was slasher movies that she fancied the most. She said it relaxes her, which only slightly concerned him. Come on, Princess. All he wants to do is see your pretty smile.

She sees the flash of her lock screen with a notification. She can’t respond because the photographer snaps his fingers to catch her attention. Rafe is going to have to wait. After the photoshoot is over, Y/N gets changed into her sweatpants and jumper. She remembers she has to respond to his text, so she calls him instead. “Are my ears deceiving me? Is Princess Y/N actually calling me?” he teases, lying back down in his bed. He was about to get ready for the day; this was better. She shakes her head, “I am. Not because I want to talk to you, I need to work on my American accent. I’m planning on running for President. You know so I can actually be the ruler of a country.”

“I’m hurt, Princess. And here I thought you liked me.”

“There are a lot of words I would use to describe you, Rafe. Bring liked by me is not one of them.”

“I beg to differ. If you didn’t like me, then why are we talking right now?”

“Because I am bored and for some reason, I keep getting texts from you.”

A knock comes at his door before it is opened by Wheezie. “Dad needs to see you,” she relays the message. His head flicks up to acknowledge her and he moves his phone away from his mouth, “Okay, I’ll be down in a second.” A pout forms on Y/N’s mouth. “Aww, you have to go. But we literally just started talking.” “I know. I’m sorry, Princess. I think it is a good thing though. The more you talk to me, the more and more you sound like a commoner,” he jokes. She huffs, “Haha, I’m sorry that I no longer sound like I have a stick up my arse. I bet it’s disappointing for you.” “You really are getting better at sounding more human. I’m proud, Princess,” he lets out a disappointed sigh. “I have to go now. Bye.” With no other choice, he hangs up the call to go talk to his dad.

———

After months of texting and calling, Y/N and Rafe are going to be in the same room again. Rafe is hosting his annual New Year's Eve party. All the most prominent children in the world are going to be in attendance, so, of course, Y/N would be in attendance as well. Rafe and she are on familiar terms with each other; nonetheless, she is dreading the party. The holiday season involves being cattled to different events to boost the family name and Y/N is exhausted. Any other year, New Year's Eve would be the pause in the season she needs. This year is different because of the cake incident. To make matters worse, she obviously misinterpreted the type of event this is because she is very overdressed. Her black and white plaid knee-length polyester skirt matches her blazer and with her long-sleeve button-up, she is burning up. Rafe can spot her easily in the crowd. Her outfit makes her stand out more and he loves it. He likes being able to quickly locate her.

The dancing people part to create an easy path for him. He reaches her with a smile. “I’m glad you came, Princess. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” he taunts, kissing her cheek as a welcome. A whirlpool stirs in her stomach. Her hand grips her forearm, “Yep. I’m sorry I’m late. There was a delay on my flight. I also overestimated the dress code and now, I feel silly.” His head moves from side to side with a comforting look. “Don’t feel silly, you look beautiful. And hey, you’re using contractions so you fit right in,” he promises, a warm hand resting on hers.

He can see through the smile she offers. It doesn’t reach her eyes, which are slightly glazed over with bags just peeking through her concealer. His mood matches hers because suddenly his happiness depends on how she is feeling. “You look tired, Princess. Is everything alright?” he presses, stepping closer so his mouth is near her ear. Her head darts up, “Yeah, I’m peachy. A little jet lagged though.” He catches the way her bottom lip appears to be microscopically pitched between her teeth. “Come on, Princess. I don’t like it when you lie to me. So please tell me what’s wrong,” he implores. She exhales, “No offence, I really don’t want to be here. New Year’s Eve is the time that I get a break from being paraded around like a float. I can settle down in my room by myself in comfy clothes and as many movies as I want.” The corner of her lips droop downwards. “Why don’t we do that then?” he suggests, holding his hand out. Her breath hitches at his proposal, “You can’t leave your own party, Rafe.” “Ehh, it’s dead anyway. Let’s go,” he insists, tugging her out of the tent and into the White House.

His room is exactly as she imagined, although with fewer Playboy posters than she thought he would have. The sheets of his bed are crisply made and a peek in his walk-in closet shows clothes hanging at an equal distance from one another. Everything is pristine and in place, which isn’t surprising for the man she got to learn more about. He guides her onto the bed and leaves a pillow-width distance between them. The click of the remote causes the screen to light and he pulls up Scream. As the clock tickets toward midnight, the pair watch one slasher film from the franchise after the other. “Okay, I get why she stays in America in the second movie. No one expects to get chased after a serial killer again. But if it were to happen to me a second time, you bet your ass that I would be moving to a remote island somewhere after the second time,” Y/N fills the silence.

He chortles, “I’m with you on that. How many times does Sidney need to get chased by a Ghostface killer before she leaves civilization? What would you bring to your remote island?” “Horror movies, a Swiss army knife and you,” she rattles off mindlessly. His head swivels toward her, “Me? What about your amazing boyfriend?” “I love him. I do. He just isn’t great with survival skills. I would die immediately if we were deserted,” she clarifies, reaching for the popcorn they popped earlier tonight. He nods, “Right. I’m from the Outer Banks, so I can fish and shit.” “Yes, you can. Ooh, look. It’s almost midnight. Change it to the countdown please,” she implores, accidentally pressing her breasts against his chest to grab the remote for him. He takes the remote out of her hand; their warm hands brush each other to make both of their breaths hitch. She pulls away as he switches the TV to display the New York Countdown. The crowd of people on the screen starts to count, watching as the ball descends.

Rafe observes how the glow of the screen lights up her face. Her voice fills in with the partygoers. He is drawn to the way her lips move. They are stained a reddish mauve that makes him wonder what it would look like smeared on the skin around his mouth. The colour makes her lips even more kissable. He has to remind himself they don’t belong to him, yet he needs to know what they feel like on his. Fireworks go off at midnight and Rafe has to take this chance while he has the excuse of a midnight kiss. The pads of his digits face her head toward him. He leans forward and their lips meet. His mind searches for signs that she doesn’t want this. A push of his chest. A shake of her head. A yell of no. They don’t come. Instead, her lips move against his. The peck he was going to give her is reworked into something deeper.

She can’t be mad at him kissing her without any warning. She saw him leaning in for the kiss and had ample time to turn him away. He would definitely respect if she said it wasn’t what she wanted. This is wrong; she has a boyfriend. Nevertheless, her brain screams that it wants to know if his lips are as rough as she thinks they are. The contact of their mouths causes her to part her two petals. He matches her actions and slots his kisser against hers. The roughness isn’t what she expected; it’s less than she imagined. His hands maneuver to her hips to shift her onto his lap. She twines her hand in the field of his hair. Even if she isn’t pressing hard, she can feel the rock forming in his pants against the growing wetness of her pussy. The moment they are sharing creates a fire within her, akin to the one he normally builds. The difference with this one is that it is fueled by passion. Her head is woozy and she believes she needs this feeling to breathe. Being with Phelan isn’t like this. What she has with her boyfriend is soft like a cool breeze. It doesn’t spark this desire for more. It doesn’t have her chasing after it.

This makes her realize how wrong this is. She isn’t with Rafe. She shouldn’t sense the urge to be consumed by him, so she has to pull away. The tint of her lipstick coats his pale skin and he is wearing it with pride. The corners of his piehole droop like a wet towel. Her head wavers from side to side, “I should go. I’m really tired.” She swings off of him and gathers her things before dashing out the door. Leaving Rafe to wonder if he has ruined everything they had and possibly could have.

———

Going back to no contact absolutely destroys Rafe. The kiss clarified everything for him. He loves her and maybe his crush on her from when he was fifteen never went away in the first place. After running his fingers through his hair in frustration for not following her out, he took a picture of the way her lipstick was practically tattooed onto his skin. This vision deserves to be remembered forever. The flowery scent of her perfume is imprinted in his memory. He flicks through the pictures as he listens to Zahra go over the different events he needs to attend in the following month. In the most non-creepy way, he wishes he had more candid pictures of Y/N. The only ones he has of her are the professional photos that show none of her personality. She looks so poised and stiff, which doesn’t show the whole of her. “Rafe, Rafe. Are you listening to me?” Zahra criticizes. He slams the phone down on the counter; nothing would be more embarrassing than getting caught looking at a picture of himself.

He has no idea how to hide his lack of attention, “Uhh, you were talking about… How I need to go to LA?” “Stop looking at naked girls on your phone. I was talking about how you are going to go to the UK again for Prince George’s Charity Polo Match,” the Chief exasperates. His interests are piqued and he scrambles out of the meeting with Zahra calling after him. He is furiously typing on his phone. Hey, I know it’s been a while since we’ve talked. I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to be at your brother’s Polo Match, so hopefully we can talk. He hits the arrow to send the text and listens to the whoosh it lets out. It doesn’t take long for the sent under the bubble to change into read. It disappoints him that no bubbles follow the change. He doesn’t know why he thought she would respond.

———

Phelan sits beside Y/N in the Royal box with his fingers laced between hers. Thousands of eyes are probably on her, yet she can only feel one burning into her skin. She glimpses at him and their orbs encounter each other. “I need to talk to you,” he mouths to her. She disregards his attempt to speak to her and faces her boyfriend. Her lips plant on Phelan’s cheeks and his cheeks redden like a cherry. She moves to the shell of his ear, “Maybe you can meet me in the equipment shed in a few minutes. I have the urge to engage in coitus.” Phelan and Y/N are never spontaneous or lustful with their sexual intercourse. Phelan prefers the privacy of one of their beds and to be the one on top. While his slow pace is sweet, it can lead to Y/N feeling a little unfulfilled by the experience and makes her wonder what more is out there. She thought that maybe this could be the opportunity for that. Phelan leans away from her with a taken-aback look on his face. “We most certainly must not do so. We are in public and it would be inappropriate,” he scolds like she is a child. The hope on her face drops and she decides she needs to get some air. She excuses herself from her sits, heading to the equipment shed as she had originally planned.

The hut is empty and smells of the hay tracked in by the riders, who were returning their equipment. Peace fills her soul. Finally, a moment without the stares of everyone on her. The rolls of the wheels cause her to turn toward the door. Is Phelan surprising her? Her teeth flash to the entering figure; they hide once she sees who it is. “What are you doing here?” she murmurs to him, not connecting their gaze. He closes the door and remains where he is standing. He fears she will feel trapped by him. “We haven’t talked since New Year’s Eve,” he expresses. She acknowledges his statement, “I am aware of that fact.” She keeps her sentences short. “I know I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m sorry,” he apologizes with his hand on the back of his neck.

Her head bobs up and down, “Okay, I accept.” He waits to see if she will add anything. Her silence lasts. “So that’s it. I make one mistake and we can’t be friends. I get that I made it uncomfortable and I’m not trying to say it is your fault, but you kissed me back too,” he points out, taking a step forward. She stares at him, “I should not have done that. I did not enjoy it.” A longing look fills his eyes and his head dips to be close to her ear. “Then why did you grip my hair so tightly.” Her eyes flit to his lips and she can’t contain herself. She throws her arms around his neck, pulling his face to hers. He groans at finally being able to feel her against him again. His hands bring her flush against him by the waist. He asks for permission to enter her mouth with a swipe of his tongue along her bottom lip. She allows him in with a slight moan. Their feet glide on the floor and she presses him up against the door. Being in control of this situation built a fire inside of her that she didn’t know could exist. No matter how hard or how much their lips are together, she feels like it will never be enough. A loud shout from outside snaps her back to reality and she can’t believe she did this against. Once again, she leaves him alone.

However, this time, he isn’t going to let her run off again without talking about what happened. He chases after her, losing her in the crowd. When he finds her again, he can’t manage to get her alone. As the event comes to an end, she is rushing off back to Kensington Palace with her sister.

———

He couldn’t let her go another time, especially since he was already in England. It was pretty easy to get into Kensington Palace when Amelia was such a big fan of him. “Let him through, Conrad. I like him,” she orders, beckoning Rafe into the palace grounds once the guard at the gate moves out of the way. “Thanks,” he says as they walk inside. She flashes him a smile, “You’re welcome. I’m secretly hoping you and Y/N get together. I already know you guys have kissed so we are almost there.” “Your sister told you about that?” he inquires with hope. If Y/N told her sister about the moment, then she is at least acknowledging it happened. Amelia shakes her head, “No, I can just tell though. She’s my sister. I have to go, but good luck!” She heads in the other direction, leaving Rafe to search for Y/N’s room.

He finds it and knocks gently on the door. She calls out for him to enter. Her room is exactly as he expected. It is completely void of her amazing personality. The pristine appearance fits perfectly with the aesthetic that the royal employees push onto her. He wishes she would be allowed to plaster horror movie posters around the room. He wishes he could help her litter the room with pictures. Maybe they could’ve been of them on dates or kissing or being in each other's company. The political books on the shelves should be of the smutty romance books he has caught her reading when they were first getting to know each other. The room definitely needs more colour.

She is sitting at her desk, staring him down. “Why are you here?” He walks over to her, “I’m tired. Tired of you always running off after we kiss, so we can’t talk to each other.” “Both times were a mistake. I have Phelan and I am perfectly happy. I do not want to see you anymore, so please leave,” she argues. His head moves from side to side, “No. Because we need to talk about it. I know we both felt that spark and we can’t just ignore it.”

“There was no spark. And even if there was, then why would it matter?”

“Why does the spark matter? It matters because we love each other and we deserve to give us a chance.”

“I am in love with Phelan.”

Rafe chuckles, “Really?” He towers over her; his breath hitting her neck as he brings his lips to ghost the skin of it. “So he satisfies you? With his kisses? With his touches? With his dick?” He kisses down her neck with each question and she knows she should move away, except she doesn’t. She craves the feeling of his lips and wonders the type of pleasure he can bring her. “We can’t be together,” she informs, thinking about what her mother wants for her future. A future that features marrying Duke Phelan. He disagrees, “Why not? Give me one good reason.”

“My mother says I have to marry Phelan.”

“I said give me a good reason. Aren’t you tired of doing what everyone else wants? If you had to be selfish about one thing, shouldn’t it be with who gets your heart?”

“And what would you do with my heart?”

“I would help you kindle the fire that burns in it. I would show you that you deserve to be treated as more than just a spare. Because you are your own person, Princess, and that merits the freedom of choosing who you marry.”

His tone drips with care and it squeezes at her heart. Beside her sister, he is the only person who can see past her royal side. “And who should I choose to marry? You?” she teases, placing a hand on his chest to steady her slightly dizzy head. His shoulders rise to his ears, “Maybe. I mean if you want to. Not know though. In the distant, distant future.” His cheeks redden at the thought and he rubs the back of his neck. “You’re right. I want to give you my heart,” she mutters to him. “I also really want to kiss you.” He takes this as an invitation to lean in. She stops him with a finger to his lips. “We can’t do that again until I break up with Phelan. It isn’t fair to him,” she tells him. He nods, “Right, right. I’ll text you the hotel I’m staying at. Come over when you do what you have to do.”

“Okay, I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

“Sounds good. Also, don’t think that I haven’t noticed you started using contractions again. But you know what would sound even better?”

She giggles, “Get your ass out of here so I can go break up with Phelan.”

———

Breaking up with Phelan felt like a weight was lifted off of her shoulders. He didn’t understand why she wanted to call it quits on them but eventually came around to the idea. She left him alone to cry into his pillow and went to Rafe’s hotel. She had one stop to go to first. She leaves the store wearing her newly acquired purchase and bounces in her seat while she is being driven to Rafe. She practically falls out of the car and rushes to the elevator. As soon as he opens the door, she attacks him with a kiss. Their lips separate with a grin and they laugh at her lipstick smudge on him. “In case, it isn’t clear. I want to be with you because you make me feel the most alive I ever have before. Like I can be myself with you and I won’t disappoint you,” she murmurs against his lips. Rafe grips her into his arms and drags her into his room, “You could never disappoint me. You are the most amazing person I have ever met.” They continue the kiss as he falls back onto the bed with her on top of him.

Her hands go to the buttons on his shirt and start popping them out of their holes. She tugs his shirt off of him, not breaking their kiss to do so. His arms rest at the hem of her shirt and he breaks the kiss. “We don’t have to do this. I know it might be a little early. We can just watch a movie or get something to eat,” he offers. She shakes her head, “I need you, Rafe. Please, make me feel good.” His dick strains against his pants at her pleas. He loves the neediness in her voice. “Your wish is my command, Princess.” He rids her of her shirt and he almost drools at the sight before him.

Her breasts are barely contained by the dark red lace cupping it. The material barely kisses the top of her nipples. Y/N was nervous about buying this for Rafe; however, with the way he was staring at her, she determined she chose correctly. This set makes her feel confident and sexy, which contrasts with what Phelan prefers for her to wear. It was always soft pink and covered her assets completely. Very feminine and cute. She prefers this feeling over that. She gets up off of his lap to slide off her pants and he takes off his. She has to stop herself from drooling at the size of his length. Even though she has never done it before, she wants to know what he feels like in her mouth. She drops to her knees and hesitantly reaches out for his cock. He can sense her doubt, “You don’t have to do that if you don’t want to, Princess.” “No! I want to. I just never done this before,” she reveals, dropping her hand down to her side. His eyes widen, “You’ve never had sex? You should’ve told me this was your first time, Princess. I would’ve made it more special.” “I’ve had sex. It’s just… Phelan’s idea of foreplay is running a finger through my folds and then squirting lube on his dick before he pushes into me, missionary style,” she explains.

He gives her a soft smile, “I’m sorry he never made you feel as good as he should’ve. I’ll make sure you get to experience everything you want to. But that is going to be the last time you think about him because the only man you are allowed to think of is me.” He joins her on the floor and guides her onto the bed. He looks up at her, “I want to show you how good foreplay feels and then I can show you how to give me a blow job. Is that okay?” She bobs her head and butterflies fill her stomach. He takes off her matching lacey thong and her legs spread for him. She can’t wait to fill his lips against her pussy, so she eagerly shoves his face into her heat. His chuckles send vibrations through her core and she throws her head back at the feeling. He sucks on her clit, flicking his tongue at it whilst he does so.

She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, so she threads them through his hair. After a few more sucks, he moves his tongue into her hole. He laps at it like she is his final meal. “Do you like how this feels, Princess? Am I making you feel good?” he seeks her assurance as if her moans and pulls aren’t enough of an answer. She brings him back to her, “So good. More, please, Rafe.” He continues his assault on her pussy and goes back to devouring her. She screams at the feeling, grinding against his face. His hands find her hips and hold her down against the mattress. He presses his face further into her. He can fill her walls trying to grip onto his tongue, so he gives her a finger to cling to. She tightens around him as he moves his finger in and out of her, using his mouth to stimulate her clit. She adjusts to the finger and he uses another finger to stretch her out some more. This is when she starts to contract around him and a knot starts to build in her stomach. Her back arches as she pulls his hair, “I’m going to come.” Her words motivate Rafe more and he speeds up his motion to bring her to her high. Her walls relax against him and he pulls out of her. “Look at my princess all wet for me. I’m so proud of you. You want to know what you taste like because you taste fantastic,” he praises. Wonder fills her and she moves his head to hers. She can taste herself on his lips.

He comes to stand between her legs as they make out and she can feel his hard length against her pussy. She parts their lips, looking down at his hips. His dick stands tall against the bottom of his stomach. “Can I suck you off now?” she asks in a small voice. He twitches at the thought of her mouth around him, “Of course, you can, Princess. You start off doing what you think is right and I’ll tell you what I like.” He helps her stand, grabbing a pillow off of his bed for her to kneel on. Her knees rest against the soft cushion. She gently takes him into her hand and examines every inch of him. The veins running up and down his cock call to her. Her tongue sticks out from the cavern of her mouth and she traces along them. She moves from the base of his penis up to his tip.

The tiny slit on the tip is oozing with pre-cum and she kisses it. Salt fills her mouth. She peppers it with another kiss before trying to take him into her mouth completely. He hits the back of her throat and she has to pull away with a cough. Rafe lets out a low laugh. He cups her cheek and keeps her off of him for a second. “Look at my eager princess, who just wants to make me feel good with her mouth. You need to sle help you.” His hands go to theow down a little. Don’t want you hurting yourself. Here, let m back of her head and slowly direct her back onto him. With the more controlled movement, she can get a better hold of her breathing. “See, there you go. You are doing so much better. Breath through your nose, Princess,” he advises. She follows his instructions and this helps her get farther down his cock without the need to come out for air. She isn’t able to take his full size, so he continues to aid her in handling what she can fit. His dick starts to spasm inside of her mouth and he tries to remove himself from her mouth. She doesn’t let him. She grips his wrists to stop his attempt and her head continues to bobble against him until ropes of his cum release into her mouth. She swallows the salty substance and drops him out of her mouth.

She licks her lips to gather whatever is pooled around her mouth. He yanks her to his feet and brings her lips to his again. He unhooks her bra, throwing it somewhere in the room. He kisses down her neck to her nipple and starts playing with the bud with his tongue. She moans at the feeling. He uses a hand to give attention to the other nipple. The manipulation grows wetness in between her legs again. Her hand goes to try and relieve the tension. His grip halts her movement, “Nuh-uh. The next time you come again is going to be on my cock, Princess.” He spins them around, so he can flop onto the bed. “Come ride me, Princess. Take what you want.” Lava must be running through her veins because she has never been more turned on by something.

She straddles his waist and her hand goes between their bodies. The tip of his dick finds her entrance thanks to her help. She sinks onto his girth with her head thrown back. She can feel every single inch of him thanks to the position and he is hitting places within her she didn’t know existed. She anchors to his hilt, staying still so she can adjust to the feeling. “God, how can you feel this good?” she questions as she starts to raise her hips. Rafe chortles, “Because you are doing so well for me, Princess.” His tip remains inside of her before she slams herself back down of her. This is so much more different than she is used to and she loves it. She gets to set the pace. She gets to determine how hard it is. She knows Rafe doesn’t want her to think about Phelan, but she can’t help but curse him for never letting her experience this. He can tell she is driving pleasure from the harsh piercing of his cock, so he decides to show her how much better it can get. His hand grips her waist and he keeps her still. His hips buck up into her with all of his force. She lets out a pleasured scream as she jerks forward. Her hand lands on his bare chest and her nails start digging crescents into his skin.

“God, Rafe. Keep going,” she begs between moans. Rafe grins up at her, “You like that, Princess? You like it when my dick drills into you? What do you think the people of England would say if they saw their beloved princess likes to be fucked like a dirty whore?” “I love it so much, Rafe. Please, let me move,” she requests. Rafe’s grasp on her loosens a little and he helps lead her down his shaft. The combination of both their movements gets him to hit her G-spot repeatedly. She starts to constrict and a bud of pressure starts to form in her stomach. Rafe’s thumb presses onto her clit, moving in a circular motion to intensify her enjoyment.

The tension of her walls around him causes him to spasm inside of her. She senses that his end is near; regardless, she doesn’t get him to pull out. She wants to experience everything that he has to offer. He is brought over the edge before her and he doesn’t think about removing himself from her as he does so. She can feel his seeds seeping into her, continuing her descent onto him to come too. His pace doesn’t let up and his thumb presses harder into her clit. “You can do it, Princess. Come for me. Show me how tight you can get for me,” he demands. The bud inside of her finally blooms into a flower and she comes undone around him. She drops so their chests are pressed against each other. Their drive doesn’t stop, just slows down until they have both finished coming down from their high. They clutch to each other like a baby koala to a mother koala. He smoothes her sweaty hair back with a kiss on her forehead. “You did so good,” he whispers his applause. “I am so proud of you. You made me feel so good. Did you like it, Princess?” She nods in his hold and kisses his collarbone, “I loved it. I’ve never felt like that during sex before.” “Well, that’s a damn shame. Whoever left you unsatisfied didn’t deserve you,” he notes.

The couple hold each other for a few minutes, taking in the serenity of being together at last. He slips out of her and they both feel the rush of their fluid out of her. She monitors as he moves around the room. She can hear the bathtub begin to run and he returns to place her into the warm water. Y/N scoots forward to let him in behind her. He rests her back against his chest and interweaves their fingers. The silence is good for their voices after all the noise they make during sex. “Why did you hate me before we even said a word to each other?” he ponders out loud.

She shifts in his hold and rests the back of her head on his shoulder. Her shoulders meet her ears, “I don’t know what you are talking about.” She can feel the outburst in his chest as laughter emits from his mouth. “Don’t play stupid with me, Princess. I’m talking about how I almost got frostbite when you first set eyes on me.”

“Right, that. You are going to think I was a little ridiculous or hate me for what I tell you.”

“I promise I won’t. I just want to know what triggered our four-year feud. You know so that I don’t make the same mistake with the next princess I meet and I can bed her faster than four years.”

She giggles and slaps the arm wrapped under her armpits. Her mood changes at the remembrance of the topic she is about to disclose. “I hated you because you had a dad,” she speaks out into the world. His arm close in around her some more to provide her with comfort. He kisses her cheek, “Princess, everyone, at least biologically, has a dad.” “I know. Except, you had a dad when I just lost mine. I didn’t want to go to the Olympics that year. It would’ve been filled with too many memories of the person I lost because my dad used to take me,” she clarifies. “And I was right. Everything reminded me of my dad. It hurt too much to be there. However, I had to maintain my composure because the world was watching and when I saw that you were there with your dad treating you like how my dad used to treat me, I envied what you had.” He nods to show that he is still listening. “It was a stupid thing to get upset at. It’s not like you had any control over it. Then, you reciprocated my attitude and I guess we got into a vicious cycle.” He plays with her fingers, “I see, I’m sorry that you felt that way and that I didn’t give you a chance before being rude to you too. I knew you lost your father and I didn’t think about that. “You don’t need to apologize. I guess this whole thing is just a miscommunication,” she makes it out to be what it truly is. Rafe’s chin digs and lets up from her head, “Yeah, I’m just glad we cleared everything up. I love you.” “Me too. I love you too,” she concurs.

They get out of the water and wrap themselves in the fluffiest robes. Their hands are connected as they head back into the bedroom. They flop down onto the bed and he loses himself in his thought. She rests her head against his chest, “What are you thinking about?” “I hate your room,” he articulates. She lifts her face to look at him, “Why?” “Because it doesn’t have any of your beautiful personality. I mean where were your smutty books? Where were your Scream posters? Where were the other colours of the rainbow?” he justifies. Her head falls back onto his chest, “Apparently all of those things don’t match the palace’s aesthetic.” “That’s stupid. I’m going to help you add some life into your room and we can start with some of my sweaters. I want to leave you with some piece of me when I go back home,” he informs. Her eyes find the bright blue sweater hanging in his open closet. Her heart skips a beat at his offer. “I like the sound of that. I have a feeling you are going to get me in so much trouble,” she thinks out loud. “I am. I’m going to turn you into such my rebellious princess.”

Taglist: @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @tv3verett

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shinjisdone · 2 months ago

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Yander Alphabet Draft - Riddle Rosehearts

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

Riddle is a guy who strictly follows rules. Barely did he ever have any kind of room or freedom to explore the depths of his heart - his wants, wishes, dreams, likes and dislikes and so much more. Things many boys and teenagers his age would experience, he never was given the chance to under the watchful eye of his mother.

So it would not be a surprise if Riddle is first met with confusion and ever so slight frustration when confronting his feelings. There is the awareness that he likes and feels better when close to you, when the mere sight of your smile when its directed at him and him alone makes him feel odd twists in his stomach, when the scent of you and your perfume makes his heart race when you are so close to him. These small, meaningless things turn his entire world upside down and only when YOU are near or when he cannot help but think of you. Its odd and perplexing and downright irritating all this mess inside his brain and all the redness on his face. He feels intensly in rather weekly or monthly dosis so it isn't too overwhelming.

The first reference he can put a finger on is when he hears the word 'romance' thrown around his dorm. Of course, many his age would be enticed by the concept but not Riddle. Oh, no, no. He was never allowed to. Inferior people and useless societal standards get in the way of his studies, after all! In his road to perfection!

Still, he goes to the library and researches into this 'romance' and quickly found himself surprised and annoyed that many fictional books reference it rather than academic or historic ones. How is a material that was never a topic for his studies supposedly help him? But...he cannot deny that the ideas of 'dates', 'hand-holding', 'love letters', 'flowers' and 'kisses' do interest him.

Riddle is too nervous to ask Trey or Cater. Part of him thinks they'll tease him and he cannot allow any tomfoolery for something he feels so intensely everytime something happens between the two of you, even if he cannot fully understand it. So, he tries to 'woo' you subtly as the books instruct.

Its almost adorable. Like in a little fairy tale, Riddle takes every chance he gets when alone with you and subtly try to do these romantic gestures for you. The dates are private tea parties where he doesn't know what to say. Hand-holding are mere brushes when exchanging things but they make his heart go haywire. Love letters are attempts to describe you which make him so flustered, he decides to always throw them away. The roses are forbidden from being touched but he makes an exception for you. Kisses...no matter how much he tries, he cannot erase the memory finding you sleeping on the library desk. He should've scolded you, woke you up and send you to your dorm. But he stared and admired as he crept closer and ever so discreetly kissed your head. With a burning face he vanished and he knew it was wrong but the mere touch of your hair to his lips made him go crazy.

Riddle made memorization cards for every situation and notes your likes and dislikes down. Its very much the picture of a shy schoolboy, cheeks flushed as he tries to 'rizz' you up like a bashful Prince. There is never much harm in the beginning but you can tell that he feels strongly but simply doesn't know how to express them.

The beginning Is very cute...but the more Riddle comes to accept that what he feels is 'love', the more insistent he gets to show it. His affection are less physical but more so through instructions, privilidges, protectiveness and sweet words here and there. As intense as he can get it is funny to think he stil feels too shy to be physically affectionate. But the more he tries, the more addicted to them he gets.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Physical violence is strictly forbidden in NRC! However...Riddle has a temper that is hard to control.

Any breaking of the rules are met with punishments. Yet his anger seems to take an entire new level when any kind of wrongdoing is done to you. From calling you a name to accidentally taking your pen thinking it was theirs, Riddle doesn't know mercy. His favorism towards you is the most clear when he punishes others in your name. Pleas and insults aren't anything he listens to and the consequences could go back to being collared and taken their magic away. 'Chopping off their head' is the most mercy he shows. True violence happens when he uses his magic.

Angering Riddle is easy when it comes to you. Name-calling, harassment, bullying is all met with his vicious magical prowress. He cannot intimidate with his physique and doll-like face but his magic is daunting. Setting someone close to fire, having them hang from a tree, beaten from a few spells...it comes easy to Riddle.

He would go so far to ruin their chances at a bright future in NRC, especially if they are from his dorm. He'd muse it would hurt them the most and it'd be best if they were kicked out of the school entirely. Anything to protect you.

Riddle's reasons have less to do with sadism or maliciousness but more so that he simply gets infuriated by the mere thought of you being done anything wrong to. Its about doing what is right and any frown, any tear, any fear he must protect you from. Even flirtations are something to shield you from. These affections...you cannot truly want them, right? No, they'll distract you from your studies, this person isn't even good enough for you...he is. All that Riddle does is to protect you.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

In my opinion abduction isn't really 'possible' in NRC. Its a public, all-boys-academy and college with all kinds of people roaming around, with yearly festivals and sports being held. New people come, old go and teachers stay. Abduction is inconvinient here.

But cruelty? Hm, perhaps.

Riddle doesn't believe that anything he does is wrong, let alone evil. All he tries to do is do the right and correct thing so he doesn't see much wrong with his actions. However, there is the slightest of superiority that dwells within him. He feels superior to others academically, in prowress and when it comes to you. Part of him is convinced that one day you'll feel the same (unless clear signs show otherwise) and that he knows best.

So when trying to fight or argue back, a bit of belittling might follow as he says that he knows best. That this is for the best. If he didn't do what he did, you'd be awful, miserable. Miserable academically, in prowress and in your private life. He's doing what is best for the both of you.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

Hm, Riddle follows rules strictly. So he might just do thst even when your wants are against those rules. However, he also easily adjusts rules for you since you are his number one. Nothing drastric but enough to tinker or omit some things. Riddle surprisingly enough accommodate for your needs quite a bit.

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

Riddle partially lets people in, bit by bit. He chooses who to let anyone in but in most cases when he's asked a question, he answers honestly. Just with you...just with you he is hesitant when it comes to his feelings, especially in the beginning. In the beginning he doesn't even know how to describe his feelings to himself. But, fortunately or unfortunately, you unwittingly end up knowing of his mother and upbringing. It makes it easier to be open even when he feels embarassed that you know of his past. However, as you become more and more of a support system for him, he will open up and go for advice to you.

The advice can sometimes be...odd and creepy considering his sheltered upbringing. If an action is morally correct or if you'll still think highly of him if he did this or that. How he wants to share strawberry tarts with you or casually explains his abusive daily routine when he was eight years old. It always ends up either sweet and harmless or nerve-wrecking and daunting.

I think he'd very much like to be fully open to you since the idea appeals to him. Another part of him, a soulmate knowing him in and out just like the Queen and King. But Riddle has a hard time doing so.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

Frustrated and, as it is rare, angry at you. Once again he believes himself to be doing what is best and that you are being too stubborn, too emotional, too blinded, too anything to see it! You're standing in your own way of the best version of yourself, of everything that you two could be! Stop fighting!

Never would he hurt you but restraining is needed to learn. You need to learn that this is for your sake, for the sake of your shared future. You'll see soon enough.

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

Absolutely not! This is not a game NOR would he enjoy watching you 'escape' him!

Once again, there is no abduction and therefore no real way to escape. The only way you could is if you were to try to get kicked out of NRC or switch schools but Riddle would be so up and about about your studies, keeping an eye on you when it comes to academics because he wants the best for you! He wants you to suceed! And if you did escape by leaving NRC, he'd be apalled and saddened - if it ever came to that. You can expect Riddle to always be close.

And since he wants you to suceed, he doesn't see anything as a game. Not the school, not the overblots you have to go through and not his love.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

His outbursts of rage. Anything can set him off but anything that has something to do with you are definitely the most terrifying. His shreeking, booming voice, the red in his face, the veins that threaten to burst. The demands he screams out for anyone to stop this nonsense, the things nearby thrown around and set ablaze, how he shouts for anyone not to get close to you and what anyone was thinking of even being near you! Even when nothing is directed at you, nothing ever is, it's still leaves you shaking just witnessing it. Riddle returns to your side as his face gains color again and reassures you that nothing will bother you again, as if the reason for your fright wasn't him, as if he hadn't just terrified a group of students into submission, as if his rage was normal.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

First, he wants you to suceed and gain the best diploma there is in NRC. Whether or not you are magicless doesn't mean it's automatically impossible. He mostly wants it because, first he wants the best for you, and second, you two would be together in whatever path you'd choose. Riddle still has to decide what career he wants...and he fears what his mother might say. However, what he is absolutely certain of is that he wants to be with you and will be with you no matter what his family might say or do. Its non-negotiable.

He might argue, he might fight her. His mother would be apalled, as pale as a ghost of her genius son suddenly rebelling like this and for some third-grade, magicless student. Why and for what? For someone like this?

Riddle will not accept any kind of insults to you, not even from his mother. He will defend you with all he has and will let his mother know that you will be part of his life. He'd support you in any kind of decisions you make but he'd like it if you two had a bit of a domestic life. In a small mansion with the two of you and a beautiful rose garden in all colors you'd like as well as eating sweets there. Of course, he's daydreaming this life throughout college, too.

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

Ooh boy, oh boy, oh boy. Does he get jealous.

Riddle prides himself in his skills and knowledge but deep down he knows there are better, more social people for you out there. People who are not bound and shackled by their own rules.

So he gets plenty jealous of people you are so kind with, so casual with, so comfortable, all things he cannot easily be with you. He especially gets jealous of people like Ace and Cater. Anyone who can wrap an arm around you, make you smile and laugh pisses him off. Not only shouldn't anyone be so casual with you (you deserve worship!) but he also desperately wishes he could shake off his ingrained mannerism and do the same with you. But he cannot.

He lashes out instantly. Chopping off heads for giving you a wink and painting the excuse as a rule that was broken. No winking during lessons! No touching while painting the roses! Do not hug in the hallways, people need to pass! Its all a facade to hide his jealousy and to keep people away from you. He basically hovers by close and keeps an eye on you. If he cannot do these things due to his own issues, then no one shall do them too!

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

Its complicated.

Riddle is through and through a gentleman. He greets you properly, often invites you to Unbirthday parties, waits for you, fixes your tie, opens doors, pulls up chairs, does anything and everything for you and his attention is fully on you. He tries to impress you with each chance he gets but is too shy and uncertain to do anything close or intimate. He wishes he could hold your hand as he guides you to class, hug you as a greeting and sit next to you instead of in front with an big enough distance due to the tea table. Technically he is able to do them but in the back of his nagging mind, he believes he can't. Riddle is not used to casual touching or affections so his attempts at flirtations, regarding how regal and stiff he can be, can be endearing.

Yet at the same time he is overbearing - all for the sake of having your best interest at heart. While he opens the door for you and pulls put your chair, he asks if you have studied enough for the upcoming exam - and will promptly test you with questions. Riddle will ask you if you have eaten, will have your favorite tea be brought if you are thirsty (regardless if it breaks the Queen's rules. It's okay, okay. Its all for you.), will fix your posture and have your things prepared for you regarding to your schedule for the week. He does it all with gentle reverance but it is still overbearing to have expect your conversation with him to always take this turn.

Please understand that...this is all for your sake. Riddle is worried about you and wants the best for you. The best tarts, the best tea, the most beautiful red roses, the best scores. He believes it will make you happy and...as embarassing as it sounds despite how giddy the thought makes him...if you two are the best, you will be bound to be connected. You will both leave NRC with flying colors (doesn't matter if you are a first-year. He'll make your grades the best of the best so you can skip a year) and choose your career paths with the best scores. You'd...be together. Forever.

Another thing however is that Riddle adores you. Somehow you have touched his heart, melt his ice cold soul and he cannot see you in a dimmer light. He may wield a poker face but everytime he gets to be with you, his heart is hammering in his chest. Riddle wants the best for you because you are the best, because you deserve the very best of everything. He is the type to want to give everything to you and hope you might come to adore him too. As bashful as he gets, being the strict gentleman is the only best way he knows how to be.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

Again, he likes to try to impress you. Knowledge, magical prowress, discipline, his sense of leadership...everything he can do he hopes to impress you with so that maybe, just maybe, you wont see him as the crimson tyrant but as Riddle. Dependable, candid and successful Riddle.

He would try to be...'smooth'. His gentlemanly acts speak for themselves but he would attempt to flirt as well. Compliments for accomplishments are easy for him but he does get embarassed when he tries to tell you that he finds you pretty or how he very much appreciates that quality of yours and...hopes you'll keep being so nice to him. Riddle never lies and never exaggerates but it sounds like it. He may say or think how splendid you are, how he favors you over everyone else how you deserve everything even if it breaks the rules because the rules do not apply to you anymore. Your happiness is priority and everyone must oblige to it, bend over backwards to keep you safe and happy.

It all sounds so over-the-top but he means it and believes it.

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

Not at all. Its clear as day and a blind man could see the pure favorism and affections Riddle feels for you. From making sure you are okay to ordering the entirety of Heartslabyul to look after you and step aside for you, Riddle won't be deterred to do everything for you. No one can convince him otherwise - no deal from Azul, no order from Crowley and not his mother.

While he doesn't hide his feelings he does not admit to them either. Quickly he discards all accusations as rumors and people wanting to cause trouble. Accusations of him having a soft spot for you, for being harsh to anyone else, to his jealousy and constant attention to you. It's all heretics! One more lie and its off with your head!

He cannot handle the truth thrown into his face. Deep down he knows they're all right but something akin to pride and something akin to a fear of vulnerability doesnt let himself handle the truth.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

Riddle sees you above everyone and reveres you. He finds it hard to see any faults you may do and if anything, they are just 'mistakes'. 'Mihappens'. Nothing crazy. However, if anyone else did those things, they'd be punished in a way to better themselves far more harshly. Riddle constantly puts a blind eye to your mistakes.

If a punishment ever happened, Riddle wouldn't see it as punishment but as a need for you to be better. He's not entirely harsh either but strict. Showing you how things are to be done.

Actually if anything, others would be punished since he sees them as the perperatos. You weren't being friendly with them, they are the one's who got too touchy! You didn't start a fight, they saw a defenseless, magicless student and decided to pick on you! Nothing is ever your fault, you could never do something wrong! The others are wrong and Riddle must protect you from them!

Its easy to take advantage to such ignorance.

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

Temporarily, that what needs to be taken. Oh, you didn't pass the exam? You can do it again but for that you must study, not distract yourself with others. Stay here in his room and let him tutor you (Riddle gets all excited and nervous, not noticing how crestfallen you look). You want to get better at a certain topic? Here, let him be your partner and teach you the ways. Stay in the class later with him, just the two of you, learning.

Its a great way for him to get some alone time with you but he knows he is powerless when it comes to keeping you with him forever. He feels a pang of disappointment each time...but youll be together after graduation, he just knows it.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

When it comes to breaking rules very patient. Again, he doesn't see you make any mistakes so you are quickly forgiven while he fixes your tie.

When it comes to winning your heart? He has a plan and schedule to win it and honestly wants to have your love as quick as possible. Not because he believes he is running out of time or things need to go according to his plan, but because he is so constantly whipped by you, enchanted by you that he wants nothing more than to be with you. Officially. As a couple at NRC. The mere thought may make him flush but he daydreams of the day you will return his feelings and cannot wait for it. He may become even more overbearing.

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

Leaving NRC by going back home would devastate him. This wasn't part of his plan, he didn't plan for this at all! You were supposed to be together, during your school days and after and not to go home! On one hand he knows he doesn't have a right to take you away from the place where you belong but another huge part of him knows that you rightfully belong with him.

At times he catches himself imagining shattering the mirror, the one path to your home. How he'd let you know that this is the right thing to do and despite feeling unsure, you end up agreeing with him and staying by his side. He'd take care of everything else, Riddle swears and you won't have to worry about anything else ever again. He might just do that if push ever comes to shove...

Abduction would work if he were to shatter the mirror and leave you no choice but to stay with him. He does feel immense regret from time to time, especially in the beginning, and while the feeling would gnaw at his heart it becomes less strong over time. But letting you go after all the things he's done to get to this point? No...as regretful as it may be, he cannot.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

His abusive past with his mother and the urgent need to have everything be correct and perfect. I believe that if someone were to show him a balance of it all and prioritize his wants and needs as a human being, takes care of him and sees his struggles for what they are, he might end up seeking such validations out subconciously. It's the freeing and warm feeling that blooms whenever you are near and he feels freed from the burden he bears as Riddle Rosehearts.

Tears: What if Darling cries, screams and isolates themselves?

Crying and isolation from something other than Riddle enrages him. Something or someone made you this way, made you suffer the loneliness he knows so intimately well and they have to be found, punished and get rid off. Not in a sense to kill or hurt them but to terrify them enough to fear him. Terrify them enough to regret ever laying a hand on you, ever making you shed a single tear. They will know his wrath.

If HE is the reason however, Riddle will be lost? How? Why? What is he doing wrong? All he ever wanted to do for you is do things right from helping you, schooling you, tutoring you, praising you, courting you, dating you - yet he is the reason you suffer? No, no, that can't be! Would have a slight meltdown at the realization and do everything to make things right again but would not know how.

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

Is very headstrong but blinded by his own love for you and his beliefs of what is correct and wants to do everything for you perfectly and try to be perfect for you.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

Riddle adores you and also believes you are right in every way. You cannot do any wrong in his eyes so tweaking things here and there, step by step, to get him off your back might help. Make him believe what you are saying is the right thing to do.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

Nnnnno. Well, he can be mean and get angry but I don't think he'd raise his hand or do something to emotionally hurt you. He loves you too much for that - it's actually insulting to think he'd ever do something like that to you!

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

oof, worship gets close to it. He puts you on a pedastal, higher than anyone else, higher than the Queen's rules. It's hard for him to get the rose-tinted glasses off and see you for what you really are, good or bad. He would not sing your praises but admire you intensely and quietly.

He'd use the usual common 'courting' processes but would not give up. He has his schedule and plans when it comes to this courting and when things don't go to plan, it bothers him slightly but he keeps on going. Patient but would get jealous and might speeed up the process if he believes someone else might be fancying you (who wouldn't in his mind).

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

Again, if there is a threat by another 'love interest' he speeds up. He cannot allow someone 'lesser' to get you, someone who is not worthy of you.

Then there's the school years you both attend and according to his plan, Riddle wants to start dating before you graduate so he might mhm, desperate.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?

hm, there is the slightest possible chance that he might break you when trying to form you into the 'perfection' he thinks will help you become the best version of yourself. He might accidentally do the same things to you his motehr did to him. But that is rather unlikely.

#twst #twisted wonderland #yandere #yandere alphabet #riddle rosehearts #twst riddle #riddle rosehearts x reader #yandere riddle rosehearts #yandere riddle x reader

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mymitochondriaforpresident · 2 years ago

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It might be all the cold medicine I’ve ingested in the past hour but I swear I thought I was looking at a S3 leaked photo of King Wilhelm and Prince Consort Simon for a second and my heart stopped.

Matching rings and all 😌

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yandere-daydreams · 1 year ago

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Title: Profane.

Commissioned by the very lovely, very patient @elsecrytt.

Pairing: Yandere!Diavolo x Reader (Obey Me).

Word Count: 7.0k.

TW: AFAB!Reader, Dub/Con (Coercion + Inebriation), Brief Cannibalism, Wildly Unhealthy Relationships, Manipulation, Torture (No Injury To Reader), No Like Literal Torture, Gore, Blood, Possessiveness, Theology, and Past Trauma (Reader's Got Issues). The Dove Was Dead, Got Resurrected, And Is Once Again Dead. Please Do Not Eat.

Barbatos showed you to the garden himself.

Usually, guests as unremarkable as yourself would be ushered in by some lesser demonic spirit, shown directly to Diavolo’s in-home office, and rushed out as quickly as the prince’s unwavering sense of hospitality would allow. You’d been through the process yourself a handful of times since you came to the underworld, gotten to visit the castle on an errand for RAD often enough for the shocked awe to dull into simple wonder, but you’d never been able to see the prince or Barbatos in their own home, and when you received the prince’s package, when you smelled the fresh scent of roses and felt silk against your hands, a part of you refused to believe this could be anything but another request to run a few files from one location to another, an invitation to discuss an upcoming festival or ceremony somewhere less imposing than the shadowy, stiflingly gothic student council room. Part of you still refused to believe it now, in all honesty, even as you walked arm-in-arm with the prince’s butler. Even as you wore the gown he'd sent to your off-campus apartment, a wine-red train trailing half a meter behind you and the fabric of the corset clinging to your skin like spider silk.

Even as you stepped into his rose garden, the rose garden. The rose garden you’d only ever heard about in gossip and rumors. The rose garden that was supposed to be saved for the prince and his select few.

The rose garden you were never supposed to see, and yet.

And yet.

A pavilion had been erected in the center of the innermost ring and decorated for the occasion, cords of red blossoms strung across the obsidian guardrails and a trail of flower petals left out to guide your way. Barbatos left you a few paces away from the pavilion’s steps, bowing his head as he detangled himself from your rigid hold. He spared you no words of comfort, offered you no advice, only letting out a breath of a chuckle as he slipped away and disappeared into the tangle of the garden. It fell onto you to soothe yourself, so you did – sucking a ragged inhale and balling your shirt in your hands before forcing yourself to relax, driving an ounce of tension out of your shoulders and willing your hands to stop shaking as you took an unsteady step towards the pavilion, then another, then another, until you were starting up the short staircase and it was too late to turn around and hide. There was a table let up on the center of the platform, a teapot and matching cups and saucers laid out among a sugar jar and an adorably quaint cream jug. It would’ve been charmingly simple, if the set hadn’t been crafted from pure obsidian and most likely would have cost more than a year of your salary.

Diavolo was at the head of the table, dressed in a suit that matched your gown. The sound of your footsteps drew his attention, his expression brightening as his eyes might yours and a wide, giddy smile you could only compare to that of a lovestruck schoolboy spread across his lips. He pushed himself to his feet hastily, your name falling from his lips with a slight stutter. There was a rose in his hand, but rather than thrust it into yours, he held onto it, opting to pull you into a brief, bone-crushing hug, instead. “I’m sorry to call you here on such short notice,” he said, his voice breathy and the words spoken quickly enough to blur together. “And I, well—” Now, the rose was presented to you, his smile taken on a shy tilt. “I thought it’d be romantic. Admittedly, it feels a little silly now.”

“No, no, it’s very sweet.” You rushed to reassure him, more afraid of making this more awkward than it had to be than genuinely hurting his feelings. You tried to take the rose by the stem, but your thumb caught on an unpruned thorn and you pulled back out of instinct. There was no pain, but when you glanced down, you found a small bead of scarlet, the injury practically nonexistent but an injury, nonetheless. Diavolo’s expression faltered, but you were quick to take up the rose again and tuck anything that might’ve sown any ill-will away. “You were going to tell me why you asked me to come…?”

Immediately, his smile returned in full force. “Please, have a seat.”

A chair was pulled out, a cup filled and sugar cubes dispensed generously. You took the cup in your hands, but didn’t raise it to your lips, only soaking in the gentle warmth as Prince Diavolo cleared his throat and went on, more nervous than a man of his status, a man with so much power over you had any right to be. “I’m sure you’ve already guessed why you’re here. I know subtly isn’t my strong suit.” A slight pause, a hopeful smile. Somehow, the implication of his anxiety alone was enough to make the knot resting in the pit of your stomach twist that much tighter. “We don’t know each other very well, but… I think I’d like to know you a little better, if you understand what I mean.”

Oh, you did.

You’d understood as soon as you saw the low cut of the dress, as soon as you were told you’d be meeting him in privacy.

Still, you played coy, shaking your head as you leaned back in your seat. “I’m afraid I don’t, your highness.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I don’t want you to feel like royalty, right now.” And yet, he’d asked you to meet him behind his castle, attended to by his butler, wearing the gown he’d had tailor made for you. You would to ask how he got a hold of your measurements later on. Actually, you shouldn’t ask him anything at all – it’d be a mercy if you never had to talk to him again. “I’d like to court you. Officially. With your permission, of course.”

It was a thoughtful gesture, but then again, your permission could only count for so much when a flick of his wrist and a half-baked royal decree would change the meaning of consent by its very definition.

You let your eyes fall to the table, then to the rose in your hand. “I don’t know how to say this,” A pair of pursed lips, a decisive beat of silence. “But, I’m not sure, your highness.”

This time, he didn’t bother to correct you. “You’re not sure?”

“As you said, we don’t know each other very well.” You gaze caught on the spot of blood still welling on the pad of your thumb. A minor inconvenience, but still an inconvenience. It’d make handling much of anything a nuisance for the rest of the day. It’d make you pause the next time you thought about taking a particularly beautiful rose by the stem. “And I’m afraid there might be some parts of me that you wouldn’t be so happy with, if you saw them for yourself.”

That seemed to catch his attention. Whereas you leaned back, he leaned forward, arms crossing over the tabletop. “I have to admit, it’s hard to believe that there’s any part of you I wouldn’t be happy with.”

“It’s just,” A thorn in the right place could ruin the entire rose. Hopefully, if you managed to break the skin, he’d give up on you entirely and move on to less pointed flowers. “I have some… appetites that people have deemed difficult to keep up with, in the past. It’s nothing out of place for those in my profession, but I’d hate for you to have to waste your time tending to my desires.”

You could practically see the excitement spark in his eyes, feel it rolling off of him in waves. “Please, go on.”

“It’s too morbid to discuss in polite company,” you said, sparing a glance towards the walls of the rose garden, as if you were wary that someone might be listening in. “But things tend to get gory rather quickly, and I have been known to get a little carried away when I get something sharp in my hand.”

The tea was put aside completely, forgotten in favor of more interesting topics. He didn’t stand, didn’t do anything to close the limited distance between you, but you could tell he wanted to, that he wasn’t taking your threats seriously enough for intrigue to dip into caution, and that was all you needed. “I think you’d look stunning with something sharp in your hand.”

“But I’d hate to waste your time,” you reiterated, bowing your head. “And your subjects might not care for me, once they see what I’ve done to their ruler.”

“We’ll have to keep this our little secret, then.” While you had your doubts about how secret one of his secrets could stay, he was clearly excited enough to buy into the idea that it would be possible. “And, as for your appetites…”

This time, he stood, rounding the table and falling to one knee at your side. For a second, your heart stopped beating in your chest, your mind forcing you to consider the possibility that your vision of rings and proposal might not have been based entirely in paranoid delusion, but he only gestured for your hand and reluctantly, you gave it to him. His lips ghosted over the curve of your knuckles, then turning your hand over in his own, the apex of your wrist, lingering against your pulse point. Finally, he pulled away, grinning up at you as he went on.

“I’m sure we’ll find a way to satisfy that hunger.”

You were starting to wonder if, even in your grandest of schemes, your eyes might’ve been bigger than your stomach.

It was old work. Diavolo – as he insisted you call him, despite your best attempts to keep a semblance of formality between you and him – was eager to please, quick to show you he was just as enthusiastic as you claimed to be and dedicate one of the more expendable rooms in his sprawling castle to your little engagements. The tools of your trade were discussed and crafted into familiar shapes: thorns braided into the lashes of the whips, runic symbols you’d long-since forgotten how to read burnt into the leather of the riding crop, a small vial of holy water waiting beside a gold-lined tub of water. Even the dagger you were holding was of celestial design, the blade symmetrical and gilded with pure silver, the hilt molded but not padded, allowing the chill to seep into your palm without reservation.

It was a relief, however small, that you wouldn’t have to use the demonic weapons you’d nearly gotten used to. In the Devildom, suffering was just another tool, something to be used when convenient and drowned out with needless hedonism when not. In the Celestial Realm, suffering was holy.

There was nothing holy about this, though. You’d had the foresight to restrain him, binding his wrists and ankles to each poster of his grand bed with enchanted chains, but he offered no resistance. Even brought low enough to fall into his demonic form, to show himself with leathery wings sprouting from his back and gold-adorned horns curling upward from his scalp, he retained as much of his composure as you could expect him to, keeping his claws curled into his palms and dulling his fangs with the occasional whimper or sudden gasp. When you dragged the point of the blade from the spine of his wing to the small of his back, he arched as if leaning into your brutal touch and clenched his eyes shut, but he didn’t scream. You almost wished he would. At least then, you’d be able to tell if you were making progress.

It was old work, but more importantly, it was work you’d been good at, once upon a time. Your mind might be out of practice, but your hands remembered how to move, how to cut, at just what angle to hold your dagger as you slid the flat of the blade into the incision. It was a delicate balance; applying enough force to cut through the connective tissue without tearing the epidermis. There was a slick sound from underneath your knife, a half-choked groan from Diavolo, and skin separated from muscle, leaving both intact and swimming in an agony of their own. It was beautifully precise, the kind of workmanship that should’ve gotten you a promotion. You could only regret that it was wasted on Diavolo.

Thick, dark blood washed over his tan skin, spilling out in every direction and distracting you from your task. With a disgruntled sigh, you turned to your supplies and took up the most limited of your precious tools: common table salt, imported from the human world and kept in a simple glass jar. You’d always known it had purifying properties that demons didn’t care for, but it’d surprised you just how difficult it was to get a hold of in the Devildom. Diavolo was strong enough to withstand it without being reduced to a pile of smoldering ash, but hopefully, the burn would be more than he cared to endure.

With great care not to get any on yourself, you took up the vial of holy water and undid the bottle’s seal, dampening the blade of your dagger with a generous portion. “Did you know that holy water can’t be diluted?” You asked, idly, taking one of the larger salt rocks between your thumb and forefinger and crushing it, savoring the slight sting before spreading the fine residue over one side of your blade. “My boss didn’t – used to lecture me for wasting it. You should really be more selective about your staff, down here.” You paused, bringing the point of your dagger back to Diavolo’s skin. You found your target quickly: the flesh over his shoulder blade, where the tissue was thin and the bone prominent. You drove it down with just enough force to break the skin, and in an instant, you were rewarded with the smell of burning flesh. “It was one of the first miracles the guys upstairs performed on Earth, after the humans realized they could it themselves without divine intervention. Remember to spare a drop for the next batch, and you’ve got an endless supply – as good as if it’d come from Micheal himself.”

You returned to the first incision, sliding your blade back into the slit you’d just carved. There was some resistance – Diavolo’s regenerative abilities were second to none, just as you’d expected from demonic royalty – but with grit teeth and a quirk of your wrist, you pushed through it, spreading your little concoction across raw, bleeding muscle. This time, Diavolo screamed, the sound animalistic and agonized and exactly what you were looking for. It reminded you of wind chimes, of church bells, of a timbre voice congratulating you on a job well-done as you stood over the maimed remains of a breathing corpse. Eager to chase that satisfaction, you pressed down harder, cutting into the muscle of his back before jerking your dagger back, ripping through tissue and flesh and leaving carnage in your path. You couldn’t just smell burnt flesh, this time – you could practically taste it, coating your tongue like ash and filling your lungs like smoke. Everything your blade touch seemed to melt, to scorch, leaving a filthy black char slashed across Diavolo’s back, infecting the wound you’d inflicted. If you were at work, if he were anyone else, you’ve taken it further, watched the blisters form down the curve of his back as you slowly and melodically removed each unnecessary vertebra of his spine, but he was a prince, and your goal wasn’t to kill him. You just had to make him wish he was dead when he was with you – that was all.

You dropped the dagger onto the stone floor, sucking in a harsh breath as you shook out your stiff fingers. You considered the whips, elegant in their design and brutal in the affection, then the golden tub, how good it would feel to string your fingers through his hair before you shoved his head below water, but the former would leave too many marks too quickly and the latter would’ve taken more preparation than you’d cared to make. Instead, you chose something you were less familiar with – a length of braided silver, leather handles molded onto either end. You slung it over your shoulder as you climbed onto the bed and straddled his waist. Out of instinct, his wings shuttered, moving to fold themselves against his back, but you grabbed the arch of his left wing’s spine and forced it flat against the velvet sheets, holding it still as the appendage squirmed and thrashed below you. “No fighting back,” you muttered, because it was what you’d agreed on as you stepped over the threshold to his little homemade torture chamber, because it seemed like the last thing you’d want to hear when you were at someone else’s mercy. “Remember why I’m doing this. If you don’t want to take, I don’t need to give.”

“That’s not—” Heavy panting between each word, all attempts at speaking soon forfeited in favor of an airy gasp. You waited for him to settle, driving a nail into the delicate membrane of his wing for each second he failed to spit something out. “I understand,” he said, eventually, marking the first full thought he’d managed to express since you finished restraining him. “Keep going.”

You didn’t move. “Is that how you’re going to talk to me?”

A dry swallow, a moment of hesitation. A demon’s pride was a difficult thing to put aside, even for a demon like Diavolo. “Please.”

If he’d been anyone else, you would’ve made him grovel.

But, you could only ask so much from such a spoiled prince.

“Raise your head.”

No pet names, no dark humor, no purring or cooing or anything spared to soften the words. He obeyed, tilting his head back and letting you wrap the cord once around his neck once, because anything more than that would only spread the agony, make it that much easier to differentiate from the feeling of your weight against his back, dampen the awareness that it was your hands holding the end of his noose. You wanted him to know it was you. As you pulled the cord taut, you pictured him lying in his own bed hours later, blood washed away and wounds bandaged. After the adrenaline was gone, the excitement replaced with hollow exhaustion and the cold absence of affection, would he cry? Would the pain get to him first, or the misery of it all, the aching realization that what you were doing to him wasn’t something people did to those they loved? Would he curse your name, any heartbreak stifled by pure loathing for the person who left him in such a state of desperation? Would he hate you?

“It’s not the tightness that leads to suffocation – another common misconception. Your guys already knew that one, though.” Crossing both ends of the cords over one another, you cranked them tighter, then tighter again. Admittedly, this kind of thing wasn’t your strong-suit – you’d never been the type to rely on raw strength alone – but the sturdiness of the cord did most of the work for you, winding into itself and biting into his skin without cutting into what laid beneath it. Or, without cutting into yet, at least.

“It’s the pressure,” you said as you leaned over him properly, planting your knees in the plush of the down-stuffed mattress. “That’s the real trick - being able to apply enough force to crush the windpipe and cut off the lungs. From there, all you have to do is—” You paused, letting out a soft, strained groan as you pulled the cord ever-tighter. If you let go of the handles, it would’ve held its shape, but it felt cruel to be so impersonal. “—sit back and watch.”

There was a whimper by way of response, more pleading than pained. His mouth fell open, something that could’ve been generously interpreted as the beginning of a word falling past his lips, but you took mercy on him, clicking your tongue as you braced yourself for what came next. “Relax, I’m not going anywhere.” And then, after a second of thought, “Have you ever thought about what it’d be like to hang to death, your highness?”

Even if he could answer, you wouldn’t have let him. You hauled him upward suddenly, letting the cord rise to the sensitive junction just underneath his chin and winding it farther, farther, until it made good on its threats and a thin cut formed across the curve of his throat, a twin laceration appearing on the other side a few seconds later. He struggled underneath you, attempting to maintain his composure and control his breathing until instinct took over and he was left gasping, sputtering, trying to force air back into the lungs you controlled, now. Despite yourself, the corners of your lips curled upward, a profound satisfaction flooding through your veins and momentarily blocking out what little rational thought remained. Diavolo was depraved, but this was your line of work, your field of expertise. You felt phantom hands on your shoulders, lips ghosting over the top of your head. You deserved to be happy, when you were doing so well at what you were meant to do. You deserved to take pride in a job well-done.

Struggling, struggling, then release. His shoulders dropped, his form going limp, and just as his eyes threatened to close and his mind gave out completely, you let go of the cord, letting it fall back to the base of his throat. It took a few more seconds to detangle, another to rub the lingering salt on your fingers into the new cuts on his neck. While he panted, drooled, made a mess of himself, you basked in your holy reverence, newly purified by the sacredness of your responsibilities. You remained there, in that state of simple contentedness, until Diavolo broke the silence.

“Is that—” A harsh breath, a fit of coughing. Your mind supplied the rest of his question automatically. Is that enough? Is it over, now?

You almost smiled, almost told him that it’d be over as soon as he decided that he couldn’t handle you, anymore, but he went on before you could, his tone playful despite the blood now seeping into his sheets. “Is that all?”

You felt something very heavy and very sharp fall into the pit of your stomach. “Of course not,” you said, because that’s what you were supposed to say. Because when they asked for more, you were supposed to give it to them.

Because, if he wanted more, you’d give it to him until he couldn’t stand the thought of ever letting you touch him again.

“We’re just getting started.”

You could get to the rose garden on your own, by now.

Lucifer and Barbatos were already seated in their usual places, both looking uncharacteristically relaxed. Barbatos’ smile got a little brighter as you approached, and after you’d slid into your designated seat, Lucifer greeted you with a clap of his hands, a lilt to his posture. “I assumed you and Diavolo would be arriving together.”

You pressed your tongue against the roof of your mouth. You’d learned quickly, within the first month of Diavolo’s proposal, that you’d been right to assume you wouldn’t be able to keep it yourselves for very long. Still, it surprised you just how quickly he told Lucifer and Barbatos about your little trysts. “He’s still cleaning up.”

Barbatos’ constant smile took on a teasing quirk. “What a heartless lover you are, to leave him alone in a state like that.”

“He knew I wasn’t the doting type going into this.” It wasn’t a lie. You’d never claimed that any part of your attention would be the loving kind, that whatever polite affection you showed to him when he dragged you out to upper-crust restaurants and diamond-studded nightclubs and parties with only the Devildom’s most elite in attendance wouldn’t extend to the time you spent alone together. Love was a pretense, not a necessity. You could only hope Diavolo was tender hearted enough to be hurt by your callousness. “You’re the babysitter, here. Shouldn’t you be the one patching him up?”

He moved to respond, but Lucifer was quick to cut in, leaning forward as he spoke. “Have you two already—” A coy smile, a vague gesture with a gloved hand. You weren’t sure what’d gotten into him. You’d never seen Lucifer or Barbatos so giddy, even if the extent of their excitement seemed to be a few probing questions and a new willingness to bare their teeth without snapping at your throat. “—well, I’m sure you know.”

You swallowed, dryly. The idea of sex hung over your relationship like a funeral shroud, weighing the heaviest when you stepped over the threshold and into whatever makeshift dungeon he’d chosen for the two of you that night, when he spared you a smile that meant he could only be expecting one thing. You didn’t want to know what would happen if he continued not to get it, but you didn’t want to sleep with him, either. You didn’t want to sleep with him. You didn’t want to give up that much of yourself, to fall that deeply into the den of vipers you couldn’t seem to claw your way out of. You knew, rationally, that you were already as tainted as you could possibly be, that Diavolo couldn’t possibly touch you in way that was worse than how you touched him, but your heart refused to give up on the idea that you weren’t beyond redemption, just yet.

Surprisingly, Barbatos came to your defense, although you couldn’t say he sounded very empathetic. “Keep your mind out of the gutter,” he said, in a way that implied that this was a subject they’d already discussed in-depth. “You know how hard it can be for fallen angels to adjust.”

“Not every fallen angel. It only took me a decade to make a name for myself.” He’d also made the choice to fall, but you thought better than to say that aloud. “It’s just a matter of getting a taste for it. Let them take the plunge now, before our little prince loses patience.”

You opened your mouth, but anything you might’ve said died on your tongue as the weight of two hands settled on each of your shoulders, as you felt Diavolo press a kiss into your cheek. You bit back a grimace, but the contract was mercifully fleeting, gone as soon as Diavolo straightened his back and directed his attention to the rest of the table. “What am I supposed to be so impatience about, exactly?”

Lucifer was quick to change the topic. “I was starting to think that you’d forgotten about us.”

Rather than turn to Lucifer, his eyes fell back to you. You could feel his stare, awful and adoring, boring into you as he spoke.

“As if I could ever think of anything else.”

You found yourself undressed and barely conscious on a golden rug in front of a searing fireplace a few days later.

Your body felt lighter than it should’ve been. In hindsight, you’d had too much to drink to be around another person, let alone underneath one. You’d thought, foolishly, that another sip, another glass, another bottle of wine would help to settle your nerves, to make you seem like an easier conquest than Diavolo would’ve liked, but all it’d done was make you too easy to turn up – prey that’d already been left to bleed by some other conveniently absent predator. It might’ve been your own fault, for assuming Diavolo would show more courtesy to you than you’d ever shown to him. It might’ve been your own fault, for going out of your way to pretend you so genuinely couldn’t tell the difference between cruelty and love.

Ah, speak of the devil and he shall appear. You could hear footsteps somewhere in the muddled distance, make out a song of a hum just above the soft crackling of the fireplace, and then, he was back, settling onto the mess of sheets and pillows beneath you, an overfull goblet in one hand and the other suddenly cupping your cheek. He wore nothing, save for the chokingly tight collar of silver chain you’d wrapped around his neck hours ago. You could remember holding a tether, feel the strip of leather biting into your palm, but you must’ve let go of it at some point. Whatever happened, it was gone now.

Drifting lower, you could see where your nails had cut into his chest, his back, his throat. You might’ve bitten him, too – you could taste something heavy and metallic on your tongue, but it would’ve been impossible to tell if it was his blood or your own. He’d made no attempt to hide your marks, to wash the remaining blood and slick and saliva off his skin. They were filthy creatures, demons. Filthy, and sinful, and undeserving. If you had your way, they’d be left to dwell in their vile hedonism for the rest of time, left alone to their self-indulgent wickedness until they all began to rot. Or, better yet, brought to some great altar built to celebrate their demise, their beating hearts carved out and offered up in repentance. You’d do the butchering yourself, if you had to.

You wanted to dip yourself in a vat of acid. You wanted to bathe in light. You wanted to scream and thrash as Diavolo took your hand, then your wrist, dragging you into a sitting position until you could you had to rely on your own unsteady posture to keep yourself up-right, but you didn’t, didn’t speak, didn’t make a sound as he brought the goblet up to your lips. Sacrament, you thought, as you swallowed down as much of the sweet wine as you could before he took that away from you too, replacing the goblet’s mouth with his own. You didn’t kiss back, didn’t throw yourself against him and beg for his love, his attention, but he pulled away with a satisfied hum. “I think this might be when you’re the most beautiful,” he sighed, cupping your cheek. “In my home, painted with my marks, silhouetted by the firelight…” He let his shoulders drop, and his tone took on a wistful lull. “It’s a breath-taking sight, and you don’t know how much relief it brings me to know that I’ll be the only person to ever see it.”

Your eyes fell to the rug, nearly gaudy in its splendor. You swore to yourself that, if you ever managed to get away from Diavolo, you’d never willingly lay your eyes on a single piece of gold again. “Does…” You started, then trailed off, bowing your head before going on. “Does it ever bother you, knowing I don’t feel the same way?”

You wanted to be more transparent, to say that would never love him, to make it clear that all you’d ever try to do was hurt him, but even to your loathing-addled mind, the words sounded too harsh, too cutting with too little to gain from choking them out of your sore throat and past your bruised lips. Then again, what you actually managed to say didn’t seem to hurt him enough – his smile only taking on a softer note as he leaned forward, letting his lips ghost over your forehead. “Sometimes,” he admitted, with less strain than you’d expected. Less strain than you’d known you were looking for, before he responded so easily. “But not often. Not at all, when I have you with me.” He paused, brightened. “Do you think you’ll ever be able to love me?”

He was better than you. He was stronger than you.

You couldn’t bring yourself to say anything at all.

You rarely said anything to Diavolo at all, anymore.

Not that he minded. It was the shape of you by his side that he liked, more than anything – the feeling of your eyes on him, the awareness that if you were on top of him, you couldn’t be anywhere else, with anyone else. He was kind enough to explain his obsession in more depth after you first summoned the courage to ask, to tell you about his possessive urges as you raked a barbed whip across his back, to recount the names of those he’d rather die than lose you to in gasped breaths while you forced his head into a vat of holy water. There was sex, sometimes, when you thought you could stomach it, when it seemed like your usual pastimes wouldn’t be enough to stop him from resorting to less mutual shows of affection. You were more distant on those days than most.

You were more distant today than you’d ever been before. It was almost like ascension, astral projection – you couldn’t recall ever feeling so totally disconnected, only vaguely aware of the gentle throbbing in your cunt, the heat dripping down the inside of your thighs, the feeling of Diavolo’s teeth burrowed into your shoulder. You’d been lax in your preparation, too strung-out to really care if he got away. His ankles were unrestrained, his wrists bound behind his back with little more than a length of bronze cord embedded with thorns, not unsimilar to those you’d find in his beloved garden. They were strong enough to cut into his skin, sturdy enough to tear when he thrashed, and if you were more yourself, you might’ve been able to admire the craftsmanship, the thought that must’ve gone into each and every pinprick of suffering. You weren’t, though, and you couldn’t really bring yourself to appreciate much of anything.

He was making those sounds, again. Even in the face of your vow of silence, he was so fucking noisy – always whimpering or whining or moaning unabashedly while you dragged the blade of your dagger up the length of his spine, dispassionately watching skin split open and hot, crimson blood trail down his arched back. There was a raspy groan, a pair of pointed canines lodged that much deeper into your flesh, then you felt his cock twitch inside of you, still hard despite your motionlessness. It’d been months since the last time he let you take someone else apart, make someone cry in agony without having to listen for something less wholesome playing underneath the surface. If it hadn’t been for the raised lash-marks across his chest and thighs, the feeling of his blood washing over your skin, you’d be tempted to think you were the one being tortured.

With a half-swallowed sigh, you rolled your hips against him, letting your eyes fall shut and total, absolute numbness wash over you in heavy waves. It would’ve been a valuable skill to have a few hundred years ago, when you were constantly being reprimanded by your higher-ups for not being able to remain as stoic as your fellow acolytes, for caring too much about the responsibilities they’d assigned to you minutes after you came into existence. It was hypocrisy, bold and shameless. No one batted an eye when Simeon exorcised a small army’s worth of demons, when Micheal took to the human world with plagues of locusts and rivers of blood, but you were punished for believing what you’d been told, for holding yourself too close to the holy light. For doing your job and doing it well.

Diavolo drifted, drawing back just far enough to bury his face in the side of your neck, to press himself so suffocatingly close to you. You felt the ghost of a hand on the small of your back, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear as a softened voice whispered platitudes of family and forgiveness and virtue, as it offered hollow promises of prayer and purification and, worst of all, love. He said you’d be able to go home, one day, after your penance in the shadows, after you realized how lucky you were to serve in such a benevolent cause. He promised he would bring you home.

Diavolo tilted his head back, his dark eyes meeting yours for the first time since you’d gotten him underneath you, and something in the hollow, frigid depth of your chest cracked open. There was nothing graceful in the way you drew your knife back, nothing purposeful in the way you drove it into his chest. You pictured vital veins and arteries, listed off organs even a demon wouldn’t be able to live without, but all planning and precision was lost in favor of driving your blade into him with wild abandon, plunging your knife into anything you could reach and twisting – turning anything you touched to viscera. Tissue was torn to gory ribbons, muscle diced and shredded, his skin soon little more than a failing barrier between you and what you were trying so desperately to tear out of him. You bounced on his cock as you worked, ignoring the way it throbbed against the walls of your cunt as you dedicated yourself to your task. When your dagger had outlasted its usefulness, you dropped it and took to using your own wretched, unforgivable hands. You found the spines of his ribs easily, tore through them with only the slightest amount of strain. You only noticed Diavolo was moving when you started to push into his diaphragm, his arms straining against his restraints as he thrashed beneath you – trying to free himself, or knock you away, or do something that stopped you from getting what you wanted. From hurting him in a way he couldn’t get off on. From letting you ever return to the paradise you deserved, the paradise you were owed.

His teeth burrowed into your jugular. He wasn’t trying to mark you, anymore – he wanted to end you before you ended him, to survive longer than you planned to let him. It wasn’t enough, though. You swallowed down the pain, muttering prayers under your breath as you surged forward and taking hold of the pulsing muscle in his chest. You felt something hot and awful flood into your pussy – a bodily reflex, you figured, although you’d start to doubt that in the near-future – but ignored the filth flooding into your veins, forced yourself to focus on taking hold of his beating heart and tearing it free from its restraints, from its bondage. Cupped in your palms, you carried it out of your chest with all the love and all the care of a midwife bringing life into the world, and finally, finally, finally, Diavolo went limp underneath you, lips parted and form limp. You let out a sob of relief, dragging yourself away from his unmoving body and onto the cold, stone floor; your legs giving out seconds later and leaving you in a crumpled heap, as useless as you’d always been.

Tears streaming down your cheeks, you brought Diavolo’s heart to your lips and swallowed it whole, its warmth lingering on your tongue for seconds. Then, you pulled your legs against your chest, buried your face in your knees, and started to cry.

You were allowed to dwell in your misery for one blissful, liberating second before that was brought to an end, too. “My love?”

You didn’t move. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. It was just another ghost sent to haunt you, another punishment for letting yourself think of anything but your orders, your responsibilities. When you heard metal snap, when you felt a hand on your shoulder, you only curled deeper into yourself, digging your nails into your thighs as something bloody and blasphemous settled beside you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to cry.” You wished you still had your wings, something to curl around yourself. You wished you could feel the sunlight again. “Was I not convincing enough? We can try again, if you’d like.”

You wished you could be anywhere but here. “Get away from me.”

“Having one of your little episodes again?” He worked a hand under your chin, forcing you to tilt your head back. His chest was still covered in blood, flecked with bits and pieces of himself, but you couldn’t make out a trace of the gaping wound you must have inflected onto him, couldn’t seem to put what you were looking at together with what you’d just done. It was a visible untruth your mind just couldn’t seem to make sense of, an unignorable mistake in the fabric of reality that no amount of staring could correct. Diavolo sighed wistfully, the noise heavy with tender affection, and his hands fell to your waist, hauling you onto his lap as he’d done so many times before.

You could still taste the bitter meat of his heart on your tongue, still feel the mass of muscle and sinew lodged in your throat, and yet, as your head settled against his chest, you were met with that tell-tale beating, as strong and as steady as it’d ever been. As if you hadn’t accomplished anything. As if you hadn’t done anything at all. “You’re a handful,” he said, pressing a shallow kiss into your temple. “But you’re mine.”

He dipped lower, moved to kiss you, but you weren’t willing to wait as long as it would’ve taken him to reach you. With jerky, erratic movements, you shifted onto your knees, strung your arms around his neck, forced your mouth against his before he could do the same to you. There was a startled sound, a tightened hold on your waist, but Diavolo melted into your sudden affection quickly enough. Your skin crawled, your thoughts spiraling, but you didn’t care. You weren’t sure you’d ever care about anything again.

You’d already been forced out of paradise, tainted beyond redemption and stripped of any hope of returning to the light.

The least you deserved was to enjoy your eternity in the darkness.

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