#the prince of the moonlight stone

[killersandy]

Ham-Egg scenes from TPOTMS (drawings by me).

Not a big fan of him, but I don't hate him either.

Weird. XD

[sixeyesonathiel]

a treatise on inconvenient attraction — teaser.

pairing — undercover prince satoru x servant reader

synopsis : satoru is many things: a crown prince in disguise, a so-called eunuch draped in silk and secrets, and entirely too clever for his own good. but when you appear in the middle of palace chaos—calm, competent, and wholly unimpressed—satoru finds himself watching a little too closely. you cure what the court physicians couldn’t, ask the wrong questions with the right kind of precision, and somehow manage to look like you belong everywhere and nowhere at once. he tells himself it’s curiosity. it’s duty. it’s absolutely not personal.

but then again, inconvenient things rarely are.

tags — oneshot, apothecary diaries au, fluff, humor, slow burn, sexual tension, secret identities, enemies to lovers, royal court politics, witty banter, eventual smut

a/n: dropping this 3.2k teaser before finals devours me like a cursed koi in a reflecting pond. i am but a humble court scribe flinging words into the wind before academia drags me kicking and screaming into its gilded dungeon. this week will be pain. this week will be suffering. this week will be caffeine, tears, and the haunting echo of “you should’ve started studying earlier.”

to my beloved bbs—my ride-or-dies, my imperial council of enablers—i will miss you terribly. i’ll crawl back next week, dehydrated but victorious. until then… read well, thirst responsibly. TAGLIST IS OPEN, COMMENT IF U WANT TO BE ADDED

a calamity of cosmic proportions had just befallen the imperial court—or so the wrenching sobs reverberating through the silk-draped pavilion would have you believe. 

a hairpin, delicate as a poet’s ego, had snapped clean in two, its jade heart fractured like the dreams of a dynasty on the wane. the air thrummed with tragedy, thick with the scent of jasmine oil and the faint, acrid tang of ink from a nearby scholar’s overturned pot, as if the universe itself had taken offense at the ornament’s demise.

at the pavilion’s heart, satoru held court like the star of an imperial opera, his presence a spectacle of calculated excess. 

“it is truly a heartbreak of craftsmanship,” he intoned, cradling the broken shard as if it were a soldier felled in a war only he had the imagination to mourn. the jade caught the morning light, refracting it into mournful glints that danced across the lacquered floor—enough sorrowful symbolism to inspire three ballads, a minor diplomatic incident, and at least one overwrought ode penned by a lovesick scribe. “this was no mere ornament, madam. this—this was a poem carved in bone and stone, an elegy to elegance itself.”

the concubine, lady mei, sniffled with the fervor of a stage heroine, her silk sleeves fluttering like moth wings as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief monogrammed in gold thread. each sob was a performance, perfectly pitched, as if she’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror. her powdered cheeks glistened with artfully placed tears, and the faintest smudge of kohl at her eyes suggested she’d mastered the art of crying without ruining her face.

satoru sighed, the sound heartfelt and entirely performative, a maestro playing to an audience of one. he tilted his head just so, pale hair spilling over his shoulder like moonlight cascading over porcelain, catching the light with a shimmer that felt choreographed.

a breeze curled through the open lattice, lifting the hem of his embroidered robes with such enviable timing it seemed less nature’s doing and more the work of a bribed servant sliding a screen open at precisely the right second. with satoru, either was plausible—nay, probable.

behind him loomed suguru, a study in austere black, hands clasped behind his back with the rigidity of a man bracing for chaos. his expression was carved from stone, all sharp angles and weary resignation, as if he’d been sculpted to endure satoru’s theatrics for eternity. his hair, tied with habitual neatness, let a few rogue strands graze his cheek, like even his appearance knew better than to fully relax in such company. 

his gaze skimmed the scene, heavy with the exhaustion of a man who’d watched this exact farce, with only slight variations in props, more times than the palace cats had stolen fish from the kitchens.

“perhaps,” satoru declared, raising the jade fragment aloft as if offering it to the heavens for judgment, “we must mourn it properly. a vigil, steeped in moonlight? a commemorative tea ceremony, with cups etched in sorrow?”

“a funeral pyre,” suguru muttered, voice dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs. “i’ll fetch the kindling. maybe some incense to mask the absurdity.”

satoru ignored him with the serene grace of a man who’d long since perfected the art of selective hearing, his eyes never leaving lady mei’s trembling form.

“fear not, my lady,” he vowed, dropping to one knee with the flourish of a knight swearing fealty in a tale spun by drunken bards. he clasped her hands, his fingers cool and deliberate, adorned with a single ring that glinted like a conspirator’s promise. “i shall find a replacement—more exquisite, more divine, more… unbreakable. yes, even if i must scour every silk merchant, every jade carver, every whispering bazaar between here and the red cliffs, where the winds themselves sing of lost treasures.”

he let the silence stretch, heavy with portent, as if the gods themselves were taking notes. lady mei gasped, her breath catching like a plucked zither string. a single tear traced her cheek, glistening like a dew-drop on a lotus petal—a prop so perfectly placed it deserved its own stanza.

mission accomplished. satoru’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk, gone before anyone but the narrator could catch it.

behind them, suguru pinched the bridge of his nose with the slow, methodical frustration of a man who knew it would do nothing but give his fingers something to do. his sigh was a silent prayer to deities who’d clearly abandoned him long ago.

when the theatrics finally subsided—lady mei comforted, her handkerchief sodden, the jade fragments swaddled in silk like relics of a forgotten saint—satoru glided from the pavilion with the poise of a swan who knew exactly how devastatingly beautiful he looked mid-stride. he trailed perfume, a heady blend of sandalwood and smug self-satisfaction, curling behind him like incense smoke in a temple to his own ego.

suguru followed, a silent shadow with a scowl etched so deeply it might’ve been carved by a jade artisan. his boots clicked against the stone tiles, each step a muted protest against the absurdity he was forced to endure.

once they slipped beneath a carved archway into a quieter corridor, the performance peeled away like silk robes sliding over lacquered floors. satoru’s spine straightened, the exaggerated flourishes vanished, and he walked with the easy, unyielding grace of a man born to command palaces and bend power to his will. 

the air here was cooler, scented with wisteria and the faint, medicinal bite of herbs drying in a distant courtyard, their bitterness a sharp counterpoint to the corridor’s polished serenity.

“what?” satoru asked, eyes gleaming with faux innocence as he adjusted the sapphire-studded sash at his waist, the fabric whispering against his fingers. “i was being helpful.”

“you were being ridiculous,” suguru replied, his voice flat as the surface of a frozen lake, though a faint twitch at his jaw betrayed the effort it took to keep it that way.

“ridiculously helpful,” satoru corrected, flashing a grin that could outshine the emperor’s polished jade throne. he flicked open his fan with a snap, the painted silk catching the light like a peacock’s tail, waved it twice, then forgot it entirely, leaving it to dangle like an afterthought.

suguru shot him a sidelong glance, more sigh than stare, the kind of look that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken retorts. 

now that the mask had fallen, subtle details sharpened into focus: the glint of satoru’s ceremonial earrings, small but forged from gold so pure they whispered of plundered kingdoms; the way his sleeves, just a touch too long, brushed the corridor’s tiles with a soft, deliberate drag, like a painter’s final stroke; his hair, nearly waist-length, swaying like a silk banner unfurled for a procession, catching the latticed sunlight in a cascade of silver.

“a hairpin emergency,” suguru deadpanned, his voice slicing through the air like a blade through silk. “you skipped a logistics meeting—where, might i add, we were discussing grain shortages—for a hairpin emergency.”

“it was tragic. deeply symbolic. that hairpin was the fragility of desire itself, suguru,” satoru said, his tone lofty, as if lecturing a particularly dense pupil. he gestured with the fan, now remembered, its arc as grand as a courtier’s bow. “a metaphor for the fleeting nature of beauty, shattered in an instant.”

suguru glanced skyward, seeking divine intervention from a heavens that had long since stopped answering. 

the corridor stretched before them, vermilion pillars rising in regal procession, their surfaces carved with dragons that seemed to smirk at the absurdity below. sunlight filtered through the screens, painting latticed shadows that danced over the tiles like a secret script only the palace walls could read.

“and your grand plan to unravel the true nature of court politics,” suguru said, each word measured, “involves… hosting interpretive grief sessions for concubines over broken accessories?”

“the best disguises become second nature,” satoru replied, winking with the confidence of a man who’d never doubted himself a day in his life. “besides, would you rather i play the stuffy prince, droning on about grain quotas and tax ledgers?”

suguru didn’t respond, which, to satoru, was as good as a standing ovation.

they turned a corner, the air shifting as they passed a courtyard where a fountain burbled, its water catching the light like scattered pearls. a pair of palace cats, sleek as whispers, darted across their path, their eyes glinting with the smugness of creatures who answered to no one. 

a servant, her robes the muted gray of dawn, bowed deeply as they passed, her gaze fixed on the floor, though the faintest tremble in her hands suggested she’d heard the hairpin saga and was bracing for its inevitable sequel.

and beneath it all, beyond the red walls and silk screens, something stirred. not fate—not yet. but close, like the first ripple on a still pond, or the faintest creak of a palace gate left ajar. 

for now, there was only satoru, strutting like a peacock in the emperor’s garden, his voice lilting, his feathers flashing in the sunlight—and suguru, the poor bastard doomed to trail him, shoulders squared, expression grim, half a pace behind like the world’s most disapproving shadow, forever caught in the orbit of a star that burned too bright to ever dim.

the palace hummed with a frenetic buzz—not the charming, festival-lanterns-and-rice-wine kind, where moonlight glints off sake cups and laughter spills like cherry blossoms, but the swarming, fretful, everyone’s-talking-and-no-one’s-hearing kind that screamed someone important was either sick, scandalized, or both. 

lucky for the court, it was a two-for-one special: the emperor’s favored concubine, lady hua, had taken ill, and the whispers swirling through the vermilion halls were ripe with intrigue sharp enough to cut silk.

it began with fainting spells, delicate as a willow branch snapping under snow. then came the headaches, each one described with the reverence of a poet lamenting lost love.

by the time rumors slithered to satoru’s ears, the court physicians had added skin lesions to the list—delicate ones, naturally, because heaven forbid a woman of the inner court suffer anything less than poetic. “female temperament,” the physicians declared with the smugness of men who’d never questioned their own brilliance, waving it off as a trifle. “probably just the summer heat, thickened by her delicate constitution.”

maybe it was. maybe it wasn’t. but satoru was bored—a state as dangerous as a spark in a lacquered pavilion when paired with his curiosity and the kind of power that hid beneath shimmering silk like a blade in a jeweled sheath.

he sprawled across a divan like a cat claiming its throne, pale hair spilling over the brocade cushion in a cascade that caught the lantern light like spun silver. “i want to see her,” he said lazily, one hand dangling over the edge, fingers brushing the cool jade inlay of the table beside him.

the air carried the faint sweetness of osmanthus from a nearby brazier, undercut by the sharp bite of ink drying on a discarded scroll.

suguru didn’t look up from the scroll he was pretending to read, arms crossed over his dark robes like a disapproving older sibling teetering on the edge of committing murder by eye-roll alone. his hair, tied with a cord of black silk, gleamed faintly in the slanted light, as if even it resented being dragged into satoru’s orbit.

“the emperor hasn’t summoned you,” he said, voice flat, though the faintest twitch of his brow betrayed his dwindling patience.

“that’s the beauty of being a fake eunuch,” satoru replied, already rising with the fluid grace of a dancer who knew every eye was on him. his robes—silver threaded with blue embroidery, obnoxiously tasteful—shimmered like moonlight on a still pond, the hem brushing the polished floor with a whisper. “every door swings open if you smile just right and flash a bit of charm.”

suguru exhaled through his nose, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken curses. “your highness, court gossip is beneath your station.”

“nothing is beneath my station when i’m playing eunuch,” satoru chirped, swiping a rice cake from a lacquered tray as he sauntered toward the door. he popped it into his mouth, the sesame seeds crunching faintly, and shot suguru a grin that was equal parts mischief and menace. “in fact, it’s half the fun.”

and just like that, he was gone, robes flaring behind him like a comet’s tail, leaving a trail of sandalwood perfume and impending chaos. 

suguru muttered a curse under his breath—something about peacocks and their inevitable reckoning—and followed, because someone had to keep the idiot from plummeting headfirst into disaster.

what they found at lady hua’s quarters was chaos distilled into a single, suffocating room. maids scurried like ants fleeing a crushed nest, their silk slippers whispering frantically against the floor. 

physicians argued in hushed but venomous tones, their sleeves flapping like indignant birds, while someone—likely a junior attendant—sobbed into a brass basin, the sound muffled but piercing. the air reeked of camphor, sharp and medicinal, tangled with the cloying sweetness of sandalwood incense and the sour undercurrent of barely-contained hysteria. 

a breeze from an open screen carried the faint tang of lotus blossoms from the courtyard, but it did little to ease the oppressive weight of the room.

satoru leaned against the doorframe, one hand languidly fanning himself with a jade-inlaid fan, its painted silk fluttering like a butterfly’s wing. the other hand rested lightly on the fan’s hilt, fingers tracing the carved dragon as if it might whisper secrets.

he looked like a man at the theater, idly amused by a tragedy he had no stake in—and to be fair, he was. his eyes, sharp as a hawk’s beneath their lazy half-lids, scanned the room with the casual precision of someone who missed nothing.

then his gaze snagged on something—or rather, someone.

you.

in the heart of the maelstrom, you were an island of calm, steady and still as a stone in a raging river.

you weren’t dressed like a physician—no embroidered insignia, no silk badge pinned to your belt like the pompous healers squawking nearby. your robe was simple, utilitarian, the color of weathered slate, its sleeves pinned up past your elbows to reveal forearms smudged with the faint green of crushed herbs. 

you crouched beside lady hua, movements quick, efficient, precise, as if the chaos around you was merely background noise to be tuned out. the room bent around you, maids and physicians alike giving you a wide berth, like you were the eye of a storm they dared not cross.

satoru straightened, just a fraction, the motion so subtle it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone but suguru. his fan slowed, the silk shivering in the pause.

“who’s that?” he murmured, voice low, the words curling like smoke as he tilted his head, pale hair slipping over his shoulder like a waterfall of moonlight.

suguru had already clocked you, his arms now crossed tighter over his chest, the dark fabric of his robes creasing under the pressure. his jaw tightened, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. “not a court physician. not officially,” he said, each word clipped, as if he resented having to state the obvious.

“well,” satoru said, his lips curving into a smile that was equal parts intrigue and trouble, “now she’s interesting.”

you were wrapping lady hua’s wrist in linen soaked in something pungent—fangfeng root, if satoru’s nose didn’t betray him, mixed with the bitter bite of yanhusuo and a faint trace of ginseng. old-school herbs, the kind not dispensed in the palace’s pristine apothecary but ground by hand in shadowed apothecaries far from the emperor’s gaze. 

your fingers moved with the deftness of a musician, tying the linen with a knot so precise it could’ve shamed a sailor. beside you sat a worn wooden box, its corners scuffed from years of travel, but its contents were meticulously organized—vials labeled in a script too small to read from the door, tools gleaming faintly in the lantern light.

satoru’s eyes narrowed as he watched you work. your movements were too clean, too practiced, like someone who’d stitched wounds in the dark long before stepping into a palace. 

lady hua groaned softly, her face pale as the moon, and you pressed your fingers to her pulse, murmuring something under your breath. there was no softness in it, no coddling, just the calm precision of someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and didn’t care who saw.

and then—your eyes.

they flicked up, not to the patient, not to the bickering physicians, but to the room’s edges. to the guards in their lacquered armor, their spears glinting like threats in the corner. to the doors, half-open, where shadows shifted in the corridor. to the windows, where the lattice cast jagged shadows across the floor. 

your gaze moved like a soldier’s, mapping exits, calculating distances, noting every potential threat with a speed that was almost instinctual.

satoru felt a thrill crawl up his spine, sharp and electric, like the first crack of thunder before a storm.

“she flinched when the guards shifted,” he whispered, his fan now still, its silk drooping like a forgotten prop.

suguru’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened, a storm cloud gathering behind them. “trauma?” he asked, voice low, testing the word like it might bite.

“training,” satoru replied, folding his fan with a slow, deliberate snap, the sound cutting through the room’s din like a blade. “she’s not afraid of chaos. she’s afraid of uniforms. of order that isn’t hers.”

he glanced at you again, and this time, you felt it. your shoulders stiffened, just for a heartbeat, as if you’d sensed a predator in the room. 

you didn’t look up, didn’t meet his eyes, but the way you angled your body—back to the wall, never cornered, one hand hovering near your box like it held more than herbs—told him everything. 

your kit was no mere healer’s tool; it was a survivor’s arsenal, scuffed and worn but as familiar to you as your own skin. the faint scar on your knuckle, barely visible, gleamed like a silent boast of battles won.

“is that why you’re smiling?” suguru asked, his voice bone-dry, cutting through satoru’s thoughts like a knife through silk.

satoru didn’t answer. not aloud. but oh, yes, he was smiling, lips curved like a crescent moon, because the emperor’s concubine might be fading, her breath shallow as a winter breeze.

but you?

you were alive—vibrantly, dangerously alive, a spark in a room full of smoke. your every movement screamed secrets, and your eyes held a story no one in this palace had the guts to read. 

lady hua’s illness might’ve been the court’s obsession, but you were something else entirely—a puzzle, a threat, a flame flickering just out of reach.

and satoru, with his boredom and his power and his peacock’s flair, had just found a problem worth solving. the air thrummed with it, heavy with the scent of camphor and intrigue, as the palace walls seemed to lean in, whispering of the chaos yet to come.

[multific]

The Dragon’s Mercy

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: After your brother is accused of treason, you are given to Aemond Targaryen to ensure your family’s loyalty.

The cold halls of the Red Keep swallowed you whole.

Each step you took echoed against the stone floors, the weight of your fate pressing against your chest, almost suffocating you.

Your brother had been accused of treason. And instead of execution, your family had been given a choice: surrender you to Aemond Targaryen as proof of loyalty or suffer the consequences.

You had expected chains. A prison cell. A fate worse than death.

Instead, you stood before him now, inside his chambers, watching as the Prince of the Realm, rider of Vhagar, the man they called the Kinslayer, studied you with that single violet eye, sharp as Valyrian steel.

“You tremble,” he observed, his voice low, smooth.

You straightened your spine, swallowing down the fear clawing at your throat. “I do not.”

A ghost of a smirk flashed at the corner of his lips.

He stepped closer, his presence filling the space between you with something heavy, something suffocating.

“I expected resistance,” he mused, tilting his head slightly. “Anger. You think me a monster, do you not?”

You said nothing.

Because you had.

You had imagined cruelty, imagined a man who would take pleasure in your suffering, a captor who would treat you as nothing more than a means to an end.

But Aemond Targaryen only watched you silently. As if you were a puzzle he could not yet solve.

At last, he exhaled sharply. “You will be under my protection. No harm will come to you while you are in my care.”

You blinked. That was not what you had expected.

Still, you lifted your chin defiantly. “And what does your ‘protection’ entail?”

His gaze darkened. “It means that if anyone so much as lays a hand on you, they will burn.”

Days passed. Then weeks.

You had braced yourself for cruelty. Instead, you found something else.

Aemond did not treat you as a prisoner.

You had been given your own chambers, close to his, but never locked. Servants tended to you, ensuring your every comfort.

Aemond watched you.

Every evening, when supper was served in his private quarters, his eye lingered on you as you ate. When you spoke, he listened intently, absorbing every word as though they were precious.

And when you walk through the gardens in the mornings, he is never far, his presence like a shadow cast in silver and black.

It was unnerving.

And yet…

One night, as you stood on the balcony overlooking the city, a strong gust of wind made you shiver. Almost immediately, something warm and heavy settled over your shoulders.

You turned in surprise.

Aemond’s cloak.

His fingers brushed yours as he adjusted it over you. “You should not stand in the cold,” he murmured.

You looked up at him, at the sharp cut of his jaw, the way the moonlight softened his usually harsh features.

“Why do you care?” you whispered.

He hesitated. Then, quietly, “Because you are mine to protect.”

Something shifted in his gaze then, something deeper, something that sent warmth low in your stomach.

It was not long after that the rumours began.

That Aemond Targaryen had grown possessive of the woman given to him. That he kept her close, and allowed no one else near her. That the woman, in turn, had stopped flinching at his presence. She had started looking at him differently.

That she had begun to care for him.

Perhaps it was true.

Because one evening, when Aemond returned from a meeting with the King’s Council, his shoulders tight with tension, you found yourself moving without thought.

You stepped into his space, fingers hesitating before resting gently on his arm. “Aemond?”

He stiffened.

No one touched him. No one dared.

But you did.

He turned his head, his gaze meeting yours, and in that moment, you saw something raw, something unspoken.

Slowly, cautiously, you lifted a hand to his face. You brushed your fingertips along the ridge of his scar, traced the edge of his eyepatch.

Aemond inhaled sharply. “What are you doing?”

You swallowed. “You carry this burden alone.” Your thumb ghosted over his cheekbone. “You do not have to.”

A shudder ran through him. And then, before you could second-guess yourself, you pressed a soft kiss to his scar.

Aemond’s hands clenched at his sides.

“You,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “are going to ruin me.”

You smiled softly. “Then let me.”

And when he kissed you, it was not the kiss of a captor claiming his prize.

It was the kiss of a man who had found something worth keeping.

Something worth protecting.

Something worth loving.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[iyoonjh]

A Cure for Frostbite

pairing: royal!sunghoon x fem!reader – w/c: 7209

synopsis: In the hush of the imperial palace, a forbidden romance blooms between Sunghoon—the emperor’s youngest son—and Y/N, a quiet apothecary meant to live in the shadows.

What begins with stolen glances and subtle gifts deepens into something dangerous and all-consuming. Y/N knows the risk. Sunghoon does not care. When their closeness is discovered, she pulls away to protect them both—but Sunghoon, desperate and lovesick, would burn the whole kingdom for one more moment by her side.

genre: romance, longing, historical romance, inspired by the apothecary diaries, fluff? idk, this is just a short drabble

In the eastern quarter of the Imperial Palace—past the lacquered gates where the painted cranes arched their wings eternally in mid-flight, and where plum blossoms fell like memories onto pale stone—there resided a young woman of no lineage, no crest, no glory but for the clarity of her mind and the elegance with which she existed.

Her name was Y/N, though in the palace she was called nothing so intimate—merely the apothecarian, the clever one, or sometimes, in the hushed voice of women who admired and resented her in equal measure, the beauty in white. She wore no silk but her modest uniform, no gold save the sheen of oil that glossed her hands after grinding herbs for the dowagers' sleep and princes’ fevers. Still, she carried herself as if the air bowed for her passage.

She had eyes like tea under moonlight—dark, clear, reflective of depth not seen but only guessed—and a mouth that rarely smiled, though when it did, it made even the most solemn of guards avert their eyes, ashamed to have witnessed it.

Though she never meant to be seen, she was always noticed.

To the north of that same palace, behind the walls embroidered with dragons in thread spun from silver, lived the youngest son of the Emperor.

His name was Sunghoon, the frost prince. The court called him His Serene Highness, or sometimes simply the son of Winter, for he rarely spoke in public and bore himself with a distance that even snowflakes respected. He was as beautiful as a sculpture chiseled from ice and candlelight: all pale skin, raven-black hair, and long eyes that seemed to know too much.

Yet his closest friends—noble but not royal—knew another Sunghoon. Heeseung, with the mind of a scholar and laughter like wind through open fields, and Jake, ever the diplomat’s son, quick-witted and honey-tongued, both saw through the iciness. Behind the closed shoji of his chambers, Sunghoon was warmth incarnate. He laughed at Heeseung’s ridiculous poems. He argued passionately over the best blade oil. He lay on his stomach in boyish laziness while Jake debated love and loyalty like a playwright.

He was brilliant with the sword. Too brilliant. So brilliant, the Emperor forbade him from battle.

Still, sometimes—when the moon was fat and the guards were drunk with wine—Sunghoon vanished from his quarters. And when he returned, bruises bloomed like violets along his ribs. Jake sighed. Heeseung scolded. Sunghoon only smiled, one incisor peeking out as he whispered, “I’m not dead yet.”

The two might never have crossed paths—he, a constellation born to rule; she, a shadow who kept others alive—but fate has a taste for irony, and palace walls are not made to keep hearts in.

It was early winter when Sunghoon saw her for the first time. The palace was full of cold breath and firelight. The Empress Dowager had taken ill—fevered, delirious, calling for her lost sister—and the court physicians, all swollen with status and silk, debated in circles that bled into days. Decoctions failed. Prayers echoed unanswered.

Then the apothecarian was summoned.

She entered the Dowager’s chambers like a whisper. A bundle of vials at her hip. Hands scrubbed to sanctity. She did not bow to impress, nor tremble under the weight of royal eyes. She asked only for quiet and for linen steeped in white chrysanthemum.

Sunghoon was there, in the shadow of a carved screen, bored and suspicious, idly listening to the Emperor rage at useless cures. He had no interest in women of the court—they preened like birds but spoke like reeds: all rustle, no root.

But then she spoke. Calm. Certain. Clear.

“The fever is not of the lungs but of the gut. She was fed peach kernels in her wine. The poison sleeps in sweetness.”

And the world paused to listen.

Sunghoon leaned forward.

“Who is she?” he asked, voice barely more than a breath.

Jake, beside him, shrugged. “They say she’s from the southern provinces. No family of name. She treats the kitchen maids and concubines like they were sisters.”

Sunghoon’s gaze remained fixed.

“She’s lovely,” Heeseung noted, tilting his head. “Though you’ll find no courtship there. She is wedded to her work.”

Perhaps it should have ended there—a silent admiration, an echo of curiosity, something he could dismiss with a sparring session or a bath in the onsen.

But the gods had not designed Sunghoon’s heart for quiet.

Three days later, Y/N was tending to a minor injury in the soldier’s infirmary—a foolish boy had broken his thumb while wrestling a pig, and the shame hurt more than the swelling—when she turned and found him at the door.

She knew him by title. Knew him by face, too, for who in the palace didn’t? The frost prince himself, sculpted by the heavens, lips too red, eyes too clever.

But she did not lower her gaze.

“Your Highness,” she said with the same tone she used for burnt cooks and sobbing handmaidens. “Are you ill?”

His lips curved just slightly.

“No,” he said. “But I could be.”

She blinked. Not a blush. Not a smile. Not even a breath of amusement. Just—

“Come back when you are,” she answered, turning away.

And Sunghoon—youngest son of the Emperor, undefeated in sparring, master of every noble art—stood there, momentarily robbed of speech.

He was not used to indifference.

It was intoxicating.

In the palace, time did not move; it sighed.

The courtyards bloomed in sequence like breath drawn through the mouth of heaven—first the plum blossoms in the eastern court, then magnolias by the main veranda. In the inner palace, light slanted gently through latticed windows, dust motes dancing like polite ghosts.

And somewhere in the middle of all this—between the call of the imperial bell and the rustle of silk across polished floors—Y/N was busy being useful.

She worked like a hymn—quiet, necessary, elegant in rhythm. Her footsteps made no sound in the sick wards. Her hands moved with exactitude, her eyes alert, always measuring. When she passed, the guards straightened. The other apothecaries took note. She belonged to no noble family, had no title—but in the hush of the Emperor’s palace, her name was a soft reverence.

And still, she believed she moved unseen.

She was wrong.

It began with a fever.

Not hers.

Prince Sunghoon—third son of the Emperor, youngest of the blood, and colder than jade in winter—was brought to the southern infirmary with a low-grade fever and “mild dizziness.” A meaningless case. The other court physicians had deemed it unworthy of real concern, barely requiring an herbal rinse.

But still, the order had come directly.

“Summon her,” said the guard, voice subdued. “The apothecarian.”

So she went.

He was sitting up when she arrived, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He wore no crown, no badge of status—only a pale robe embroidered with cranes, the gold thread shimmering when the light caught it.

She bowed. “Your Highness.”

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

She raised a brow. “And what did Your Highness expect?”

He tilted his head slightly, as though studying her shape might answer the question.

“I supposed someone less… something.”

That was the first time she was summoned to tend his wounds. She diagnosed nothing unusual—likely heatstroke from overexertion. He thanked her with a polite nod, then left.

Two days later, he returned.

“A headache,” he said. “Persistent.”

She asked the routine questions: pulse, appetite, light sensitivity. Nothing of note.

“Have you been sleeping, Your Highness?”

“Not well.”

“There must be reason then.”

He looked at her for a moment too long, then said, “Restless thoughts.”

She prescribed valerian, a gentle sedative. She handed him the powder in a folded slip of paper. He held it longer than necessary, fingers brushing hers.

“Your hands are cold,” he murmured.

She pulled away. “Apologies.”

He said nothing. But when he left, he wore a ghost of a smile.

The third time, it was a cut across his palm.

Thin. Clean. Precise.

She did not look up as she began to treat it.

“Sparring?”

“A door.”

“Really?”

“A very sharp door.”

She glanced at him then, and his mouth twitched.

“You enjoy being difficult,” she said.

“I enjoy seeing you.”

A pause. Her hands stilled, breath caught between one heartbeat and the next.

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Then I won’t.” A beat. “Unless you want me to.”

By the fifth visit—something about bruised ribs and “falling down”—Y/N was no longer convinced he had any true ailments at all.

Which is when she began to notice the pattern.

Every excuse was measured. A scrape on the right elbow just deep enough to require her attention. A cough that never quite returned once her tea reached his lips. He was never dramatic, never demanding. He didn’t beg for her time; he simply made her curious.

And curiosity was a dangerous thing in a place like this.

They were tucked behind the stables where no one came at this hour — too far from the scholar’s garden, too shadowed for courtiers, too ordinary for the royal sons of heaven.

But that’s what made it safe.

Jake leaned against the wooden beam, arms crossed lazily. His outer robe was half-unfastened, exposing the ivory collar of his undershirt, still damp from sword practice. Heeseung sat on an overturned water barrel, balancing a twig between his fingers like a fan. Sunghoon was the only one who remained standing, back to them, eyes on the cloudless horizon.

It had been quiet. But Jake, as usual, couldn’t let it stay that way.

“How’s your third fever this week?” he asked, voice dry.

Sunghoon didn’t turn.

“Gone,” he replied simply.

“Hmm. A miracle,” Heeseung added. “Must be that genius nurse in the infirmary. What’s her name again?”

“Y/N,” Jake supplied, the name slipping off his tongue like he’d been waiting to say it. “The one you pretend not to look at.”

Sunghoon’s shoulders rose — barely. Controlled. Still, his silence cracked the air like a blade drawn slowly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.

Heeseung grinned. “You’ve had a cut, a cough, bruised ribs, and now a migraine. All in six days. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were fighting wild boars on the palace roof.”

“Or,” Jake said, pushing off the beam, circling him now, “you’re just in love with a girl who smells like camphor and violet water.”

At that, Sunghoon turned. Slowly. The sun lit one side of his face and cast the other into shadow — one eye unreadable, the other glinting like a secret.

“You think this is love?”

Heeseung shrugged. “We think it’s something. Don’t you?”

Jake gave him a meaningful look. “You show up to practice late, you disappear after council lessons, and you flinch when her name is mentioned.”

“I do not flinch.”

“Sunghoon,” Heeseung said carefully, tapping the edge of his boot against the barrel, “you’re the son of the Emperor. Not just any noble boy with a soft heart and an empty title. You don’t get to fall for someone just because she wraps your hand in silk and scolds you when you won’t rest.”

A beat passed. No one breathed.

Then Sunghoon said, very quietly:

“I know.”

And something in his voice silenced even Jake.

He wasn’t denying it anymore. Wasn’t laughing, wasn’t dodging. There was no smirk, no clever retort. Just a kind of quiet devastation, like a vase you see fall before it hits the ground — the knowledge that it’s already shattered.

“But I think about her,” he continued, voice barely above a whisper. “Everywhere. In court. On the practice grounds. When I try to sleep. I see her hands folding herbs, her lips when she speaks, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she thinks no one’s looking—”

“Gods,” Jake muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re doomed.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Heeseung sighed. “And what exactly is your plan? Keep faking injuries until someone catches on? What then? You’ll get her dismissed. Or worse.”

“I don’t have a plan.”

Jake leaned in, all sarcasm gone from his tone. “Then you better get one. Because this—this isn’t just a passing interest, is it?”

Sunghoon looked down at his hands. Pale, unmarked. The cut she stitched had healed already. But the memory of her touch had not. He could still feel her thumb against the bone of his wrist, soft and steady. As if he wasn’t dangerous at all.

As if he were just a boy.

“She sees me,” he said. “Not the title. Not the weight. Just me.”

“That’s what makes it dangerous,” Heeseung said gently.

Jake exhaled, long and slow, then clapped a hand to Sunghoon’s shoulder.

“Well,” he said, tone brightening with mock cheer, “if we’re going down, might as well go beautifully. Just… try not to fall off a roof next time, yeah?”

Sunghoon almost smiled.

“No promises.”

The palace was quieter in the mornings — a kind of hush that clung to the marble floors and whispered along the silk tapestries. Even the birds outside seemed to know not to sing too loud. In the East Wing, where few dared to wander without purpose, the apothecarian’s room remained still, perfumed with crushed herbs and sun-warmed parchment. Y/N had long made peace with the silence there. It filled the corners others found empty. She liked it, preferred it — until he began visiting.

At first, Prince Sunghoon had been a curiosity. Now, he was a habit. One she couldn’t afford, and yet, didn’t wish to break.

She was midway through grinding dried elderflowers into powder when his shadow slipped under the threshold — silent, and annoyingly graceful for someone so supposedly clumsy with “stairs,” “fencing accidents,” and “unexpected sword-related tripping hazards,” all of which had been excuses to find himself in her doorway these past weeks.

“Don’t you ever knock?” Y/N asked, not looking up.

“I tried.” His voice carried that unbothered lilt she hated that she loved. “But your door doesn’t make a very dramatic sound.”

She finally raised her gaze — and, as always, immediately regretted it. He wore blue today, deep like lapis, with gold stitching at the collar. He looked like a painting. Like something someone else should be allowed to look at. Not her.

“Let me guess,” she said, setting the mortar aside. “You’ve come to sprain your dignity again?”

“No.” His tone was mock-hurt. “Today, I come bearing peace offerings.”

He stepped inside and held out a bundle wrapped in deep crimson cloth. She frowned, but took it — her fingers brushing against his. A spark. Annoying. Predictable.

Inside was a tiny box carved from black walnut, the grain smooth and polished. She opened it carefully. Inside lay a pressed camellia — white, preserved perfectly in wax paper. It shouldn’t have meant anything. But her breath caught.

“You steal flowers now, Your Highness?”

“It wasn’t stealing,” he said, leaning against the wall like he belonged there. “It was a diplomatic transfer of assets. The camellias by the south pond were looking too proud. I humbled one.”

Y/N snorted despite herself. “And what makes you think I’d want this?”

“Because I noticed you keep dried petals tucked into your books,” he said, too casually. “And I thought — perhaps the apothecary who lives among crushed things might like something still whole.”

The words landed quietly between them, heavier than the flower.

Y/N turned away before he could see the heat in her face, busying herself with empty jars that needed no rearranging. “You should go,” she said, softening the words by not meaning them. “If your father finds out you’re sneaking around the herb rooms again—”

“He won’t,” Sunghoon replied, strolling deeper into the room, idly picking up a cork-stoppered vial. “No one follows me here. You’re the only one who bothers to talk to me for longer than a bow and a breath.”

She glanced at him sidelong. “That’s because I have no sense of self-preservation.”

“No,” he said, turning to face her properly. “It’s because you see me.”

Y/N froze.

There it was again — that subtle thread he always managed to pull. The one that tugged her thoughts loose, made her chest feel too full, her carefully composed indifference fray at the edges.

She recovered quickly. “You’re not very hard to see. You dress like a storm cloud at a wedding.”

He smiled. Slowly. “And you deflect like a cat cornered in sunlight.”

She looked down, trying not to. Trying not to give him the satisfaction of knowing how easily he undid her, just by standing there, just by bringing her quiet things and asking for nothing. Or pretending to.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she said after a moment. Her voice was steady, but only just. “Bringing me things. Spending time here.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” She turned to face him. “Because it means something.”

His gaze softened, the jest in him gentled. “It already means something,” he said. “The difference is—I’m not afraid of that.”

Y/N’s breath trembled before she could catch it. The truth was, she was afraid. Not of him. Of what he made her want.

The room felt too quiet then. The walls too close. She hated how much she wanted him to stay.

She didn’t stop him when he sat across from her on the low bench by the window, nor when he rested his elbow on the table, propping his chin in his palm like a boy too young to be royal, too sincere to be a prince.

“Tell me what you’re working on,” he said.

“You’ll be bored.”

“I’m already bored,” he replied. “That’s why I’m here.”

She hesitated. Then reached for a bundle of dried angelica root. “It’s a formula for headaches. Not that you nobles ever suffer from such mundane ailments.”

“On the contrary,” he said. “Palace life is a headache.”

She looked at him again, and this time, allowed herself to smile — just a little. He smiled back, like it was the only thing he needed today.

Outside, the sun crawled along the stone floor. The silence returned, not unwelcome, but newly charged — no longer an absence, but a presence.

And when he left — hours later, after they’d spoken of everything and nothing, after she’d almost, almost leaned too close — he left another camellia on her desk. This one pink.

And Y/N sat there long after the quiet reclaimed the room, staring at the flower, and wondering which would be her undoing first: the silence… or the boy who kept breaking it.

It had rained that morning— one of those patient, whispering rains that speak not to the ears but to the bones— making everything soft and grave, as though the earth itself bowed its head. The palace corridors, built of quiet and secrets, gleamed faintly with light that had not quite forgiven the clouds.

The apothecary wing, tucked in its solemn corner, held stillness like a breath. Y/N stood at her worktable, grinding valerian root with the sort of focus born only of desire to forget. She knew he would come. He always did. Before she heard him, she felt him—a shift in the air, the drop in her stomach that never warned, only reminded.

“You’re early,” she said, not lifting her gaze.

“You sound disappointed,” came his reply—low, silk-lined, already smiling.

She ground the root with more purpose. “I’m not. Only concerned. Your appearances are beginning to resemble habits.”

“I’m told habits become sins,” he mused, stepping further in. “And I do enjoy sinning, when it leads me here.”

Y/N looked up, against her better judgment. He stood with the storm still clinging to his cloak, a soft sheen to his hair, lashes damp from the air’s affection. And that face—he wore it like a mask of royalty, but his eyes betrayed him every time. Too honest. Too intent.

“Cloak off,” she muttered. “The floors are older than your lineage.”

With a theatrical sigh, Sunghoon complied. “How tragic, to be bested by floorboards.” He hung the garment neatly by the door, revealing a simpler tunic beneath—though even his simplicity was threaded with gold. A boy born of thrones pretending to be common.

She turned back to her bench, her fingers now arranging glass vials. “I should forbid you.”

He approached quietly, placing something beside her hand—a small, folded parchment. She opened it. Inside, between wax paper, lay forget-me-nots. Bruised blue, delicate as breath.

“They grow by the east garden wall,” he said. “No one ever looks. I thought of you.”

She swallowed. Her hands, traitorous things, lingered too long on the stem.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, softer than before.

Sunghoon leaned on the edge of her table. “Nothing,” he said, “you do not already give me freely.”

“That’s dangerous talk.”

“I’ve never feared danger.”

“You should.”

“I do,” he said. “But I fear you more.”

She dared glance up again. Mistake. He was too near. Too near and too beautiful and too aware. His smile did not ask—it confessed.

“Your Highness,” she said, voice barely spoken, barely hers. “This is madness.”

He tilted his head. “Then let us go mad together.”

Before she could reply, the world shifted—sharp as a blade drawn in sleep. A knock. Firm. Two strikes against the heavy door.

Her heart caught flame. Sunghoon moved faster than breath. To the back wall, where apothecaries kept their less lawful secrets, and she, without speaking, reached under the second shelf. A hidden panel. It clicked open. He vanished.

By the time she turned, her hands had already remembered calm. The High Steward’s assistant entered—neat, bloodless, and suspicious.

“Apothecarian,” he said, “the Empress’s physician requires belladonna.”

“Of course,” she replied, not smiling. “It’s ready.”

She retrieved the sealed vial. “Two drops, no more. It is a generous poison.”

He took it, then paused. “I thought I heard voices.”

She let her lashes fall. “Dried herbs whisper, when they settle. They are not polite.”

His lips twitched. He left.

She waited. Waited—until the silence returned to its rightful shape.

The panel creaked. Sunghoon stepped out, brushing cobwebs off his shoulder.

“Herbs whisper?” he said.

“Do not ever make me lie like that again.”

He looked at her—not with amusement this time, but with something gentler. Almost reverent. 

“You risked yourself.”

“You would’ve done the same.”

He stepped toward her, his expression rare and unfamiliar. Stripped of wit.

“I’ll stop,” he whispered. “If you ask.”

The room stood still. Even the tinctures held their breath.

But she—she said nothing.

A quiet exhale left his lungs. He stepped closer, not touching, never touching. His eyes were dark and steady. His lips slightly parted, like he wanted to say something else — or kiss her instead.

“Next time,” he said, “I’ll bring violets.”

And yet, the next time Sunghoon came to see her, he broke his promise — and brought no violets.

Y/N no longer startled at the sound of his boots on the stone. Her breath always caught, but she no longer flinched.

Sunghoon had a manner of entering her space as if it were a secret they shared. He never announced himself loudly. He would lean a shoulder against the doorway, gloved fingers smoothing over the doorframe like it was a violin string, something to coax sound from. His voice, low and calm, carried the weight of meaning only she could hear.

"Tell me," he said once, eyes trained on the steam rising from a copper pot, "do you ever mix something too beautiful to use?"

Y/N glanced up, wary of the trick behind the question. “Sometimes,” she said. “And sometimes I make it just to see it undone.”

He smiled — one of those half-smiles that never touched his mouth, only his eyes. “Like poetry. Or politics.”

They talked. Always. Yet always around the thing.

Each word was a petal plucked and dropped, an offering, a risk. There was a strange formality between them, as if they had signed a treaty neither remembered writing, and it held — barely — by the virtue of long, drawn glances and averted eyes.

She should not have liked how often he stayed. Or how he never came without a token. Once, a thin chain of silver, smooth as river water. Another time, a piece of pale blue sea glass. “I found it on the windowsill,” he had said. “Or perhaps it was meant for you.”

He didn’t ask to stay. But he did.

Tonight, it was nearing dusk. The sky beyond the narrow slats of the window had turned pale with lilac — that sharp color of confession — and the wind scratched at the stones. Y/N moved quietly between shelves of vials and scrolls, her fingers absently arranging things that were already arranged.

She could feel him.

He had been sitting at her worktable for nearly twenty minutes, one leg crossed over the other, running his thumb along the edge of a small, leather-bound book he hadn’t opened.

“You know,” he said, his voice sudden in the silence, “if I were less restrained, I might steal a bottle or two. Something to fake my own death. Or sleep for a hundred years.”

Y/N exhaled, slow. “And what would that accomplish?”

He tilted his head. “It might buy me time.”

She turned her back to him. The scent of clove and crushed rosehips masked her disquiet.

“You already steal too much,” she said, her voice cooler than intended. “You take my hours.”

That made him laugh — a sound like snow melting too fast.

“But you never ask me to leave.”

She turned then, the twilight catching in her lashes. “Would you, if I did?”

He looked up at her. Really looked.

“No.”

There was a beat — long, strange, reverberating.

The room pressed in with its warmth, the scent of boiling thyme, the hush of wind through stone. Outside, the palace was a thousand windows lit with a thousand lies. Inside, the air between them crackled — but softly, the way a fire does when no one is watching.

He rose, slowly, as though standing undid something inside him.

“I brought something,” he said, reaching into his coat.

Y/N’s breath hitched. The offerings always frightened her more than his gaze. A man like him — born to the edge of crowns and war councils — should not know how to choose soft things. But he did.

He placed the object in her hand. It was a ring of carved wood, shaped like a lily, the grain polished until it glowed like honey.

“I saw it,” he said simply, “and thought of your fingers.”

Y/N did not reply. She couldn’t. Not with her throat tightening.

Sunghoon leaned a little closer — closer than the day before. His voice dropped into something just above a hush.

“Will you ever tell me the truth?” he asked. “If I asked for something dangerous.”

She met his eyes — foolishly. It was always a mistake, but one she made again and again.

“What is it you’d ask for this time?”

He didn’t smile this time.

“Your want.”

The words were clean. Precise. Unflinching.

Y/N held her breath so tightly it hurt her ribs. She wanted to step back, to be clever, to vanish into tinctures and linens and respectable restraint. But all she could say — weak and scalding — was:

“You wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

Sunghoon's mouth curved, slowly.

“No,” he said. “But I’d like the chance to try.”

And then he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him like a confession swallowed.

Y/N stood alone in the warm hush of her chamber, her heart knocking against the ribs that kept it captive. The ring sat in her palm, delicate and treacherous. Like him.

Like her.

She closed her fist around it.

The apothecary’s workroom lay quiet beneath the weight of late afternoon, gold and shadow laced across the stone floor in slow, flickering patterns. The air smelled of dried rosemary and orange peel, warm and crisp, as though the walls themselves had absorbed the scents and refused to let them go. Y/N was slicing valerian root with studied precision, the motion mechanical, her thoughts far from the blade. She had not seen Sunghoon in days.

And yet, it was the memory of the last time that haunted her most.

He had come empty-handed, no violets, no little token tucked behind his back or cradled in his palm. Only his voice, low and honey-warm, and his eyes — luminous, exhausted, pleading for something he hadn’t dared name. She had been laughing at some dry, clever nothing he’d said, her fingers stained green from herbs, when the door opened with a hush, not a bang — but it was worse that way. Quieter things cut deeper.

She didn’t hear them at first. Only the change in Sunghoon’s eyes — that flash of something gone cold — made her turn.

Heeseung stood just inside the threshold, expression unreadable, though a shadow of amusement danced at the edge of his mouth like a secret he hadn’t decided whether to keep. Jake lingered just behind him, eyes sweeping the room with a curious sort of slowness, like someone looking for the shape of something they already suspected.

“Didn’t know you’d taken up herbal studies, brother,” Heeseung said softly. Not biting. Not warm.

Y/N went still. Not a dramatic gasp, not a flinch — but the kind of stillness born of instinct, like a deer in tall grass.

She did not look at Sunghoon. She looked at her hands. She looked at the flask of steeped feverfew she hadn’t yet poured. She looked at the distance between her and the prince and found it suddenly, unforgivably small.

They didn’t look at her face.

That was what made her throat tighten.

They looked at the curve of her spine, at the disarray of the worktable behind her, at the ribbon coming undone from the end of her braid. Jake’s gaze caught on the worn edge of the stool where Sunghoon had been sitting. Heeseung’s gaze drifted to the windows — closed. The door — bolted before they'd arrived.

There was no accusation. Just awareness.

Sunghoon, to his credit, did not falter. His voice was the same careless silk he always used when pretending not to care.

“A tincture,” he said, lifting an empty bottle like a jest. “Terribly dramatic cough, as I’m sure you’ve both heard.”

Heeseung arched a brow, not smiling, not frowning. Just seeing.

Jake tilted his head. “And only our palace apothecary could soothe it, of course.”

There was no laughter. Only the echo of it, implied.

Y/N moved before she could think. She turned from the table — not toward them, not toward him. Just away. She gathered stray petals with trembling fingers and tucked them into the herb press, not trusting her voice, not daring to exist more loudly than the silence had allowed.

She had not looked at Sunghoon. She had not spoken. She had wrapped herself in the invisible distance that women like her were always meant to maintain in palaces like these — the veil between the bloodlines and the hands that tended them.

And now, in the dim, the world was quieter without him. But it did not feel safe. It felt like exile.

She did not go near the eastern hallways where he often walked. She passed his shadow in the garden without turning her head. She handed tinctures to court ladies with her voice like poured water, never lingering. And though no one said anything — though Heeseung and Jake made no scandal, no whisper behind fans or folded letters — she knew what the silence meant.

Sunghoon, for his part, did not relent.

She found, three days after the visit, a folded slip of paper on her table — the corner weighed down with a smooth, black riverstone. She told herself not to read it. She did.

“If you must pretend not to see me, then at least let me look. You’re in everything I notice anyway.”

Her hands had trembled the entire morning.

Then came a sprig of lavender tucked beside her mortar. A note scrawled in a lazy, boyish script: “This smells like how you speak. Calm, but with the threat of storms.”

And finally — this morning — a book.

Worn, water-stained, slipped between her ledgers. The cover, a faded brown. Inside, pressed between pages, a feather. Pale, grey-blue. His writing on the inside cover:

“I found this and thought of you. Even when you avoid me, I find you.”

She nearly wept.

But she could not go to him. She dared not. She saw the way Heeseung watched her now. The way Jake’s eyes softened with pity.

Sunghoon was the emperor’s son. She was a woman who smelled of rosemary and flame, whose hands healed but did not belong at court.

And yet—

And yet, when she heard his voice at the edge of her door one evening, whispering her name as though it was something holy, her resolve crumbled like dried petals.

“Y/N.” A whisper. “I know you’re in there.”

She did not respond. Her breath caught in her throat.

A pause.

“I think of you at night. When the palace is quiet. When the oil lamps make everything look like candlelight. I think of you every time I walk through the gardens, and I hope — I hope you’ll look at me again. I’m not asking for scandal. Just… a moment. A breath. Yours.”

Silence.

“I never cared what Heeseung or Jake thought. But I care that you won’t meet my eyes anymore.”

Her hand rested on the doorframe. Her body leaned toward him before her mind gave it permission.

“I feel,” he murmured on the other side, “as though I’ve done something terribly wrong. And yet, I’d do it again, just to hear you laugh.”

A throb in her chest.

She stayed silent. But her hand drifted to the door, fingers pressed to the wood where his voice had lingered. And he—on the other side—rested his palm in the same place.

No words.

Only that stillness.

Only that ache.

He left soon after. She heard his steps retreat, slower than usual.

But when she opened the door ten minutes later — the hall empty, the lanterns flickering soft — she found a single violet pressed to the floor.

A promise. A waiting.

And for the first time in days, she allowed herself to smile.

It was not a clean absence.

Y/N did not vanish in the elegant way of snow melting at dawn, nor in the dignified manner of a flower curling back into itself at dusk. She withdrew with a surgeon’s precision — averted eyes, shortened words, missing hours. Her distance was quiet, but brutal. A thousand tiny cuts beneath the surface.

And Sunghoon was bleeding.

He had tried to be patient. Dignified. He had tried, in the first day, to believe she was simply tired. Busy. The second, he convinced himself she was angry — justly so — and would come around. The third day, he stood at the far edge of the apothecary’s corridor like a man waiting for an execution, watching the door remain closed, listening to the echo of her not coming.

By the fourth day, he began to unravel.

There was a peculiar kind of madness that accompanied wanting someone you could not touch. He had endured the ceremony of court, the empty chatter of noblewomen, the endless scrolls of diplomatic grievances — all with her ghost pressing against his ribs. Her voice, her frown, her mouth — her mouth — all of it lived behind his eyes now. Memory had sharpened her into a weapon.

He saw her everywhere. In the slope of a wrist at dinner. In the laugh of a passing servant. In the lavender light before morning. And it was never her. Not her.

She had ruined solitude for him.

He could no longer sit in silence without imagining what she might be doing — where she stood, if she was thinking of him, if she hated him now. And worse — far worse — he feared she did not hate him at all, only feared him. Feared them.

As she should.

Because what they had — what they had almost had — was blasphemy. An apothecarian and a prince. A quiet girl with ink-stained fingers and a man raised in silk and distance.

But he had tasted the idea of her. And now everything else was ash.

He did not sleep. Not truly. When his body did surrender to exhaustion, he dreamt in fever. Of her breath against his throat. Her voice saying his name in a tone no court would dare speak it. He woke with the taste of longing like metal on his tongue.

He kept the ribbon she had dropped. Blue, frayed, unremarkable — and now the holiest thing he owned.

He would take it out at night, when the palace was still and the moon lay against the windows like a watching eye. He would hold it between his fingers and imagine the weight of her hair, the curve of her neck, the warmth of her cheek if he ever dared brush it.

His thoughts were obscene. Not for their vulgarity, but for their intimacy.

He thought of her hands — not on him — but doing ordinary things. Threading a needle. Stirring a tincture. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He thought of her voice in the morning, low and rasped with sleep, and what it might sound like laughing beside him in bed.

He thought of her in every version of a life he was forbidden to have.

It made him furious. And hopeless. And alive in a way he had never been before.

She had become a wound he did not want to heal.

And so he found himself haunting the spaces she might occupy. Not speaking, just… hoping. A glimpse. A shadow. A sigh. He would take anything.

He told himself he would not go to her again. He had already given her too many chances to break him.

But then the rain came — thick, sudden, angry — and he remembered the way she never ran from storms.

And that was all it took.

He did not think. He ran. Not for the court. Not for the family name. Not for dignity.

He ran for her. Always, always for her.

And if she did not want him — he would hear it from her lips. Not her absence. Not her silence.

Her voice.

If he was going to be destroyed by love, it would be by her hand. And he would thank her for the mercy of it.

The rain had begun sometime past dusk — first as a whisper, then a warning. The sky bruised violet and steel. The clouds sagged with a weight they could no longer bear.

And Y/N ran.

Not fast. Not foolishly. But with a resolve that burned through the marrow of her bones. She had meant to go only as far as the conservatory’s side door — meant only to clear her thoughts, to feel air that wasn’t thick with dread and guilt and his name in her chest.

But she had wandered too far.

And he had followed.

The storm cracked open overhead, not loud — not yet — but with a rolling growl like something ancient waking up.

Y/N turned only when she heard his voice, ragged against the wind.

“Y/N.”

She froze, the syllables like a thread caught at her spine. She had not heard that voice in days. She had avoided him. Faithfully. Brutally. She had turned corridors. Sent messengers in her place. Hidden behind propriety and fear and trembling silence.

And yet here he stood.

Soaked. Disheveled. Breathing as if he’d been running after something he could no longer bear to lose.

“What do you want, Sunghoon?” she asked, without turning.

“I want—” his breath caught on the storm — “I want to know what crime I committed that was worse than loving you.”

Her eyes stung. Rain or not.

“You don’t get to say that,” she said, voice low. “Not when it can ruin us both.”

“I would be ruined a thousand times over,” he said, stepping closer, “if it meant one more moment with you.”

The wind dragged his hair into his eyes. His cloak was soaked through; he hadn’t brought a hood.

“You are the Emperor’s son,” she said bitterly. “And I — I’m the girl who measures out lavender in teaspoons and brews fever tinctures for people who forget my name.”

“You think I forget your name?” His voice cracked. “You think I forget the way you speak when you’re tired, or the way you smell like chamomile even when you’re angry? You think I don’t remember every time you touched my wrist without meaning to, or the way you never look at me the same way twice?”

She turned then, water streaming down her cheeks, rain or tears — she couldn’t tell anymore.

“It’s not fair,” she whispered.

“No,” he said, voice thick. “It isn’t.”

Lightning shattered the sky in the distance — silver slicing through blue.

“Do you know what it’s been like?” His voice trembled with the storm. “To be watched every moment? To have nothing of my own — not even my heart? And then to find it — you — and realize even that I cannot keep?”

Her chest ached. Her hands trembled at her sides.

“You were never supposed to come into my life,” she said. “Not like this.”

“And yet,” he said, a crooked, broken smile on his lips, “I have memorized your footsteps in the hallway. I know the exact hour the light hits your table in the morning. I carry the sound of your laugh like a prayer.”

“Stop,” she begged, voice splintering. “Please.”

He took a step forward.

“Do you want me to?”

Her silence was a wound.

The rain beat against the marble, against the ivy-covered walls, against the skin of two people too young to know how to carry love like this, and too old to pretend it didn’t matter.

“You make me want to be reckless,” he said, quietly now. “You make me hope, even when I know better. You make me believe I was made for something more than duty.”

“I’m afraid,” she admitted.

“I’m already afraid,” he replied. “Being with you wouldn’t change that. But at least I’d be afraid with you.”

She didn’t move.

And then he whispered, “Tell me to go. Look me in the eye and say you feel nothing and I will never trouble you again.”

The air hung between them like the breath before a kiss.

Her lips parted — but no lie could form.

Instead, she said: “If you stay, Sunghoon, we fall. You and I — we lose everything.”

“I’d rather fall with you than rise without you.”

And finally — finally — she closed the distance.

Rain between them. Fire within.

She touched his face, trembling. He leaned into her palm like a man starved for warmth.

Their kiss — when it came — was not soft.

It was desperate. It was furious. It was years of loneliness unraveling in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

The storm howled on.

But in that moment, neither of them heard it.

author's note: hiiiiiii! so… surprise?! I decided to write this short story because, as you can probably tell, I became obsessed with The Apothecary Diaries (I fell in love with Jinshi and my best friend—shout out to heejamas—and I haven’t been able to think about anything else).

after I finished the frog episode (if you know, you know), I dreamed of Sunghoon as the emperor’s son and I just knew I had to write something about it.

this is my first time writing a short story, but I think I managed to put everything I wanted into words! I hope you enjoy it—it's very different from what I’m used to writing, but it was necessary to remind me that I love writing and that it’s a hobby that brings me so much joy!

[strawberry-bubblef]

May I request some Malleus x Asian dragon reader? I just think the contrast between a western dragon and an asian dragon is neat

Asian dragon reader x Malleus

I’m not very familiar with Asian dragons, but I did my best to research about them them,sorry if I got anything wrong.Feel free to correct me!

Everyone knows who Malleus Draconia is.

A prince of thorns, shadowed by stormclouds and legacy, feared and revered in equal measure. The horned fae, the dragon of Diasomnia, heir to a kingdom most only speak of in hushed awe.

And you?

You are something older.

Not feared, not whispered of, revered. A whisper in the wind, a shimmer of scales gliding between the clouds. A celestial serpent, a creature of rain and sky, called by ancient temples and children’s prayers for rain.

You and Malleus are both dragons, yes. But you are night and dawn. Fire and river. Thunder and rain.

You meet at Night Raven College , you, summoned by strange magic you’ve never quite trusted, and Malleus, watching from the shadows with curious green eyes. Perhaps it was fate, perhaps it was the pull of your shared natures. But it doesn’t take long before you’re drawn to each other,not by the ferocity of your power, but by the loneliness beneath it.

And now?

Now, he rests his head on your shoulder as you both sit in the spires of Diasomnia’s tallest tower, silent save for the quiet wind brushing against your horns.

"You’re warm tonight," you murmur.

He huffs a laugh. "You always say that. You’re the one who's cold like cloudwater."

You turn your head to look at him, elegant, regal. His eyes glow faintly in the darkness, but they soften when he gazes at you.

“You burn like wildfire,” you say. “I glide like mist. You were raised to cast shadows. I was raised to clear skies.”

And he smiles at that, not the polite prince’s smile, but the one only you get to see. Soft. Secret. Full of something that borders reverence.

“Opposites,” he says. “Yet here we are.”

It’s not always easy.

There are moments when he rages,when centuries of solitude and misunderstanding claw at him like ghosts. When his temper crackles in the air and the world remembers why fae are feared.

But you, ancient and serene, don’t flinch.

Instead, you wrap yourself around him, coils and breath and calm. You press your forehead to his and whisper, “Storms pass. They always do.”

He clings to your voice like it’s a prayer.

And there are times you falter, too. When you’re lost in memories of temples long crumbled, of people who once knelt to offer offerings.You wonder if you’re still needed. Still wanted.

“Your divinity never needed belief,” Malleus says one night, when he finds you staring at the sky with distant eyes. “You shine, whether anyone is watching or not.”

He brushes your cheek with the back of his hand, and you lean into it like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered.

“You found me,” you whisper. “When I thought I’d drift forever.”

In your dragon forms, the difference is even starker.

He is massive, winged and imposing, fire and smoke and ancient wrath.

You are long and serpentine, without wings, moving through air as if it’s water, trailing stars with every movement.

When you fly together, you are yin and yang,the sky splits with thunder and clears behind you with rainbows. Watching you together is like witnessing the balance of nature itself. Malleus, fierce and quiet. You, gentle and eternal.

He tells you stories of Briar Valley. You tell him tales from the clouds, of mountains that cry, of dragons who live in the rivers and whisper to fishermen. He listens as though hearing stories from another world.

And when you return home together,to your ancestral temple, deep in a bamboo forest few mortals find,he bows before the great stone gate. Not out of obligation, but because he knows what you are.

“I do not kneel easily,” he says, voice low, “but your roots demand reverence.”

You lead him inside, your form shimmering under moonlight, and the old spirits watch. They whisper of harmony. Of balance.

Of a future forged from thunder and mist.

In quiet moments, he holds your hand and traces the long curve of your claws.

“In another universe” he says, “we might have been enemies.”

You shake your head, resting your forehead against his. “In every universe, I would have found you.”

He believes you.

Because the contrast between you is not what divides, it’s what binds.

You are not two halves of a coin, nor two sides of a blade.

You are sky and earth. River and fire.

And where you meet, something holy grows.

English is not my first language !

[littlelamy]

more headcanons of knight!rafe x younger!princess!reader

their relationship . ݁ ˖୨୧₊❀

୨ৎ   he was assigned after some noble tried to grab her during a parade. she didn’t even flinch—she just stared as rafe beat the man half to death. afterward, he was named her personal guard, and she groaned, “i don’t need a shadow,” all pouty and haughty. but now she won’t go anywhere without him.

୨ৎ   she brings him things—figs from the garden, letters with drawings of them as prince and princess, flower crowns with thorns still in them. once got caught in the training yard by the captain, and rafe just bowed low and said, “forgive me. i insisted for the princess to come out here.”

୨ৎ   she touches his armor like it’s soft. traces the scars on his hands like she wants to kiss them better. tucks wildflowers behind his ear, all giggly and sugar-sweet, and he goes stone silent, red-faced, gripping his sword like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

୨ৎ   he’d rather die than see her hurt. but she keeps doing reckless things like climbing trees and sneaking out past curfew just to see the stars. “what if i fall?” she teases. “then i’ll catch you, milady” he always says, completely serious.

little moments. ݁ ˖୨୧₊❀

୨ৎ   sitting in the window seat, braid undone, humming lullabies to her cat. rafe watches from the doorway like he’s guarding a relic, not just a girl.

୨ৎ   twirling barefoot through the empty ballroom at night, lit only by moonlight. she thinks no one’s watching, but rafe always is.

୨ৎ   riding behind him on his horse, arms wrapped tight around his waist, cheek pressed to his back. her eyes closed, his jaw clenched, feeling a peace like he’s never known.

୨ৎ   whispering prayers into the wind from her tower, palms folded over her heart, asking heaven to let her stay with her knight forever—even if she’s meant to marry a prince.

ᡴꪫ tags below

taglist𑄽𑄺: @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @bevstofu @wintercrows @st8rkey @vdotcom @nemesyaaa

[3rdgymbros]

━ 𝐇𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐥𝐲 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐓𝐨 𝐘𝐨𝐮 !

— pairing; malleus draconia x ramshackle! reader

— summary; you throw rocks at his window, malleus thinks you've come for a midnight rendezvous

— notes; idk what this is, it just came to me in a fever dream. please donate to my kofi if you like my work. and know that i am mentally smooching everyone who reblogs my stuff.

❋ It’s late at night, and you’re just about ready to call it a night and head to bed. But then you suddenly think: is there any History of Magic homework?

❋ For a fleeting moment, you consider texting Ace and Deuce. But considering how terrible the subject is at holding their attentions — and yours — it would be a wasted effort.

❋ And so, you decide that the next best option would be to trek to the dorm of a fae prince in the dead of night, stand below his window, and proceed to throw rocks to get his attention.

❋ Because that’s obviously what any sane person would do.

❋ But in your defence, he lives in a tower, and this was the best way you could think of to get his attention.

❋ Ever the night owl, Malleus hasn’t turned in for the night just yet. In fact, he’s completely engrossed in a thick tome when you hurl the first pebble up at his window.

❋ The sound in the otherwise silent room startles him at first, but then he peeks out the window and sees you standing below with a handful of stones, your beautiful features perfectly illuminated by the moonlight.

❋ And his heart melts.

❋ Truly, his Child of Man never ceases to surprise him. No one has ever been so bold, so daring, so romantic as to venture all the way to Diasomnia for him. Throwing pebbles at his window in the dead of night? He’s read about this in Lilia’s novels!

❋ The Great Malleus Draconia, one of the most powerful mages in Twisted Wonderland, is now leaning on the windowsill, practically swooning.

❋ “How devoted,” he whispers to himself with a dreamy sigh, pushing open the window with a grand flourish, so that he might better take in the sight of his beloved.

❋ Meanwhile, you’re completely oblivious to his current train of thought. It’s freezing out here, and you just want a quick answer to your question before your fingers and toes fall off from the cold.

❋ “Malleus!” You whisper as quietly as you can, glancing nervously around as though you expect to see Sebek springing out at any moment to berate you for your transgressions. “Do we have any history homework?!”

❋ Silence.

❋ Malleus blinks once. Twice. He’s momentarily taken aback, but then realisation dawns. This casual question must surely be a clever way of hiding your true feelings! Ah, they’re shy about their affection . . . How adorable. He says, “We do not. But if you wished to see me, you need only summon me in the future.”

❋ “I literally just threw rocks at your window —”

❋ “It was lovely.”

❋ After that, Malleus starts to leave his window open every night, just in case you feel the urge to throw more rocks. He even enchants the area so the rocks won’t chip the glass . . . Purely a precaution for his beloved’s romantic tendencies.

[talesofesther]

and still, you have me

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: After everyone has left his side, you go find him.

A/N: A little something to heal our hearts from the finale. Here's a shameless plug of my ongoing series with Aemond, which has similar vibes to this story. <3

Masterlist

The night was late and quiet, tension high in the Keep as war loomed on the horizon. You'd been walking the lone hallways of the castle for a while now, smiling at each member of the king's guard who bowed their head at you.

You'd decided to leave your shared room with Aemond when the night stretched on and he was yet to show up. Having heard of his disagreement with his mother and sister earlier, you had a hunch he was keeping his distance, denying himself respite as he sometimes did.

However, it took you only a short while to find him. At times you thought he did it on purpose, that he wanted to be found, by the people who cared enough to look.

You pushed open the doors of the council chamber, which was now empty. The long table and stone walls softly highlighted by the golden glow of torches and candles. At the far end of the room, the doors that led to the balcony were open, and there, you found your Prince.

Leaning on the balustrade, Aemond overlooked the immensity of King's Landing under the clear night sky, his long silver hair softly moving with the wind.

You walked closer to him, quiet and careful, taking notice of his tense shoulders and head hanging low. If you had to guess, you'd say his talk with Helaena hadn't gone well.

Aemond straightened his back when he heard you approaching, you could almost feel part of his guard coming up again. Despite the way most people feared him, there was something delicate about him, you knew well. Under so many defenses, he protected a fragile heart.

The Prince took a deep breath in, he still refused to turn around and look at you. "Will you leave my side too, ñuha prūmia?" There was a crack in his voice as he spoke the last of his words.

"Only death could make me do such a thing, my love." You promised in the same breath.

Aemond turned around then, taking the remaining step that still separated the two of you. His eye shone bright under the moonlight, as did the dried tear tracks on his cheeks. He tried hard to keep his face impassive as he raised a hand to touch you but pulled away before he did so.

The turmoil was evident in how he softly furrowed his brows as if his thundering heart caused him pain, in how his lower lip wobbled, and how his eye quickly filled with new tears as he looked at the last person who stood by him. There was fear, guilt, and sorrow as he turned into the lonely young boy he once was before your eyes again.

"And what if-" Aemond stumbled in his words. He gulped, breathing through his nose, "What if the Stranger takes me before he does you? What then?" His voice was low and quiet, as if couldn't bring himself to utter the question any louder.

"Then I shall live the rest of my days in black, mourning the loss of the one I love," you spoke just as softly, gently taking one of Aemond's hands in yours. And he shuddered, you couldn't know if it was because of your touch or because of your words. "Yet glad that I got to share my time with you."

Aemond's lips parted, and the tear in his eye hung by his lashes when he blinked. There were suddenly no walls, he could crumble before you, just like that. His hand gripped yours tighter, and before his tear rolled down his cheek, he closed his eye, leaning forward so his forehead rested on yours. "Nyke ȳdra daor gūrogon ao."

You kissed the words, almost as an act of rebellion, your lips finding the edge of his with lingering affection. "Yn emā nyke mirre keskydoso." Devotion and love dripped from each syllable.

A low hum came from Aemond, and he followed after you once you pulled away, chasing your warmth.

"I will go with you," You spoke with ease, catching his gaze so he saw the sincerity in your eyes.

He kept quiet, with shallow and shaky breaths falling past his lips as he simply looked at you. Yet his hand held yours tight, refusing to let go.

"To Harrenhal. I will fly with you." You brought your free hand up, thumb brushing over Aemond's cheek and drying away the single tear that had fallen.

He closed his eye at your touch, and allowed himself to fall, for you were there to catch him. Aemond leaned his head on your shoulder, both arms coming to circle your waist and pull you against his body.

You held him back, squeezing him to you as your fingers buried in his hair. You could feel his tears dampening the fabric of your dress, could feel his nails digging into it with desperation as if you'd vanish if he didn't hold tight enough.

Aemond had refrained from asking you, because of how close you'd been with Rhaenyra once. Perhaps he lacked the courage to ask you to choose sides and risk losing you. Yet now, as you held his broken pieces together under the stars, he realized you'd chosen his side long ago.

If it would be you and him against the world, then so be it.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

High Valyrian translations: ñuha prūmia = my heart nyke ȳdra daor gūrogon ao = I don't deserve you yn emā nyke mirre keskydoso = but you have me all the same

Aemond's taglist is open, let me know if you'd like to be added. Or you can follow @talesofesther-library and turn notifications on to know when I’ve posted a new story/chapter.

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keeps me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3

You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.

[spxllcxstxr]

Vermax • J.V

(Gif not mine)

Request: jacaerys falling in love with a servant girl and taking her for a ride on vermax. -- @sarahisslytherin

Summary: Jacaerys takes a servant girl to see Vermax

Warnings: fem!reader (referred to as girl at some points), servant x prince forbidden romance, dragon stuff, lowkey abrupt ending but oh well

Word Count: 1.2k

A.N: need more smiling jace but DAMN he was fine in this scene, first jace piece, hope it's ok! This wasn’t supposed to be over 1k words lmao

•

The dark corridors of Dragonstone castle twist and turn as Prince Jacaerys pulls you through them. His grip on your wrist is light as it pushes up the sleeve of your red servant’s dress.

The only sounds surrounding the two of you were your steps across the stone floors and both of your panting breaths.

In mere minutes the cool air of Dragonstone hits you as does the grass slick with fresh dew. Any guards near the entrances are cloaked in the darkness.

"Jacaerys," You hiss, careful not to draw any attention to you. "Where are you taking me?"

"Calm yourself, (Y/n), I am only taking you to see Vermax." Jace responds, his pace slowing as he approaches a patch of grass where his dragon frequently can be found.

"Are you feeding me to your dragon, Jace? Is this what this is?"

He snorts at your question. "Not today."

You giggle as Vermax is appears within your vision.

The moonlight shimmers on Vermax's olive green scales. The dragon mesmerizes you, even when stationary. You can't even fathom the fact that Vermax is on the smaller side of the Targaryen dragons.

Jacearys turns to you, the flowing red cape attached to the rest of his riding gear rustles behind him. Your eyes flick to the Prince.

"Do you trust me?" The Prince asks, his gentle brown eyes staring into your own. His thumb rests on your cheekbone. The leather riding gloves obstructs the warm feeling you have come to associate with the Prince. It's comforting nonetheless.

You heart hammers in your chest. Even his lightest of touches always leaves you dazed, but with the addition of a dragon just over his shoulder contributes to your nerves.

"Of course, Jacaerys," You breathe, wiping your sweaty palms against the rough fabric of your dress. The tall grass tickles your ankles.

He hums, lightly pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Do not be afraid, sweet girl, Vermax will do you no harm."

"Are you sure about this, Jace? We could get in trouble--"

"Nonsense, who here would fathom taking issue with the Prince?" Jacearys smirks, making your cheeks burn.

In the moonlight he takes your breath away. Pale skin littered with freckles, the desire to kiss every single one almost taking over.

You follow him as he strides over to his dragon, murmuring in High Valarian. His hands rest atop the dragon's snout.

He whispers to his dragon, gesturing to you to come closer. With your hand trembling slightly, you lightly place it on the dragon's scales, which are hot to the touch.

It takes a bit of maneuvering paired with Jace's help for you to get up on Vermax's saddle--you had barely ridden a horse much less a dragon.

"Might want to hold on tight, (Y/n)." Jacaerys whispers in your ear as he settles behind you. "Vermax is pretty quick."

He shouts a few phrases in High Valyrian and the dragon roars to life, large wings starting to move. As you rise through the air, you can't help but to scream your lungs out.

Higher above the trees, mingling between the clouds, a sense of adrenaline makes you dizzy.

How could anyone get used to this?

You holler and laugh as the wind quickly whips all around you. Your fingers tingle and your heart pound in your chest.

Jacaerys has Vermax climbing high up in the sky before dropping close to the ocean, twisting as you go down.

Eventually, with morning quickly approaching, Vermax coasts just below the clouds, heading towards Dragonstone, which is just a small island in the distance.

Dawn creeps over the horizon, the orange and yellow hues of the early light blending with the sea surrounding you. Your skin bathes in the light. The open sea and sky glitters in your vision. Closing your eyes you deeply inhale, the fresh air filling your lungs. You can feel his eyes watching you intensely. Jace's arms tighten around your waist as he guides Vermax to dive closer to land.

You don't open your eyes until you land and Vermax stops shifting on their feet. Slowly, and with guidance from the Prince, you dismount from the dragon, gently patting their scales once more before taking a few steps back.

“Thank you, Jace,” Your lips gently press against his cheek, red from the wind. "That was..." You search for the words that could possibly describe the experience you just had. "Amazing."

The dawn light highlights the flecks of gold in his eyes and you're unable to look away. His lips tilt up in a smile.

"Oh my sweet girl...I would do anything for you. Showing you all this," He gestures to Vermax's retreating figure in the sky. "It is because I love you."

You take a step back, breath catching in your throat. While the two of you had been sneaking around with each other and kissing in the dark corners of the castle, he had never told you he loved you before. You never thought he could love someone like you. "Jacaerys, I am a mere servant girl, you cannot--"

"I can, (Y/n)." He takes your hands in his, pulling you closer to his body. He smells of dragon and fire. "When my mother is sat on the Iron Throne it will not matter if my heart chooses to be with a serving girl or a lady at court." He squeezes your hands in an attempt to calm your nerves.

You bite your bottom lip, mind and heart racing with swarming thoughts and emotions.

"Do you--do you not love me back?" Jace's dark brows crease with worry.

"Do not be a fool, Jacaerys!" You respond, meeting his eyes. "I have loved you since I met you! But what of Baela? Of politics? You cannot just piss that all away for someone like me!"

"I do not care, (Y/n), please just listen to me!" He moves his hands to frame your face, one of each cheek. They're delicate on your skin. "We will deal with it when we get there, but please let us love each other now before we have to concern ourselves with all of that." Jace's eyes are wide, pleading with you to just say yes.

And how could you resist? You had loved him since you were both children running up and down the stone steps of the castle, him avoiding his duties as a Prince and you avoiding your duties as a servant.

Without saying anything, you surge forward to capture his soft lips in your own. Your own hands move to his neck, stroking the skin there. The two of you had kissed before, many times, in fact, but it was never like this. This was more special in a way you couldn't wrap your head around. It was slow and passionate, like Jacearys was trying to convey to you how much he truly loved you. You try your best to return the sentiment.

Breathlessly, you reluctantly pull away. Your eyes flutter as they meet his own. "Gods, Jacaerys, of course I love you back."

•

[killersandy]

Power of the Moonlight Stones

Another TPOTMS art by me.

[buckysleftbicep]

beneath the crown (2) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: knight!bucky barnes x princess!reader (set in medieval times)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, forbidden relationship, yearning, oral sex (f rec), unprotected sex, creampie, possessiveness, lots of tension

summary: in a kingdom ruled by duty, you’re a princess promised to a prince you don’t love. sir james buchanan barnes is the knight sworn to protect you. but one touch turns into a secret affair, dangerous, all consuming and impossible to stop. and now, you’d risk everything just to be his.

word count: 2.6k

author's note: and i'm finally done with chapter 2, i can't tell you how many times i wrote and rewrote some parts of this chapter, because i genuinely want it to be perfect! i hope you guys will love it, thank you for stopping by! lots of love for you guys! <3

series masterlist

It was just after midnight as the corridors of the castle pulsed with quiet life, soft-footed guards paced their patrols beneath arched ceilings. A candle flickered behind a shuttered window in the library tower and somewhere deeper in the keep, a hound barked once before falling silent again. 

And the rain, ever so persistent pattered against stone and slate, whispering secrets to the turrets, slipping through the ancient cracks like nature itself had a stake in the court’s treacherous games.

The air was thick with it, tension, grief, something unspoken and restless.

As if the gods themselves mourned something not yet lost.

But in your chambers, the world was still.

You stood at the tall glass windows of your quarters, your silhouette outlined in moonlight, arms folded across a thin silk shift. The hem kissed your thighs, dampened where it had stuck to your skin. The chill of the stone floor crept up through your bare feet and into your spine, but you didn’t move. Didn’t reach for a robe or call for warmth.

The cold sharpened your senses keeping you wide awake, raw, alive.

You watched the raindrops glide down the colored glass like tiny ghosts, racing each other to vanish at the sill. And behind your reflection, faint and superimposed in the glass, you could almost see him.

Bucky.

Four years ago, he’d been assigned to your personal guard, a former soldier, chosen precisely for his skill with a blade and his unwavering silence.

At first, he was a ghost in armour, present but unreachable, he never spoke more than necessary. Never lingered too long. But even then, even in those early days of practiced distance, you had felt the storm beneath his control.

He watched the court like a wolf watches a campfire—curious, calculating, always prepared to strike.

And when it came to you, he was worse. Or better. You couldn’t tell.

Wherever you walked, he followed, not just with his steps, but with those piercing cerulean eyes you’d quietly come to crave. Whenever other men dared to stare too long, he moved closer, ever silent and watchful. When your father’s advisers raised their voices in council, Bucky’s hand tightened around the hilt of his blade like a warning no one dared to ignore

When you’d once stumbled in a courtyard after your horse bucked, he was off his own before you hit the ground, arms wrapping around you with such speed it made you breathless.

And after that, something between you changed.

You began to feel it in the way his fingers sometimes lingered just a moment too long when helping you onto a carriage, as if memorizing the shape of your skin beneath his touch. In the heat that flared quietly in his gaze whenever your bodice dipped too low or your laughter carried too freely through the hallways. 

He was never inappropriate. Never disloyal. But he watched you like a man drowning watches the sky, with a desperate awe, a fierce longing held tightly beneath a fragile veil of restraint. 

It was a silent storm, fierce and unyielding, hidden behind the calm of his controlled exterior, a madness that whispered of things left unspoken and battles fought in shadows.

You should have ignored it. Should have folded that aching longing into the shadows like every other piece of yourself the crown demanded you to silence. Buried it deep where no one could find it, where it wouldn’t unravel you in the quiet moments between duty and expectation. 

But you didn’t. 

Instead, you let it pulse beneath your skin, stubborn and alive, a secret fire that refused to be smothered.

You found yourself standing too close when you spoke, the air between you shrinking without meaning to. Your fingers brushed his arm when he opened doors, a touch light as a whisper but charged with something unspoken. Your gaze lingered just a moment too long, stealing seconds that neither of you dared admit held weight. 

And in response, the unyielding armor around him began to crack, slow fractures of vulnerability breaking through the walls he’d built so carefully.

Tiny fractures, barely visible to anyone else, but to you, they were as clear as daylight. In the tight clench of his jaw. In the way his eyes traced the shape of your mouth whenever you spoke.

And most of all, in that single, breathless moment in the garden just days ago, when he kissed you with the desperate fierceness of a man who thought it might be the last time you’d ever touch.

And now, with your betrothal publicly declared and your fate sealed with the cold hands of politics and power, that crack had become a chasm.

You pressed a hand to your chest, your fingers trembling. Your heartbeat thudded beneath your palm, loud in the stillness.

He was close. You felt it.

Like a tether drawn too tight. Like a shadow at the edge of firelight.

You hadn’t seen him since the king’s announcement at the banquet, hadn’t spoken to him, hadn’t dared, but your father’s words still echoed in your head:

“The alliance with House Hydra must be sealed by blood and marriage. The date is set. You will be a queen, and your duty must begin.”

A future traded for power, your heart for diplomacy, your body pledged to a man who looked at you as though you were a piece of meat for the taking, as though you were his to bend, wield and command.

And Bucky had been there. Across the hall. Standing behind your chair in full regalia, silent and still.

But his jaw remained clenched, a fortress of control. His shoulders tensed and coiled, like a bow pulled taut, ready to unleash. And his eyes, when you dared to meet them for the briefest moment smoldered with a fierce fire, as fierce and unyielding as the torches flanking the king’s throne.

You haven't slept since. You didn’t want to.

Because sleep would bring dreams, and dreams would bring him, not as he was now, distant and restrained, but as he had been in the garden.

His hand on your cheek. His lips crushed against yours. The raw sound in his throat when you’d said his name like it meant salvation.

You hadn’t heard him enter tonight.

But you felt him before you saw him.

The air shifted, a pressure change, like a storm about to break. Your skin prickled. Your spine straightened. Your breath caught on instinct alone.

And then—

“Princess.”

The voice was low. Rough like worn leather. It rasped across the dark like a sin and a promise.

You turned sharply, your pulse hammering, but even before your eyes found him in the shadows near the stone archway, you knew.

You knew.

His hair was wet, rain still dripping from the ends, plastered to his forehead. His cloak clung to his shoulders, and the outline of his body beneath the damp leather was unmistakable—broad, strong, still humming with tension. Water trailed down his cheekbone in a silver ribbon, and his eyes were dark. 

“Bucky,” you breathed, barely audible.

And in that moment, every night he had guarded your door, every battle he had fought at your side, every time his body had shielded yours from danger, it all came rushing back like a dam breaking.

He wasn’t just your protector.

He was the part of you that still felt like freedom.

He emerged from the shadows, dark as sin in black leathers, his damp hair clinging to the sharp planes of his face. The rain had soaked through his cloak, droplets gathering on his broad shoulders like scattered gems, but his gaze seemed to burn through you.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, though your voice lacked conviction. You took a step toward him like gravity itself demanded it.

“I know,” he said, voice hoarse. Broken. “But I couldn’t stay away.”

He looked like he’d walked through a storm just to reach you—and maybe he had. His knuckles were scraped raw, his eyes dark-ringed with sleepless nights, tension etched into every line of his brow. He looked feral, tired and somehow in all that still beautiful.

His gaze dropped, trailing over you—the way the silk shift clung damply to your skin, the curve of your thighs, the outline of your breasts beneath the sheer fabric. His jaw clenched.

“I needed to see you,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Needed to know you were still mine.”

Your breath caught, sharp and trembling.

“You can’t say things like that.”

“You want me to lie?” he asked, his voice rough, low, every syllable scraping against your ribs.

“No.” Your voice barely rose above the rain tapping the windows. “Never.”

“Then tell me to leave,” he said.

You couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

Instead, you closed the last of the space between you. Your fingers brushing his. Electricity sparked, something inevitable and the dam cracked wide open. You slid your hand into his, and the world slipped away.

He kissed you like a man undone like someone who had held back too long and now burned beneath the weight of his own restraint. His hands tangled in your hair, twisting and anchoring you, while his mouth claimed yours with a fierce desperation that stole the very breath from your lungs.

You moaned into him as he walked you backward, his palms finding your hips, your ribs, the small of your back, greedy and fierce, like he couldn’t decide whether to worship you or break you.

The backs of your legs hit the bed and you let yourself fall, your body aching, wet and wanting. He followed, kneeling over you, tearing off his cloak and tossing it aside with a grunt.

“You have no idea,” he groaned against your lips, “what it’s been like. Watching you. Wanting you. Knowing I can’t touch you.”

“Then touch me now,” you gasped, pulling at the buckles of his tunic, your nails catching on damp leather.

A low, guttural sound escaped him, part breath, part whispered plea. He shed his armor with a fierce impatience, peeling it away piece by piece until only a thin shirt clung to his rain-soaked chest. His hands found your waist, pulling you close, while his mouth traced heated, open kisses along your throat.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmured, voice dark silk against your ear. “Haven’t you?”

Your breath hitched.

“About me between your legs.”

“Yes,” you whispered, hips shifting toward him, “every night.”

He dropped to his knees, his hands trailing fire up your thighs. He pressed his face against your core through the silk and inhaled deeply, a broken, shaky sound rumbling from his chest.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You smell like heaven.”

You arched, fingers tangling in his hair. He hiked up your nightgown and dragged it over your hips, baring you completely to his gaze.

“Mine,” he said again, voice like gravel, like thunder. “No one else will ever have this. No one else gets to taste you.”

He leaned in close, his breath warm against your skin before his tongue traced a slow, devastating line up your slit. Every flick and swirl was deliberate, teasing you with a precision that left you gasping, thighs trembling beneath his touch.

Your head fell back, lost in the tidal wave of sensation as he explored you relentlessly, tongue, lips, and fingers moving in perfect, unyielding harmony. 

His hands gripped your thighs firmly, holding you wide open as if daring you to pull away, refusing to let you escape the delicious torment he was inflicting. Each slow lick, every teasing flick of his tongue ignited sparks under your skin, stripping you down to nothing but a desperate, aching need—need only he could quench.

“Oh, gods, Bucky,” you moaned, your voice cracking as your hips bucked against his mouth.

He groaned into you, the vibration sending shocks through your body. He flicked his tongue over your clit, fast and precise, before sucking it into his mouth, lips tight, tongue relentless. You cried out, legs shaking as pleasure built fast and hot in your belly.

Your first orgasm hit like a wave crashing through you, blinding and all-consuming. You sobbed his name, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other still tangled in his wet hair as he licked you through it, groaning like he was addicted to your taste.

When you finally collapsed back against the bed, limp and shaking, he rose over you. His mouth was slick with your pleasure, his eyes dark with a hunger that hadn’t lessened in the slightest.

“I could die like this,” he murmured, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. “With you beneath me.”

 “Then take me,” you whispered, eyes blown wide with lust, “Make me yours.”

 He stood, kicked off the last of his clothes, and your breath hitched again.

He was stunning. Hard and heavy, flushed and leaking, his cock resting thick against his thigh. Your thighs fell open instinctively, aching to feel him inside you. He crawled onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and hovered over you. Your foreheads touched, Bucky’s hand cradling your cheek.

“Last chance,” he said, voice ragged. “Tell me no.”

You reached down between you and wrapped your hand around him. He hissed through his teeth, hips twitching forward.

“Please,” you whispered, gaze locked on his. “I want you. I want all of you.”

That was all it took.

He surged forward, thrusting into you in one long, brutal stroke that stole the air from your lungs. You cried out, body arching, nails clawing at his back as he filled you completely.

“Fuck—” he groaned into your neck. “So tight. So fucking perfect.”

He set a rhythm, hard and deep, each thrust knocking the breath from your lungs. You met him with every stroke, your bodies crashing together like waves on stone.

His mouth found your throat, your shoulder, your lips, biting, sucking, tasting. His hand slipped between you, fingers circling your clit again, drawing you back to the edge with ruthless precision.

“Say it,” he growled, teeth grazing your ear. “Say you’re mine.” “I’m yours,” you moaned. “I’ve always been yours.”

He kissed you hard, desperate, groaning against your lips as your second climax ripped through you, tighter and hotter than the first. Your whole body shook as you broke beneath him, crying out, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

He didn’t stop.

He chased his own end with ragged, punishing thrusts, hips slamming into yours until he buried himself deep and came with a guttural growl, shuddering as he spilled inside you.

You lay tangled together, your legs still wrapped around him, his face buried in your neck. Both of you shaking. Slick with sweat. Full of something far more dangerous than lust.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured against your skin. “But gods help me, I don’t regret it.”

“Neither do I,” you whispered.

You stroked his hair, letting the silence wrap around you. The rain kept falling, soft and steady. Your fingers curled around his nape. You might have drifted into sleep, wrapped in the haze of your shared sin.

But then— Three sharp knocks. Your blood froze.

Bucky was on his feet in an instant, grabbing for his cloak and belt, his breath still ragged. You hurriedly pulled your nightgown down, smoothing the fabric over your skin as fast as you could, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.

“My lady,” came a voice through the door.

Familiar. Cold.

Prince Rumlow.

“Open the door.”

Bucky turned toward the window, half-dressed, his jaw clenched. You steadied your breath, walked to the door, and cracked it just enough to block the view behind you.

“I’m sorry, your highness, I fell asleep,” you said smoothly, masking the panic in your chest.

He scanned you carefully, you were disheveled, flushed, hair damp with sweat and his smile twisted with sharp malice.

“You reek of sin,” he said.

You met his gaze, defiant. “Do not think I am blind, princess,” he sneered. “I’ve seen the way Barnes looks at you. If I find proof, any proof—I will have him burned alive for treason.”

You stared back, expression blank. But inside, you were enraged.

Let him try.

He had no idea what it meant to threaten what was yours.

a/n: i hope that you enjoyed this chapter, i am partially done with chapter 3 and i am so excited oh my gosh i can't wait for you guys to read it! love ya and stay safe out there my loves!

[antinousletmehit]

Hello pookie

I hope your having a good day, anyways, I saw you were asking for requests so I figured I'd give you one even though I'm sure your already getting many, also no pressure to actually do this or anything I don't want you to feel like anyone will be disappointed if you don't do this, but if you were looking for some inspiration or an idea...

(I know it seems out of the question to suggest a Telemachus x reader when you are already doing a story on that (which is very good btw))

Oh well, if you are looking for ideas - Telemachus x fem reader who is a servant at the palace. Well, there's my two sense.

Have a great day <3

୨୧┇pairing: Telemachus x fem!reader

୨୧┇note: I love Telemachus chat

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ───

The palace was quiet, its grand halls wrapped in the heavy silence of midnight. Telemachus tiptoed past the sleeping guards, his sandals barely making a sound on the cool stone floors. His heart raced, not from fear of being caught, but from excitement. He knew you were waiting for him. Out in the garden, hidden among the olive trees, you leaned against a gnarled trunk, the moonlight casting a silver glow over your features. When you saw him, your face lit up with a smile that made his stomach flip.

“You’re late,” you teased, crossing your arms.

“Blame Athena,” Telemachus whispered, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “She wouldn’t stop lecturing me about responsibility.”You laughed softly, the sound like the gentle rustling of leaves. “And here you are, sneaking out with me. Very responsible, my lord.” Telemachus rolled his eyes, though his smile widened. “If you keep calling me ‘my lord,’ I might have to stop meeting you.”

“Oh, is that so?” you said, stepping closer. “What should I call you, then?”

“Just Telemachus,” he said, his voice softening. “When we’re out here, I’m not a prince. I’m just… me.” You nodded, your smile turning gentle. “Alright, Telemachus. Shall we go?” The two of you slipped through the garden and out into the open fields beyond the palace walls. It wasn’t the first time you’d done this, your secret nighttime escapades had become a routine over the past few months. You’d explore the countryside, climb hills, and sit by the shore, talking about everything and nothing.

Tonight, you ended up on a hill overlooking the sea. The stars sparkled above, their reflection dancing on the dark waves below. You sat down on the grass, and Telemachus joined you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “You know,” he said after a moment, his voice hesitant, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this…free before.”

You glanced at him, your brow quirking. “Free?”He nodded, picking at a blade of grass. “When I’m in the palace, I’m always being watched, judged. Everyone expects me to be like my father, to grow into this great hero. But out here, with you… I can just be myself.” Your expression softened, and you reached out to touch his arm. “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself, Telemachus. You’re already enough.” His breath hitched, and he turned to look at you. The way you gazed at him, your eyes full of sincerity, made his chest feel tight. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words caught in his throat.

Instead, you smiled and leaned closer. “Can I show you something?”

Telemachus blinked, confused. “Show me what?” Without answering, you tilted your head and pressed your lips to his. For a moment, his entire body froze. His mind raced, a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that he couldn’t quite process. This was his first kiss, his first real kiss. And it was with you. When you pulled back, he was still staring at you, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed. “I—I—uh—” You bit back a laugh, watching him flounder. “Telemachus? Are you alright?”

“I—yes—no—I mean—” He ran a hand through his hair, his voice cracking slightly. “Did you just—did we just—”

“Yes,” you said simply, your smile teasing but kind.

“Oh,” was all he could manage, his brain still trying to catch up. You reached out and gently touched his cheek, bringing his attention back to you. “Was that okay?”

He finally found his voice, though it was quiet and a little shaky. “It was more than okay.” Your smile widened, and you leaned back, propping yourself up on your hands. “Good. Because I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.” Telemachus stared at you, his heart pounding so loudly he was certain you could hear it. “You… you have?”

You nodded, glancing up at the stars. “You’re kind, and thoughtful, and you have this way of making people feel safe. How could I not?” He didn’t know what to say to that. Instead, he sat there, watching you with a mixture of awe and disbelief.

Eventually, you turned back to him, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “Telemachus?”

“Yeah?” he said, his voice faint.

“You can breathe now.”

He let out a shaky laugh, finally exhaling the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Right. Breathing. Good idea.” You laughed with him, and the sound filled the night air, light and full of joy. As the two of you sat under the stars, Telemachus couldn’t help but think that, for the first time in his life, everything felt exactly as it should be.

[wholoveseggs]

Scars

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Daemon Targaryen x Wife!Reader} Your husband had just returned from battle, injured and needing to be cared for. He is a brat, and needs lots of love. So you take care of him, and then some...

3.5k words - Warnings: smut, blood and injury, wound care, soft!dom Daemon, fingering, riding, slow sex, Daemon pretending to not be in pain, lots of hurt and comfort...

@elijahstwink @starshipcookie @absolutemarveltrash @odairtrqsh @darkened-writer

@cheneyq @fallout-girl219 @nina6708 @evasmlp @sadmonke

@deamonloverrrr @urmomsgirlfriend1 @moonsleep

@madeinmyownmind-blog @lovelyy-moonlight

The soft sounds of your feet scurrying against the stone floor of the keep echoed through the empty halls. Soft rustling sounds of the nightdress and robe you hastily threw over your bare body could be heard, but the only thing you could focus on was getting to him. The news of the battle that raged along the shores of Dragonstone had reached your ears only moments ago, but all you could think about was Daemon.

"My lady!" A startled servant gasped as she saw you rushing through the halls, her eyes wide as you came to a sudden stop, nearly running into her.

"Where is he?" You demanded, your chest heaving slightly.

"In his chambers. The maester is seeing to him now.” She answered and you didn't waste any more time. You rushed off in the direction of his rooms, your mind racing.

The door to the royal bedchambers flew open as you rushed in, startling the maester who had been cleaning the prince's wounds. Your husband was laid out on a lounge chair, his chest bare, revealing the deep wounds that covered him. You could feel your heart ache at the sight of the man you loved, but you didn't let yourself dwell on it, not right now.

There were a number of maesters and other assistants tending to Daemon, but the moment you entered, they all froze. "My lady-" the maester began, but you held up a hand.

"Leave us." You ordered, and the maesters and servants all began to clear out, they knew better than to go against your orders.

You watched them leave before turning to look at Daemon. His violet eyes stared back at you, a smirk forming on his lips as you walked over. He winced as he tried to sit up, but you pushed him back down, shaking your head.

"What were you thinking?" You asked, kneeling next to the chair, your hands gently pressing on his skin. He hissed softly, and you looked down, seeing a large wound in his side. It had already been cleaned, but it was deep. "Tsk, I told you to be careful." You sighed, looking around the room for supplies.

"Don't fuss, you know I can't stand it," Daemon spoke up, watching as you grabbed a needle and thread, holding the needle over a candle flame.

"I wouldn't fuss if you weren't such a fool." You scoffed, returning to his side with bandages and the thread.

"You don't mean that." He smirked and you rolled your eyes, threading the needle.

"Hold still." You ordered and began to sew his skin closed. He winced at first, but quickly got used to it, watching you as you worked.

You looked at the wounds that were already sewed up by the maesters, at the old and new scars that littered his body. He had seen many battles and many wars. This was one of the worst injuries he had suffered since his youth, and the sight of it made you uneasy.

"I'll be fine." He murmured, watching as your face contorted.

"What happened?" You asked, ignoring his hiss of pain as you continued to sew the wound closed.

"Pirates, probably from the iron islands." He explained, trying to shift in his seat, but hissing when you tugged at the thread.

"Stop moving." You snapped, giving him a pointed look. He sighed and did as you told him, watching as you returned to the task at hand.

You finished the deep gash on his side, tying the end of the thread before cutting it. You set the tools aside and took the bandages, gently wrapping the wound, making sure it was secure. There was another wound on his chest that was still bleeding, so you grabbed some clean cloth, pressing it against his skin, and putting pressure on it.

"What of Caraxes? Did you not bring your dragon to battle?" You asked, keeping the pressure steady.

"He's fine." He assured you, reaching up and cupping your cheek. You frowned and he chuckled, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. "It's just a couple of arrow wounds."

"You could've died." You whispered, feeling tears welling up in your eyes.

"But I didn't." He assured you, giving you a soft smile.

You nodded and took a shaky breath, taking the cloth away and seeing the bleeding had stopped. You grabbed a washcloth, dampening it with some water and wiping away the blood. You could see the dark bruises forming across his torso, the sight of them making your heart clench. But you quickly pushed the feeling aside, knowing now wasn't the time to fuss over him.

As soon as the wound was clean, you took the needle once more and began to sew it closed, going as fast as you could. He stayed quiet the whole time, watching as you worked on patching him up. Your robe and nightdress both fell off your shoulder, but you paid no mind to them as you reached over to grab a new bandage.

"You are far more skilled than the maesters." He stated, sitting up slightly to allow you to wind the bandage around his torso.

"I've just had more practice than they have." You hummed, tightening the bandages and tying it off. You took a moment to examine your work, tracing your fingers over one of his old scars, one that you stitched up not long after your wedding day. His large hand covered yours, his rough fingers entwining with your own, pulling you from your thoughts.

"This one will leave a nasty scar," he remarked, motioning to the gash on his side. "I fear I've run out of unmarred skin to stitch."

"You already have plenty of those." You shot back, drawing his attention to the old burn scars along his neck and shoulder.

"I thought you liked my scars," he teased, watching as you got to your feet and went to the basin to wash your hands. "You always seem to touch them so lovingly in bed."

Your cheeks flushed at the comment, your eyes refusing to meet his. He chuckled lowly, shifting in the seat once more, hissing slightly. Your eyes flicked over to him, concern filling them as you dried off your hands and walked back over to him.

"Let me see your arms." You commanded, gesturing to where an arrow had grazed him. He sighed and held out his arms, grimacing slightly as you unwound the bandage around his bicep. You examined the small wound on his right arm, the stitching was shoddy, but it seemed to be holding up for the moment. "Stay here. I need to speak with the maesters about these new sutures. They're horrible, any more stress, and they could tear."

"Enough," he grumbled, frowning at your fretting. "Come to me." He demanded, tugging at your wrist. You paused, looking at him with a slight frown, but you let him pull you into his lap.

"Daemon, this isn't the time. You're wounded, you should be resting," you sighed, wiggling slightly in his grip, though his arms caged you in, keeping you on his lap.

"I'm not an invalid." He scoffed, running his hands up your sides, pushing your robe and nightdress up.

"I'm serious. You need to rest." You sighed, trying to ignore the lovely way his calloused hands felt against your skin.

"I am resting." He purred, nipping at the skin of your neck, his warm breath ghosting over your jaw.

You rolled your eyes, feigning disinterest, but your eyes fluttered shut as he continued to press gentle kisses along your skin.

"You have a couple scars of your own, don't you my dear wife?" He murmured, as his hands began to wander, moving over your stomach and down your hips.

"Yes, but I didn't get them the same way you did," you retorted, unable to hold back the soft moan that slipped past your lips.

"The birthing bed is just as violent as the battlefield." He replied, gripping at your thighs, using the other hand to tug at your garments.

"Daemon." You sighed, shaking your head.

He looked at you, taking in your appearance as his hand continued to roam your body. You sat on his lap, the thin fabric of your gown and robe slipping down to reveal your soft skin and smooth shoulders. Your bare legs were curled beneath you, nestled between his, and his hand moved further north, reaching underneath your dress to stroke the curve of your ass.

"Daemon, what are you doing?" You breathed, struggling to keep your composure as his rough hands slipped past your undergarments to squeeze your ass.

"Touching you, my darling. It's very healing," he whispered, his lips ghosting across your collarbone, leaving kisses along the skin.

"You'll make your wounds worse," you protested, but made no move to stop him. In fact, the last thing you wanted was for him to stop.

"Hush," he murmured, brushing his lips against yours.

You huffed, trying to resist the urge to lean in and kiss him, but in the end, you caved. The hand on your ass pushed you closer, forcing you to straddle his thigh. A gasp slipped from your lips and he grinned, enjoying the expression on your face.

His hand slid from your back to your hip, squeezing you lightly as he rocked your hips against his thigh. He watched with lust-filled eyes as your head tilted back, exposing your neck, a quiet moan leaving you.

"You always do this." He tutted, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "You always make sure to take care of me, but when is someone going to take care of you?"

"I-I'm fine." You assured him, your hips bucking slightly against him. He hummed, his other hand grabbing at the fabric of your robe, pushing the heavy material off your shoulder. It fell easily, bunched up around your waist, revealing your nightdress underneath.

His hand dipped between your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours. His fingers ghosted over your slit, his eyes darkening at the way your lips parted and your eyes fluttered shut.

Your hands gripped at his shoulders, digging into his flesh, your nails clawing down his arms, causing him to hiss. Your skin was glistening with sweat, the light of the candles bathing the two of you in a soft glow.

Your breath was ragged, a blush spread across your face, reaching down your neck and chest, visible through the low cut of your nightgown. You looked perfect, and he found himself pulling you into a deep kiss, his fingers easing inside you as your lips collided.

You moaned softly, a breathy little sound that had his cock aching. The softness of your skin was like velvet, so different from his. He couldn't stop himself from burying his face in your chest, taking in the smell of you. Everything about you was so warm and inviting, and he couldn't wait to finally be inside you again.

Your legs spread further apart, allowing him more access, and he cursed under his breath, burying his face further into your soft breasts.

You were like a goddess, kneeling in his lap, taking care of him and more. And you deserved no less than to be worshiped. He looked up, catching your eye. Your gaze was filled with heat and passion, and something else, something soft, a look reserved only for him.

"My job is to protect you, and our young ones," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "Every one of these scars is a testament to that."

"I know, my love." You breathed, your eyes falling shut as you grew closer to your peak.

Your thighs shook, and he watched as your head tilted back, exposing your throat. He took the opportunity to attack your neck, kissing and nipping at the delicate skin, leaving small marks in his wake.

"But, I will always come back to you, no matter what." He promised, his eyes meeting yours, the love shining through. "Now, cum for me."

He curled his fingers and pressed his thumb against your sensitive nub, and you couldn't hold back anymore. Your mouth fell open, a silent cry leaving your lips, and your body shook. Daemon groaned, feeling you tightening around his fingers, his cock twitching, wanting to feel your warmth.

He slowly pulled his fingers out of you, and brought them to his lips, licking your arousal off of his fingers, and letting out a pleased hum. You bit your lip, watching as he cleaned his fingers, enjoying the way he was watching you.

"You certainly do heal quickly." You teased, moving to stand up, only to have him pull you back down on top of him.

"And you always know exactly how to care for me." He grinned, keeping a tight grip on your hips. "Now, why don't you let me return the favor?"

You sighed, leaning in, pressing a gentle kiss against his forehead, "your wounds.. we can't-"

"Oh, they're nothing." He chuckled, his hands moving up and gripping the hem of your nightgown.

"You're so reckless." You chided, lifting your arms, letting him pull the nightgown off, leaving you bare before him.

His eyes wandered over your body, taking in the curves and marks, all the places that had changed. The swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips, the softness of your belly, and the heat of your core. He loved it all, every inch, and every curve, because it was you, and you were his.

He ran his hands over your skin, a soft moan leaving his lips, a needy whine coming from yours. He grinned and pressed his lips to yours, kissing you deeply. You reached down and untied his breeches, pushing them down, and letting his cock spring free. He groaned as your hand wrapped around his length, stroking him slowly.

"You are so much better than any maester," He breathed, leaning back in the chair, enjoying the way you played with his hard cock.

You stifled a giggle at his words, releasing him and positioning yourself, hovering above him, resting your hands on his shoulders for support and avoiding his wounds. He kissed you sweetly, a sigh escaping him as he felt your heat against his tip.

He ran his hands over your hips as you sank down on his length, a soft gasp escaping your parted lips.

"There, now I'm all put back together again." He sighed, rocking his hips into you, making you groan.

You raised your hips slowly, then sunk down again, setting a steady pace and feeling pleasure race through your body. Daemon helped you ride him, his hands on your hips, his moans mixing with yours. You moved one hand from his shoulder, gripping the back of the chair, and the other moved to tangle in his hair, pulling lightly, drawing a deep growl from him.

You made soft sounds as you moved, your moans and sighs filling the room, as well as his grunts and groans, and the obscene sounds of your hips moving together. A dance that the two of you had perfected over the years, where both of you sought the pleasure you knew so well.

You could feel yourself growing closer to your peak, and by the way he was looking at you, you knew he wasn't too far behind. You reached down and pulled his lips to yours, kissing him hard, and panting against his lips.

"Faster," he breathed, gripping your hips tightly, guiding your movements, his eyes meeting yours.

"I'll hurt you," you murmured, but he shook his head.

"Like I said before, I'm not some fucking invalid," he grinned, thrusting into you hard.

You gasped, your arms wrapping around his neck, he hissed as you accidentally grazed one of his wounds, but he didn't care, focusing instead on the feeling of you clenching around his cock.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, peppering gentle kisses over the scars on his skin there, his hold on your hips tightening as you bounced in his lap. His eyes were half lidded, enjoying the way you felt around him. Your skin was slick with sweat, your scent filling his nose, making him dizzy with lust.

You closed your eyes and rested your forehead against his, feeling your whole body growing hot. Your fingers were digging into his skin, trying not to hurt him, but getting harder every second.

You could see blood seeping through the bandages on his chest, and a moment later, Daemon hissed in pain. You stopped moving, opening your eyes, and looking at him with concern.

"Are you okay?" You asked, moving to climb off his lap, only to have him hold you tighter.

"Don't stop," he pleaded, a desperate look in his eyes. "Please."

You paused for a moment, and nodded, picking up your pace, feeling him thrusting up into you. The room filled with the sounds of your moans and grunts, the chair creaking beneath you, and the slap of skin on skin.

Daemon gripped your ass tightly, his hips moving faster, his cock hitting deeper inside you. You could feel your climax creeping up on you, and it seemed that he could too. His eyes were fixed on you, watching the pleasure take over.

"Look at me," he demanded, his voice strained, and you obeyed, locking eyes with him.

The room was spinning, everything fading away except for the feeling of him inside you, the look in his eyes, and the heat coursing through you. You held each other tightly, and the pleasure exploded within you, his name a desperate cry on your lips.

He followed a moment later, spilling his seed inside you, his cock pulsing. The two of you stayed like that, holding each other, your foreheads resting together, the room filling with the sounds of your heavy breathing.

You slowly lifted your hips, careful as you separated from him, wincing slightly as his softening cock slipped out of you. Daemon groaned as the head of his cock popped out of your wet cunt, a string of his seed and your arousal still connecting the two of you. You reached down and wiped his seed from your thighs, the mixture coating your fingers.

"Now, I really have to clean you up." You giggled, standing up, your legs wobbly, and walking over to the washbasin, cleaning your hands, then bringing a clean cloth back to him.

"If I knew I would have such a dedicated nursemaid, I would have gotten wounded sooner." He joked, a grin spreading across his face.

You gently pushed his hands away, shaking your head and wiping his cock, and cleaning up the mess the two of you had made, a soft chuckle leaving you, "Now I have to sew you up again."

"Worth it." He shrugged, wincing slightly.

You sighed and shook your head, going back over to the washbasin and wetting the cloth, walking back to him, and dabbing at his chest and arms, trying to get the blood from the torn wounds.

"I told you it wasn't a good idea." You teased, gently running the cloth over the cuts and scrapes on his chest and shoulders, making sure the wounds were clean.

"It was a good idea," he retorted, a playful smirk tugging at his lips, "I would gladly go through the pain and torment if it meant I could have my way with you."

You rolled your eyes and shook your head, replacing the bandages and checking the stitching on his wounds. He was right, it was nothing serious, just a few torn sutures.

"There," you murmured, stepping back and admiring your work. "Much better."

Daemon grinned and pulled you into his arms and you gently rested your head on his chest. You traced your fingers over his old scars, and the bandages that covered the newer ones, your eyelids growing heavy. He stroked your hair, a soft hum leaving him, reaching for your discarded robe to cover the two of you.

"We'll have to do this more often," he mused, a lazy smile tugging at his lips, as you shifted your head, placing a gentle kiss over the wound on his chest.

"Absolutely not," you replied, a teasing tone in your voice, "you're not allowed to get hurt anymore."

He scoffed, and held you tighter, kissing the top of your head, "I make no promises."

"I thought as much." You smiled, curling up closer to him. "Just promise you'll come back."

"Always." He murmured, closing his eyes and resting his head on yours.

You sighed, letting sleep take you, not wanting to move just yet. It wasn't long before the soft sounds of you and Daemon snoring filled the chambers, his arms wrapping around you, keeping you safe. Like he always did, like he always would.

[seongwars]

Marry Me, Your Highness!

Pairing: non-MC x Prince-in-Disguise!Rafayel, non-MC x Prince!Sylus, Word Count: 2.5K (is it really a drabble at this point?) Warnings: None, slight OOC for some characters, mentions of violence Summary: Rafayel arrives demanding compensation, while you plot to escape your engagement to Sylus at any cost.

Note: I guess I'm starting a "Your Highness" drabble series. I need to stop tho because I have too many wips/drafts and I'm supposed to be on a semi-hiatus right now

Part 1: Absolutely Not, Your Highness!

You quietly scale the side of the garden wall leading to your estate, fingers aching from the climb and your skirts snagged on every thorn bush in the vicinity. With a grunt, you land in the courtyard, the moon casting long silver shadows across the stone path. For a blissful moment, it seems like you’ve made it undetected.

You tiptoe across the courtyard, praying that under the still hush of night, no one will catch you. 

No such luck.

“Nice landing,” comes a voice from the shadows. “I’m usually the one sneaking back into the house in the middle of the night. You're stealing my thing.”

“You can have it back,” you mutter, brushing dust off your sleeves. “I was only trying to get away from the imperial guards.”

Your brother, Xavier steps into the moonlight, one brow lifted. “What did you do exactly?”

“I turned down a proposal from the crown prince.”

He stares at you. Then blinks. “You… said no. To the crown prince of Linkon.”

“Yes, Xavier. I didn’t stutter.”

He lets out a low whistle. “You really did it.”

“I really did it.”

He drags a hand down his face, then laughs—like this is the best thing that’s happened to him all week. “You absolute menace. I mean… I’m proud. Deeply horrified, but proud.”

“I’m glad someone is enjoying this,” you snap. “Because Aunt Elizabeth’s guards are probably about to storm the mansion on account of me punching the crown prince in the throat.”

The laughter dies instantly. Xavier goes completely still. 

“You what!?”

“He startled me! I was already being chased by the guards, I ran into Sylus, and my reflexes kicked in. I punched him in the throat!”

“You assaulted the future king!”

“I didn’t even hit him that hard!”

Your brother exhales through his teeth, thinking. “If they come for you, we can fend them off.”

“We!? And what army?”

“Fair point. Instead, we redirect the narrative. You can’t accept Sylus because your heart belongs to another.”

You stare at him. “Another who, exactly?”

“I don’t know yet! Someone useful. Charming. Disposable, if it goes wrong.”

“Xavier.”

“You need to be married,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Or at least engaged. That way it’ll get mother and Aunt Elizabeth off your back.”

“I’m not marrying someone just to avoid prison!”

“You might not have a choice! They’ll be at the gates by morning!”

You both fall silent, racking your brain for options. Xavier’s wife had a few eligible acquaintances: the devastatingly attractive doctor, the charismatic colonel…

But none of them feel like a real solution.

“...I did fall on a man earlier,” you say slowly.

Xavier gives you a slow, skeptical look. “You want to track down the mysterious stranger you fell on and ask him to marry you.”

“I may have given him a hairpin…”

“And?”

“…And I may have told him to seek you out for compensation.”

Xavier lets out a long, pained breath and turns back into the house. 

“I’m going to bed.”

“I’m sure your wife will be thrilled,” you call sweetly after him. “I would like to be an aunt some day!”

He doesn’t even look back. You wait until he disappears inside, then glance up at the stars. 

“Gods, help me,” you whisper, hoping that this time your fate would take a different turn. 

⟡ ݁₊ .

Rafayel rubs his ribs where you landed on him. One moment he’s wandering the streets outside the imperial palace, the next, a woman quite literally falls from the heavens, vaulting over the palace wall and crashing directly on top of him.

Now, cold, tired, and entirely out of patience, he fiddles with the hairpin you left behind, its silver length delicately wrought with tiny moons and stars. Rafayel scowls down at it. 

“Compensation,” he scoffs. “I could buy her entire household if I wanted!”

His stomach growls. Loudly.

“I thought someone wanted to blend in with the common folk,” Thomas reminds him dryly.

“That was before I was crushed by a madwoman,” the prince pouts.

Another grumble from Rafayel’s stomach. He frowns at it like it’s personally betrayed him.

“Did you at least bring your coin purse?”

Rafayel stiffens. “...No.”

Thomas exhales slowly through his nose. “Of course not.”

Then Rafayel’s eyes light up.

“She said I could get compensation from her brother! Xavier! She said that! I could find him. Demand...food. And repayment. For emotional damages.”

Thomas blinks. “You’re going to track down a nobleman you’ve never met, in a country you snuck off to and ask him to buy you dinner because his sister fell on you?”

“Yes,” Rafayel says. “This is diplomacy, Thomas.”

“This is blackmail.”

Rafayel lifts his chin, regal even in suffering. “This is for emotional distress. And bruised ribs. And because I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

Thomas sighs. “You could’ve just said you were hungry.”

“I am hungry. And injured. And slighted. Wandering the streets at night is no way for me to live!”

By the time Rafayel finds the mansion, his feet are caked in dust and his patience is worn. Navigating Linkon with just Thomas and a map had proven...challenging.  

He rounds a corner and slows, eyes narrowing at the iron gates ahead. Ornate stars curl in elegant arcs across the gates. He glances down at the hairpin in his hand. 

Moons and stars, silver and delicate. 

“Found you.”

He steps up to the guards stationed at the gate and thrusts the pin forward. “Your lady of the house gave this to me,” he announces. “And I am here to collect my compensation.”

The guard blinks. “The only lady of this house is married to Lord Xavier.”

Rafayel frowns. “No. Not her. The other one. She fell on me. From the palace wall.”

Thomas makes a small sound, halfway between a groan and a wheeze.

“She was rather dramatic,” Rafayel insists. “She said her name was… actually, she didn’t say her name. But she did say I could come here for compensation!”

“She fell from the palace wall and landed on you?” a guard asks, deeply skeptical.

“Yes! And left me with this!” Rafayel exclaims, waving the hairpin around. 

The guards exchange looks, clearly questioning their sanity. Then they whisper to each other and one sets off to find Jeremiah, the head butler. 

You’re on your way to breakfast after having dreamt of it all night, particularly the egg souffle with scallion pancakes. But you barely make it to the end of the hall before you overhear a scuffle at the gates. 

“Unhand me! I’m Rafayel Qi, prince–”

“Please forgive my master, he is delirious having gone without food!” Thomas interjected, placing himself between Rafayel and the guards. 

Why do I recognize that voice?

You rack your brain. Where have you—?

Then it hits you. The man from yesterday.

You bolt for the gates, still in your sleeping robes. You’re halfway there when you see him, disheveled, waving your hairpin around.

Beneath the tilt of his ridiculous straw hat, with his tunic wrinkled and dirt clinging to his sandals, he’s...annoyingly handsome. All sharp cheekbones and charm, mauve eyes glinting with fire. The kind of face sculpted by the gods that could topple an empire.

The kind of man any mother would take one look at and declare perfect marriage material.

You shake your head quickly as he spots you. Before he can say anything else, you grab his arm, plastering on a bright smile for the guards.

“There you are!” you exclaim, slipping your arm around his like you’ve done it a hundred times.

The guards blink, visibly confused.

You lean in, hissing under your breath, “Play along.”

His eyes flick between your expression and the guards. Then, to your surprise, he smirks. 

“Of course, darling,” he says, a little too loudly, wrapping his arm around your waist with dramatic flair. “Missed me already?”

The guards exchange bewildered glances, clearly unsure of what to make of this display. One of them even flushes. 

“A-Apologies, my lady,” he stammers, bowing slightly. 

“We didn’t realize—”

“That he was mine?”

Rafayel snorts under his breath, thoroughly enjoying himself as you hauled him into the mansion. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually show up!”

“Well, I’m emotionally damaged from being body slammed out of nowhere, starving, and slightly winded, so yes, I showed up!”

“Great,” you mutter, giving him a once-over and imagining what he’d look like after a proper bath and a set of robes. 

As much of a disaster as this stranger…what was his name? Rafayel was it? This disaster might be your ticket out of marrying Sylus. And if nothing else, he’ll certainly make things interesting.

“You’re perfect.”

“Obviously!” 

You ignore him, turning the corner and calling down the hall, “Charlie! Have the maids bring me my breakfast to my quarters. I’m not feeling particularly well.”

Charlie appears in seconds, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Miss Y/N is everything alright?”

Y/N? So that’s her name, Rafayel thinks, casually running his gaze over you, though it lingers a little longer than it should. You were no princess, but there was a certain wildness about you. A feral, untamed charm that made him want to learn more. You’re not bad on the eyes, though you’re certainly not up to Lemurian standards when it comes to beauty.  

“Shall I call for the doctor?”

“No! Just…food. Double my portions, please!”

You don’t wait for Charlie to respond before yanking Rafayel into the closest room. You slam the door shut behind you, then whirl around to face him with your arms crossed.

“Here’s the deal,” you say, voice firm. “You can eat…under one condition.”

Rafayel blinks. Once. Twice. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Marry me.”

“Marry you?”

You shrug. “Aren’t you a starving artist seeking inspiration with no coin to your name? Consider it a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“This is exploitation.”

“It’s practical,” you reply, unbothered by his disbelief. “You get to eat and I get to avoid a life trapped in a loveless, political marriage. Everyone wins.”

Rafayel eyes you for a moment, processing the logic or lack thereof. “What’s so awful about the crown prince?”

“He’s a selfish, pompous ass who puts his own ambitions above everyone else! It’s all about what he wants, without caring for anyone else in the process. He doesn’t deserve to be king, let alone have me as his wife!”

He falls silent, your tirade stirring something uncomfortable within him. Was this how his people saw him too? A selfish ruler unfit for the crown? His expression falters for a fleeting moment, but he masks it quickly, avoiding your gaze.

You, however, are too busy thinking about the practicality of your agreement to notice his inner turmoil. 

“Do you want your payment up front?”

Rafayel’s mouth hangs open in disbelief. “Am I just a whore to you? I’ll have you know that I’m the prince—”

“Yes! Yes, we will accept the payment up front! Forgive us, my lady!” Thomas bursts into the room and slaps a hand over Rafayel’s mouth. 

“Please excuse us,” he says, quickly bowing. He drags Rafayel into the hall, muttering apologies as the door slams shut behind them.

“Have you lost your mind?” Thomas hisses, releasing Rafayel and pacing the length of the hallway. 

“We’re in Linkon, your Highness. Yes, relations with Lemuria are friendly, but you’ve vanished without a word! If anyone here finds out who you really are—”

“They won’t.”

“Someone will recognize you eventually,” Thomas lowers his voice even further, casting a nervous glance at the door. 

“The palace must be in chaos. The guard is probably searching every port. And Solana…gods, Solana is going to kill me.”

“Your wife says that all the time.”

“I’m sure she means it this time.”

Rafayel raises both hands lazily. “What’s wrong with pretending to be someone else for a few weeks? There’s food, a warm bed, no council meetings, and zero talk of arranged marriages. Sounds like a vacation to me.”

Thomas stares at him. “You’re still the prince of Lemuria.”

“Not if no one here knows it,” Rafayel shrugs. “Let me live a little. When this fake marriage falls apart, I’ll disappear.”

Still mulling over his decision, he turns and heads back to your quarters. As he pushes the door open, he comes to an abrupt halt. Before him a feast is laid out in the center of the room–steamed meat buns, slices of crispy duck, and root vegetables. 

He pauses, taking in the sight, the corner of his mouth lifting into a slow, lazy smile. It’s as if the universe itself had conspired to tempt him further into this bizarre arrangement.

“Alright, Miss Y/N. I’ll marry you.”

⟡ ݁₊ .

Sylus hadn’t expected to be punched in the throat yesterday.

He’d faced assassination attempts, ambushes, and battlefield skirmishes, but none of them had made his heart race quite like the woman who glared at him with righteous fury.

It was, against all odds, love at first punch.

He replays the moment a dozen times in his mind. The fire in your eyes. The absolute, scorching contempt. The way you vault over the garden wall without a second glance.

He sighs, running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. “She hates me,” he murmurs aloud, almost in awe.

He rehearsed what he planned to say, a thousand times over, upon hearing that you had been chosen by his father to be his bride, the next princess consort.

“Do you remember me?” No, it was too direct.

“I missed you.” True. But useless.

Because the last time he’d seen you, you were dying in his arms. 

He hadn’t wanted to marry the Northern Princess.

It had been a match for power, nothing more. No love. No affection. When you’d found out, you hadn’t argued. Hadn’t cried. You had simply bowed, offered a polite farewell and disappeared into your chambers.

He hadn’t realized how the new concubine had overstepped, encroaching on your position as princess consort. From the outside, it seemed as though he favored her, ignoring the life you had built together.

In truth, Sylus wasn’t indifferent. He was quietly scheming to end the marriage to the concubine without risking you or triggering political fallout. But by the morning of the ceremony, you were gone, having left for your brother’s estate while the imperial palace drowned itself in festivities.

It was Charlie who came staggering into the great hall hours later, bloodied, trembling and barely alive.

“Bandits. She stayed behind. Fought them off.”

Sylus left the ceremony mid-vow and rode until his horse collapsed.

By the time he found you, it was too late. You lay on your side, unmoving. Blood pooled beneath your ribs as your sword lay just out of reach.

Sylus dropped to his knees and pulled you into his arms. He begged you to wake, promised you anything. Everything. That he’d fix it. That he didn’t forget about you and that he’d tell you everything.

But you were already gone.

He lit your funeral pyre himself. And when the flames rose high, he didn’t wait for the ashes to settle. He walked into the fire, praying quietly, desperately, to the gods that he’d find you again.

“Your Highness.”

A voice broke through the memory. Sylus didn’t look up from the scrolls on his desk.

“Speak.”

The advisor steps inside, shifting awkwardly.

“I’ve come to inform you…that Miss Shen is engaged.”

taglist: @animegamerfox @beaconsxd @browneyedgirl22 @crimsonmarabou @whosthought @zoezhive @cupid-gene

[colorfulrook]

Hi! Could I get number 77, "I waited for you. Every day." with Sung Jinwoo? If you know EPIC The Musical I was thinking Penelope Odysseus vibes.

So Jinwoo goes away to fight something or other, and it's supposed to be a short, few month trip and he leaves reader back in their home. But stuff ends up happening, and it takes him forever to get home. Like, years on end. And reader's constantly being told that they should move on and find someone else, but they're all "No he'll come back." And then BAM! Jinwoo does indeed come back. And there's a tearful reunion then everyone's happy again yay!

Maybe make it a fantasy AU where reader is a princess? And Jinwoo was fighting a rival kingdom?

Not sure how much of this you could fit into a drabble, sorry if it's too long or complicated a plot 😅

Congrats on 100 💖

BLURBFEST 100X100 - #77. "I waited for you. Every day."

I AM OFFICIALLY BACK ON BUSINESS MY DARLINGS!!! Sorry for the long wait (couldn't help myself eheh) here you are my sweet 💖Anon. Happy reading my loves - Rook

The war was meant to last three months.

Three months that would be full of bloodshed on distant borders, of hardened letters sealed with trembling wax, of counting days and hoping every knock at the door wasn’t a messenger in mourning colors, but him — the love of your life.

Three months.

It had been five years.

Your fingers trembled against the embroidery hoop you hadn’t truly worked on in hours. The thread was still tangled near the border of the lake you were stitching — the same lake where you had kissed him goodbye, where his hand had held yours with quiet strength.

“Three months,” he had whispered, brushing his lips over your brow. “Then I’ll be home. To you. Always.”

You believed him.

And even now, five years later, when every lord and lady in the kingdom tried to convince you that Sung Jinwoo — your shadowborn knight, your raven-haired guardian, your love — was nothing more than ash scattered in some faraway valley, you still believed him.

So you waited.

In the same tower chamber he used to visit in secret, before your farther gave you his blessings. In the same gardens where his gloved hand would brush yours beneath the moonlight. You sat alone at feasts and walked alone by the river, where children whispered that the princess had lost her mind to love.

And when suitors came — war heroes with gilded swords, mages with glowing hands, kings with kingdoms to offer — you turned them all away.

“He’s dead,” your advisors pleaded, a hundred times over. “Princess, he’s gone.”

“I know what I saw in his eyes,” you always answered. “He’s coming back.”

But during those long years devoid of him, the only ones who kept coming back were them — spoiled princes with sugar-slick smiles and polished boots, their words sweetened with false promises and treaties laced in greed. They pawed at your kingdom like crows at a battlefield, drawn not by love, but by the glint of a crown and the prospect of having you on their side — not as a partner, but as a pretty conquest, a prize to parade before thrones built on ambition.

And yet, you remained unclaimed. Not untouched by sorrow, but unmoved by them. Because your heart had never been theirs to win.

Sometimes, when you were alone, you let yourself whisper his name just to hear it echo. Just to remember how it felt on your lips.

You were in the garden when the earth shifted.

Not metaphorically — truly. The ground trembled beneath your feet, low and steady like something ancient was waking. Shadows flickered between rose bushes, and the sky seemed to darken even though the sun was high. Then came the shouting.

Soldiers yelling their boots hammering on stone in a panic when black knights came from the main gate of the palace. Silent like stillwater they began to kneel, creating a path from you to the gate.

You rose slowly from the bench, afraid to hope. Too much hope can destroy you.

And then you saw him.

Black armor dusted in blood and soot. A dark cloak fluttering behind him like the wings of something eternal. His eyes — violet, fierce, weary — locked on yours across the courtyard.

Jinwoo. Your Jinwoo, alive

You didn’t think. You didn’t breathe. You just ran.

Down the stone steps. Across the tiled walk. Past the gasps of servants and the cries of stunned guards. You collided with him like a crashing wave, your hands reaching up, his arms catching you with the practiced ease of a man who had dreamt of this very moment a thousand times during his long days away.

“You’re real,” you sobbed, clinging to the chestplate still warm from battle. “You’re — you’re real.” Your fingers slick with the blood on it, but damn it all, you didn't care. Because he was there.

His voice cracked like thunder and silk. “I told you I’d come home.”

Tears blurred your vision as you pulled back, cupping his face, memorizing the new lines around his mouth and the fatigue in his gaze. “I—I thought I was losing my mind. Everyone said you were gone, Jinwoo. I was supposed to move on. Marry someone. But I couldn’t—”

And that was when his hand — still calloused, still gentle — brushed your cheek.

“I waited for you,” you whispered, voice shaking. "I've been waiting and waiting and waiting" tears rolled on your cheeks. “Every day.”

He swallowed hard, and his eyes glistened. “I know. I counted every sunrise without you. I saw your face every time I closed my eyes. I wanted to come back sooner—gods, I tried—but the kingdom we fought, they had magic I’d never seen. I was trapped. Hunted. But I never gave up. Because you were waiting.”

He pressed his forehead to yours. “You were my reason.”

The crowd around you had grown, nobles and servants and soldiers standing stunned at the sight of the girl who refused to stop loving a ghost — and the ghost who had come home.

You didn’t care.

In that moment, it was only you and him. Just like it had always been.

“Come home,” you breathed. “Come back to the palace. To me.”

His smile — tired, slow, real — bloomed like the first sun after a long storm. “Lead the way, Princess.”

You took his hand. The same hand that once fit perfectly in yours by the lake.

And as you walked back toward the castle, side by side, the crowd parted like the sea before a miracle.

You were whole again. Because this time, this time he was there to stay.

[novaursa]

Hello, I love your stories! I would like to request a female reader × Gwayne Hightower where the reader is Rhaenyra's younger sister, she and Gwayne have a secret relationship and then one night she sneaks into Gwayne's room and he asks her to marry him and then the two have a very hot night. (+18)(sorry if something doesn't make sense, this is the first time I've made a request)

Greenblooded

Requests are closed

- Summary: You go to Gwayne and ask him to make you his. And he does.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Gwayne Hightower

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @zizouu23 @aadu2173 @holdingforgeneralhugs @wuluhwuhmaster @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: I hope this is what you had in mind, dear anon. ❤️

The corridors of the Red Keep were quiet at night, but never truly silent. Moonlight spilled across the stone floors, painting silvery paths between the shadows. You moved with the careful grace of someone who had memorized the placement of every creaking tile, every lazy guard's post. The gauze of your nightgown fluttered faintly at your ankles, the soft whisper of silk against skin the only sound that followed you through the gloom. Your heart thudded in your chest—not from fear of being caught, but from the ache of wanting. From the knowledge of where you were going.

Gwayne’s chamber was tucked behind the sept's cloisters, modest in its furnishings—he was no prince, after all—but you knew every detail of the room by heart. The scent of leather and oil from his armor, the faint scent of cedar and cloves that clung to his tunics, the way the moonlight fell across the bed where he waited for you. You slipped in through the door, eased it shut behind you, and there he was, already standing, his dark green cloak slung over a chair, his eyes finding yours as though he had sensed your presence before the latch even clicked.

"Y/N," he said softly, like your name was a prayer he dared not speak aloud. His hair was tousled, shirt unlaced at the collar, revealing a glimpse of his collarbone, of the heat beneath skin. He crossed the space between you in a few long strides, reaching for your hands, warm and calloused against your own.

"You shouldn’t have come tonight," he murmured, though he didn't let you go. "They’ll speak if they find out. They always do."

You tilted your chin up, daring him to send you away. "Let them speak. They speak of me anyway. I’d rather give them something worth whispering about."

He gave a soft huff of laughter, shaking his head, but his hands moved to cradle your face. "Seven save me. You are going to be the death of me, sweet girl."

"And you, mine," you whispered, fingers curling into his tunic. You could feel his heart pounding beneath your palms.

He hesitated then. Something changed in his eyes—an intensity, a certainty. He stepped back just enough to look at you fully, hands still cupping your cheeks as though afraid you’d vanish if he let go. "Marry me."

The words hit you like a gust of wind, soft but staggering. You blinked, breath catching. "Gwayne—"

"Don’t say no," he cut in, voice low and hoarse. "I know what they'll say. I know your father would never allow it. I know the Queen, my sister, has better plans for you. A Baratheon lord or a son of House Velaryon, perhaps. But I don’t care. I love you, Y/N. I don’t want to wait for some clever arrangement to take you away from me."

You stared at him, your lips parted in shock, in something close to wonder. "Do you think I want them?" you asked, voice thick. "Do you think I care for gold or ships or Storm’s End? I would trade all of them for one night like this. One word from you."

"But we live in a world where duty means more than love," he said bitterly. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones. "You were born a dragon, and I am but a knight of Oldtown. They’ll say you deserve better."

"They’ll say what they always say," you murmured, leaning into his touch, "but they don’t know what I want."

He swallowed hard, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then you reached up, sliding your fingers into his hair, drawing him closer. Your lips brushed his, once, soft as a sigh. And then again, slower, firmer, with the taste of desperation between you.

He groaned softly into your mouth, arms wrapping around your waist to pull you against him. The kiss deepened, mouths parting, breaths mingling. You clutched at his shoulders, at the strength that had always steadied you, the warmth you could not give up—not now, not ever.

His lips moved with yours, a promise in every press, every touch. And when his hands slid to your back and held you like a man drowning, you knew neither of you would let go again. Not willingly.

His mouth lingered on yours, kisses slow and reverent as though he feared you might dissolve beneath him if he held you too tightly. But you didn’t want gentleness tonight—not only that. You wanted him, all of him—the man who had haunted your thoughts since the first time he bowed before you in his green and silver cloak, who held you like you were made of fire but kissed you like you were starlight. You tugged at the laces of his tunic, fingers trembling only slightly as you worked them free, lips not leaving his as you murmured against him, “Let me have this. Let me have you.”

But his hands stilled yours, firm and breathless, pressing your fingers to his chest. “Y/N… wait.” His forehead rested against yours as he searched your eyes. “If we do this, there’s no going back. You know that. If they find out, it won’t matter what I want or what you feel. They’ll say I’ve defiled you. That I’ve ruined the daughter of the King.”

You didn’t flinch. You met his eyes with the quiet fire that always simmered in your blood, the legacy of dragons. “Then let them say it,” you whispered. “Let them call it ruin. I do not care. If it’s you, I would be ruined a thousand times.”

His breath hitched, his jaw clenched like he was fighting something—duty, honor, his own self-loathing. “Your father has betrothals planned. Men of power and name, sons of lords—”

“I don’t want them,” you cut in, firm, decisive. “Let my father and the council weigh my worth like coin in a purse. Let them speak of alliances and dowries. I’ll give them no choice. If I am yours in truth, they must wed us.”

A shudder passed through him, and he closed his eyes for a moment as though the force of your words had undone him. When he looked at you again, something had broken—something he’d been gripping too tightly for too long. The knight fell away, and the man remained. “Seven help me,” he murmured, voice thick. “You make me forget everything.”

“Then forget,” you whispered, and took his hands, placing them at your waist.

This time, he didn’t stop you when you undid the rest of his laces. His tunic fell away, baring the lean muscle and scarred strength of a man who had spent his life in armor. He was beautiful in a way that only a man born to war and discipline could be—roughened by steel and softened only by your touch. Your own gown slipped from your shoulders like mist, and he caught his breath, reaching to draw you close again, bare skin to bare skin. The heat of him made you gasp, your arms sliding around his neck, your fingers threading through his hair.

He kissed you again, slower now, reverent, his hands roaming your back, your hips, as if trying to memorize every inch. He led you to the bed in silence, and when he laid you down, he looked at you like you were sacred. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered against your neck, breath warm. “And I will.”

“I will never ask that of you,” you breathed, pulling him down to you.

The first touch of him inside you was a breath stolen from the world. Your back arched, fingers clutching the sheets, a soft cry falling from your lips that he silenced with a kiss. He moved gently at first, slow and deep, like worship. His lips never left yours for long, and every touch was threaded with longing, every sigh a vow left unspoken. You clung to him, to the weight of him above you, to the feeling of being filled and claimed and known, body and soul.

But the gentleness could not hold. Not for long. The hunger buried between stolen glances and longing silences broke free, and the pace between you quickened. His hips moved faster, his breath harsh against your throat, hands sliding down your thighs to draw you tighter to him. Your legs wrapped around him in instinct, in need, your bodies moving in frantic rhythm, a dance of starved affection and aching devotion. You moaned his name like it was the only word you knew, and he answered with your own, gasped against your skin, again and again.

There were no walls left between you. No titles, no crowns, no weight of noble blood. Just two people, tangled in moonlight and sweat and quiet promises, losing themselves in the only place they could be truly free—each other. And when release finally claimed you, it was like fire blooming beneath your skin, your body shaking against his as he followed moments after, burying his face into your shoulder, trembling from the force of it.

For a time, there was only the sound of your mingled breaths, the thud of your hearts, and the press of his lips against your temple.

And in that silence, you knew you were his—and he, yours.