a-cup-of-sundae

[a-cup-of-sundae]

TS SO GOOD.... I LOVE IT SM AHHHHHHHH

⸻ The Lost Queen - XXIII ⸻

— summary: You woke up near a military camp without remembering how and why you got there, you didn’t understand why they were dressed like ancient Greeks, all you knew was that you weren’t safe and you needed to get out of that place as soon as possible. Too bad for you that you found yourself attracting unwanted attention from the Macedonian King and he won’t let you go so easily.— genre: yandere, dark!au. — warnings: time travel, obsessive and possessive behavior, murder, mention of torture, kidnapping, angst, fluffy (very rarely), dub-con, eventual smut, pregnancy. — word count: 3,252. — tag list: @devils-blackrose, @faerykingdom, @hadesnewpersephone, @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 , @kadu-5607, @zoleea-exultant, @borntoexplore11-blog, @elvinapandra, @jennifer0305 , @his0kaswife, @animetye-23, @leathesimp, @dostoevsskij, @meheheasasa, @jsprien213, @lammys-thinking, @cheriecelestial. —the lost queen series masterlist. — ko-fi (please, consider donating ^^)

Chapter 23

With each step toward the immense gates of Babylon, Alexander's heart pounded — a painful mix of hope, longing, and silent fury. The golden walls that once represented conquest and glory now seemed to symbolize only one thing: reunion. He was about to see (Y/N) again, his wife. His Queen.

How many months had passed since she'd been torn from his arms? He'd lost count. Time had become a blurred line of alcohol, sleepless nights, and long marches, all guided by a single desire: to have her back.

Her absence was like a physical pain. It hurt not to see the subtle judgment she always carried in her eyes when he returned from battle covered in blood and soot, that mixture of censure and concern she never put into words, but which said it all. It hurt not to hear the suppressed, almost shy laugh she let out when he praised her, as if unsure how to react to so much attention. Alexander remembered every touch — hesitant at first, as if she were testing her own courage, but gradually becoming bolder, more confident. Every caress, every kiss shared between silk sheets.

He missed holding her in his arms. Lacing his fingers with hers in the silence of the early morning. He missed her scent lingering on his clothes. He missed the comfort only she could give him when the weight of his conquests became unbearable.

Alexander missed her. Deeply. Devastatingly.

And along with this burning longing came anger — a constant flame that burned beneath his skin. His generals pressured him day and night. They wanted him to take another wife. To choose a Macedonian or Persian princess, to seal alliances, to secure an heir as soon as possible. They spoke of Roxanna, of so many other women with titles and dowries. He ignored them. One by one. He rejected their advice, their alliances, their strategies. He didn't want a second wife. He didn't want seven, like his father had.

He wanted her. Only her.

(Y/N), his Queen.

The only one who mattered.

And she was already carrying his child in her womb. She was already pregnant when she was taken. When they stole her from him. It hurt him in a way he could barely explain. Not being by her side during her pregnancy, not feeling her belly grow beneath his hands, not hearing the first heartbeats of the child she carried, not being there to protect her... It was torture.

He should have been the first to feel the baby's kicks. He should have been the one whispering promises to her belly in the quiet early mornings. But all of that was ripped away from him. Stolen.

And this loss — this brutal kidnapping of the woman who was part of his soul — had a name. It had a face. It began with Perdiccas.

Alexander clenched his fists tightly until his knuckles turned white. He had made a promise to himself since the day he discovered who was involved.

All those responsible for taking his Queen from him would pay.

One by one. No exceptions.

And Perdiccas...

Perdiccas would be the first to bleed.

The imposing walls of Babylon finally appeared on the horizon, their golden outlines and ornate towers rising like a silent warning of the Macedonian army's approach. The sun, still high, made the stones of the wall gleam, and the heat seemed to amplify the weight of expectation. Every soldier, every commander, every scout knew: the invasion was near.

The movement was swift, almost rehearsed. Alexander's orders were obeyed with precision: tents began to be erected at a safe distance, yet still close enough for the city to see the number of soldiers and weapons gathering outside. It was a clear message: we are prepared.

Battering rams, siege towers, catapults — all the devices of destruction took shape under calloused and coordinated hands. Horses were fed, swords sharpened, and watchful eyes scanned the gates as if they could, with sheer will, force them open.

In the center of the camp, inside the royal tent, Alexander's generals gathered. It was customary before a major battle: to discuss, disagree, advise... And, in the end, to abide by the king's decision. After all, he was the one in charge.

Alexander stood, leaning against the central table covered in maps and charcoal markings. His face was a mixture of tension and restraint. The city was home to Darius, yes — the enemy he needed to defeat to finally complete his conquest of Persia. But it also housed something infinitely more precious: (Y/N).

It was Ptolemy who spoke first, with the firm posture of someone accustomed to taking the lead in council discussions.

"Should we send a messenger?" His voice cut through the heavy air like a blade, drawing all eyes.

Alexander remained silent for a moment. His eyes wandered to Hephaestion, standing nearby, as calm as the king's own shadow. They exchanged no words — they didn't need to. Hephaestion's curt nod sufficed.

"Yes," Alexander finally replied, his voice low but firm. His eyes scanned the faces around the table, gauging reactions.

Cassander was the first to answer, his expression thick with skepticism and his voice sharper than usual. "Babylon won't surrender. Darius won't surrender."

He crossed his arms, his jaw tense, "It will only put the messenger's life at risk. I don't think it's a good idea."

Ptolemy glanced briefly at his colleague, nodding with a barely perceptible nod. He shared the same doubts, though he knew it wouldn't be easy to dissuade Alexander from his decision. Especially with Hephaestion's support.

"A peaceful resolution is worth trying," Hephaestion interjected, with the soft, diplomatic tone that always balanced tempers. "Even if it's unlikely, perhaps Darius realizes what's at stake. He knows that refusal will mean the end of this city. Perhaps he'll see reason, if we give him the chance."

Alexander walked slowly to the edge of the tent, parting the curtain to gaze, in the distance, at the silhouette of Babylon. Behind the walls, somewhere invisible to his view, stood her. The woman carrying his child. The Queen who had been taken from him.

He couldn't attack without trying. He had to try. Although he wanted to inflict pain on all those who participated, even the Persian people, he knew he should at least attempt a surrender without shedding blood.

"Let them send a messenger," He repeated, his eyes never leaving the city. "Let them deliver the warning: if they hand over Darius... And if my Queen is returned unharmed, there will be no destruction. Otherwise..."

He didn't finish the sentence. There was no need. Everyone there knew what would happen.

The city would fall.

And it would fall in fire and blood.

Night fell over the camp like a thick blanket. The silence was broken only by the sound of soldiers drinking and the distant blowing of the wind between the tents. Babylon shone in the distance, its walls lit by torches, as if pretending there was peace within.

But everyone knew. There was no peace, only the promise of blood and death for all.

In the royal tent, most of the generals had already retired. Only Alexander remained, sitting on the edge of a chair, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped. His head was bowed, his eyes fixed on the ground as if there he could find the answers to everything he felt.

Hephaestion entered silently. He knew Alexander's silence as well as his words. He knew there were times when his friend needed no advice, no orders, no plans — just presence, friendship, and familiarity.

"You're shivering," He said, his voice low, almost a whisper, as he approached.

Alexander looked up, exhausted. "It's not the cold."

Hephaestion crouched down in front of him, level with him, his pale blue eyes meeting his friend's mismatched ones. Carefully, he took Alexander's hands in his. "It's her, isn't it?"

Alexander took a deep breath, his chest heavy.

"She's so close, Hephaestion." His voice broke for a moment. "So close... And yet, I can't touch her. I can't protect her. I can only imagine what they did to her. If she's scared, in pain. If... If she loves me."

He had never told her he loved her, and she had never told him the same. There was so much to talk about between them.

"Alexander," Hephaestion began, firmly but gently, squeezing his friend's hands, "she's yours. Always has been. She's carrying your child. And she survived because she believes you will find her. Because she knows you."

Hephaestion knew about the pregnancy because Alexander told him shortly after receiving the news from Aslan. It was a shock, and it only complicated matters further. He was the only one who knew, since Alexander wanted to keep it a secret.

Alexander looked away for a moment.

"They stole her from me. Stole... My future. I wasn't there when she discovered she was pregnant. I didn't feel her skin changing, or hear her silly laugh when the baby kicked for the first time." He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "I should be with her. I'm a conqueror, a damned king, and yet... I can't get my own wife back."

Hephaestion rose slowly and sat beside him. For a moment, they just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, as they had so many times since their youth in Pella. The complicity between them was as old as Alexander's own ambition.

"You will have her back," Hephaestion murmured, his voice calm. "But not as a king who burns cities... But as the man she loves. That's why we must try to speak to Darius first. For her. For your child."

Alexander turned to him, his gaze softer now. "Do you think it's weakness?"

"I think it's love. And love, Alexander... It's what makes you stronger than any king before you."

For a moment, Alexander just watched him. Then, without saying anything, he rested his head on Hephaestion's shoulder — just for a few seconds. A silent, intimate gesture, reserved only for those moments when he stopped being the conqueror... And returned to being just a man in love, lost in the absence of the woman who gave meaning to it all.

"Thank you," He murmured. "For never letting me forget who I am."

Hephaestion smiled, a small smile but full of nostalgia and devotion.

"I'll follow you wherever you go, Alexander. To the ends of the earth, remember?"

Alexander didn't answer, just closed his eyes because yes, he remembered and knew it. Hephaestion would never abandon him, never leave him.

The next morning, the Macedonian camp awoke early. The sun was still rising on the horizon when the man chosen to carry the message walked to the royal tent. His name was Lysandros, a middle-aged man, experienced, dignified, having served as ambassador in other campaigns.

He wore a simple white chiton and carried a parchment sealed with Alexander's coat of arms: a golden lion. The letter had been written by Alexander himself, with the help of Hephaestion, the night before, his words chosen carefully, with hope — but also with the firmness of a king who did not plead, only offered a chance for redemption.

Hephaestion was the one who handed the parchment to Lysandros, squeezing his shoulder.

"You are the voice of reason before the sword. May the gods be with you."

Lysandros merely nodded. His gaze met Alexander's for a moment—a silent look of mutual respect — before mounting his horse and heading for the city gates.

Time seemed suspended as the messenger approached the immense bronze doors of Babylon. The wall was silent, guarded only by motionless sentries. But they saw him. And when he announced himself in the name of Alexander III, King of Macedon, the gate opened... Just enough to let him in.

Then, silence fell again over the countryside.

Hours passed.

Alexander stood before his army, his helmet under his arm, his eyes fixed on the walls. He waited. He waited for the signal of peaceful surrender, for Lysandros's return, or at least for a response.

But what came... Was blood.

A loud, shrill blast of war horns erupted from the towers, causing the Macedonian soldiers to glance at one another. Immediately afterward, a movement at the gates drew their attention.

Up above — at the top of the walls, where the winds blew strongest — two Persian soldiers appeared.

Carrying Lysandros's body.

He was already dead. A clean cut across his throat betrayed a summary execution. And then, with brutal theatricality, his body was thrown over the wall like a sandbag, landing heavily on the other side. His white chiton was stained with blood, the royal seal still attached to his belt.

Screams of indignation erupted among the Macedonian soldiers.

Hephaestion took a step forward, but Alexander raised his hand. His face was still. Frozen. A cruel silence fell around him.

"They responded," He said finally, his voice low and icy.

"With contempt," Cassander muttered, his jaw clenched with hatred.

"With scorn." Ptolemy finished, his light brown eyes filled with rage.

But Alexander didn't move. He walked over to the body, now surrounded by soldiers, and knelt beside it. Gently, he closed its eyes and, after taking a simple coin from his chiton, placed it on Lysandros's tongue. Then he removed the seal from his belt and attached it to his own. A gesture of honor.

Then he stood up.

His gaze met the city. He found Darius. Even without seeing him, Alexander knew he was there, watching. Waiting. Provoking.

And it was in that instant that the conqueror of empires cast aside all traces of diplomacy. Any possible peaceful surrender, any chance of sparing the city's people, was gone.

"Babylon will fall."

And with it, all who dared touch it.

All who dared take his Queen from him.

The stone hall inside the royal palace of Babylon was dark, stifling from the heat and the tension that rose like poison between the columns. The guards stood back, their eyes fixed on the ground, as if sensing what was approaching.

Darius paced back and forth, his Tyrian purple-embroidered tunic disheveled, his thick beard unshaven. His once proud eyes were tired — but not weak. He still carried the bearing of a king, even as the weight of reality crushed his shoulders.

"It's past time to end this, Bessus," He said, stopping before the satrap of Bactria, his voice firm but weary. "We will not win this war. As much as it pains me to admit it, we are weak, and although the city's defenses are good, the chance of winning is slim, and we are only condemning innocent people to death. For she is not here."

Bessus crossed his arms, impassive.

"And why, exactly, did she disappear, Your Majesty? Who was responsible for her safety? You? Or your Persian servants, who can barely guard a gate?"

"She's no longer here, Bessus!" Darius repeated, slamming his palm on the stone table in the center of the hall. "We don't know if she fled, if she was taken, if she's still alive! And that puts us at a total disadvantage! The one thing Alexander wants most is her. And we don't have that to offer."

"Then send him word, Your Majesty," Bessus replied, his voice thick with mockery. "Send him a nice letter, 'Your wife is missing, but still, please don't burn us alive.'" He gave a short, disdainful laugh. "You've lost your mind, Darius."

"It's not surrender I propose. It's strategy." Darius's tone hardened. "He gave us a chance. A chance! He sent a messenger, he extended his hand — however arrogantly — and we could have responded honorably. But you..."

He turned slowly to Perdiccas, who stood quietly in the corner of the room, his expression hard, shadows beneath his eyes.

"You were the one who let her escape, weren't you?"

Perdiccas pressed his lips together, but didn't respond. He wasn't impressed by the accusation, nor did he care.

"You were responsible for her safety," Darius continued, taking a step forward. "And now it seems you want to hide behind Bessus, as if nothing happened."

"I didn't let her escape," Perdiccas finally said dryly. "She was taken from me. And no, I don't hide behind anyone. I'm still a commander."

Darius eyed him suspiciously.

"You're in love with her, aren't you?" It was a stupid question, but he wanted confirmation all the same. Perdiccas had never been clear about what he wanted to achieve when he kidnapped Alexander's wife and allied himself with them.

Silence fell like a stone.

Perdiccas looked away angrily.

"I protected her. When everyone was wary and distant, I treated her as she deserved, with care and kindness. When he decided to marry her out of the blue and nearly killed Cleitus, I was the one who stood by her. And yet... Yet she'd rather die than look at me. Than acknowledge me."

There was resentment in Perdiccas's words. (Y/N) didn't seem to realize what he'd thrown away for her. But she'd never asked him for anything.

"Because she's not yours," Darius replied. "Never was. And no matter how much you cage her, she never will be. And now, your pathetic desire has put us all at risk!"

"Shut up!" Perdiccas growled, taking a step forward, his hand going to the dagger at his waist.

But Bessus stopped him with a quick gesture, "Put that down. Not now."

Bessus turned back to Darius, his eyes narrowed, his patience finally wearing thin.

"You've lost control. You've lost our prisoner. You've lost the army. And now you want to lose the empire to a foreigner. I, at least, still have the courage to fight."

"Fight for what?" Darius spat in frustration. "For pride? For vanity? Are you willing to watch this city — and all the children, women, and men who live in it — burn alive just to maintain this illusion of power?"

"At least I won't die on my knees, like a fucking coward." Bessus growled.

And then, without hesitation, he drew the dagger he kept tucked under the sleeve of his tunic.

Darius tried to retreat, but it was too late.

The blade pierced his abdomen with brutal precision. He grunted in pain, the wet sound of breath leaking between his lips, and fell backward, knocking over a tapestry bearing the symbol of Persia in its glory days.

Blood dripped onto the stone floor, staining it. Darius fell to the ground, blood streaming from his lips, agonizing in pain.

Perdiccas froze, taken aback by the suddenness of the attack.

"You... You stabbed him."

"Now I am the only legitimate leader here," Bessus said, wiping the blade on his own tunic. "Alexander will find the corpse of the last Persian king. I will say it was I who punished him for weakness. And the people will believe it."

He looked at Perdiccas, assessing him.

"Take whatever is useful and come with me. There is a secret exit through the tunnels beneath the palace. Only the Kings know it. And now... I am the King."

Perdiccas hesitated for a second. Then he looked at Darius’s body, sprawled on the floor like a forgotten shadow of past glory. And then, silently, he followed.

Bessus pulled back the tapestry at the back of the hall, revealing a stone trapdoor. The mechanism creaked as he opened it. A dark tunnel stretched beyond — an ancient escape route, built for royal emergencies.

Without a backward glance, Bessus stepped into the shadows.

And with him, betrayal.

And the promise that the city was doomed to fall.

— lady l: ...yeah, well... I'll miss Darius but he needed to die 😔

Sorry it took me a while to update but my life is crazy and difficult financially at the moment (I'm trying to get a job but it's difficult where I live), but I'm getting back to writing and I hope you enjoyed the chapter. ❤️

Forgive me for any mistakes (it's 4am), and as always, feedback is always welcome! If you'd like to chat, you can send me a message, either via DM or inbox, and I'll answer everything! ❤️❤️

Love you all!! <333

[a-cup-of-sundae]

Knight Ghost would most definitely get off seeing princess just licking their spoon whilst eating. Something so innocent yet so erotic

you lick your spoon like an untrained child, it's improper. your tongue drags over milk and tea on silver, pink swiping the lingering drops of liquid into your mouth before you suck on the metal. his eyes follow every movement. ghost knows well enough that the impropriety is for his benefit, a symptom indicative of the larger problem regarding your comfort with him, but that doesn't stop it from working. doesn't stop him from chastising you to watch the way you cast your eyes down and let the corners of your lip quirk up around the spoon clutched between your teeth.

worse than that is when you pick at fruit with your fingers, sucking the juice from your skin and ducking your head to catch any spare drops that might try finding their way down your arm. truly you can't know what you do to him; practicality wins you over before he can find a napkin to wipe your lips clean and you lick those as well, and ghost is seized by a violent urge to grip your cheeks and lick you clean himself.

god he must be starved. gone are the days he'd imagine you licking his cock like that, with tentative movements, your eyes watching him pleading silently to be assured what you're doing is right. now all he thinks of is dipping his own tongue into your mouth, of pressing his thumb down against the pink thing and making you suck, of holding your throat to spit on your outstretched tongue. is he really so far gone that something so innocent could make his blood boil and his cock hard? well, he supposes to a starved man even hard tack would look like a feast.

[a-cup-of-sundae]

Cw: fem!reader, necrophilia, you're dead, johnny is wilding and delusional. Dead dove; do not eat MDNI

Have pretty pictures before going into this

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It wasn't supposed to happen, not to you, not ever. Some desperate part within him had been convinced this day would never come. Even with all the times you'd thrown yourself headfirst into danger, sometimes right beside his side.

But you were always fine. Never even been properly shot. You should have been fine!

He couldn't understand why you weren't. The word "dead" didn't register in his head anymore. He had survived a bullet to the head years ago, he was living a normal life now, with you. So if he survived that, how could anyone die from less?

It made zero sense, he stared at the doctors blankly, scoffed away his former captain, shrugged off condolences from his family.

You weren't dead. People don't look pretty when they die. Even if he'd just pulled your cold body out of the freezer in that old morgue where everything shrieked and whined when you touched it.

You looked fine. He swore you looked fine. The gaping wound in your chest didn't mean anything. For a moment he didn't even see it, just looking at the way your tits were laying against your torso, beautiful.

You looked fine. He kept telling himself that. Incredulous as to why they had pronounced you dead, when you just looked like you were sleeping. These people had no idea what they were doing.

You were alive. He was sure of that. You still had a pulls, he swore. When his hand, softened by the years out off the military, landed on your neck, he could feel it. Your heart beating through your body, steady, firm, like always.

You were cold. Being shoved into a freezer, naked on a cold metal tray must've been absolute torture to your resting body. But he was prepared for that, knowing despite all his arguments and convictions no one believed him.

So it only took a bit of fumbling through the bag he brought to get you dressed up, comfortably but still flattering. A blouse he left open, for now.

That wound must be unpleasant, hen. He'll take care of it. Gathering what he needed so he could stitch you back together, trembly hands working with focus on the gash. Making you look just right, even using ointment and gauze, not like he wanted to risk an infection. Before his hands carefully buttoned up the blouse, he placed a kiss right over where your heart was (beating).

"Ye look so beautiful, hen. But 'is ain't 'eh reit place to sleep," Johnny muttered, the latter sounding like an amused scold, like he sounded all the times you'd done something silly. His arms, still strong, picked you from the hard metal, positioning you in his arms with your legs wrapped around his waist.

At least he tried. Your body was limb and heavy, not cooperating. That's okay, he'd dealt with that before, he could just throw you over his shoulder and walk out of that place. Leaving everyone tied up in the offices and hall closests, they didn't matter.

No one but you did.

He didn't give the looks he got— when he was carrying a literal body out of a morgue— a second thought, putting on your seat belt to drive you home. Where you belonged, where you were safe.

It was truly a phenomenon how normal the scot could act. How deep his mind could slip to find reasoning for everything.

He could hear your voice, hold conversations hours long with a hollow face. Maybe it was him knowing you so well, knowing exactly the things you'd say, the exact way your voice sounded, how your laughs echoed off walls and made rooms seem lighter. He remembered it so well, it was easy to pretend it was all still real.

He loved your groggy behavior in the mornings, when your tired body would slump as he tried to sit you up and do your make up for you, making you look just right. Like you did every average day. Your body slumping against him in the shower was comforting when he washed your hair, sat you down gently to get the rest of you.

It was domestic, it was nice. The dogs had been acting weird torwards you, but he figured that was just them adjusting to you being back after that nasty injury. The house was just as peaceful at the end of the day. Things wer normal, you still loved your favourite show, ate your favourite snacks. Things were okay, and he was happy.

And johnny was still a man, a needy one at that. So the fucking didn't stop. He still eagerly crawled between your legs, lapping at your sopping cunt— he'd lube it before, lost in some kind of trance that he never remembered— throwing your legs over his shoulder. He could feel — or maybe just remember, his mind stopped differentiating long ago— your hips grinding up against him, your pretty moans crying out for him, for more, to let him be the one to bring you to bliss.

He never got less considerate, always prepping you with fingers, his mouth, or toys before he allowwd his dripping cock near either of your holes.

He'd joke about the cold winter making your pussy cold too, feeling you slap at his chest for the crude comments. "Can warm it up for ye," right before he comes, filling your dead cunt with his hot spunk, watching it drip out of your loosened hole, before diving between it again

The praise that would make you clench around him and claw yourself nails into his back still flowed freely from his lips. Talking about how "Yer're the most gorgeous gal ever, ye ken 'at?" Bending down to suckle at your soft nipples, groaning how you were, "made fo' me, wasn't ye? Fit me so perfectly, love."

He'd hoist your cold body up on his lap, angle legs up so you could lean against them, your head rolling into all directions, lax from 'pleasure', he thought. His pumped up into you, grabbing at you hard, making him cover up marks with make up the next day. But you were still so gorgeous, all for him.

Nothing felt as right as your soft lips against his own. He felt them kiss back, spreading warmth all throughout him. The fresh taste of toothpaste— you didn't think he'd miss out on your oral hygiene, did you?— mixing with the taste of him, of the alcohol he drunk a little too often, of the cigarettes he'd picked up again without noticing.

It was you.

Just you, and you were right in all the ways. You still fit so perfectly against him. Grounded his body at night, allowing him to tuck himself into your side when the nightmares came again.

He'd worship you until it woukd be impossible to, he promised himself as much. You deserved nothing less. He'd keep you alive and safe, just like you did for him.

Of course simon was bound to visit eventually. He'd been staying away for a while, trying to handle the grief of losing you as well. He had been having a hard time adjusting when johnny got injured, trying to handle the team without boisterous by his side. And you'd done well with helping him.

He never understood how, your boyfriend had been laying in a coma, might never wake up again, and you still made sure simon was okay. Forcing yourself into his place to cook proper meals, to make sure he had company at night. Sometimes laying in his bed just to ground him. Nothing happened between you two, you were just a blanket to his mind and soul, a from hand gripping him and never daring him to slip too far. Never judging how he was dealing, just helping. And pulling his ass out of the line of fire one too many times.

And with you gone, so was Simon, again. Holding onto past memories, on all the things you'd taught him. Trying to get through the grief, because it was Johnny who had just lost his fiancee, not him. He should be there for his former sergeant, not wallow in his own misery.

He tried not to at first, ignored everything to do with your dead. Didn't even realise your funeral had been cancelled by Johnny — since the scot had no reason to hold one, as simon would soon learn. But eventually price had forced him to take some time off, with the lieutenant slacking after losing you by his side that was the safest decision.

So it was finally time to visit Johnny. Knocking on the cottage door in the Highlands, lip tight between his teeth. He almost flinched when johnny answered, it was too enthusiastic. No man should be this happy after losing "the love of his life". Something was up.

And Simon "ghost" Riley had seen a lot of things. Had watched a lot of horrors and committed just as many. And until right then he believed watching one of his best friends get shot and go through the pain of recovery was the worst one of them.

But the sight of your rotting body being laid out on the soft couch, the TV playing on of your favourite shows as if you were actually watching, quickly took first place. He froze in his steps, his eyes fixing on you, and he didn't even dare breathe.

Slowly those brown eyes switched over to Johnny, trying to find some kind of distress within him, some proof that the other man this was completely fucked.

He saw nothing. He looked just normal, as if nothing had changed. Simon was not a man of fear, but for the first time in years he felt the need to run. To run far and never look back at this.

"Mate," he started slowly, not even sure what he could possibly say in this. "She... is she— what 're ya doin' with her?"

And the scot dared to be confused. To furrow his eyebrows, tilt his head like a curious dog and smile. He fucking smiled as if simons question was just... silly. "Whit ye mean? Doin' whit we always doin'."

"Johnny—" he cut himself off, knowing getting through thay kind of delusion would be anything but an easy feat. Despite the thick knot in his stomach he looked over at you again, what was left of you. You looked okay... for being dead, that is. So johnny must've done something to preserve you without shoving you in some freezer or... no, he didn't want to think about that. "If she's okay, what're you doin' to keep her body fresh?" His lips turned into a frown when his eyes took you in properly.

"Fresh?" The Scots laugh sent a shiver down the lieutenant spine. "She's no damn produce. Nothin' tae keep fresh. Just helping 'er with moisturising." He spoke as if it was self explanatory.

He was gone. Simon decided right then, the former sergeant was completely gone.

He could try and drill words into the others head, fiddle around with your body, do a hundred things to proof you were gone. But one thing about Johnny mactavish was, that he was insanely stubborn. That if he wanted something he got it. And with the type of grief that man had running through his body there was no point.

Simon just nodded. Giving a tight lipped smile as if to accept he had just been speaking nonsense.

It been so long since tears reached his dark-coloured eyes. But when he sat across your slumped over form at the dinner table — full plate infront you, johnny having conversation with you, pretending you were answering, like you eating, apprecting simons company— that unfamiliar sting pricked at his eyes. He tried to ignore you, or to go along pretending, he wasn't sure. He just knew he was trying to see you as anything but a corpse.

The tears fell when he excused himself after dinner to get home, away, and your fiancé tried to make you hug simon. He accepted it half heartedly, maybe as not to offend his friend, maybe to feel your body against his one more time, to feel your comfort just one last time.

The rancid smell of you slowly rotting away, covered by your usual perfume and shampoo was the trigger, forcing the tears to fall past his lashes. He couldn't acknowledge that, so he was quick to dart out the door. Speed away in his car before he eventually felt far enough to pull over and vomit. Knees dropping into the cold dirt beneath him as he tried to accept what he just saw, hunched over and the few bites of dinner he managed coming right back up.

He'd never tell anyone. This would be locked away in his heart, hopefully drown in his memories.

"Odd man, ain't he, bon?" He whispered to you, tucked against him in bed, hand gently stroking your head as he thought about his lieutenants weird behaviour, eyes focused on the wedding dress hanging by the mirror — oh, you'd look so pretty in that, wont you?

Maybe the man was growing a crush on you. Why else would he have left so abruptly?

[a-cup-of-sundae]

ngl i didn't expect to simp over our old man but.... 😳😳😳 imma kiss your brain ahhhh

You Were Never Going Anywhere

Yandere!Toto Wolff x Reader

Pairing: Toto Wolff x Fem!Reader

Genre: Yandere, Age Gap, Toxic Relationship

Word Count: 1,895

Summary: The headlines made you hate your body. The comments made you want to disappear. You tried to walk away from it all and end things, but Toto Wolff doesn’t lose what’s his, especially not to faceless losers behind screens. He knows your soft curves, your trembling defiance, your shame-drenched tears—and he’ll kiss and chain every ounce of insecurity out of you if it means keeping you forever. You don’t get to leave him. Not when you’re the only thing he’s ever truly wanted.

Warnings: Yandere!Toto, age gap (reader is in early-mid 20s, Toto is 53), power imbalance, drugging (use of sedative injection), forced restraint (implied chain/restraint use), obsessive behavior, possessive language, implied captivity, body insecurity (chubby!reader in mind, but open for everyone), public shaming/weight-related hate, implied stalking.

A/N: Hello, friends! Kitty here, and I’m back after a 4-year hiatus (:0). Since then, a lot has changed (whether it be graduating college or getting into new interests like F1)!

I wanted to take a deep dive into Yandere!Toto Wolff and dark romance in general, because I think Toto has such obsessive older bf potential. This is a little self-indulgent since I had chubby!reader in mind, but this is written for anyone! Please enjoy, and let me know what you think! 

Dark Content Warning: This fic contains themes of drugging, non-con, yandere obsession, and emotional manipulation. If any of this content is triggering, do not proceed past the cut. 

Dating Toto Wolff—team principal and CEO of the Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One team—as someone average, low-income, and not conventionally attractive had its consequences. You weren’t arm candy. You weren’t press-ready. 

The world made sure you never forgot it.

Hundreds of body-shaming comments. Death threats in your DMs. Formula One community members calling you a downgrade, a “midlife crisis in the flesh.” On the paddock, you were a punchline: Toto’s controversial younger girlfriend, the awkward contrast to his poised and polished ex-wife, Susie Stoddart. Even fans on Twitter claimed Toto was “just experimenting with bigger girls.”

Every moment spent loving him chipped away at you–quietly, constantly.

But the public wasn’t the only problem.

The distance didn’t help. You lived in the U.S., working paycheck to paycheck and getting by on the occasional Doordash gig if your full-time job didn’t suffice. Toto lived in the clouds, taking his private jet from one Grand Prix to the next across continents. In three years of dating, you’d only seen him in person twice. FaceTime calls once a week, the occasional late-night “thinking of you” text—it wasn’t enough.

He said he loved you, but love wasn’t supposed to feel this lonely.

During your lowest moments, you stopped turning to him. Not out of anger, but out of necessity. You leaned on friends, family, and your therapist because he was never truly there. Slowly, the space between you stopped feeling like geography. It started to feel like grief.

After a year of saving up—skipping takeout, cutting back on everything, and sacrificing comfort just to put money aside—you finally bought a plane ticket to Nice, France. For once, you had the means to visit Toto in Monaco.

At first, it felt like a dream. Your reunion was filled with warmth and laughter, long walks by the harbor, and quiet mornings tangled in his sheets. You spent your days exploring Europe with him, trying new foods, and falling asleep to the sound of his voice beside you instead of through a screen. The sex was passionate and constant, almost like he was trying to make up for all the time you’d spent apart. For a while, you let yourself believe things were finally shifting. That maybe the distance, the loneliness, and the criticism may have been worth it.

Unfortunately, the bubble didn’t last long.

People stared whenever you went out together. At first, you told yourself it was harmless curiosity—maybe even admiration. But the glances shifted into glares, their expressions twisted with disgust. You tried to brush it off, reminding yourself that most people were too self-absorbed to care. Still, it got harder to believe that with each passing day.

Then things escalated. A man wearing head-to-toe Loro Piana spat on you after you accidentally bumped into him on the sidewalk. Another night, a woman with a crocodile-skin Birkin 25 looked you dead in the eye before pouring her red wine all over the white dress you’d chosen so carefully for dinner.

But what truly broke you was a video posted by one of those “Monaco Lifestyle” Instagram pages.

It showed you and Toto leaving the Casino de Monte Carlo, walking hand in hand toward his sleek silver Mercedes AMG One. You weren’t looking for it, but it found you anyway—clogging your feed, filling your mentions, appearing in texts from friends who didn’t know better. The comments were brutal.

“Who’s the fat tub of lard next to Toto?” “I’m surprised she even fit in the car.” “No wonder Susie left. He’s clearly lost it.”

You waited for him to say something—anything. But Toto stayed quiet. No public statement. No private reassurance. Just silence.

And that silence hurt more than any comment ever could.

So now, you’re here: standing in the master bedroom of his Monte Carlo penthouse, packing the same suitcase you’ve had since elementary school, shoving what little you brought into your beat-up North Face backpack. Your face is soaked with tears, your hands shaking as you try to zip it up.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore,” you say quietly, barely able to look up at your older, Formula One team principal boyfriend. Your voice trembles, and your expression is exhausted, defeated. “The long distance, the people judging me for how I look, where I come from, and the way I feel so painfully inadequate next to you–it’s all too much. Even though it hurts to say it, I think it’s best if we end things.”

Once the words leave your mouth, they won’t stop. They spill out, messy and raw.

“I will never be good enough for you, Toto. And I’m tired of pretending that I am.”

He doesn’t move. He just stands there across the room, watching you.

You reach for your backpack, heart racing, ready to walk away—from him, from this place, from all of it—when he finally speaks.

“You’re not leaving.”

His voice is low. Firm. Not emotional. Just final.

You freeze. Slowly, your gaze lifts from your suitcase.

“What?” you ask, blinking through the blur of tears. “Toto, what are you talking about? I already rescheduled my flight—”

Before you can finish, Toto storms across the room and grabs your wrist. In one swift movement, he pins you to the nearest wall. His grip is firm, fingers digging into your skin just enough to make your breath hitch.

“If you even think about leaving me,” he growls, voice inches from your ear, “I will do everything—and anything—in my power to keep you here.”

His body is so close, you can’t move. His eyes are cold. Focused. There’s no softness left in them now.

“I have resources. Connections. More power than you could ever imagine,” he continues, his lips barely brushing against your cheek as he speaks. “You are mine, Schatzi. And I will kill anyone who tries to take you away from me.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” you argue, fighting against his tightening grip. “I’m leaving whether you like it or not. As long as things exist the way they do, we can never be together.” Toto doesn’t relent, his hold on you remaining ironclad but voice and expression softening just a bit. He brings a hand up to the side of your face, cradling it gently–as if you were delicate, fragile, and breakable–but ultimately his. 

“Look at me, Schatzi,” Toto demands, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look up at his dark, territorial brown eyes. “I know you’re scared right now, but I need you to understand something.” 

“You’re beautiful,” he reverently states, looking at you with pure devotion and a hint of obsession. “Every inch, curve, and feature of you is perfect. I’ve never wanted anyone like this–never loved anyone like this.” 

He kisses your tear-stained cheeks and forehead, almost as if you would slip through his fingers if he didn’t. 

“Let them talk. None of them matter. I don’t see them, I only see you. You’re the only one that makes everything worth it,” Toto quietly reassures, holding you against his chest in a deceptively warm embrace. “It’s you I live for, Schatzi. No one and nothing else.” 

Your mind becomes fuzzy, and you’re barely able to process your emotions as Toto overwhelms you with honeyed words of reassurance and praise. His words most definitely hold a darker, more sinister undertone to them, but you’re too overstimulated from everything to notice. 

Noticing the effect his words had on you, Toto takes advantage of your vulnerability by gently guiding you towards the bed and sets you down on the edge. He then moves to shut the bedroom door and lock it, which makes your breath hitch in surprise. 

“What—what are you doing?” you stammer, eyes widening in panic and fear as you begin getting up from the bed. “Why—why did you lock the door?” 

You also notice Toto picking up your packed suitcase and putting it back into his walk-in closet before closing the door entirely. 

Toto turns around slowly, his expression unreadable. “You were going to leave me,” he murmurs, walking back toward you with a steady, quiet rage simmering beneath his calm exterior. “You were going to walk out that door and disappear, just like that. Like everything we have is disposable.”

He crouches in front of you, gently brushing your knees with his hands. “Tell me, Schatzi: what were you going to do out there? Find someone else? Pretend this never happened?” His eyes flicker with something unhinged, something raw. “Because I promise you, there is no ‘someone else.’ Not for you. Not while I’m still breathing.”

You try to step back, but he stands, towering over you now. The warmth is gone from his eyes. “You think I’d let another man touch you? Look at you?” He laughs, but it’s hollow and sharp, tinged with disbelief. “I’d kill him. I swear to God, I would, and I don’t say that lightly.”

He leans down again, brushing his lips just beside your ear. “You’re mine. I don’t care who tries to change that. Not your friends. Not the press. Not even you.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, studying every twitch in your expression. “I’ll chain you to this bed if I have to. I’ll shut the whole world out and keep you right here where you belong. You think I care what people will say? Let them scream.” He taps his temple, tone suddenly soft again and mockingly so. “As long as you’re here, I’m sane.”

Then, softer still, he whispers: “You love me too much to leave. Right, Schatzi?”

Before you can respond, a sudden, sharp pain blooms in your thigh–like a wasp sting, quick and mean. Your eyes dart downward just in time to catch the glint of a capped syringe in Toto’s hand.

“What—what the fuck did you do?” you whisper, your voice unraveling into a panic. Your legs buckle beneath you, and you clutch at the bedpost for support. “Toto, why–why can’t I stand?”

Toto catches you effortlessly as you begin to collapse, arms wrapping around your torso in what almost feels like a tender embrace—if not for the way he drags you back toward the bed with unsettling ease.

“Shhh,” he coos, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “It’s just something to help you rest. You’ve been so worked up, Schatzi. So upset. I can’t let you run around in that state, can I?”

Your breath hitches, chest rising and falling erratically as you break out into a cold sweat. Everything begins to blur, his face growing dimmer as your vision tunnels.

“I didn’t want it to come to this,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “But I meant what I said. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything I’ve needed.”

You try to push him away, but your arms are heavy–useless, even.

“I know you think you want to leave,” he whispers near your ear, tone sinking into something cold and possessive. “But trust me–no one out there could ever love you the way I do. No one else deserves to.”

You blink once, twice—each one slower than the last.

“You’ll thank me later,” he adds with a quiet finality, stroking your hair as the room darkens at the edges. “This way, I can keep you safe. I can keep you mine.”

When you’re finally able to understand the implications of his words, everything goes black. 

© 2025 somnonanami. Do not modify or re-publish without author’s consent.

MDNI banner credit: @cafekitsune 🖤

[a-cup-of-sundae]

lewis is a real gentleman here 🥺 it's like he knows PDA makes me nervous so he just politely gives me his seat instead 💯💯

Drivers React...

...when there's not enough space for everyone to take a seat

Drivers: LN4, OP81, CS55, AA23, GR63, KA12, CL16, LH44, OB87, DR3, MV33/MV1

LN4: pulls you onto his lap sideways and uses your shoulder as a resting place for his chin while full-on staring at you with a soft dreamy smile, not listening to the person currently speaking about this place the grid is visiting at all.

OP81: lets you have the last seat after a walking-heavy activity, you pull him with you and make him sit sideways on your lap. he just goes with it, mostly unfazed since he's used to platonic interaction like that with women but maybe a little blushing too cuz you did that with such casual confidence.

CS55: grabs you from behind while you try to go for the chair, picks you up, sits down and now your sitting on a lap being hugged from behind. he's deviously cackling at that move and then giving you doe eyes from your shoulder once you look over.

AA23: you absolutely will beef for that last seat like siblings, him at some point taking over the seat with a satisfied smile before you sit down on his lap facing him. You don't give a fuck, lean your forehead on his shoulders to rest and feel his confusion about what to do with his hands.

GR63: Sits down and guides you to sit on his lap with a comfortable distance to his upper body to not make you feel weird about it. You two look like a modern royal portrait, but in the most cute way.

KA12: Gives you the seat and sits down in front of you on the floor, yapping at you every couple minutes, just like puppy that's just happy about your presence. which is essentially what he is. a human puppy.

CL16: He'll sit down and pull you onto his lap sideways, grabbing your outer knee to make sure nobody can look up your dress. Other hand is on your back so you don't fall off. Gentleman with the rest of the room in mind.

LH44: Stands still and gestures you to sit down with a soft smile before asking someone if there's a chair or other thing they have that he can sit on. He's not afraid of asking for accommodations anywhere.

OB87: Makes you sit on his lap facing away from him, but his head on your shoulder means he'll make faces at you whenever you look to the side. You both are a giggly mess trying to be serious.

DR3: He'll slow down so you'll automatically take the last seat before broadly asking you if he can sit on your lap. He'll sit down on your lap sideways in the most girlypop femme way possible for a man with legs too long to kick around. Head fully propped up on his hands, big smile.

MV1: He'll argue with you if you don't take the damn last seat. He'll stand there listening to the TV that's on in the room with that grandpa stance. You know the one when people pretend to be busy but get stuck in front of a TV? Alternatively he'll sit down leaned back against your shins.

(I mean it, zero tags and zero comments is how fanfic slowly dies, interact with fanfic writers, all of them!)

Masterlist linked in bio <3

[a-cup-of-sundae]

ayoooo 🤤🤤🤭

what's werewolf price up to?

(tw noncon, aphrodisiac come) he's too big.

you thrash under him, trying to buck him off. one big, clawed hand closes tighter around your wrists, pressing them together until it hurts. you let out a yelp, and he tugs at the leg he has held in his other hand, threatening to pull it out of socket.

the tip of his cock is still nestled just inside your cunt, by far the smallest part of the thing, and yet you still feel the way it holds you open and leaks into you. hot drooling pre-come, enough that when the beast tries again to grind its fat cock into you the slick smears around your entrance. you take in a shuddering breath as your body loosens and gives way, letting the thing press in another few centimeters. heady, dizzying warmth spreads through you and you clench around the intrusion.

it drags its cock back, scraping the tapered tip along your walls. your eyes roll, it pushes back inside. your head spins. something- something isn't right. you're pulled down its cock until it burns, your cunt stretched wide around its girth. it makes you clench again, something sick in your core eager to know what you can take, the thought of what you must look like makes you moan. again it pulls back, the walls of your cunt wrapped tight to try to keep the monstrous cock inside. it pulls out and ruts the drooling tip between your folds, its come is molten, making your body shudder and your hips cant. you babble out a plea for release, which kind you don't know.

"four of you," the monster above you groans, "four of us, that's fate don't you think?"

your clit aches, tingling with whatever influence the beast has rubbed into it. it throbs eager to be touched as your cunt is stretched wider, begging for the fingers that dig into your thigh to find a new resting place.

he's too big, bumping against your cervix and grinding into that dull painful pleasure until stars are starting to color your vision. your voice hitches on each sharp intake of breath, your neck stretched taught as your head tips back. pleasure seizes you like a vice. dead leaves drag under your skull, but you can't bring yourself to care. your pussy flutters around this thing's length, trapping its fat cock inside of you. it doesn't seem to mind, grinding itself deeper and deeper into you, forcing you to stretch wider and wider.

"there's a girl," it pants, its hand moves from your leg to your stomach, and you tip your head to see what it's doing. the bulge of its cockhead under your skin makes your stomach jump, worse when you see he hasn't fully sheathed himself in you yet. "get you pumped full of pups in no time."

[a-cup-of-sundae]

LEAVING THIS ONE WITHOUT ANY CONTINUATIONS IS ILLEGAL 🤬🤬🤬

Dark Captain Hook X Peter Pan's Mother! Reader

The ocean was not kind to a woman alone, your small boat had been ripped from its course during a violent storm.

Rain, wind, and waves had taken everything but your desperate will to find your son.

You clung to the mast as the waters swallowed the horizon, whispering his name again and again like a prayer.

"Peter… my Peter…"

Darkness took you.

And when you awoke

There was warmth, and the creaking of wood, with the scent of sea brine and smoke.

You blinked blearily, finding yourself wrapped in heavy wool, laying on an old cot within the quarters of a grand ship.

The floorboards groaned, a shadow crossed the threshold.

He entered like thunder.

Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in crimson and obsidian, a dark hat perched atop long black curls.

The gleam of his hook caught the firelight. But it was his eyes that frightened you most, intense brown eyes with dark lashes.

"Well, well," he purred, his voice smooth as velvet yet edged with danger.

"What have we here? A mermaid without her tail?"

His crew chuckled, but you barely registered them, your mind still on Peter.

"I need to find my son," you gasped, desperation clawing at your chest.

You hesitated, but the truth spilled from your lips before you could stop it.

"Where am I?" you managed, setting up.

"You are aboard The Jolly Roger, my dear," he replied.

The captain tilted his head, intrigued. "And who, pray tell, is your son?"

You hesitated, but the truth spilled from your lips before you could stop it, doubting that the stranger could possibly know who your son is.

"Peter Pan."

Silence.

Then, the captain’s expression shifted, surprise, fury, then something far more unsettling fascination.

A slow, wicked smile paints his lips.

"Peter Pan's mother" he mused, crouching down to your level.

His hook traced the air near your cheek, not touching, but close enough to make your breath hitch.

"How ironic."

"You have been searching for him, haven't you?" he asserts.

"That wretched little boy who refuses to grow up, who abandoned you for years." His voice filled with venom, not for you, but for Peter.

"Years? it has only been a month, and he has not abandoned me!" You exclaim, feeling frustrated by his words.

Hook's eyes narrowed, studying your face with an intensity that made you shiver.

"A month?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it.

"My dear woman, time moves differently in Neverland, what feels like a month to you has been years here, years of that boy's reckless games, his cruel pranks."

You shook your head, refusing to believe it. "You're lying."

"Am I?" He stood, towering over you.

"Tell me why I would lie to you?"

When you keep silent, Captain Hook seizes the opportunity, curling his gloved fingers around your hand with unsettling gentleness.

He lifts it slowly to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Well now, since we are family, why not become better acquainted?" he murmured, his tone rich with mockery and charm.

"I find myself most intrigued by the woman who birthed that insufferable wretch who haunts my days like a curse."

You pulled your hand back sharply, the warmth of his lips still burning against your skin. "I need to leave. I need to find Peter."

But as you moved to stand, Hook's hook shot out, the curved metal pressing against your shoulder with just enough pressure to keep you seated. His smile never wavered, but his eyes hardened like winter storms.

"Oh, but my dear, you misunderstand your situation entirely." His voice remained silky, but underneath lay steel.

"You see, you are not a guest aboard my ship. You are a leverage."

Your heart beat against your ribs.

"What do you mean?"

"That boy has cost me a hand, my dignity, and countless sleepless nights, but now..."

He gestured grandly with his good hand, "Now I have something he values more than his own eternal youth, his mother."

"You can't keep me here!"

Hook's laugh was rich and dark.

"Can't I? Look around you, love. We're surrounded by endless ocean, and my crew is extraordinarily loyal, should you attempt to leave..." He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.

"...Well, let's just say the sharks haven't been fed in days, and they do so enjoy fresh meat."

The threat hung in the air like smoke.

You felt tears prick your eyes, but refused to let them fall.

"Now then," Hook continued, straightening his coat,

"You will find your accommodations quite comfortable, you'll dine with me each evening, and perhaps you'll tell me stories of young Peter's childhood, I also find myself curious about you."

﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏

Months Later...

The routine had become sickeningly familiar. Hook would visit you daily, bringing meals and engaging in what he called "civilized conversation." He spoke of literature, of the sea, of everything except letting you go.

Slowly, horrifyingly, you began to understand his lonely existence, even as you despised him.

He never harmed you physically, but his presence was a constant reminder of your captivity.

The hook that had once threatened now traced patterns in the air as he spoke, a nervous habit you had come to recognize.

That night, you heard it, a familiar sound that made you hopeful.

The distinctive crow of a rooster, Peter's signal.

You rushed to the small porthole, and there he was, hovering outside the ship, his green outfit unmistakable against the star-filled sky.

Still a boy, still your Peter, but his eyes held a fury you'd never seen before.

"Mother!" he called, his voice carrying over the water.

Captain Hook appeared beside you with predatory grace, his hook glinting as it curved around your waist.

"Ah, right on schedule. Tell me, Peter," he called through the window,

"Did you miss your dear mother? Because she's been such delightful company these past months."

Peter's face twisted with rage.

"Let her go, Hook! This is between us!"

"Oh, but it's so much more interesting now, isn't it?" Hook's voice was honey over poison.

"You see, your mother and I have become quite close. Haven't we, darling?"

Your stomach churned as Hook's meaning became clear.

"Peter, don't listen to him!"

But Peter's eyes widened in horror as Hook produced a simple gold band from his pocket, sliding it onto your finger despite your struggles.

"Congratulations, my boy," Hook said with malicious satisfaction.

"You may call me stepfather now."

[a-cup-of-sundae]

THIS IS SO YUMMY AAAHHHHHHHH EVERYONE PLEASE READ TS!!!!!!! NOMNOMNOMNOM

You get me closer to God | [2/3]

pairing *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Alexander The Great x fem!reader

disclaimer *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ fluff(?). angst. yandere content. slight suggestive content. noncon kissing. blackmail. not proofread. possible historical inaccuracies.

a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Okay so this series received more love than I thought it would. Plus it gave me the space to experiment with a new more flowery writing style so it’s a win win ig. Also I hope y’all like this part. Also pray for our girl Y/N, she’s going to need it. Comment, Like and Reblog ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ )

comment to be added to taglist.

[1/3] [3/3]

The wind sighed through the ancient tree, its fingers catching playfully in Y/N’s unbound hair, sending h/c strands dancing like ribbons around her face. Alexander watched, transfixed, as the breeze tugged at the loose tendrils that had escaped their pins—a small rebellion against the strictures of propriety.

He had always liked her hair best like this—wild, untamed, free.

In the courts of Pella, noblewomen wore their hair meticulously braided and pinned, every coiled lock a testament to their modesty and restraint. Loose hair was the mark of maidens at their baths, of bacchantes in their frenzied rites—something intimate, something unrestrained. Y/N was neither wanton nor wild, yet she carried this small fragment of freedom with her, as natural as breathing. Around others, she complied with expectation, but here, with him, she seemed to forget—or perhaps ignore—the rules that bound women like silken cords.

Others dressed in their finest silks and jewels when in the presence of royalty, as if anything less would be an insult to his station. But Y/N? She treated him not as Alexander, Prince of Macedon, heir to a throne that would one day command empires, but simply as Alexander—a companion, a confidant, perhaps even more.

And in these stolen moments, she was wholly herself. That was the most intoxicating thing about her.

That was why she ensnared him so completely.

She was like the nymphs of the old tales—not the simpering maidens of poets’ idylls, but the untouchable spirits of deep forests and hidden springs. The kind who did not beckon with coy smiles, but simply were, so radiant in their natural state that men forgot themselves in their presence. If such a creature had Y/N’s laughing eyes, her thoughtful silences, her quiet stubbornness—Alexander would have followed her into the darkest depths of the earth without hesitation.

“He’s right,” Alexander said quietly, his gaze intense. “You deserve more than to be some man’s decoration.”

The words tasted bitter on his tongue. Cassander’s protectiveness, once an annoyance, now struck him as the only reasonable stance in a world that sought to cage women like birds in gilded aviaries.

Y/N blinked up at him, her lips parting in surprise at the intensity in his voice. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the whisper of leaves and the distant call of a nightingale.

“Then what do I deserve, Alexander?” she asked, so softly the wind nearly stole the words away.

The question hung between them, delicate as the first frost.

The prince hesitated. The answer burned in his chest—Everything. The world. Me.—But he clamped his jaw against the words, letting them scorch his throat unsaid. Instead, his hand moved to the scroll between them, his fingers deliberately grazing hers—a touch light enough to deny, heavy enough to feel.

“For now?” he said, forcing a smirk as he unfurled the parchment with practiced ease. “A proper debate about this passage. Aristotle would be ashamed if we wasted the night on gossip when there’s philosophy to dissect.”

Y/N laughed—a bright, clear sound that scattered the tension like morning mist beneath the sun. Yet as they bent their heads together over the text; Alexander’s thoughts raced far beyond the ink-stained parchment, already plotting how to ensure no one—not her mother, not tradition, not some faceless noble—would ever clip her wings. 

And if I am the one who keeps her aloft, he thought, then let her sing for no one but me.

“So,” Alexander mused, tracing a line of text with his fingertip, “does your education extend beyond these scrolls? Or has Cassander kept you sheltered from the temple’s more... vigorous teachings?”

The temple’s curriculum was renowned for moulding not just scholars, but warriors—young nobles trained as much in swordplay and strategy as in poetry and rhetoric.

Y/N’s chin lifted with quiet pride. “Cassander teaches me poetry, literature and philosophy, of course,” she said, counting the subjects on her fingers. “But also, the fundamentals of finance, politics and even the movements of the stars.” Her voice warmed with each word, her passion for learning glowing brighter than the lamplight between them.

It was a rare boast—one she would never dare make in company. Most noblewomen of her standing could barely read beyond household accounts, let alone debate astronomy or statecraft. But Y/N prided on being different. Isolated from her half-sisters by a mother who saw even family as rivals in the marriage market, she had intended to turn solitude into scholarship, transforming what was meant to be a cage into a library without walls.

The firelight danced across Alexander’s features as he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “You know, my lady, physical training forms a cornerstone of education within these temple walls.” 

Y/N waved a dismissive hand, her lips curving in incredulity. “I’ve no need for such things, Alexander. Cassander insists that a woman should never have to lift a blade.” She let out a soft laugh, the sound like chimes in the breeze. “I suppose it would wound my dear brother’s pride as a man if his sister thought him so incapable of protection that she felt compelled to learn the ways of war.”

Alexander’s eyes gleamed with the challenge. He had always been silver-tongued, his words weaving spells since he first learned to speak—each syllable carefully chosen, each argument crafted to bend others to his will. And now, he wielded that skill like a finely honed weapon.

“I understand Cassander’s perspective, my dove,” he conceded smoothly, though his tone suggested he found it quaint at best. “But consider this—we worship Athena, do we not? A goddess of war and wisdom, revered as fiercely as any Olympian. Archers and hunters kneel before Artemis, and is she not a woman? Even Aphrodite, whom you hold so dear, is no stranger to battle when passion demands it.” He spread his hands, the picture of reason. “If the gods themselves see no contradiction in a woman’s strength, why should we?”

Y/N fell silent, her brow furrowing as she turned his words over in her mind. The logic was sound, yet it clashed against everything she’d been taught. Cassander would sooner swallow his own sword than let her near one, no matter how eloquently she argued. But Alexander—Alexander was different.

“Then what do you suggest?” she asked, curiosity threading through her voice.

The prince allowed himself a small, triumphant smile. “I respect Cassander’s reservations,” he said, his tone dripping with feigned deference. “But I am bound by no such limitations, my dove. Should you wish to learn, I would be honoured to teach you.”

His voice was measured, restrained—the very picture of noble intent. But beneath the surface, the gears of his machinations turned. This was more than an offer of instruction; it was a snare, exquisitely crafted to draw her deeper into his orbit. Every lesson would be another thread in the web he spun, another reason for her to seek him out, to trust him, to depend on him.

And Alexander knew the value of patience. The first move had been made. The game, as always, was his to win.

Y/N’s eyes sparkled with intrigue as she considered Alexander’s proposition. Learning had always been her greatest joy, and the idea of mastering something as bold as combat sent a thrill through her. “Alright,” she conceded, her lips curving into a smile. “I see no reason to refuse—though I’ve no means to acquire a weapon of my own.”

Alexander’s expression shifted, his smile deepening into something that didn’t quite touch his eyes—a practiced charm, smooth as the finest liquor, designed to mask the cunning beneath. “In that case, my dove,” he murmured, “you may use mine.”

The thought of her hands wrapped around his blade sent a rush of heat through him. He recalled a traveller’s tale from the distant East, where gifting a sword to a woman was tantamount to a vow—a promise of possession, of devotion. The symbolism was not lost on him.

With deliberate grace, he unsheathed his dagger. The blade was a work of art, its hilt adorned with the subtle, coiled insignia of the royal house—a mark known only to those intimate with the court’s inner circles. It was not a weapon given lightly.

He reached for her hand, his fingers closing over hers as he guided her grip around the hilt. The contrast was striking—her skin, soft and unmarred by battle, against the cold, unforgiving steel of a warrior’s tool.

“Alexander, this is beautiful!” Y/N gasped, her voice bright with delight. In her excitement, she barely registered that his hand still lingered over hers, his thumb brushing the delicate bones of her wrist. By now, she had grown accustomed to his casual touches—the way his fingers would graze hers when passing a scroll, the weight of his head resting against her shoulder as they debated philosophy. She dismissed it as mere eccentricity, the quirks of a prince raised in privilege and unchecked affection.

But then, reality settled in. Her smile faltered. “But—I can’t take this. It’s yours.” The weight of the gesture struck her. A royal dagger was no trinket to be given away lightly.

Alexander tilted his head, his voice dropping into that persuasive cadence that had swayed generals and kings alike. “Tell me, my dove,” he began, almost rhetorically, “once I am emperor, will you not stand among my most loyal subjects?”

“Of course,” Y/N replied without hesitation. “There is no question of that.”

“Then surely,” he continued, his thumb tracing idle circles over her knuckles, “loyalty must be rewarded. And besides—what belongs to a king belongs to his people. What is mine is yours.”

The words wrapped around her like a spell. She bit her lip, torn between propriety and the intoxicating pull of his offer. For a long moment, she wavered, her lashes fluttering shut as she drew a steadying breath. When she opened her eyes, her resolve had crystallized into something daring, something new.

“When do we begin?” 

Two full seasons had slipped through their fingers like grains of sand before either Y/N or Alexander paused to mark the time. The turning of leaves from emerald to gold, the first frosts that dusted the olive groves at dawn, the return of songbirds to the meadows—all these natural rhythms passed unnoticed as their secret world took shape in stolen moments between daylight and dusk.

Cassander remained dutiful in his visits, arriving like clockwork every fortnight to check on his sister’s wellbeing. Sometimes Hephaestion accompanied him, sometimes Alexander—though never did Cassander suspect that these appearances were but a fraction of the prince’s interactions with Y/N. The truth—that Alexander had coaxed her into private meetings, that he had pressed his own dagger into her hands and taught her to wield it—would have ignited a firestorm.

Hephaestion alone knew.

And Hephaestion alone said nothing.

He watched, silent as a shadow, as the threads of Alexander’s design tightened around Y/N. The prince’s favor was a double-edged sword, its gleaming surface hiding a razor’s edge. For now, Alexander was kind—indulgent, even—because Y/N remained blissfully unaware of the gilded cage being constructed around her. She laughed freely in his presence, debated philosophy with him under the stars and practiced her dagger drills with the earnest determination of a child learning her letters.

But the moment she turned away—the moment she dared to question, to resist, to flee—she would find herself staring into an abyss she hadn’t even realized yawned beneath her feet.

On parchment, their union was nothing short of perfection. Y/N, the legitimate daughter of Antipater, Macedonia’s most revered general. Alexander, the crown prince destined to wear the imperial diadem. Cassander, whose loyalty would one day cement his place among Alexander’s most trusted commanders. It was a tapestry of alliances that would make any courtier weep with envy.

And Y/N? Y/N knew none of this.

To her, Alexander was simply Alexander—the boy who carved her a wooden dove, who made her laugh until her sides ached, who patiently guided her hands into the correct stance for a parry. She did not see the calculating glint in his eyes when he watched her, nor did she recognize the significance of the royal dagger now tucked beneath her pillow. She did not understand that, in the eyes of the one she trusted so, their “friendship” was already being measured for a bridal veil.

Hephaestion understood.

He knew the ruthless ambition that thrummed through Alexander’s blood—the same ambition that had driven his mother to carve her path to power through intrigue and iron. The world of thrones and conspiracies would chew Y/N alive, her bright-eyed optimism no match for the vipers that slithered through palace corridors.

But what could he do?

To warn Y/N would be to invite Alexander’s wrath. To confront Alexander would be to sever a friendship forged in childhood battlefields. And so Hephaestion did the only thing left to him—he watched, helpless, as the pieces moved inexorably toward ruin.

Not just Y/N’s ruin.

But perhaps the ruin of House Iolaos itself.

“Keep your stance straight, Y/N.”

Alexander’s voice cut through her concentration—firm, commanding, the tone he reserved for the training yard. She froze instinctively, her body responding to the authority in his words before her mind could process them.

Then he was behind her.

His presence was a sudden warmth against her back, his hands hovering just above her waist as he guided her posture into alignment. One palm curled around her wrist, adjusting her grip on the dagger with practiced precision. For a heartbeat, they stood like that—her spine pressed to his chest, his breath stirring the loose hairs at the side of her temple where his chin rested on her shoulder.

The contact was fleeting. A moment. Two. Then he stepped away, leaving the ghost of his touch lingering on her skin like the memory of a dream.

Y/N exhaled sharply, shaking off the strange tightness in her chest. She focused instead on the lesson, on the weight of the blade in her hand, on anything but the way her pulse stuttered when he stood so close.

They had been sparring for what felt like hours when Alexander finally called for a break. Y/N collapsed under the magnolia tree, gulping water from a clay cup as she wiped her brow with the back of her hand.

“My mother wrote me a letter,” she said abruptly, her voice oddly detached.

Alexander stilled. Y/N’s mother was a distant figure—absent in person, sparing in correspondence. For her to reach out now...

“What did she say?” he asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

Y/N stared into her cup, her fingers tightening around it. “She’s asking me to return to the capital.” A pause. Then softer, “It’s only two winters until I’m to be married. She says it’s time I learned what a wife should know.”

The words landed like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward in silent devastation.

Y/N had always known this day would come. No matter how many scrolls she read, no matter how many philosophies she debated, her fate had been sealed the moment she was born a nobleman’s daughter. She was a bargaining chip, a bridge between houses, a vessel for heirs. Knowledge was a pastime— marriage was her purpose.

But knowing didn’t make the reality any easier to swallow.

Across from her, Alexander’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching so tightly a muscle flickered in his cheek. The thought of Y/N being handed off to some faceless lord, of her brilliance being suffocated under the weight of wifely duties, of another man touching what he had come to think of as his—

It was unacceptable.

But he said none of this.

Instead, he reached for her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a gesture that could have been mistaken for comfort.

“Cassander said he will try to talk to Father,” Y/N continued, oblivious to the storm brewing beside her. “To arrange my marriage to someone close to us.” She hesitated, then added, almost shyly, “I hope it’s Lord Hephaestion.”

Alexander’s world narrowed to a single, searing point.

Hephaestion.

His oldest friend. His most trusted companion. The one person he had never doubted—until this very second.

The betrayal cut deeper than any blade.

“Why do you say that?” Alexander asked, his tone carefully measured, though the undercurrent of something darker, sharper, slithered beneath the surface.

Y/N, still lost in her own thoughts, didn’t notice the shift. “Well,” she began, counting off on her fingers, “he’s from a prestigious house. He’s dutiful, intelligent—he’s cared for me since we were young, so I know he would treat me well.” A soft blush coloured her cheeks as she added, almost as an afterthought, “And he’s quite pleasing to look at, too.”

The admission was like kindling to the fire already raging inside him.

Alexander had seen the way Hephaestion looked at her—those quiet, lingering glances he had dismissed as mere protectiveness. Now, they took on a new, damning meaning.

Had they spoken of this? Had Hephaestion entertained the thought?

The image of it—of Hephaestion standing where he should be, of Hephaestion touching his bride—unleashed something feral in Alexander. A fury so vast it threatened to consume him. If Hephaestion stood before him now, Alexander would tear him apart with his bare hands.

But he did none of this.

Instead, he smiled—a slow, dangerous thing that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Hephaestion is fortunate to have your favour,” he said, his voice smooth as honey laced with hemlock. “But marriage is a matter of politics, my dove. Not preference. And you never know who might have already set their sights upon you.”

The unspoken threat hung between them, heavy as a blade unsheathed.

Y/N exhaled, her shoulders slumping slightly in resignation. “I suppose you’re right,” she conceded, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. She pushed herself up from the stone, dusting off her chiton with brisk, distracted motions. “Alright—one last parry, and then I should go.”

“As you wish, my dove,” Alexander agreed, rising smoothly to his feet, his expression unreadable.

They faced each other beneath the moonlight, blades raised—Y/N gripping her dagger with newfound confidence, Alexander poised with the effortless grace of a seasoned warrior.

This might be their last meeting before she was called back to the capital, before the walls of duty and marriage closed around her. And so, she fought with everything she had.

Her movements were sharper than ever before, her strikes precise, her defences unwavering. She deflected his blows with surprising agility, countering with attacks that forced Alexander to retreat—just slightly, just enough to make her believe she had the upper hand. The frequency of her assaults increased, her breath coming in quick, determined bursts as she pressed forward.

Then, in a flash of inspiration, she executed a maneuver she had once seen Cassander use against Hephaestion—a swift, deceptive twist of her wrist that sent Alexander’s dagger skittering from his grasp. Before he could react, she lunged, the point of her blade finding its mark at his throat.

A thin line of crimson bloomed where the edge grazed his skin. But the prince only smiled, slow and satisfied, as if this had been his design all along.

“You win, my little dove,” he said, his voice a velvet purr. “However...” His hand closed around her wrist, not roughly, but with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down her spine. “You have just committed a crime punishable by death.”

His tone was grave, but his eyes burned with something far more dangerous than anger—triumph.

For this was no accident.

This was his victory.

A prince’s blood, shed by her hand, bound her to him in ways she did not yet understand.

Y/N’s smile shattered like glass as the reality of what she had done crashed over her. Her fingers went slack, and the dagger—his dagger, the royal steel he had pressed into her hands with such deliberate intent—clattered to the earth between them. The sound was deafening in the silence that followed.

Her gaze dropped to the ground, fixing on the trampled grass beneath their feet, as if staring hard enough could undo the last few seconds. A hot sting pricked at the corners of her eyes, her vision blurring as tears threatened to spill. The metallic tang of blood hung in the air—his blood, drawn by her hand.

Alexander circled her slowly, his footsteps deliberate, each one measured like the ticking of a death knell. “You know, my dove,” he mused, his voice deceptively light, “this was a capital offense. Some might even call it an assassination attempt.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, her chest tightening as his words coiled around her like a noose.

“I could have your entire family incarcerated. Executed, even.” He said it casually, as if discussing the evening breeze rather than the annihilation of her house.

“No—Alexander, please,” she gasped, her head snapping up. A single tear broke free, tracing a glistening path down her cheek. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t,” he interrupted, his voice softening as he reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. She recoiled instinctively, her body reacting before her mind could catch up—a visceral flinch that only made his smile deepen. “But what's done is done.” His thumb lingered near her temple, a mockery of comfort. “Unless, of course, we settle this between ourselves?”

Hope flickered in Y/N’s eyes, fragile as a candle in a storm. “Yes, of course.”

His eyes were dark, fathomless—the eyes of a king already weighing her worth. “I’ll assign you a remedial measure,” he said, his thumb brushing the apple of her cheek. “Perform it without question.” A pause, loaded with unspoken threat. “Fail me, and I’ll have no choice but to proceed through official channels.”

He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted over her lips as he whispered, “And it would almost be blasphemy, wouldn’t it? To execute a face so blessed by Aphrodite.”

The words were a caress and a knife all at once.

Y/N stood frozen, her pulse a frantic bird trapped in her throat. She had won the spar.

But Alexander had already won the war.

“What...” Her voice fractured, the word crumbling like dried clay. She swallowed hard, forcing the question past the vise of fear tightening around her windpipe. “What would you have me do?”

Alexander’s smile unfurled slowly, a predator savouring the moment before the kill. He stepped back, retrieving the fallen dagger with deliberate care, his fingers tracing the royal crest before offering it back to her, hilt-first.

“First,” he said, watching her trembling hands grasp the weapon, “you will tell no one of this. Not Cassander. Not Hephaestion.” His voice dropped, hardening like cooled steel. “Especially not your dear, ambitious mother. This blade, this moment—it belongs to us alone.”

The evening breeze chose that moment to slither through the grove, carrying the scent of magnolia blossoms and damp earth. It chilled the tears on Y/N’s cheeks, turning them to icy tracks. She nodded, the motion jerky, like a marionette with its strings cut.

Then Alexander stepped into her space as Ares might approach Aphrodite—equal parts reverence and conquest. His calloused thumb, hardened by spear and rein, grazed her lower lip with startling gentleness. “And you may treat me to your divinity instead,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin.

Y/N flinched, her gaze darting away. “I—my mother said I shouldn’t let a man touch me unless I am married.” The words tumbled out in a rush, brittle with desperation. “It would ruin my prospects.”

In the cutthroat world of noble alliances, a woman’s value hinged on her purity—a currency her mother had drilled into her since her first blood. The warning had been explicit: Guard your virtue like gold, for once spent, you are worthless.

Alexander’s smirk was a blade all its own. The prince’s thumb pressed more firmly against her lip, his other hand coming up to cradle her jaw with the care one might show a newly acquired treasure. “Does my little nymph fear the touch of a son of Zeus?” he teased, though his eyes burned with the intensity of a man who had never been denied.

It was almost endearing, this bashfulness. He had seen newlywed brides tremble so— shy and skittish as fawns. But Y/N? She was already his in every way that mattered. Yet thought sent a dark twisted thrill through him.

“And if I refuse?” she whispered, the barest spark of defiance flashing through her terror.

Alexander’s smile didn’t waver as he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Then your noble father shall learn how quickly favour turns to famine when the crown withdraws its smile. Your dear brother will discover how heavy a royal disfavour weighs upon a soldier’s career.”

When he drew back, his expression softened into something resembling Apollo’s benevolence after a storm. “But you won’t refuse, will you, my dove?”

Y/N nodded slowly, the movements reluctant and stiff. “Forgive me, my prince,” she whispered, her voice barely stirring the air between them, “but I fear you would find little pleasure in... untutored lips.” The admission burned her tongue—both confession and feeble defence.

Alexander’s laughter rang through the sacred grove, light and melodious as wind chimes. “Ah, my sweet blossom,” he murmured, his hand rising to cradle her cheek with terrifying tenderness, “you mistake my intentions. But if ignorance truly frightens you then consider me your devoted pedagogue—I shall guide you through it, as Daedalus once taught Icarus the ways of flight.”

The simile should have warned her—for had Icarus not flown too close to the sun? Did that mean she would too be burnt?

His voice had shed its earlier venom, transforming back into the warm, familiar tones of the Alexander she thought she knew—the boy who had laughed with her under the magnolia tree, who had patiently taught her the art of the blade. Yet as she searched those beloved features—the curve of his lips, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes—she found only a stranger wearing her friend’s face.

Suddenly, Hephaestion’s long-ago warning echoed through her mind, “You should stay cautious of the prince.” How carelessly she had dismissed it then— for who could fear such a radiant boy, his words sweeter than hyblaean honey, his eyes holding all the warmth of the summer sun?

Now, she saw the hollow darkness behind his gaze—an abyss as fathomless as Tartarus itself, their golden depths hiding bottomless hunger. His sweet words coiled around her, not like garlands, but like the serpents of Laocoön, tightening with every breath.

Y/N closed her eyes, the scent of magnolias and iron filling her senses like some sacred, profane incense. To resist would be to invite the wrath of Macedon upon her house. Yet to yield felt like watching her own soul slip through her fingers like grains of sand in an upturned hourglass. That primal fear—the one she had felt when first meeting him, then foolishly buried beneath his false kindness surged anew in her veins.

Then his lips found hers. 

They were softer than she had thought—warm as sun-kissed nectar, smooth as polished ivory. Of course, some distant part of her mind whispered. He is favoured by the gods in all things. His breath carried the faintest hint of spiced wine and honey, intoxicating as the fumes from Delphi’s sacred vapours.

“Part your lips,” he murmured against her mouth, his voice thick with command.

She obeyed without thought, her body responding before her mind could protest.

The gasp that escaped her when his tongue slid against hers was swallowed whole by his hunger. His hand—strong and unyielding as the columns of the Parthenon—snaked around her waist, crushing her against him until not even a whisper of air could pass between their bodies. She could feel the hard planes of his chest, the rapid thunder of his heartbeat—or was that her own?

Alexander kissed her like a man starved—like Tantalus finally reaching for the fruit that had eternally eluded him. His tongue mapped the contours of her mouth with precision, as if committing every ridge, every sensitive spot to memory. One hand cradled the base of her skull, tilting her head back to better plunder her depths, while the other pressed insistently against the small of her back, ensuring no retreat.

A strange warmth pooled low in Y/N’s belly, spreading through her limbs like liquid fire. Her thoughts scattered like startled doves, her head growing light as if she’d danced too long beneath Helios’ scorching gaze. Whether from lack of air or the overwhelming sensations, she couldn’t tell—only that the world had narrowed to this moment, to his mouth moving against hers with relentless fervor.

When her lungs began to burn, she squirmed in his grasp, her hands pressing weakly against his chest. But Alexander only tightened his hold, his fingers tangling in her hair to hold her steady as he continued his conquest. She tried to breathe through her nose, but the dizzying scent of him filled her senses until she feared she might faint.

Just as spots began to dance behind her closed eyelids, he released her.

Y/N sagged against him, her legs as unsteady as a newborn foal’s. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her lips swollen and tingling, her cheeks flushed the deep crimson of pomegranate seeds. The taste of him lingered on her tongue—spice and salt and something indefinably Alexander.

“You did well, my little dove.”

Y/N fled like a startled doe disappearing into the forest shadows, her sandals whispering against the stone path as she vanished into the twilight. Alexander watched her go, his lips still tingling with the memory of her sweetness. A slow, satisfied smile curved his mouth—this was but the first taste of what would be a lifetime of her. 

As he made his way back toward the temple, his mind already spun with plans. He would write to his mother at once—Olympias would need to know about the girl who would one day stand beside him as empress. Y/N was softer, more innocent than the cunning women his mother typically favored, but that was of little consequence. Olympias could teach her the necessary ruthlessness, could shape her into the queen Macedon required. And if Y/N proved reluctant to learn... well, Alexander had his own methods of persuasion.

Aristotle stood like a sentinel in the half-light, his himation draped with the precision of a man who ordered both his garments and his thoughts with equal discipline. The flickering torchlight carved deep hollows beneath his brow, rendering his expression inscrutable.

“Good evening, Your Highness.” The philosopher’s voice was as measured as ever, each word weighed and polished before being released into the air between them.

Alexander felt the familiar prickle of irritation—like an ill-fitting chiton rubbing against his skin. He had hoped to slip through the courtyard unnoticed tonight, to avoid the weight of his teacher’s probing gaze. But he was the son of Philip, heir to the Macedonian throne. No one, not even the great Aristotle who had tutored princes and kings, could truly chastise him.

“Good evening, teacher,” he replied, affecting a casualness he did not feel. The words tasted bland on his tongue, a deliberate mask for the restless energy thrumming through his veins.

Aristotle studied him with those all-seeing eyes—eyes that had dissected the nature of the cosmos and the souls of men with equal precision. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken judgment, before the philosopher finally spoke again.

“By the laws of this sacred institution, I should impose penalties for your transgressions.” His gaze flickered briefly toward the distant grove where Alexander had spent the evening—where the scent of magnolias still clung to his skin. “However...” A pause, heavy with implication. “There is no time.”

Alexander’s spine straightened instinctively at the shift in tone. “What do you mean?”

“His Majesty has sent word.” Aristotle withdrew a sealed scroll from the folds of his himation, the royal insignia gleaming dully in the torchlight. “You are summoned to Pella at first light.”

Alexander had known the political situation at court was tense—his mother’s increasingly urgent letters had made that much clear—but this abrupt recall was unexpected. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he calculated the implications.

“And my studies?” he demanded, though he already knew the answer.

Aristotle’s stern expression softened, just slightly—the barest crack in the facade of the dispassionate scholar. “I have taught you all I can, my prince.” There was a finality to the words that resonated deeper than the temple walls around them. “What remains... you must learn for yourself.”

The great bronze doors of the palace swung open, revealing the familiar opulence of the Macedonian court. The scent of burning myrrh and polished marble filled the air as Alexander crossed the threshold, his travel-stained chiton a stark contrast to the gleaming splendour around him.

At the far end of the hall, Olympias stood like a living statue of Hera herself, her purple-bordered peplos pooling around her in regal folds. The golden diadem at her brow caught the torchlight, casting an almost divine glow about her sharp features.

“My champion,” she murmured, stepping forward to press her lips to his forehead in a gesture both tender and possessive. The familiar scent of her perfume—jasmine and something darker, more mysterious—wrapped around him like a second skin. “The palace has been empty without its brightest sun.”

Alexander’s smile was genuine as he gazed upon his mother. Though Aristotle had schooled him in philosophy and rhetoric, it was at Olympias’ knee that he had learned the true arts of power. Her lessons had been carved into his bones: the way to temper rage into calculated action, how to wield charm like a finely honed blade, the intoxicating thrill of ambition properly nurtured. Every ounce of his formidable will owed its existence to her careful cultivation.

Turning toward the throne, Alexander dropped to one knee in a practiced motion, his head bowed in perfect deference. “Greetings to the sun of Macedonia,” he intoned, the words smooth as poured honey.

The performance was flawless—and entirely necessary.

King Philip II lounged upon the lion-footed throne, his muscular frame still imposing despite the wine-softened edges of middle age. The conqueror of Greece, the architect of Macedonia’s military might, the man who had dragged their kingdom from obscurity to empire—yet to Alexander, he would always be the brute who made his mother’s eyes flash with barely concealed venom.

“You may rise, my son,” Philip boomed, his voice still carrying the authority that had once rallied armies. He pushed himself up from the throne with a grunt, crossing to clap Alexander on the back with a force that would have staggered a lesser man. “By the gods, you’ve grown taller since last harvest!”

The king’s gaze flickered toward Olympias, and for a heartbeat, something unspoken crackled between them—the tension of two predators forced to share a cage. Their marriage had been a political gambit from the start, a union of Macedon and Epirus that had produced an heir but no affection.

“Take him to his chambers,” Philip ordered, already turning back toward his wine cup. “The road from Pella is long, and even young lions need their rest.”

As Alexander followed his mother through the labyrinthine corridors of the palace, his mind raced. He knew—had always known—that Philip’s days were numbered. Between his father’s increasing volatility and his mother’s relentless ambition, the threads of fate were already woven. The only question was when the blade would fall.

And judging by the gleam in Olympias’ eyes as she led him past the frescoed walls—walls depicting the glorious deeds of heroes and gods—that moment was closer than even he suspected.

The flickering lamplight cast shifting shadows across the sumptuous chambers as Olympias reached up to cradle her son’s face between her jewelled hands. The golden serpents coiled around her wrists seemed to tighten their grip in silent anticipation.

“Let me look at you, my son,” she murmured, her eyes scanning his features with a rare tenderness reserved only for him. “For the Fates weave quickly these days. Your father insists you join his next expedition—if the drunken ramblings in his council hold truth.” Her thumbs brushed his cheekbones. “The battlefield calls for its golden champion.”

Alexander stood straighter beneath her touch, the firelight catching the gold in his hair like a lion’s mane. “Mother, I swear by Zeus Ammon’s horns, I shall bring victory to both you and Macedon,” he vowed, his voice resonant with the conviction of youth and destiny intertwined.

Olympias’ lips curved in proud satisfaction, but then her son continued, “Yet before I ride to war, there is something you must know.”

The queen’s perfectly arched brows drew together like drawn bows as Alexander declared, “I have chosen my bride.”

A sudden stillness settled over the chamber, broken only by the distant clatter of armour from the palace guards below. Olympias’ face hardened into the mask Alexander knew well—the calculating expression that preceded political storms. Her mind raced through possibilities: Meiza was a provincial town, its noble daughters few and far between. Had some merchant’s girl ensnared him? Or worse—some doe-eyed peasant who’d caught the prince’s fleeting fancy?

Yet before her fears could take root, Alexander continued smoothly, “The third daughter of House Iolaos, cherished by Cassander himself.”

Olympias’ sharp inhale was audible. “Antipater’s get by that simpering third wife of his?” Her lip curled slightly at the memory of the woman—all painted smiles and empty flattery. “An ambitious sow with less wit than a Thessalian hen.” The unspoken question hung between them, what worth could such a mother’s daughter possibly have?

Alexander’s answering smile was all cunning charm as he painted his mother a picture with words— of a girl who debated Aristotle’s teachings with him, who wielded a dagger with surprising skill, whose laughter carried the rare music of genuine wit rather than courtly affectation. Against her will, Olympias found herself intrigued.

“Consider the strategy, Mother,” Alexander pressed, stepping closer as if sharing a sacred secret. “Antipater’s loyalty has always been to my father first. But if his blood ties bind him to my future?” His eyes gleamed like polished amber in the firelight. “Cassander becomes my brother by marriage, sworn to my cause. And when our child—your grandchild—sits the throne one day...”

Olympias’ sudden laugh was the sound of ice cracking over dark waters. She seized his face again, her nails pressing just shy of pain. “My clever lion,” she purred, her eyes alight with wicked pride. “You would make her both crown and collar in one gilded cage. A queen to elevate Antipater’s line, yet a hostage to ensure their eternal loyalty.”

Alexander’s grip tightened on his mother’s wrists, his urgency bleeding through. “Her mother schemes to sell her to the highest bidder like common merchandise. Though I would wed her tomorrow if I could, I must first secure my throne.” His jaw set with the determination that had broken armies. “She returns to the capital soon. I need your word—swear to me you’ll keep her from grasping hands until I return victorious.”

Olympias’ smile was a thing of terrible beauty as she pressed her forehead to his—a sacred gesture from his childhood, now twisted into a pact between conspirators. “By the Styx itself, I swear it,” she whispered, her breath hot with promise. “No mortal nor god shall lay claim to what my son has marked as his. Let her mother plot and scheme—I shall ensure this dove remains caged until her true master comes to claim her.”

The return of Y/N to the capital was followed all too soon by grim tidings—the Crown Prince had been called to war, marching toward the front lines with the weight of Macedon’s hopes upon his shoulders. In a desperate bid to secure the gods’ favor for his safe return, Queen Olympias, his formidable mother, proclaimed a solemn decree— from twelve of the kingdom’s most esteemed noble houses, twelve daughters would be chosen to serve as priestesses in the sacred temples of the Olympian gods. These maidens were not to be selected by lot or petition, but by the queen’s own hand, ensuring that only those deemed worthy would intercede with the divine on behalf of her son.

Antipater, Y/N’s father, had prayed that their house might be spared this heavy burden. A priestess’s life was one of austerity and sacrifice—far removed from the comforts and privileges of nobility. The temple’s harsh disciplines would demand unwavering devotion, and few of noble birth were prepared to surrender their freedom for such a fate. “Surely the man who leads the king's armies will not balk at leading by example?” she had purred, her voice dripping with honeyed venom. The challenge hung in the air like a blade suspended over his neck. To refuse would brand him disloyal; to comply meant surrendering one of his own.

Y/N’s mother, initially distraught at the thought of surrendering her daughter, soon found her resistance wavering when she learned of the queen’s promised compensation. A staggering sum of gold, enough to elevate their house’s standing without the need for a costly dowry, was to be granted to any family whose daughter was chosen. Greed, or perhaps pragmatism, softened her resolve. By the time the selection day arrived, her apprehension had transformed into fervent ambition.

Y/N’s own wishes held no sway in the matter—not that she had expected them to. Noble daughters were bargaining pieces, their lives bartered for power and prestige. On the morning of the selection, her mother descended upon her with ruthless determination, adorning her in the finest chiton their house could afford, draping her in delicate silks, and painting her face with layers of rouge and powder until the girl who stared back from the bronze mirror was a stranger—a ridiculously pompous doll, crafted for display.

When Y/N dared to suggest that such opulence might be ill-suited for a priestess’s solemn calling, her mother’s hand struck her cheek with a sharp crack, the sting of betrayal lingering far longer than the pain. More powder was hastily applied to conceal the reddening mark, as though the blemish could be erased as easily as Y/N’s voice.

As the carriage rumbled toward the palace, Y/N closed her eyes, letting the sway of the wheels lull her into memory.

She thought of Meiza—of scrolls unfurled across sunlit courtyards, of the weight of a practice blade in her hand, of stolen moments beneath the magnolia trees where she had been not a noble daughter, but for the girl she had been allowed to become.

Now, she was being bartered like a sacrificial lamb, draped in finery she neither wanted nor deserved, buried beneath silk and pretense—another sacrifice to the ambitions of others.

The grand hall of the royal palace loomed like a sacred cavern, its towering columns draped in shadows that writhed beneath the dance of flickering torchlight. The air hung heavy with the cloying sweetness of burning myrrh and the sharper tang of crushed laurel leaves—offerings to the gods that did little to mask the undercurrent of sweat and fear. Along the hall’s length, twelve noble daughters stood in a fragile line, their postures rigid, their breaths shallow. The rustle of their finely woven chitons whispered through the silence like the trembling of autumn leaves before a storm.

Among them, Y/N stood with her gaze fixed upon the polished marble beneath her feet, her fingers twisting the delicate fabric of her gown into desperate knots. The rouge painted across her cheeks itched like a second skin, the kohl lining her eyes smudged from nervous tears she dared not shed. 

And then, at the far end of the hall, she appeared.

Olympias, Queen of Macedon, Mother of Alexander, the Serpent of Epirus—her titles coiled around her like the sacred python she was said to keep in her private chambers. She was neither the monstrous figure of whispered court gossip nor the grieving mother the people pitied. No, she was something far more dangerous.

She moved with the lethal grace of a priestess who had spent a lifetime deciphering the will of gods. There was a sharpness to her—an unyielding edge that reminded Y/N, with a jolt, of the Crown Prince himself. Alexander. The resemblance was uncanny. The same piercing gaze, the same coiled intensity, the same air of a predator who had never known what it was to be prey.

One by one, the noble daughters were called forward. Some were dismissed with nothing more than a flick of the queen’s wrist, their relief palpable as they scurried back into the shadows. Others were subjected to a scrutiny so intense it bordered on violation—Olympias tilting their chins with a single, unyielding finger, tracing the lines of their palms as though divining their very fates in the creases of their skin. 

The queen did not speak. Instead, she circled her like a wolf sizing up a wounded fawn, her gaze lingering on the garish paint that marred Y/N’s lips, the heavy kohl that darkened her eyes—the desperate handiwork of a mother who had sought to gild her daughter like a temple offering. 

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until Y/N could hear the frantic drum of her own heartbeat in her ears.

Olympias’s piercing gaze swept over Y/N, her lips curling in a way that was neither smile nor sneer. “You look like a bride,” she remarked, her voice a low murmur that carried through the silent hall like the warning hiss of a serpent. “Tell me, child—do you wish to be one?”

The question was a blade, poised to cut through pretence. To admit desire could be seen as vanity; to deny it might be taken as defiance. Y/N swallowed the lump in her throat, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “I wish only to serve,” she answered carefully, the words tasting of practiced obedience.

Something flickered in the queen’s dark eyes—something between amusement and approval, though which it was, Y/N could not say. Without warning, Olympias reached out, her thumb dragging roughly across Y/N’s cheekbone, smearing the rouge like blood. The queen’s nose wrinkled slightly, as if the heavy perfumes and powders offended her. She turned her head sharply, her voice cracking through the hall like a whip. “Bring me a washcloth.”

A handmaiden scrambled forward, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste to obey. Within moments, a damp linen cloth and a small basin of water were presented. Olympias took the cloth and extended it toward Y/N, her expression unreadable. “Wipe your face.”

Y/N did not dare glance at her mother. The weight of the court’s stares pressed against her like hands shoving her forward, but she refused to falter. Taking the cloth, she pressed it to her skin, scrubbing away the layers of rouge, powder, and kohl until her true face emerged—bare, vulnerable, but undeniably her own. The cool water was a relief, as though she had been drowning beneath the mask and had finally broken the surface to breathe.

Olympias watched, her gaze unflinching, before reaching out again. This time, her fingers were gentle as they tilted Y/N’s chin upward, exposing the faint but unmistakable mark of a slap upon her cheek. The queen’s eyes darkened, her voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. “Who hurt you, child?”

The tenderness in her touch was foreign—like the brush of a mother’s hand, though Y/N had never known such comfort from her own. For a fleeting moment, she wanted to confess, to let the truth spill from her lips like wine from an overturned cup. But the consequences loomed too large. To accuse her mother before the entire court would be to invite ruin upon her house.

“It was a mere accident, Your Majesty,” she lied smoothly, lowering her lashes in deference. “Pay it no mind.”

Olympias studied her for a long, silent moment before releasing her chin with a quiet hum. “You are my daughter now,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “And so you must take care of yourself, child.” She stepped back, her posture regal once more. “Tell me—what god do you worship? For your devotion must come from the heart.”

Y/N hesitated. The safe answer would be Athena—wise, strategic, favoured by kings. But something in the queen’s gaze compelled honesty. “I seek knowledge, and so I ought to say Athena,” she admitted softly. “But my heart has always been true to Mother Aphrodite.”

“It seems quite fitting,” she mused, as if Y/N had passed some unspoken test. “The necessary arrangements will be made.”

Relief, sweet and dizzying, flooded Y/N’s chest. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she murmured, bowing her head.

But as she stepped back into line, she could feel the weight of her mother’s glare burning into her. And for the first time, Y/N wondered if she had just traded one prison for another.

╰┈➤ Masterlist

Tags: @joekitsu (thanks for dialogue help bestie)

@hana-no-seiiki @elyisium @justannie18 @gentlemonstersworld @br0ke-b1tch @x-vadon @m1rrorb4lls @idontwantthis22 @breathingstarlight @themischievousher @prettylittlels @lizzyzzn @dear-dairiess @volcanicwavecasacade @a-cup-of-sundae @mortallychocolatellama @wanttodisappearassoonaspossible @moefication @lxrasm @cartoon-vers @perfectliz @fanfic-readlater @enamay @supershynessa @chcktty @arielpanda1 @lionesses-are-cool @lunaisalive09

© cheriecelestial - arabelle | 2025

[a-cup-of-sundae]

THIS IS TOO GOODDDDD WHAG THE ACTUSL FUCK😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 DESERVES SOOOOO MUCH MORE ATTENTION AAHHHHHH THE PLOT AND THE WAY YOU PORTRAY EVERY CHARACTER AND THE DETAILS????????????? author i love your brain sm i wanna kiss it istg

You get me closer to God | [1/3]

pairing *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Alexander The Great x fem!reader

disclaimer *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ fluff. dark themes. yandere content. mentions of injuried animals. alex is highkey manipulative. misogyny. severe historical inaccuracies.

a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ So I don't know what made me do this. I read this one Alexander the great fanfic was my brain starting cooking on its own and came up with this while walking to Programming Class. Told @joekitsu abt it and all of this is cuz of them. Hella inaccurate but we ball cuz this is fiction and I don't really care. Also Y/N is 12-13 and Alexander is 15-16. Comment, Like and Reblog (ㅅ´ ˘ `)

comment to be added to taglist.

[2/3] [3/3]

“You must believe me—I know what I saw!” Alexander insisted, his voice sharp with frustration. His usually bright eyes burned with an intensity that bordered on desperation, as if the weight of his conviction alone could force Hephaestion to see the truth.

The other boy sighed, rubbing his temples in a futile attempt to stave off the headache brewing behind his eyes. “My prince,” he began carefully, choosing his words with the patience of a man caught between loyalty and reason, “I do not doubt your judgment. But you must understand—claiming to have seen Lady Aphrodite herself is... extraordinary. Even for you.”

Alexander bristled, his jaw tightening. “You think I would lie about such a thing?”

Hephaestion held up a placating hand. “Not lie. But even the keenest eyes may be tricked by twilight, and sacred groves are ever the domain of visions.”

A tense silence stretched between them before Hephaestion pressed further, seizing the opportunity to steer the conversation toward firmer ground. “And, if I may ask—what were you doing near that place at such an hour? The laws of Meiza are clear: no pupil departs temple grounds without leave from kin or tutor. And you, my lord, sought no such permission.”

The prince stiffened, caught off guard. His fingers twitched at his sides, betraying his struggle to conjure a convincing excuse. After a moment of hesitation, he exhaled sharply and surrendered to the truth. “I saw Cassander slipping beyond the wall that way. I wished to see where he was going.”

Hephaestion groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as if beseeching the gods for patience. The son of Antipater was a notorious instigator, a boy who treated rules as mere suggestions rather than boundaries. Like Alexander, he had been raised under the shadow of power—his father, the king’s most trusted general, ensured that consequence rarely touched him. The two were cut from the same defiant cloth, each believing themselves the exception to every rule.

“My prince,” Hephaestion said, his voice edged with reproach, “Cassander is no beacon of conduct. Must you trail after his every folly?”

Alexander’s lip curled. “Folly? I call it vigilance.”

“Vigilance that conjures goddesses from the mist?” Hephaestion countered, his brow arched.

Alexander’s retort died on his lips, replaced by a stubborn silence while thinking back to his encounter.

Sleep had eluded him. The hour was late, the halls of the temple of the nymphs hushed, but his thoughts raced like chariots at the Hippodrome. Resigned, he had risen, slipping into the cool embrace of the night. Above him, Selene reigned in silver splendor, her celestial handmaidens—those distant, twinkling stars—scattered across the heavens like diamonds cast upon obsidian. He knew their names, their myths, their paths—Aristotle had made certain of that. Yet tonight, their brilliance offered no solace.

Seeking refuge, he had settled beneath one of the garden’s pillared gazebos, its stark white columns entwined with ivy, their leaves swaying in the faintest breath of wind. It was a portrait of tranquility—or so it seemed.

Then—movement.

A cloaked figure slipped between the shadows near the temple, footsteps careful and deliberate. An intruder? A thief? Instinct flared hot in Alexander’s veins. His fingers twitched toward the dagger at his belt as he melted into the darkness, trailing the stranger with the precision of a hunter.

Yet something gnawed at him. Something about how this man moved felt familiar, whether it was the rhythm in his step or his posture. Recognition hit Alexander like Zeus' lightning.

The hood slipped, revealing the sharp features of Cassander, scion of the noble house of Iolaos. What madness drove him beyond the walls at this hour? The rules of Meiza were the iron girders of discipline, absolute and ultimate and Cassander, for all his posturing, was no fool. Unless his purpose was worth the risk.

Alexander tensed—he had to follow, demand answers—

“My prince?”

He was about to follow him out but he heard a voice call from behind him.

The voice, low but unmistakable, froze him mid-step. He whirled, blade half-drawn, before his eyes settled on Ptolemy—a close friend and companion.

“What business have you here?” The prince countered, his tone sharper than intended.

Ptolemy’s gaze flickered toward the wall, then back. “I might ask the same.”

By the time Alexander turned again, Cassander had vanished—swallowed by the night. Reluctantly, he allowed Ptolemy to steer him back to the dormitories, but the questions festered like a wound left untended. Why? Where? How often?

Days passed. The mystery festered. Alexander watched, patient as a sage, as Cassander moved through his routines—attending lectures, drilling in the palaestra, laughing with friends. But always, always, there was that gleam in his eye—the look of a man who knew a secret. Then, the pattern emerged. Once every fortnight, Cassander would slip away.

Tonight, Alexander would not be thwarted. With Ptolemy’s aid—ever willing, ever unquestioning—Cassander was lured into a late-night game of kottabos, his attention ensnared by wine and wit.

And Alexander moved.

He retraced Cassander’s path, fingers skimming the rough-hewn stones of the perimeter wall, searching, probing—

There.

Behind a curtain of thick ivy, the mortar had crumbled, the bricks pried loose just enough to form a narrow passage. Alexander exhaled a laugh, triumphant. So this was how the fox slipped its leash. With one last cautious glance behind him to ensure he hadn't been followed, the young prince dropped to his hands and knees and squeezed through the gap. The rough stone scraped against his shoulders, but the thrill of rebellion burned hotter than any discomfort. This forbidden act of slipping beyond the walls sent his pulse racing in a way no training yard spar ever could.

Beyond the wall, the trail revealed itself through flattened grasses and broken twigs— a path worn by frequent use. The corners of Alexander's mouth quirked up in satisfaction as he noted the clear signs of Cassander's regular trespasses. The foliage grew denser as he pressed forward, vines and branches snagging at his chiton with increasing persistence. Where a more patient man might have carefully parted the vegetation, Alexander slashed through the greenery with impatient strokes of his dagger, sending leaves and tendrils flying. Answers waited ahead, and he'd be damned if some stubborn plants would delay him.

Just as the thicket seemed impassable, silver light flickered between the leaves ahead. With one final, determined push, Alexander burst through— only to stumble and fall gracelessly onto his hands and knees in the soft earth. The indignity of it burned his cheeks— a prince of Macedon, sprawled in the dirt like a clumsy child. He scrambled up quickly, brushing the soil from his knees with sharp, embarrassed movements while glancing about to confirm his humiliation had no witnesses.

Before him stretched a vision so perfect it seemed ripped from the dreams of poets. A tranquil lake reflected the full moon and star-strewn sky, gentle ripples danced across the water like nymphs at play. The surrounding meadow glowed emerald in the moonlight while fireflies weaved through the air— living sparks from Hestia's eternal flame. Towering over the scene stood a magnolia tree, its pearl-white blossoms luminous against the night, petals drifting down like snowflakes to carpet the ground below. The air hummed with the rhythmic chorus of crickets like delicate lyres strumming in harmony to the wind's gentle melody. And there, beneath the magnolia's boughs, stood the source of the ethereal radiance that illuminated this hidden sanctuary.

Time itself seemed to pause as Alexander's eyes beheld her. Flowing H/C locks cascaded over her shoulders draped in silken fabric of her chiton that appeared woven from morning mist and pearls. Golden bracelets glimmered at her wrists as she cradled a dove with infinite tenderness, her lips murmuring comforts only the divine could impart.

Alexander's pulse thundered in his ears. The air grew thick, time itself pausing in reverence. No mortal woman could possess such unearthly grace, such effortless perfection. The stories, the statues, the temple frescoes - all had failed to capture even a fraction of her beauty. That was when he knew that before him stood none other than Aphrodite herself, goddess of love and beauty.

Driven by a hunger that burned hotter than reason, Alexander stepped forward, his fingers trembling as they reached for her—not in worship, but in desperate, human need. To touch. To prove she was real. But the forest betrayed him. A branch snapped beneath his foot, the sound as sharp as a blade through the sacred silence.

Her head whipped toward him.

And in that instant—reality shattered.

The face that met his was young, terrified. A girl. No older than him, if not younger. Her eyes—wide with panic—locked onto his for a single, breathless moment before she scrambled to her feet, the dove still clutched protectively in her hands. Then she was running, her bare feet kicking up dew as she vanished into the trees.

“Wait!” Alexander's voice tore from his throat, raw with something between command and plea.

Doubt clawed at him. Had he committed sacrilege? Was she a nymph, a spirit, forbidden to mortal eyes? The way she had looked at him—not with divine indifference, but fear—gnawed at his certainty. Yet even as guilt prickled at his conscience, a darker, hungrier thought took root.

She had run from him.

And Alexander of Macedon did not tolerate flight.

His mother’s voice slithered through his mind, seductive as a serpent: “You are blessed by Zeus. The world is yours to claim.”

If this girl was divine, then she belonged among his conquests.

If she was mortal—then she had no right to refuse him.

The days stretched on, each one longer than the last, as Alexander returned again and again to the hidden glade. But the girl—the vision—was nowhere to be found. The magnolia tree stood as silent witness to his frustration, its petals drifting onto the undisturbed surface of the lake. She had vanished like morning mist under the sun.

“As I have told you before, my prince, it is... improbable that she was divine.” Hephaestion's voice was measured, the way one might speak to a restless hound before it snapped. “More likely, she was a girl from the village—perhaps the daughter of some wealthy merchant.”

Alexander scoffed, fingers tightening around the edge of his cup. “You think I do not know the difference between merchant's silk and the raiment of a goddess?” The fabric she had worn had seemed spun from the finest of pearls of Poseidon's waters, the gold at her wrists too pure, too alive, to be the work of mortal hands. “No village girl owns such things. No noble in this city could afford them.”

Hephaestion exhaled, weary. “Then what do you intend to do?”

Alexander's gaze darkened. “Find her.”

Then—a thought struck him like a blade between the ribs.

Cassander.

Had he known her? Had he been sneaking out to meet her all this time?

Cassander was seated in the courtyard, methodically running a whetstone along the edge of his sword when Alexander approached. The son of Antipater glanced up, his usual smirk in place. “My prince,” he greeted, setting his blade aside. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Alexander forced a smile. “I was hoping you might join me in the library tonight. I mean to study the old texts—perhaps you could lend your insight.”

A flicker of hesitation. Then Cassander sighed, rubbing his temple. “I am honored, but I must beg your pardon. I’ve been feeling unwell—I thought to retire early.”

Liar.

Alexander’s blood burned. Today was the night—the same pattern as before. Cassander knew. He had to. And now he dared refuse his prince’s request, hiding behind false weakness? “I see,” Alexander said, his voice dangerously smooth. “Then may Apollo’s grace restore you swiftly.”

He turned away before Cassander could see the fury in his eyes.

Hephaestion was waiting where Alexander had left him, arms crossed, watching the exchange with quiet unease.

“You will come with me tonight,” Alexander commanded, his voice low. “To the meadows.”

Hephaestion frowned. “My prince—”

“You will see her,” Alexander interrupted, his eyes alight with something perilous. “And then you will understand.”

The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when Alexander and Hephaestion slipped through the crumbling gap in the wall. The prince moved with the precision of a seasoned hunter; his every sense attuned to the whispers of the night. Hephaestion followed, his unease growing with each step deeper into the forbidden woods.

“We shouldn't be out here after curfew,” Hephaestion muttered, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Alexander didn't slow. “Then consider this a royal command overriding temple law.” His voice left no room for debate.

The forest grew denser, the path Cassander had taken now illuminated only by the faint glow of fireflies. Alexander's pulse quickened—every rustle of leaves, every snapped twig could mean she was near. Or worse, that Cassander had gotten there first.

Then—her voice.

Sweet and clear as a songbird’s call, it floated through the trees:

“Cassander… is that you?”

Through the tangled foliage, torchlight flickered, painting the trunks in gold and shadow. There. The girl stood just beyond the thicket, her silhouette haloed in firelight.

Hephaestion’s sharp inhale confirmed it—she was real. Not a specter, not a trick of the moonlight. Alexander’s grinned in triumph.

Then, like a predator coiling before the strike, he stepped back—once, twice—before surging forward, bursting into the clearing with the force of a storm.

The girl whirled, her eyes widening in terror. She stumbled back, but Alexander was faster. His hand closed around her wrist, yanking her to a halt.

For a moment, he said nothing. Just stared.

Up close, she was more breathtaking than he remembered. Her skin was impossibly soft beneath his calloused fingers, warm as sunlight. Her hair—loose and tumbling over her shoulders—gleamed like spun gold. And her eyes… wide, luminous, frightened. Tears welled along her lashes, but she didn’t look away. Alexander’s breath caught. Gods. Even in distress, she was radiant.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Let me go.”

She twisted in his grip, but Alexander barely registered the struggle. His free hand rose almost of its own accord, brushing a stray lock from her face. Her hair slipped through his fingers like silk, finer than any royal weave. He ached to cradle her cheek, to claim this moment—

“Alexander.”

Hephaestion’s voice cut through the haze, sharp as a blade. The girl seized the distraction, wrenching free with a sob. Before Alexander could react, she darted behind Hephaestion, fists clutching his chiton like a lifeline.

Alexander blinked, disoriented. “Y/N?” Hephaestion murmured, half-turning to shield her.

Cassander burst from the trees then, his face paling as he took in the scene. “Y/N! Wait— Hephaestion? What in Hades—?”

“Cassander!” The girl lunged past Hephaestion, crashing into Cassander’s chest. His arms closed around her instinctively, his glare snapping to Alexander.

The prince’s blood turned to lava.

“Explain,” Alexander snarled. His hand flexed at his side, fingers itching for his sword. The pieces crashed together with brutal clarity. Hephaestion, who’d doubted her existence, now stood as her protector? Cassander, who'd lied to his prince, held her like she was his? Every muscle in his body coiled, ready to strike. Betrayal. Hot and noxious, it coiled in his gut.

The girl flinched at his tone, pressing closer to Cassander.

Hephaestion stepped forward, his voice low. ”Alexander, this isn’t what you think.”

“Then enlighten me,” Alexander bit out. The words dripped venom.

Cassander’s grip tightened on the girl. “It is not what you think my prince. She’s my—”

Alexander took a menacing step forward, the air around him crackling with barely restrained fury. “Your what?” he interrupted, each word a dagger thrust. His voice dropped to a whisper that carried more threat than any shout. “Finish that sentence, Cassander. I command you.”

The clearing seemed to hold its breath. The rustling leaves stilled. Even the ever-present chorus of crickets fell silent, as if nature itself recoiled from the storm about to break.

Hephaestion, standing rigid between them, finally broke the suffocating silence. “Alexander,” he said carefully, “she's Cassander's sister.”

The words hung suspended in the air, heavy with implication.

For several heartbeats, Alexander simply stared, his mind struggling to reconcile this new reality with the divine vision he'd convinced himself he'd seen. Sister. The word echoed in his skull, unraveling the fantasy thread by thread.

“Then how is it I've never known of her before?” he demanded, though the fire in his voice had dimmed, replaced by something perilously close to relief.

Cassander sighed, his grip on the girl loosening marginally. “My lord, she is the daughter of my father's third wife,” he explained, his tone carefully neutral. Alexander knew Antipater had taken multiple wives—common among nobles—but had paid little attention to any offspring beyond Cassander, the only one deemed worthy of political consideration. Noble daughters, especially young ones, were often kept out of public view until marriageable age, and this girl was clearly not yet of that station.

Hephaestion added quietly, “Our mothers were close in their youth. Cassander and his siblings have always been welcome in our home.” There was an unspoken truth beneath his words: the sons of nobles moved in circles Alexander, as prince, could never fully inhabit. They respected him, yes, even cared for him—but there were lines they would not cross, boundaries he could never breach.

Alexander's fingers uncurled from the hilt of his sword.

But Hephaestion was not finished. He knew Cassander's pride was a brittle thing, especially when it came to his family's honor, and Alexander's actions had skirted dangerously close to insult. “Cassander,” he began, choosing his words with the precision of a diplomat, “you must understand. The prince acted out of concern. He believed Y/N was a common village girl distracting you from your studies at Meiza. His methods were... misguided, but his intent was pure.”

A beat. Then Cassander nodded, though his jaw remained tight. “I understand.”

Behind him, the girl—Y/N—remained half-hidden, her wide eyes darting between them like a hare assessing its predators. Cassander turned to her, murmuring something too low for the others to hear, before stepping forward to clasp Alexander's arm in a gesture of truce.

Hephaestion seized the opportunity to lean down to Y/N. “Are you alright?” he asked softly, his voice the gentle cadence she had come to associate with safety. She nodded, though her fingers still trembled from uncertainty.

When Cassander returned, the tension in his shoulders had eased. “It seems introductions are in order,” he said, with forced lightness. “My prince, may I present my sister, the third daughter of the House of Iolaos— Lady Y/N.”

Y/N dipped into a flawless bow, her eyes demurely lowered.

“And Y/N,” Cassander continued, “this is Alexander, Prince of Macedon.”

Alexander offered her a smile that might have been charming under different circumstances. Then, to the shock of all present, he extended his hand—not in command, but in request.

Y/N hesitated, her gaze flicking to Cassander, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Swallowing her fear, she placed her hand in Alexander's.

Instead of shaking it, he raised her fingers to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles with a reverence that bordered on theatrical. “Forgive my earlier discourtesy, my lady,” he murmured, his voice smooth as honeyed wine. ”I meant you no harm.”

The gesture was one reserved for cherished friends—or equals. A blatant lie, given the fury of moments before, but a necessary performance.

The tension in the clearing eased, but the air still thrummed with unspoken words. Alexander released Y/N's hand, though his fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long—a silent promise that this encounter was not the end, but the beginning.

“We should return before the night deepens,” Hephaestion urged, his voice low but firm. “Before the temple masters notice our absence.” His eyes flickered between Alexander and Cassander, well aware that this peace was as fragile as spun glass.

Cassander gave a curt nod, turning to Y/N. His expression, so often sharp with arrogance, softened as he cupped her face. “Go,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Your nurse will be waiting.” A gentle nudge toward the path where he knew her attendants stood guard—his silent assurance that she would be safe from prying eyes, from him.

But the prince of Macedon wasn't one to be shaken off so easily. 

“Y/N.”

Her name rolled off his tongue like honeyed wine, smooth and deliberate. She froze mid-step, the fine linen of her chiton whispering against her skin as she turned just enough to meet his gaze over her shoulder.

Alexander smiled—not the charming grin of a prince, but the slow, deliberate curve of a predator savoring the scent of its prey. “Now that we are properly acquainted,” he said, “I would be honored if you would grace us with your company again. Soon.”

A command disguised as a request.

Y/N’s throat tightened, but she dipped into a flawless curtsey, her lashes brushing her cheeks. “As you wish, my prince.”

As Y/N's retreating footsteps faded into the night, Alexander inhaled slowly, savoring the lingering scent of magnolias that clung stubbornly to the air. The taste of victory was sweet upon his tongue - but incomplete.

The group moved in heavy silence, the crunch of leaves beneath their sandals the only sound. Cassander lingered a few paces behind, his brow furrowed in quiet contemplation, while Hephaestion walked slightly ahead while, his shoulders tense. Alexander, meanwhile, seemed almost at ease, his hands clasped behind his back as if they had merely enjoyed a moonlit stroll.

Hephaestion’s stomach twisted with unease. He cared deeply for Alexander—had followed him without question through battles and trials—but he knew better than anyone the dangerous fire that burned within the prince. It was the same fire that had burned Troy to the ground, the kind that consumed everything in its path. And now, it had fixated on Y/N. Gods help her, he thought, if she becomes the kindling for that flame.

“Your sister,” Alexander mused suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade through silk. “She is timid, yet there is a sweetness to her. So marked, in fact, that I find myself questioning if the two of you share any blood at all.” He chuckled, as if it were nothing more than a jest—a jest that expected laughter in return.

“My sister is merely unaccustomed to strangers, my prince,” he replied, his tone carefully measured. “Particularly those who... handle her so callously.” The unspoken accusation hung between them.

Alexander turned, his smile sharp and humorless, never quite reaching his eyes. “Ah, then I shall have to make amends,” he said smoothly. “A proper apology is in order, wouldn’t you agree?” Hephaestion suppressed a grimace. They all knew it was nothing more than an excuse—a thinly veiled ploy to see her again. Yet neither he nor Cassander dared voice the objection aloud.

In the days that followed, a calm settled over them. Alexander played his part flawlessly. He drew closer to Cassander, engaging him in debates, training alongside him, even jesting with him as though the incident in the woods had never occurred. There was no mention of Y/N, no lingering questions—at least, not spoken aloud.

To an outsider, it might have seemed as though Alexander had moved on, his fleeting fascination with Cassander’s sister forgotten as quickly as it had ignited.

But Hephaestion knew better.

It was during one of their evening walks through the olive groves that Alexander finally struck.

“What I still don’t understand,” he began, his tone deceptively light, as though discussing nothing more consequential than the weather, “is why your sister is not with the rest of your family.”

Cassander stilled, his fingers twitching imperceptibly at his sides. For a moment, it seemed he might not answer. Then, with deliberate calm, he replied, “Her mother has little interest in child-rearing. She prefers her own pursuits to the duties of motherhood.” A flicker of disdain crossed his features. “I despise her for it, amongst other things. But Y/N... she is nothing like her.”

Alexander arched a brow, feigning polite curiosity. “And so she remains here?”

“The great Aristotle resides in Meiza,” Cassander said, his voice softening slightly. “Scholars and thinkers frequent these halls. I convinced my father to let her accompany me so that I might oversee her education.”

“How... noble of you,” he murmured, the words dripping with false admiration. Then, with a calculated shift, he added, “Speaking of nobility—regarding that apology I owe her. I was thinking of compensating your sister for the distress I caused. Silk from Corinth, perhaps? Or gold from Lydia’s mines? Pearls plucked fresh from the Aegean?” His tone was smooth, but the glint in his eyes was anything but benign.

Cassander shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, my prince. Your words that evening were apology enough.”

Alexander waved a dismissive hand, though his gaze never wavered. “Nonsense. I insist.” The air between them grew heavy, the unspoken challenge unmistakable—refuse me again, and see what happens.

Hephaestion, sensing the tension coiling like a viper ready to strike, stepped forward. “With all due respect, my prince,” he interjected smoothly, “Y/N is the daughter of Antipater, the most celebrated general in Macedonia. Silk and gold are hardly rare treasures in their household. Rather words of sincerity are gifts unparalleled.” His voice was light, but his stance was firm—a shield thrown between Alexander’s will and Cassander’s rising temper.

“You are correct. I suppose I shall have to look for another gift then.” Alexander conceded, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

True to his word, Alexander spent the following days in quiet deliberation. He dismissed the obvious offerings—jewels, silks, perfumes from the East—all trinkets that might impress a courtier’s daughter but would mean nothing to a girl who valued thought and effort over finery.

Then, one evening as he walked past the magnolia tree where he had first seen her, inspiration struck.

With meticulous care, he selected a sturdy branch and set to work, his dagger carving delicate strokes into the wood late into the night. The servants whispered about the prince’s strange new obsession, but Alexander paid them no mind. Perfection could not be rushed.

When the next fortnight arrived, Alexander appeared at Cassander’s door unannounced, his smile as polished as his ceremonial armor.

“Walk with me,” he said, and it was not a request.

Cassander knew better than to refuse.

The meadow lay bathed in silver moonlight, just as it had been that fateful evening. And there, beneath the great magnolia, stood Y/N—her silhouette haloed in pale blossoms. At the sound of approaching footsteps, she turned, her face alight with expectation... until she saw Alexander.

The prince's heart stuttered in his chest like a startled bird.

Discomfort flickered across her features, swift as a shadow over water. It's alright, Alexander told himself, the words a mantra. She'll come to see me. She must.

“Why is His Highness here?” Y/N's voice was small but clear, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her chiton.

Cassander opened his mouth to reply, but Alexander was already stepping forward, his every movement calculated to disarm. “To offer my apologies properly, my lady.” He turned to Cassander, one brow arched in silent request.

With a barely perceptible sigh, Cassander squeezed his sister's hand—be brave—and withdrew to a discreet distance. Close enough to intervene, far enough to grant the illusion of privacy.

Alexander was every inch the royal heir in that moment: his bearing regal, his chiton draped to perfection, the very air around him seeming to hum with latent power. He had inherited his mother's effortless charm and his father's commanding presence—qualities that, when wielded together, could bend wills without raising a sword.

“Greetings, my lady. Are you well?” he began, his voice warm as summer honey.

Y/N's gaze darted to the ground. “I am, my prince. And you needn't—”

“Please,” he interrupted gently, lifting a hand. “Allow me this.” He inclined his head, the very picture of contrition. “I was discourteous to you, and I regret my actions deeply. More than that...” Here, he paused, as if searching for the right words. “I wish to know you, Y/N. Not as a prince to a subject, but as one soul to another.”

From his belt, he produced a small wooden dove, its wings delicately carved, its surface polished to a soft sheen. The scent of magnolia clung to it like a memory.

“I carved this myself,” he admitted, running a thumb over its back. “From a branch of this very tree. The imperfections are many, I fear, but...” He held it out to her, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. “Perhaps that makes it more honest.”

Y/N's breath caught. The dove was exquisite—the wings tapered to near-translucent thinness, the feathers etched with painstaking care. This was no hastily purchased trinket, but something made with time, with attention. Her fingers trembled as she took it, tracing the grooves left by his knife.

“You... made this?” she whispered, her eyes wide.

Alexander nodded, uncharacteristically silent.

For the first time, Y/N looked at him—truly looked at him. Not as the terrifying prince who had chased her through the woods, but as the young man before her now: his usually impeccable hair tousled by the night breeze, a smudge of wood dust still clinging to his wrist.

Her smile, when it came, was like dawn breaking over the Aegean—slow, radiant, utterly disarming.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” she said, cradling the dove to her chest. “I will treasure it always.”

And Alexander, a child born to be the conqueror of men, the scion of gods, found himself struck dumb.

In the weeks that followed, Y/N had grown bold enough to insist that Cassander bring both Hephaestion and Alexander along during their fortnightly visits. The prince, of course, was all too eager to oblige. For Y/N, who had spent most of her life sheltered within the confines of noble propriety, these gatherings were a rare taste of companionship beyond her brother’s watchful presence. They would talk, play games, and laugh—just as young people ought to.

But not all was as harmonious as it seemed.

Though Hephaestion occasionally excused himself—whether out of discretion or discomfort, none could say—Alexander never missed a single meeting. His presence, once a novelty, soon became a constant, and Cassander found himself increasingly sidelined. Here, in this meadow that had once been his sanctuary with Y/N, he now felt like an intruder in his own sister’s affections.

Worse still, he could not deny the irony: Alexander, his closest friend, now stole the very moments Cassander cherished most.

And Alexander, for his part, had begun to see Cassander not as a brother-in-arms, but as an obstacle—a necessary nuisance, yes, but a nuisance all the same.

One evening, as silver light filtered through the leaves, Y/N sat weaving a crown of flowers, her fingers deft as they threaded blossoms together. Nearby, Hephaestion and Cassander sparred with wooden swords, their mock battle filled with laughter and good-natured taunts.

Alexander, leaning beside Y/N with his head in her lap, watched her work with quiet fascination.

“My lady,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “May I be so bold as to make a request?”

Y/N didn’t look up, her fingers still busy with the flowers. “Go right ahead.”

Alexander took a breath. “I’ve noticed how much Cassander values his time with you. As do I.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “But when we’re all together, it feels... crowded. I was thinking—what if we met at different times? Just you and I?”

Y/N’s hands stilled. The flower crown slipped from her fingers.

“What are you implying, my prince?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Alexander sat up, turning to face her fully. “Nothing untoward, I assure you. It’s merely practical. Fewer people mean less risk of being caught by the temple masters. And it would give Cassander more time with you as well.”

Y/N bit her lip. “My mother says a young lady shouldn’t be alone with a man unchaperoned.”

“But you wouldn’t be alone,” Alexander countered smoothly. “Your guard and nurse are always stationed nearby, are they not?”

Y/N hesitated. Technically, he was right. Seeing her waver, Alexander leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Unless... you’re afraid my company will ruin all others for you.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. Then, with a huff, she did something no one had ever dared—she smacked his arm.

It was a light tap, the kind she often gave Cassander when he teased her too much. But coming from her, directed at him—Alexander gasped in exaggerated offense.

“You dare strike a prince?” he declared, his tone dripping with mock outrage. “ This is treason! Punishable by—”

Y/N didn’t wait to hear the rest. She was already running, her laughter ringing through the trees.

“Forgive me, O merciful prince!” she called over her shoulder, her voice bright with amusement.

Alexander gave chase, his long legs closing the distance between them with ease. When he caught her, his arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the ground in a spinning embrace. They were both breathless with laughter as he gently placed her onto the soft grass.

“Traitor,” he accused, looming over her with a grin. “By the decree the heir of Macedonia, you shall be punished.”

And then—he tickled her.

Y/N shrieked, her laughter bordering on hysterical as she writhed beneath his relentless fingers. “Stop! Please! I yield!”

Alexander relented, but only slightly. “Only if you say yes to my proposal,” he bargained, his eyes alight with mischief.

Y/N’s laughter faded. She searched his face, her expression turning serious. “And Cassander?”

Alexander’s smile softened. “He’s too overprotective. But you deserve freedom. It can be our secret, yes?”

For a long moment, Y/N was silent. Then, with a slow nod—

“Alright.”

The oil lamps in Alexander’s chambers flickered, casting long shadows across the walls. The scent of spiced wine and burning wicks hung heavy in the air, but the tension between the two youths was thicker still.

Hephaestion stood rigid by the doorway, his usually composed features strained with uncharacteristic intensity. “My prince,” he began again, his voice carefully measured, “I must ask—why are you doing this?”

Alexander didn’t look up from his wine cup, his fingers idly tracing its golden rim. The ruby liquid within caught the light, shimmering like spilled blood. “I’ve no idea what you mean,” he murmured, his tone deliberately light.

A muscle twitched in Hephaestion’s jaw. “Lady Y/N,” he pressed, refusing to let the prince feign ignorance. “She is Cassander’s sister. Antipater’s daughter. Your... interest in her is more than concerning. If word got out—if rumors spread—it could ruin her reputation. Is that what you want?”

For the first time, Alexander lifted his gaze. His eyes, usually so vibrant with mischief or command, were unnervingly still—like the calm before a storm. “And what if it is?”

The words landed like a blow.

Hephaestion actually took a step back, his breath catching. Had he heard correctly? The prince couldn’t possibly mean—

Alexander smirked, tilting his head like a predator studying wounded prey. “Does my friendship with Lady Y/N truly threaten you so much, philos?” The endearment—friend—was laced with mocking sweetness.

Hephaestion’s hands clenched at his sides. There was nothing he could say—nothing that would sway Alexander once his mind was set. And if he breathed a word of this to Cassander? The consequences would be catastrophic. Cassander’s temper was legendary, and no amount of loyalty would stop him from confronting Alexander directly—a death sentence, whether by the prince’s hand or his father’s.

So Hephaestion did the only thing he could.

He stayed silent.

For the first time in their long friendship, Hephaestion felt genuine fear - not for himself, but for Y/N, for Cassander, for the fragile peace that Alexander seemed determined to shatter.

“You wouldn't.” The words escaped Hephaestion's lips before he could stop them, raw with disbelief. “Not to her. Not to Cassander.”

Alexander finally set down his wine cup with deliberate slowness, the metallic clink echoing in the tense silence. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its mocking edge, replaced by something far more dangerous - absolute certainty. “I am Alexander of Macedon. I take what I want.”

The casual brutality of the declaration struck Hephaestion like Zeus’ lightning. This wasn't the passionate declaration of a lovestruck youth - it was the cold calculation of a conqueror assessing new territory. The realization made his blood run cold.

“She's not a city to be besieged,” Hephaestion countered, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. “She's a living, breathing woman who—”

“Who will be honored beyond measure,” Alexander interrupted, rising from his couch with panther-like grace. “Imagine it - the daughter of Antipater, raised to the future king of Macedon's beloved. Why, I'd be doing their house a favor.” He began pacing, his excitement growing with each step. “Cassander should be thanking me. But he doesn't has to know. Yet. Though a part of me wishes to tell him.”

Hephaestion's stomach twisted violently, as though he'd swallowed poison. “You cannot be serious,” he repeated, his voice low and urgent. “Cassander will not simply see reason—you know him better than that. He would rather throw himself from the cliffs of Mount Olympus than allow you to—”

Alexander cut him off with a flick of his wrist, his rings glinting in the lamplight. “He will rage, he will bluster, and then he will kneel,” he corrected, his voice smooth as polished marble. “They always do.”

Then, with terrifying suddenness, the prince stilled. His gaze—sharp as a dagger's point—locked onto Hephaestion. “Unless,” he mused, tilting his head with feigned curiosity, “you intend to warn him first? Is that your plan? In some pitiful attempt to keep from me what the Fates have already decreed mine?”

The threat coiled between them, serpentine and suffocating. Hephaestion felt the weight of it press against his ribs, stealing his breath. This was no mere test of loyalty—it was a blade held to his throat, waiting to see if he would flinch.

To oppose Alexander now would be exile.

Or death.

“Of course not,” Hephaestion forced out, the lie bitter on his tongue. “I am, as always, your loyal friend.”

Alexander's grin was a flash of white in the dim light, triumphant and terrible. “I knew I could count on you.” His hand came down on Hephaestion's shoulder—a gesture that might have been comradely, had his fingers not dug in like talons. “You should rest,” he advised, his tone deceptively light. 

Then, with the casual cruelty of a cat releasing a half-dead mouse: “And I, it seems, have a tryst with a lovely lady under the moonlight.”

Outside, the moon hung full and bright over Meiza, its pale light doing nothing to dispel the darkness gathering in Hephaestion's heart. Somewhere in the night, oblivious to the storm brewing around her Y/N waited for the prince— blissfully unaware.

The tall grasses swayed gently in the cool breeze, their silvered tips whispering secrets to the stars. Fireflies drifted lazily through the air, their golden lights flickering like distant stars brought down to earth. And there, in the heart of this enchanted clearing, stood Y/N.

In her hands, she cradled the small wooden dove, Alexander’s gift, her fingers tracing its delicate wings absentmindedly. The night was still, save for the distant chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves.

Then—footsteps.

The crunch of dry grass underfoot made her turn, her heart leaping in her chest.

“My prince?” she called out, her voice light but tinged with uncertainty.

From the shadows of the ivy-clad trees, Alexander emerged, his figure cutting a striking silhouette against the moonlit backdrop. He was dressed more casually than usual, his chiton simpler, his hair slightly tousled—as if he had hurried here. Yet even in this state, he carried himself with the effortless grace of royalty.

“Greetings, my lady,” he said, his voice warm, his smile as charming as ever. But then his expression shifted, a playful glint entering his eyes. “Though I must say, the titles ‘my prince’ and ‘your highness’ feel far too formal for such a setting, don’t you think?” He stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking. “After all, we are friends, are we not?”

Y/N’s lips parted slightly. “I’d say we are...” She nearly added my prince out of habit but caught herself, her brow furrowing in confusion. What was he asking of her?

Alexander didn’t miss her hesitation. “I wish for you to call me by my name,” he said, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Y/N’s breath hitched. “I-I couldn’t,” she stammered. It was common knowledge—addressing royalty by name without honorifics was not just improper, it was forbidden unless given explicit permission. Even Cassander and Hephaestion only did so in private, and even then, it was a privilege earned through years of friendship. For her to do so? It felt like stepping onto sacred ground.

“Consider it an order,” Alexander said, his voice firm but not unkind. “From this moment on, you shall call me by my name.”

Y/N swallowed hard. Then, softly, testing the weight of the word on her tongue—

“Yes... Alexander.”

The moment his name passed her lips, something shifted in the air between them. Alexander’s entire body thrumming with an electric thrill. The way she said it—hesitant yet sweet, like a secret whispered for the first time—sent a rush of heat to his head, dizzying in its intensity. It was unadorned and intimate yet sharp and intoxicating.

“Say it again,” he commanded, his voice low.

“Alexander,” she repeated, this time with less hesitation, though her tone still carried a note of uncertainty, as if she were speaking a word from a foreign tongue for the first time.

“Again.”

“Alexander.” Louder now. Steadier. As if she were shedding her fear, layer by layer, revealing something new beneath with each utterance.

A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. “Again.”

A sigh escaped her lips, followed by a small, bemused smile. “Is this a new game you’ve devised, Alexander?” The way she said his name—teasing, almost musical—sent another jolt of pleasure through him. It was nectar to a man starved, and he found himself craving more.

Alexander shook his head, his smile widening. “No game, my lady. Merely... an indulgence.” He stepped even closer, close enough that the scent of her—honey and wildflowers—filled his senses. “Though if you’d like to play one, I’d be happy to oblige.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, the silver light catching in her dark eyes like stars reflected in still water. “Then what are we doing tonight?” she asked, her voice carrying a new note of confidence now that the barrier of formality had been broken between them.

Alexander's smile was slow, deliberate—the expression of a man who knew exactly what he wanted but was content to savor the anticipation. “Whatever you desire,” he murmured, watching her closely.

A small, knowing smile graced Y/N's lips as she reached into the leather satchel slung over her shoulder. “In that case,” she said, producing several tightly rolled scrolls, “I brought some light reading. Do you like to read, my—” She caught herself just in time, her cheeks flushing. “—Alexander?”

The prince's eyebrows shot up, his grin turning wolfish. “‘My Alexander’?” he repeated, his voice rich with amusement. “That sounded far better than I expected. I think I shall allow it.”

Y/N's mouth fell open in protest, her hands fluttering in embarrassed denial. “That—that wasn't—I didn't mean—”

Alexander threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing through the quiet meadow. “Oh, but you did,” he teased, delighted by her flustered reaction. “And I rather like it.”

Composing himself, he gestured to the scrolls. “To answer your question properly—yes, my lady, I do read. In fact, I'm quite fond of the literary arts. Aristotle would say they are the very foundation of human existence.” His tone was light, but his surprise was genuine. It was uncommon for women to be educated beyond basic household management—a deliberate limitation, his mother had often explained, meant to keep them from grasping true power.

Olympias had taught him that oppression was simply another tool for those strong enough to wield it. “Fill the people's minds only with thoughts of bread and spectacle,” she'd said, “and they will never think to question their chains.” But Alexander didn’t always agree. Knowledge was power, and power should not be hoarded—it should be taken, by those bold enough to seize it.

Y/N, however, was no commoner to be kept ignorant. As the daughter of Antipater, her education would have been carefully curated—though clearly, Cassander had taken matters into his own hands.

“Let's take a look,” Alexander said, reaching for the scrolls.

The moonlight, while beautiful, was too faint for reading. Y/N produced a small oil lamp from her bag, and as she struck flint to steel, the warm glow illuminated the delicate planes of her face. Alexander watched, mesmerized, as she unfurled the first scroll and began to read aloud.

Her voice was melodic, each word shaped with care, and for a long moment, Alexander was too lost in the sound to register the content. Then, abruptly, he stiffened.

“This—” he interrupted, leaning forward. “This is taught in the temple!”

Y/N paused, meeting his gaze evenly. “Yes,” she admitted. “Cassander gives me his old scrolls and teaches me what he learns within those walls. It's the only way he trusts the quality of my education—especially after my last tutor.”

There was a story there, Alexander could tell—one laced with bitterness. But for now, he was too intrigued by the revelation before him.

“So,” he said slowly, his voice carrying a note of genuine admiration, “you've been studying in secret.”

Y/N's smile was small but unmistakably proud, her fingers tracing the edge of the scroll with quiet reverence. “Not so secret anymore,” she replied, meeting his gaze with a steadiness that surprised him.

Alexander chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s an admirable trait, this hunger for knowledge. Your brother clearly intends to raise you as more than just another noblewoman draped in silk and jewels. He wants you to be a woman of intellect—of substance.” He tilted his head, curiosity sharpening his features. “But tell me, my dove—what crimes did this former tutor commit to earn such exile from your education?”

Y/N blinked. ”Dove?” The endearment had caught her off guard, derailing her thoughts entirely.

Alexander’s lips quirked. “Yes. You remind me of one.” His gaze lingered on the delicate curve of her neck, the way her hands fluttered nervously when surprised—graceful, fragile, yet somehow enduring. “Gentle. Quick to startle. Beautiful in flight.”

Y/N’s cheeks warmed, but she didn’t press further. Instead, she exhaled, her expression darkening as she returned to the question at hand.

“My previous tutor was hired by my mother,” she began, her voice carefully neutral, though Alexander didn’t miss the way her fingers tightened around the scroll. “A woman who did everything except impart actual knowledge—though, in truth, I’m not certain she possessed any to begin with.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “She insisted a woman’s place wasn’t in literature or philosophy, but in perfecting the art of being a nobleman’s wife. She policed my appearance—how much I ate, how long I stayed in the sun lest it ‘mar my complexion’ and ruin my prospects. ”

Alexander’s brows drew together. “And your mother allowed this?”

“Encouraged it, actually,” Y/N said flatly. “Mother reminded me often that I was but three, perhaps four winters from marriageable age, and that I should focus on ‘womanly skills’ rather than—” She gestured to the scrolls with a dismissive flick of her wrist, “—all of this.”

“Nonsense!” The word burst from Alexander with unexpected vehemence, his hand slamming against the tree trunk beside him. “You’re a child. Marriage? That’s outrageous.”

Even as he said it, he knew the hypocrisy of his words. Girls were routinely married at fourteen, sixteen at the latest, often to men twice their age. He had attended enough political unions to know how the game was played. But the thought of Y/N—her quick mind, her bright laughter, her spirit still unbroken by the world—being handed over to some aging lordling like a prize mare made his blood boil.

Never, he thought, the possessiveness startling even him. Never will something of this sort happen to her. Ever.

Y/N, oblivious to his internal fury, continued. “That’s why Cassander brought me here. He was livid when he discovered what passed for my ‘education.’” A fond smile tugged at her lips as she recalled her brother’s outrage. “He fought with Father for months—said he wouldn’t let me be sold off like some broodmare or a pleasure sleeve, though I'm not sure what either of those words actually mean— I’ve heard Cassander say it in one of his arguments. Regardless, he won. Meiza was the compromise.”

She laughed then, the sound bright and clear in the night air. “He ranted for days about how he wouldn’t let some ‘old pervert’ lay a finger on me. Swore he’d only approve a match if the man proved himself worthy.”

Alexander’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “Worthy, hm?” He leaned forward, the lamplight casting sharp shadows across his face. “And what, pray tell, does your brother consider ‘worthy’?”

Y/N shrugged, unaware of the trap in the question. “Someone of status, power and valor. Someone who sees me as more than a pretty accessory, I suppose. Someone who has the intelligence to respect my mind as much as my face.”

Alexander hummed, his gaze never leaving hers. “A high standard indeed.”

And one, he thought, that I fully intend to meet.

╰┈➤ Masterlist

© cheriecelestial - arabelle | 2025

[a-cup-of-sundae]

this did not age well😢

Imagine:

Louis, Harry, Liam, and Niall are ready to walk on stage for their reunion concert. Just before the countdown starts Liam yells "wait, wait! we're forgetting something!"

He rushes off and returns 2 minutes later with Zayn next to him, a hesitant look on his face.

"I wondered if I could join you guys, maybe?" He asks, mainly looking at Louis.

Harry and Niall look at each other for a moment before looking at Louis, who's face has remained emotionless. Louis steps forward until he's in front of Zayn and everyone holds their breath. He pauses for a moment before bring Zayn in for a hug.

"Welcome back."

[a-cup-of-sundae]

i love ur brain 😝😝😝😝😝😝

Uhm. I’m having a really bizarre fantasy rn

Nikolai as Poseidon in the myth of Minos. The king of Minos, due to sacrifice his most prized, beautiful bull into the sea— but he cannot bear it. He gives up an ordinary little cow to the waves, hoping the kind of the seas won’t notice the difference.

Imagine being an ordinary little cow, sent into the waters to die so that another of your kind might live— the more precious, more beautiful, more amazing of you. And you cry, fat, glistening, salty tears not because you will die, but because you will die for being unwanted. For being too plain. Not beautiful enough. Not lovely enough.

The current carries you away, not nearly as violent as you’d imagined, far from the shores of Minos. The water seems to curl itself in warm tendrils through your fur, until you’re washed clean into the arms of the sea-god as something new.

“Telenochka,” he coos, “let those pretty tears leave with the tide. They will find their way back to your old king, I promise you.”

You look up and see fondness— budding adoration in his eyes.

“Treasures of the sea. Sought by many, rarely found. You are among those treasures now, milaya. Where you always belonged.”

[a-cup-of-sundae]

i mean i don't mind taking care of cap as long as he isn't a jerk to me but NIK???? HELLO WHERE TF CAN I FIND A MAN LIKE THIS

Hi. I first want to say the Divorced!Price AU is everything. He wasn't even my man to begin with, and then he was. And now I'm just wondering if you have anymore Nik and #8 (i think???) you'd be willing to share.

Something came up today. Can't imagine what...

Nik is everything your ex-husband wanted you to think he was. Not because of his kindness, or his heroics, or even his abilities in bed. Nikolai is a man in every metric that John measured it by, so much so that it makes you wonder if perhaps Nik was his blueprint. He's big and strong, with hair on his chest and a low rumbling voice that makes you weak in the knees, he's a provider, smart, a hard worker. And yet he is nothing like John at all.

Nikolai brings you coffee in the morning when you're still in bed, "Women should be lazy," he murmurs, cupping your hands around the mug, "especially if they have a man to take care of them." John always insisted you get up early to make breakfast, maintained that it was your job to serve him, not the other way around. It feels good being taken care of like this.

You read a book on the beach with Nikolai entertains your toddler, carefully coaxing handfuls of sand out of the tyke's mouth with soft Russian. When your baby waddles over to show you a tightly clutched rock, Nikolai crouches to redirect them from dirtying your pages. "Mamochka is taking little break," he hums, "let's find something pretty for her instead." You wave to your baby, watching them clutch Nikolai's fingers in their hand, and remember John barking at you for every tear, shaming you for your inability to do your job, for taking a break.

"Ah working," Nikolai feels out the word with distain, "you should not need to be working." You remember John saying something similar, trying to strongarm you into staying home, disparaging your career. "You come and work for me," Nikolai says instead, "I will give you money you deserve, good hours too." And it makes you laugh. It's ridiculous. As if you could do what Nik does through sheer force of will. He snaps his fingers, as if he's just gotten an idea, "I will put in daycare too, for baby." You think he only says it because it makes you smile, but he doesn't sound insincere.

"Let me," is Nikolai's constant refrain. Let me take the baby. Let me make dinner. Let me plan an outing, get reservations, clean up, rub your back, let me, let me, let me. You don't know what you'll do once you go home, if you'll forget how to live on your own in so short a time.

Somehow the most malicious thing he can say to you is, "I want to be a man you depend on," and even that doesn't sound so bad.

[a-cup-of-sundae]

lmao yeah it be like that sometimes

teenage girls in fiction: hes so cute i wanna slow dance with him at prom :3 hehe

real teenage girls: imagine if he got injured and i had to tend to his wounds and i could watch him seize up a bit as i disinfect them and in the haze of fever he sees me as an angel

[a-cup-of-sundae]

Why must he look so yummy while threatening MC like c'mon that's not fair Luci 😭

[a-cup-of-sundae]

LMFAOAOAOAOOAOA WHAT THE FUCJK MAN

Diavolo (wanders into the House of Lamentation, finding everyone dressed in black): What's going on here?

Belphegor: We’re holding a funeral for Mammon’s hamster.

Diavolo: Oh dear, I didn’t come prepared! No proper attire, and I didn’t bring any flowers.

Belphegor: It’s alright, Diavolo. This is more for Mammon’s sake than anyone else’s. Just take a seat; the service is about to start.

Diavolo looks around: Lucifer looks irritated, Satan and Levi are still digging a hole, Belphie is comforting a sobbing Beel, and Mammon approaches the podium. Diavolo sits next to Lucifer.

Mammon (sniffles): Thank you all for coming to Lucky’s funeral. He was a special guy, even if you didn’t know him.

Lucifer: Diavolo, what brings you here?

Diavolo: I was just stopping by because I was bored. I didn’t know there was a funeral. I’m sorry.

Lucifer: Don’t worry about it. It’s for a hamster.

Diavolo: How did it die?

Lucifer: Beel sat on him.

Diavolo: struggling to contain laughter

Lucifer: Do not laugh. Beel and Mammon are very emotional right now.

Mammon (voice trembling): Lucky had a great life. He loved Cheetos and running on his wheel. But now, thanks to “Beel’s fat ass!” he’s gone.

Asmodeus: Mammon! That’s not cool.

Belphegor: Hey, cut it out. He didn’t mean to!

Mammon (pointing at Beelzebub):  Did you hear him cry out, Beel?! Huh? I’m sure you didn’t, because your fat ass muffled his cries!

Beelzebub runs out of the garden, devastated.

Mammon (drops to his knees, looking up at the sky, crying): They took you too soon, Lucky! You deserved a glorious death, not to be squashed by a pair of cheeks!

Lucifer: Alright, that’s enough. Boys, put the hamster in the ground.

Diavolo: He really loved that hamster, huh? How long did he have it?

Lucifer: A day...

Mammon (throws himself onto Lucky’s grave): LUCKY, I WILL AVENGE YOU!

[a-cup-of-sundae]

terrifyingly accurate lmaoaoaooa

[a-cup-of-sundae]

im 100% convinced soap would LOVE still wakes the deep. scottish accent? check. gore? check. survival? check.

Favorite horror games

Soap: Likes obscure shit, especially if it’s bizarre and bordering on erotic. Prime suspect? Illbleed. He also loves anything that has experimental mechanics. Loves The Thing (2002) for having the infection/testing/trust system. Favorite Resident Evil is Resident Evil 0 for the partners system (and also because he’s in love with Rebecca chambers). This is a man who should be feared because he finished lifeline with a thick Scottish accent.

Gaz: Make this man cry!! He loves story!! And you know this man is a firm believer in PlayStation 2 supremacy. Silent Hill 2 and Rule of Rose are his favorites. His favorite Resident evil is 7, due to the return to form for the series and the Baker family as a tragic emotional core to the story/environment.

Ghost: RPG maker fiend. Especially the disturbing ones. LiSA, Schuld, Desert Nightmare. Also enjoys the classics — Yume Nikki, Ib, the witch’s house. And he’s a fan of gorey point and clicks like Cat Lady, Harvester (he and Soap both enjoy this one), and I have no Mouth and I Must Scream. His favorite Resident Evil is 4, because he knows it front to back and can turn his brain off while playing.

Price: Not nearly as much of a gamer, but he does have a certain fondness for the original Clock Tower. Tense, compelling— despite being a seasoned soldier, it’s a game that can get his heart pumping. And of course, he feels so terrible for poor Jennifer. His favorite resident evil is Dead Aim because while he wouldn’t know where to begin with controlling a camera angle, he understands target practice just fine.