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carnalcrows · 2 months ago

Text

LAVENDER'S BLUE

summary: You weren’t supposed to be seen. But one night, one dance, and one stolen look from a boy you didn’t know was a prince changes everything. Now the kingdom is looking for you—and you have to decide if you’re brave enough to be found.

pairing: prince charming! gojo saturo x cinderella! male reader

content warnings: 18+, romance, fluff, angst, smut (oral + p in a), bottom male reader, signs of abuse, reader has chronic back pain, rats.

word count: 9.0k --- spotify playlist

best viewed in dark mode

There’s a quiet to the attic that doesn’t exist anywhere else in the house.

It settles after midnight, when the girls are done with their games and their laughter has thinned to silence. When your stepfather’s footsteps stop echoing through the halls. When the fire burns low and the wine is gone, and there’s no one left to perform cruelty for.

It’s only then that the house exhales—and you can breathe.

You sit on the floorboards beside the bucket you haven’t emptied yet. The rag in your hands is damp, skin-roughening with soot. It’s not a real task, not something that anyone told you to do. You just needed something to keep your hands busy. Something that gives shape to the hours between darkness and dawn.

Your fingers are raw. Your knees ache. There’s ash on your sleeves and a splinter in your thumb, but you don’t mind. The attic is cold, yes, but it’s yours. Or at least—it's the one place no one else bothers to climb. That counts for something.

You glance toward the slanted window tucked beneath the roofline. The sky is silver. Cloudless. The moon stares back at you like it knows something you don’t.

You lower your eyes before it can say anything out loud.

⋆｡°✩

There are mice in the attic. They keep their distance.

You’ve never named them—not out loud—but they come and go often enough that you’ve started to recognise them. One of them is missing a patch of fur behind the ear. One always carries crumbs bigger than its body. One skitters in tight circles before settling, like it needs to outrun its own shadow.

You think they must be cold too. Winter came early this year, and the insulation in the upper floors is barely more than memory. The girls have fireplaces and velvet robes. You have a blanket that smells like dust and the long sleeves of your mother’s old shirt, which you’re not supposed to wear but do anyway, under your tunic. Hidden. Just for warmth.

Sometimes, the mice come closer when you hum under your breath. You pretend it’s a coincidence.

⋆｡°✩

The house used to be warm. You remember it that way—brief flashes of your mother’s hands kneading dough in the kitchen, her voice humming off-key while she watered the herb pots by the windows. Back then, the floors didn’t creak like they were grieving, and sunlight used to touch the corners of the room without shame.

Now, it’s Geto’s house. Not in name, maybe, but in power. His daughters move through the rooms like they were born from silk and contempt. They call you by your name when they need something scrubbed, but otherwise, you’re “him.” Or worse.

You used to try to win them over. You tried for a long time.

And then you stopped.

Now you keep your head down and your back straight. You work quickly, quietly. You sleep with your door locked. You speak only when spoken to, and not even always then.

There is safety in silence.

⋆｡°✩

The announcement comes over burnt toast and tea that tastes like bark.

You’re not meant to sit at the table, but Mimiko was too distracted by her own reflection this morning to complain, and Geto likes to pretend he doesn’t see you unless he’s scolding you. You’ve learned to drift along the edges of the room—quiet, invisible, but still useful.

“There’s to be a royal ball,” Geto says, flipping the parchment open with a lazy flick of his fingers. “Every eligible noble and commoner invited. Apparently, the prince is looking to marry.”

You don’t react. You butter the toast without looking up.

Nanako lets out a delighted gasp. “A royal ball! Father, we’ll go, won’t we? We’ll need gowns. Jewels. A carriage—”

“Slow down, sweetheart,” Geto replies, folding the parchment again. “There’ll be time.”

“He shouldn’t go,” Mimiko chimes in suddenly, her voice sickly sweet. “He’ll be there. Can you imagine?” She turns to you with a sharp smile. “You, in the presence of royalty? You’d embarrass the kingdom.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough for the moment to sting.

You don’t look at her. You nod, eyes fixed on your plate. You’ve become good at that—at swallowing down every little hurt before it blooms.

“That’s settled then,” Geto says, as if he were the one being mocked. “He stays home.”

You don’t ask who’ll clean the house before they leave. You already know.

⋆｡°✩

That night, you find yourself standing at the attic window again, forehead pressed to the glass.

It’s a habit you picked up as a child—watching the moonlight slip across the world while you imagined someone, anyone, looking back.

You used to tell yourself that one day, someone would. That someone would see you and know you. Not as a servant. Not as an afterthought. But as a person with a name, and a voice, and a heart that beats just as loudly as anyone else’s.

You don’t really believe that anymore.

But you watch the moon anyway.

Just in case.

The morning after the announcement, the house becomes unbearable.

There are fabric samples strewn across every chair. Shoeboxes lining the hallway. Perfumed letters arriving by raven—twice, even thrice a day. Mimiko and Nanako move through the rooms like glittering tornadoes, screeching over colour palettes and necklines, screaming at seamstresses who pretend not to flinch.

You scrub the floors while they argue about lace.

They barely notice you anymore. You’re just the shape that keeps the house polished. A pair of hands. A name they speak only when something’s spilt.

You try not to mind.

You’ve had practice.

⋆｡°✩

Geto brings in a mirror the size of a door and installs it in the dining room. “For fittings,” he says, waving off the servants as if he weren’t one once himself.

He stands behind his daughters as they twirl and pout, appraising them like fine art he expects someone else to purchase. He corrects posture. Adjusts wrists. Tells Mimiko she’s standing like a peasant. Tells Nanako she’s gaining weight.

You fold linens in the corner and try not to breathe too loudly.

He never looks at you. But you feel his disapproval anyway. It clings to your skin like ash.

⋆｡°✩

The day of the ball arrives like frost.

You wake before the sun, dress in silence, and sweep the staircases before anyone else opens their doors. There’s a rhythm to it now—scrub, rinse, repeat. The ache in your spine is familiar and comforting in its own small way. Pain, at least, is consistent.

By noon, the house smells like citrus oil and powdered sugar. The dresses are hung. The carriage is polished. Everything is perfect.

Except for you.

You stand by the front hall with the box of hairpins still in your hands as Geto makes his final inspection.

He nods once, satisfied. Then turns to you.

“You’ll stay here,” he says flatly. “Don’t open the windows. Don’t leave the house. And for heaven’s sake, stay out of sight.”

You nod. Of course.

The carriage pulls away.

And just like that—you’re alone again.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t cry.

You’re not a child anymore. You don’t believe in being rescued, and you don’t believe in magic. This world is a hard, cold thing, and there’s no use wishing it weren’t.

Still.

You wander through the empty rooms with the kind of quiet you imagine the dead must carry. Your hands drag across polished bannisters, past doorknobs and glass and velvet cushions that were never meant for you.

In the sitting room, a single slice of cake sits abandoned on a tray.

You don’t touch it.

Instead, you climb the stairs. Past the bedrooms. Past the locked study. All the way up to the top. To the attic. To the place you belong.

And when you close the door behind you, the weight settles over your shoulders like it always does—familiar and heavy.

But tonight, it feels just a little bit heavier.

Maybe because you let yourself imagine it.

Just for a moment.

⋆｡°✩

The sound comes just before nightfall.

A knocking—no, not quite. More like a sharp pop, a crack of air and wind and something older than both. It echoes, muffled, through the floorboards beneath your feet.

You freeze.

It happens again. Then silence.

You step cautiously toward the window, half expecting thunder, or maybe fireworks from the palace.

But the sky is clear. The world is still.

And the only thing staring back at you is the moon.

⋆｡°✩

The sound doesn’t come again.

You wait for it. Still, as the dust motes floated in the dying light. Ears strained. Eyes fixed on the floor, as if the silence might shift again, rupture again, give you some kind of sign.

But there’s nothing.

Just your own breath. Just the wind outside, curling soft fingers against the attic window. Just the ache in your knees, the sting in your wrists. The familiar weight of another evening with nowhere to go.

You stand there for a long time.

You think—maybe you imagined it.

Maybe that’s just what happens, when hope slips through the cracks of your ribs and you don’t catch it in time.

You move to sit down.

That’s when the second knock comes.

Not from below. Not from outside. But from within the attic.

From behind the wall.

You freeze.

Not a ghost. You don’t believe in those.

Not a thief. What kind of thief breaks into the attic?

There’s a creaking, low and almost…exhausted. Like the wood itself is trying to speak. Like something ancient is being disturbed, pulled awake by the wrong hands.

And then—

A sigh.

You swear you hear a sigh.

Soft. Dry. Slightly annoyed.

“Alright,” comes a voice. Flat. Unimpressed. “That’s enough dramatics. Move.”

You backpedal so fast you knock over the bucket.

The rag hits the floor with a slap. Water spills into the cracks between the boards. You don’t even look at it. You’re too busy staring at the corner of the attic that had definitely been empty before.

It isn’t empty now.

There’s a woman.

Or—at least you think she’s a woman. Her robes are a little too long and mismatched, and there’s a cigarette tucked between her fingers despite the fact that the chimney doesn’t reach this far. Her boots are muddy. Her expression is somewhere between world-weary and mildly inconvenienced.

She looks like she’s been late to every appointment she’s ever had and hasn’t felt guilty about a single one.

And she’s standing in your attic like she owns it.

You open your mouth to speak.

She beats you to it.

“Don’t scream,” she says, not unkindly. “You’ll scare the mice.”

You don’t scream.

You don’t move either.

Which is probably for the best, because she’s already walking toward you like this is normal. Like you’re the one intruding.

“I was aiming for the cellar,” she mutters. “But nooo, the magic said ‘aim for the heart of the house,’ and look where that got me. Dust in my lungs and you looking like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You finally manage to find your voice. Sort of.

“Who—”

“Shoko,” she says, waving a hand as if that answers anything. “Let’s skip the dramatic introductions, yeah? I’m on a deadline.”

You stare.

She exhales through her nose, then gives you the same look someone might give a plant that’s taking too long to grow.

“You’re him,” she says, lighting the cigarette with a flick of her fingers. No flint. No match. Just…fire, like it was waiting for her.

You don’t answer.

“Don’t do that,” she says. “Don’t look at me like you’ve never seen someone make a dramatic entrance before. I thought all you attic-dwelling waifs lived for theatrics.”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know who you are.”

Shoko tilts her head.

“Well, no,” she says. “Not yet.”

⋆｡°✩

“You’ve got the look,” she says, nudging a cobweb out of the way with the back of her hand. “The quiet sort. Watches windows. Hums to keep from screaming.”

You’re still not speaking.

She sits down without asking. Cross-legged right on the attic floor like she wasn’t conjured into existence five seconds ago. Her cigarette smoke spirals toward the beams and settles around her like a crown of ash.

“I know what this is,” you finally say, voice quiet. “You’re a dream.”

Shoko snorts. “God, I wish.”

You don’t answer. The bucket of water seeps closer to your heel, a cold bloom against the wood. You stare at it. At her.

She doesn’t blink.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she says, softer now. Not gentle, but closer. Like she’s trying. “I’m here to help.”

You shift your weight. Not quite toward her. Not quite away.

“Why?”

She flicks ash from the tip of her cigarette. It disappears before it hits the ground.

“Because you deserve it.”

You blink.

She goes on. “I’m not saying that in the philosophical, vague-fairy-tale sense. I mean it in the plain, unromantic, real-world way. You’ve done the work. You’ve survived. You’ve kept your heart from going sour even when it would’ve been easier to let it rot.”

You laugh. It’s small and brittle.

“I don’t think anyone would call me kind.”

“I didn’t say kind,” she says. “I said whole. You still have a piece of yourself that no one’s broken. That’s more than most.”

She says it so casually that it takes you a second to understand she meant it as a compliment.

You don’t know what to do with that.

You sit, slowly. She watches, but doesn’t comment.

The floor creaks beneath you. The attic is very still.

She speaks again. “Do you want to leave?”

It’s such a simple question.

Do you want to leave?

You stare at her. Your tongue feels thick.

“I can’t.”

She shrugs. “Didn’t ask if you could.”

You swallow.

“I want—” you start, then stop. “I don’t know what I want.”

“Sure you do,” she says, ashing the cigarette onto nothing. “You’ve just been taught not to say it.”

Your hands twist in your lap. She waits.

You say it like it hurts.

“I want to go. Just once. I want to be in a room where no one looks at me like I’m something to step over. I want to be wanted, just for a night. I want to know what it feels like to be seen.”

Shoko nods.

You stare at her. “That’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“No,” she says. “That’s a wish.”

⋆｡°✩

The air shifts.

It’s subtle—but you feel it. Like the attic exhales again, but this time with purpose. Something loosens in the walls, in the dark, in the shadows that have been your only company for years.

Shoko stands.

She snuffs out her cigarette on her palm. No mark. No burn.

When she speaks again, her voice is something older.

Not louder. Not deeper. But ancient. Measured. Like the moment you speak it aloud, it’ll echo.

“Then let’s give you your night.”

⋆｡°✩

She doesn’t wave a wand.

There’s no burst of glitter, no chorus, no sudden wind that tosses your hair back and makes your heart race. Nothing theatrical. Nothing pretty.

Instead, Shoko simply raises one hand—palm open—and exhales.

And the attic breathes with her.

The shadows bend first. Not away from the light, but toward it, curling like they’re waking up from a long sleep. The corners of the room soften, then blur, then ripple like heat above flame. Your breath catches in your throat.

There’s a sound, like thread pulling from cloth. And then—

Light. Dim at first. Then rising, warm and heavy like honey poured slow over your skin.

You don’t flinch.

You can’t.

It wraps around you. Not tight. Not painful. But thorough. Like it’s measuring. Weighing. Choosing.

Your shirt dissolves at the cuffs. Not burns—dissolves, the fabric unspooling into the air like mist. You lift your hands, startled, and they don’t feel like your hands anymore.

Shoko hums. “You’re lucky. Some people resist it. You—you’re letting it in.”

You blink at her, mouth dry. “Letting what in?”

She looks at you then, really looks, and says:

“Yourself.”

⋆｡°✩

The clothes build themselves, stitch by stitch.

It starts at your collarbones—warmth, pressure, then silk. Deep charcoal, almost black, but edged in silver so fine it could be moonlight. It fits perfectly, even before it finishes forming. Like it knew the shape of you before you did.

The sleeves wrap next—long, smooth, elegant. A flash of something translucent near the cuffs. Not ruffles, but something more fluid, like smoke in fabric form.

A jacket follows. Trimmed with silver thread, small accents that catch the dying light from the attic window. The kind of detail no mirror would ever see, but someone who was looking at you—really looking—might.

Your boots reform around your feet. Soft. Sleek. Practical enough to run in, but elegant enough to be remembered.

You don’t know how to breathe.

Shoko watches.

The final piece is a brooch—small, just over your heart. A pin in the shape of a crescent moon. Not garish. Not royal. Just… honest.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur, voice catching.

She doesn’t smile, but her voice is kind when she answers. “You don’t have to. Just wear it like you do.”

⋆｡°✩

The light fades.

The attic returns.

But you don’t.

You’re still you, but taller somehow. Straighter. Shoulders set. Like the weight hasn’t disappeared—but you’ve finally grown strong enough to carry it.

Your hands shake.

You press them against your chest. The fabric beneath your fingertips is real.

“I’m not supposed to be there,” you whisper.

Shoko flicks her cigarette back into her fingers and lights it with a snap.

“You’re supposed to be wherever you want to be,” she replies. “And tonight? You’re going.”

⋆｡°✩

You turn toward the attic stairs.

“Wait,” she says, and you freeze.

She tosses something into your hands.

Shoes.

Polished leather. Silver-buckled. Sleek, precise. The kind of shoes made for palace floors, not soot-stained attics. You run your thumbs over them. They’re real. Solid. One is slightly warmer than the other, like it’s holding onto something the world hasn’t seen yet.

“Enchanted?” you ask softly.

Shoko exhales smoke through her nose. “One of them.”

You blink. “Just one?”

She shrugs. “You only need one to be remembered.”

⋆｡°✩

The carriage waits at the edge of the estate.

It wasn’t there before. You would’ve heard it. Seen it. But now it sits beneath the moonlight like it’s always belonged—quiet, waiting, wheels perfectly clean despite the muddy road.

You don’t ask questions.

Shoko didn’t explain where it came from, and you didn’t ask.

You step down from the attic, cross the now-silent halls in a suit that doesn’t touch the floor when you move. The house doesn’t know you anymore. The wallpaper doesn’t sneer. The stairs don’t groan in protest. Even the silence has changed—it watches you now, instead of swallowing you whole.

You don’t look back.

Not at the staircase. Not at Geto’s study. Not at the kitchen where you used to stand barefoot and bleeding. That life still lives here, but you’ve stepped out of its skin.

For one night.

The coachman doesn’t speak. He tips his hat. The door opens. You climb in.

And the wheels turn toward the palace.

It’s farther than you thought.

You’ve seen it only from a distance—sharp spires against the horizon, gold-glass windows catching the sun like a promise. But up close, it’s something else entirely. Too large. Too luminous. The kind of place that exists outside time.

You step out into torchlight and laughter.

Music filters through marble arches. Strings and woodwinds. A swell of something grand, something old. People in silks and satin flow up the staircase like water—gloved hands, high collars, laughter polished and practised.

You shouldn’t be here.

But you are.

And no one stops you.

⋆｡°✩

The ballroom doors are wide open.

No guards. No fanfare. Just an invitation in the shape of light.

You cross the threshold on steady legs.

The floor is mirrored marble. Chandeliers drip crystal firelight. The ceiling stretches into a painted sky—cherubs and constellations you don’t recognise.

No one looks at you.

And somehow, that’s worse than the mocking would’ve been.

You drift along the edges at first. One step. Then another. A glass in your hand that you didn’t ask for. A compliment tossed over someone’s shoulder, not meant for you but close enough to sting.

And then—

He enters.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t see his face at first.

Just the way the room bends.

People part. Eyes turn. Laughter softens into interest. Not fear. Not awe. Just something deeper. Like gravity. Like inevitability.

And then he steps forward, and you understand.

White hair, sharp-cut and careless. A smile that looks carved into something ancient and shining. His coat is midnight blue, collar open just enough to be casual, cuffs rolled as if he’s already done dancing and plans to do it again.

There are jewels on half the people here. Gold on everyone else.

But he doesn’t need either.

He is the light in the room.

You don’t know his name.

You don’t even realise he’s looking at you until it’s too late to look away.

⋆｡°✩

You try to look away first.

That’s your mistake.

Because now he knows.

You’re not sure how you know he knows—but you do. It's in the tilt of his head. The slight quirk at the corner of his mouth. Like your gaze didn’t just find him, but called him.

And he’s answering.

He moves through the crowd like it was always meant to part for him. Not fast. Not eager. Just easy. Certain. As if he’s done this a hundred times before and always ends up here.

At you.

Your throat is dry. Your hand tightens around the glass you never drank from.

He stops in front of you.

Up close, he’s worse. Or better. You can’t decide.

His eyes are bright—too bright. The kind of blue people write songs about and then spend the rest of their lives trying to forget. His hair is a mess of silver and moonlight, and his smile is almost too much. Like he knows it is, and uses it anyway.

He glances down at your untouched drink.

Then back up at you.

“Not your thing?” he asks, voice low, amused. Not mocking. Not yet.

You manage a reply. “Wasn’t thirsty.”

“Lucky me,” he says. “Neither was I.”

He reaches out. Takes the glass from your hand. Places it on a passing tray without looking.

Then he holds his hand out to you.

Just like that.

As if you’ve already said yes.

As if you’ve always said yes.

“Dance with me.”

Not a question. Not quite a command. Just an expectation. A possibility.

You stare at his hand. At the long fingers. The pale wrist. The soft flash of a silver cufflink shaped like a star.

“I don’t know how,” you say quietly.

He leans in, just slightly. Just enough to make your breath stutter.

“That’s alright,” he says. “I do.”

⋆｡°✩

The music isn’t loud.

It doesn’t need to be.

He walks you to the centre of the room like it’s normal. Like every person isn’t watching. Like the marble floor doesn’t ache under your feet, trying to whisper, this isn’t for you.

But he holds your hand like it is.

And when you move—when your feet remember how to follow, when your body remembers joy—he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t lead you like you’re fragile. He lets you catch up. Lets you breathe.

And when you do—

You start to smile.

Not wide. Not bright. Just a little. Just enough.

But he sees it.

His smile answers yours.

And the world keeps spinning.

⋆｡°✩

The music fades into something slower.

Your chest is still rising too fast, but his hand is steady at your back. He hasn’t let go. Not once.

Every step, every turn, he watches you like there’s no one else in the room. Like this isn’t a palace. Like this isn’t a dance among royals. Like you’re not somewhere you shouldn’t be.

Like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

“Still nervous?” he asks, voice low, just under the violin swell.

You glance up. His smile is soft now. Tilted. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.

“I didn’t know it would be this easy,” you say.

He raises a brow. “Dancing?”

“Being seen.”

He doesn't laugh. Doesn't look away. Instead, he slows you to a stop, right there in the middle of the floor.

His hand slips from your waist to your wrist.

“Come with me,” he says.

⋆｡°✩

He leads you out through the back hall, past open doors and gilded arches, until the palace swallows its own noise. The music fades behind columns. The warmth of the crowd falls away.

You step into a quiet corridor, and then—

A garden.

Not the one guests passed through. This is smaller. Older. Half-forgotten. Wild vines along the stone. A cracked marble bench. The scent of lavender and something sweeter underneath—like sugar left in the sun.

It’s moonlit and hidden and yours.

You inhale, and it fills your lungs like a prayer.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod.

He lets go of your wrist but stays close. Too close. You feel his breath near your temple. He’s taller than you’d realised on the dance floor.

“Do you bring all your dance partners here?” you ask, not meaning to sound like anything—but it comes out softer than expected. Curious.

His smile quirks, lazy and real. “Only the ones I want to keep a little longer.”

Your heart kicks once. Stupid thing.

“I’m not exactly... worth remembering.”

He looks at you then, full and unguarded.

“Funny,” he murmurs, “I was just thinking the opposite.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t say anything.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Brief. Barely there.

But your breath stutters anyway.

You want to close the space between you.

He’s already leaning in.

His voice is barely a whisper now.

“What’s your name?”

You hesitate. You’d almost forgotten that you hadn’t given it.

“I—”

DING.

The first chime hits like a stone to the chest.

DONG.

You flinch.

He pulls back, startled.

DING.

“No,” you whisper.

The air shifts. Your jacket tightens. Something in the fabric shudders like it’s remembering itself.

You take a step back.

“I’m sorry.”

“Wait—” he starts, reaching for you.

DONG.

“I have to go,” you say, already turning.

“Wait! At least tell me who—”

DING.

You’re gone.

The night is breaking, and the magic is pulling you with it.

You run.

Not elegantly. Not the way you danced.

This is a stumble-sprint, half-flight down the corridor, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to get back to him. The marble floors blur. Gold columns, oil paintings, half-turned faces in distant rooms—none of it matters now. Only the ache in your chest and the way the air grows heavier with every step.

The magic is unravelling.

You feel it in your sleeves first. The seams loosen. The silver edging at your cuffs begins to smoke and vanish, the way dew fades from a blade of grass. You press your hands to your chest like you can hold it all together—but the fabric keeps melting under your fingers.

The music is gone. The laughter behind you is too far to matter. All that exists is the echo of your boots—no, just one boot now—against the floor.

You don't remember when it happened.

Just that you turned a corner too sharp. That your foot slipped. That something caught for a second and then gave way.

You look down.

Your right foot is bare.

The enchanted shoe is gone.

You double back.

It’s lying on the stairs.

You don’t go back for it.

You can't.

DING.

The ninth chime.

The gold embroidery at your hem vanishes mid-step. The jacket fades, thread by thread, until all you’re left with is the thin, patched tunic underneath—too short now. Yours, but not yours anymore. The magic never fully disguised your body. It just made the weight feel lighter.

You grab the stair railing as the garden doors disappear behind you.

The tenth chime echoes off the stone.

You’re almost at the exit.

You think you hear your name.

Not your real name. Not the one Geto calls you with disdain. But yours. The one only someone who sees you might say.

But it’s too late.

You hit the gravel outside barefoot, panting, lungs burning with cold air and regret.

The eleventh chime splits the sky.

You don’t look back.

⋆｡°✩

Somewhere behind you, he stands at the top of the staircase. His gloves are in his pocket. His coat is unbuttoned. He’s not looking at the crowd.

He’s looking at the stairs.

And the single shoe left waiting.

⋆｡°✩

The twelfth and final chime rings out.

Midnight has come.

And you're already disappearing into the dark.

You wake before the sun.

You always do, but today it feels different.

Not because your body hurts—though it does. Not because the air is cold—though it bites.

But because something inside you is too quiet.

Like your chest has been scrubbed hollow.

The attic doesn’t look any different.

The boards still creak when you shift your weight. The frost still kisses the corners of the glass. The mice still rustle softly in the wall like they don’t know anything has changed.

But it has.

You sit up slowly, fingers curled in the edge of the blanket that isn’t warm enough. Your knees are sore. Your palms sting. The magic’s gone, and it didn’t leave anything for you to hold except—

Your breath catches.

You look down.

There it is.

Nestled at the foot of your bed.

One shoe.

Not both.

Just the right one.

Silver-buckled. Unscuffed. A quiet gleam to the leather that doesn’t belong to this world.

The matching pair had vanished with the rest of the suit. But this one stayed.

Of course it did.

You don’t touch it.

Not yet.

You just stare.

Your chest tightens slowly, like the ache has to rebuild itself from the edges in.

You replay the night in pieces.

The ballroom. The music. The boy with the moonlight grin and the storm in his eyes. The garden. His hand on your back. His voice, soft and certain, asking for your name like he’d keep it safe.

You wonder if he’s looking for you.

You wonder if he’s still at the top of those stairs.

You wonder if he’ll know you now, in patched sleeves and soot-stained soles.

If he’d want to.

You press the heel of your hand into your chest, hard.

Just to feel something.

⋆｡°✩

Far from the attic, in a palace where the candles never burn low, a king lies dying.

Not with drama. Not with blood or fury or breathless speeches. Just… slowly.

Quietly.

Gojo sits beside him.

He’s not dressed for grief. Still in the same half-wrinkled clothes from the night before—collar askew, hair a mess, the ghost of the ballroom clinging to his shoulders.

He hasn’t slept. Hasn’t moved since the garden emptied and the last guest was sent away.

He hasn’t spoken.

Not until now.

“I met someone,” he says softly.

The king doesn’t open his eyes, but his mouth twitches. Barely there.

“A noble?” he rasps, voice like dry paper.

Gojo almost laughs. “Not even close.”

The king hums. A tiny sound. “Thank god.”

That earns a real smile. Faint. Brief.

Gojo leans forward, fingers curled tight over the blanket. “I didn’t get his name. Didn’t even ask. He ran. Lost a shoe.”

The king’s chest rises slowly. “Romantic.”

“Frustrating,” Gojo says. “He was real. Not… shiny. Not faked. I think he looked right through me and still stayed.”

The king doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then—

“Then go,” he says, hoarse but sure. “Go find the one who saw you.”

Gojo’s throat closes.

The king’s eyes stay shut.

“You’ve carried this crown too long,” he murmurs. “Go be loved, Satoru. Don’t let this place kill that part of you.”

There’s silence.

Then Gojo bows his head.

“I will.”

⋆｡°✩

The king dies two days later.

The mourning bells toll across the city. The gates are draped in black. The court dons solemn silks and speaks in hushed tones.

Gojo buries his father quietly.

No fanfare. No grand declarations. Just a hand pressed to the coffin and a whisper no one hears.

He returns to the throne room with quiet thunder.

No coronation. No applause. Just a man in mourning with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders and something softer clenched between his hands.

A single shoe.

Silver-buckled. Clean as memory. The only piece of the night that didn’t vanish.

The court hushes when he steps to the dais.

He speaks without ceremony.

“I’m not here to celebrate a title,” he says. “I’m here to honour a promise.”

A ripple of confusion passes through the crowd.

Gojo lifts the shoe for all to see.

“This,” he says, voice steady, “was left behind by the person I danced with at the royal ball.”

Murmurs rise. Names, questions, whispers like wind.

Gojo’s next words cut straight through.

“I don’t know their name. Or where they came from. But I know how I felt.”

Silence now. Even the courtiers lean forward.

He breathes in. Then:

“Find them.”

The prince’s men arrive two days later.

They come in pairs—one to carry the shoe, one to carry the threat of a sword.

Some houses greet them with fanfare. Others slam the door. But in every room, they kneel before the hopeful, the desperate, the delusional, and ask them to try it on.

None of them fit.

None of them feel right.

⋆｡°✩

Toji doesn’t really want to be here.

He’s already threatened to eat the shoe twice. Nanami pretends not to hear him.

“You’re not putting it in your mouth,” Nanami says flatly as they stand in front of a bakery.

“I wasn’t gonna put it in,” Toji replies. “Just, you know. Scare the kid a little.”

“No.”

“They’ve got sugar tarts in there.”

“We’re here for the shoe.”

“I can multitask.”

Nanami sighs and knocks.

⋆｡°✩

Three houses later:

“This is a waste of time,” Toji mutters.

“It’s a royal command,” Nanami answers, like that means anything.

They’re standing in front of a weeping blacksmith.

“I swore I saw the mystery person,” the blacksmith says, tears in his beard. “They were in my dream. Had wings. Glowed.”

Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose.

Toji offers him a handkerchief. “We’ll send word if we find them, yeah?”

The blacksmith sobs louder.

Toji pats him on the shoulder.

“You tried, champ.”

⋆｡°✩

Back at the estate, the air has changed.

You don't notice at first. You're doing laundry. Small, quiet motions. Wrists in soap, eyes on the window.

But when you climb back up to the attic, the door is open.

That’s not right.

You never leave it open.

You step inside.

Geto is waiting.

He’s holding something in his hand.

It takes you a moment to register it. To understand what you’re looking at. To realise it’s yours.

The other shoe.

The one the magic didn’t claim.

Geto doesn’t look angry.

Worse.

He looks resigned.

“I knew,” he says, voice low. “The night you came home. I knew it was you.”

You don’t speak.

There’s something brittle in your chest. Like glass.

Geto turns the shoe over in his hand. “It was supposed to be Mimiko or Nanako. Anyone else. Someone who could give this family something back. But you—”

He shakes his head.

“I married your mother for love, you know.”

You flinch.

“I was a servant. Just like you. She didn’t care. She saw me. She chose me. And then she died. And I got stuck. In this house. With bills, and mouths, and nothing to show for it but my hands and my daughters.”

He looks at you then, sharp and quiet.

“You think I hate you,” he says. “I don’t.”

You want to speak. You don’t know how.

“I envy you,” he finishes.

Then he drops the shoe.

And before you can move—before you can breathe—he steps on it.

It doesn’t break.

Of course it doesn’t.

The magic’s long gone.

So he picks it up instead.

And throws it out the window.

You hear it hit the gravel outside.

And then—

Click.

The door locks behind you.

Geto’s footsteps fade down the stairs.

And you’re alone again.

Trapped. Silenced.

But not invisible anymore.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t move right away.

You hear Geto’s footsteps fade, one by one, until the house swallows them whole. Until the only sound left is the wind against the glass, and the beat of your pulse behind your eyes.

The lock clicks again in your mind. Sharp. Final.

And then—

Nothing.

Just quiet.

You sit.

Not gently. Not with grace.

You drop straight to the floor, legs folded awkwardly, palms flat on the cold wood. The air smells like old wood and soap. Like sorrow dried into the beams.

Your hands curl into the sleeves of your shirt. Not to hide. Just to feel something.

The window glows with late morning sun. Too bright to pretend it’s still night. Too soft to call this anything but cruel.

You swallow.

You whisper to no one, “It wasn’t supposed to matter.”

The words hang there.

And then—

A scritch.

Then another.

Soft and quick, like tiny feet against the baseboard.

You blink down.

Yuji, the one with the torn ear, darts into view. He stops near your feet. Sits up on his haunches like he’s checking on you.

You offer him your palm.

He noses it once. Then skitters away to the corner where Megumi and Nobara have already gathered.

There’s a scrap of ribbon there. Frayed. Half chewed.

And a single wooden spool.

You don’t know how they found it. Or why they’re bringing it to you.

But they do.

You exhale.

“I’m not making a new shoe,” you say quietly.

They freeze.

You soften. “...Thank you, though.”

Yuji does a little hop. You can almost hear him say you’re not done.

You lean back against the wall.

You look at the door.

The lock is still in place.

The window is still too small.

Your limbs are still tired.

But something in you is standing up.

You’ve never asked to be found before.

But now— Now you know what it felt like to be seen.

And you’re not letting that disappear without a fight.

Bang bang bang.

Not a gentle knock.

Not the kind nobles use.

The door shakes in its frame.

Mimiko shrieks from somewhere down the hall, “Father—!”

“Coming,” Geto calls, voice too smooth, too fast.

He brushes dust from his sleeves and opens the door with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Nanami doesn't smile back.

Toji doesn’t look like he’s ever smiled at all.

The taller one—Toji, in dark military trim and boots that leave real dirt on the clean floor—looks over Geto like he’s furniture. Nanami, perfectly pressed and sharply polite, holds a velvet-lined box in his hands.

Inside it, nestled like a relic, sits the shoe.

The room tightens.

“We’re here on royal command,” Nanami says, calm as a cut. “Every household within the capital must comply.”

Geto’s smile doesn’t falter. But his fingers twitch at his sides.

“Of course,” he says. “My daughters will be thrilled.”

⋆｡°✩

The twins are anything but.

They stumble into the drawing room in matching silks, half-dressed and sweating.

Mimiko tries to charm. Nanako tries to lie. Both try on the shoe.

The shoe does not fit either of them.

Not Mimiko, who tried to stuff her foot in sideways, biting her lip like pain might be mistaken for grace.

Not Nanako, who screamed at the guards and insisted it was her shoe—until Nanami calmly pointed out it would have to be her right shoe, and she’d shoved her left foot in.

Both of them are red-faced now. Geto looks pale.

Nanami closes the velvet box with finality.

“That’s all,” Geto says quickly, stepping between them and the door. “Thank you for your time, but as you can see—”

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Nanami says, already half-turned. “We’ll be on our way—”

And then— CRASH.

Not subtle.

Not small.

Wood shatters. Something heavy hits the floor above. Then a thud. A clang. Another loud bang, like someone’s trying to tear a room apart.

All three men freeze.

Geto doesn’t blink.

“Old house,” he says lightly. “It groans.”

Nanami narrows his eyes.

Toji’s already turning.

“It came from upstairs,” he says.

“No need,” Geto says quickly. “We told you, it’s just—”

“Storage,” Toji finishes, stepping forward.

And then—

A fourth voice speaks, smooth as silk:

“Open it.”

The knights turn sharply.

So does Geto.

Because one of the guards—the one who had been silent this entire time, helmet shadowing his face, standing too still in the corner—steps forward.

And removes his helmet.

White hair falls loose.

Eyes like the end of a sky.

It’s him.

The prince.

No coat. No crown. Just a low voice and a gaze that could slit a throat with kindness.

“Check the room,” Gojo says.

Toji doesn’t hesitate.

He moves toward the stairs.

And Geto?

Geto stops breathing.

⋆｡°✩

Meanwhile, upstairs—

You’ve already broken a chair.

The window’s too high, and the door won’t give, but fury moves faster than fear.

You threw the table against the wall. You shattered a glass jar. The room is in chaos.

Not because you thought someone would hear you.

But because if you’re going to be locked away again—this time, the walls will remember you were here.

And downstairs, they just did.

⋆｡°✩

The door gives way with a shudder and a kick.

Toji steps inside the attic like he’s seen a thousand rooms like this—and hates every one of them. He doesn’t speak at first. Just scans the broken chair, the shards of glass, the boy standing in the middle of it all like a storm passed through him and didn’t finish the job.

You square your shoulders, fists tight.

“I’m not going quietly,” you say.

Toji raises a brow.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says. “Not until you try on the shoe.”

⋆｡°✩

You’re still stunned when you’re led down the stairs.

The house feels different now—seen, somehow. You don’t flinch when Geto glares. You don’t look at the twins when they hiss your name like it’s a curse.

Because all you see is him.

Gojo.

Not in a dream. Not behind a mask.

Just him.

And he’s looking at you like you invented music.

⋆｡°✩

“I didn’t know,” you say softly.

His smile curves at the edges. “Good.”

You blink. “What?”

“I wanted to be seen as me, not as—” He waves a hand. “Royal disaster. Golden boy. Walking headline.”

“You’re still ridiculous,” you mutter.

“Mm,” he says, “but you danced with me anyway.”

⋆｡°✩

Nanami brings the shoe.

It still gleams like it remembers the night better than you do.

You kneel.

Your fingers tremble.

You fit your foot inside.

It slides in like it never belonged anywhere else.

A quiet settles over the room.

Nanami exhales, almost like relief.

Toji nods once.

The twins make some sound between a gasp and a wail.

And Gojo?

He takes two steps forward.

Then drops to one knee.

No theatrics. No ceremony.

Just him.

And you.

And the weight of everything you both carried here.

“I don’t know your name,” he says. “But I’d like to learn it every day.”

You swallow.

His hand is warm.

“Will you marry me?”

You stare at him.

Then, slowly, like something new is blooming in your chest—

You smile.

And take his hand.

The palace feels warmer now.

Not because of the sun. Or the gilded windows. Or the three-tiered cake that someone dropped during the reception and tried to blame on the reindeer.

But because of him.

Gojo stands beside you on the balcony, arm loose around your waist, his thumb brushing idle circles against your side like he still can’t believe you’re real.

You’re both still in partial wedding attire—him with his jacket tossed over a chair somewhere, you barefoot, crown lopsided, shirt collar unbuttoned and clinging just a little to your throat. You should probably be inside. The court is probably looking for you.

But the garden below is quiet.

And the air tastes like late summer and the end of something you never thought would happen.

⋆｡°✩

“What happened to them?” you ask, leaning into him just enough to be smug about it.

He hums. “Geto’s under investigation for falsifying noble status. Pretty sure he’s banned from the capital for life. Last I heard, he’s trying to sell spiritual healing potions out of a cart in the countryside.”

You snort. “And the twins?”

“Assigned to community service. Fifteen years of it.”

You blink. “What do they do?”

“Paint fences. Clean royal kennels. Muck out stables.”

You try to look sympathetic.

You fail.

⋆｡°✩

The sky is peach-gold now.

You lean back against the railing, one hand braced behind you, and Gojo’s eyes trace the line of your neck like he’s memorising it.

“What?” you ask, smirking a little.

“You’re too pretty for this world,” he says easily. “I might have to exile you just to stop fights.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not exiling me. You married me.”

He steps in closer.

“I did, didn’t I?”

His hand settles just under your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. His smile turns softer.

Hungrier.

“Wanna kiss your husband?”

You grin. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t wait for permission.

⋆｡°✩

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice like velvet warmed in sunlight.

You don’t answer. Just let your fingers trail down the line of his collarbone, slow and curious, feeling the heat beneath his skin. You’re still a little dazed from it all—the ceremony, the kiss, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the kingdom.

Maybe the world.

Gojo watches you with a softness that doesn’t match the grin tugging at his lips.

“Still thinking about saying yes?” he teases, tilting his head.

You hum. “I’m thinking I want to kiss you again.”

“Be my guest.”

You lean in. He meets you halfway.

The kiss starts gentle—lazy, even. But there’s something under it now. Something hot and restless curling between your ribs. Your fingers move to his jaw, then to the back of his neck, dragging him just a little closer. He obliges with a pleased sound, deepening the kiss, mouth parting just enough to catch your breath between his lips.

He tastes like sugared wine and strawberries, and you swear you could drown in him.

By the time you break apart, you’re breathing harder than you expected. Your eyes meet, close enough to feel the words before you say them.

“I want you,” you whisper.

It comes out raw. Honest.

Gojo stills. Just for a moment.

Then—

“Yeah?” His voice is lower now. Rougher around the edges. “You sure?”

You nod.

“Then come here.”

⋆｡°✩

He lifts you before you realize he’s moving. Hands strong, steady, one at your back, the other beneath your thighs. You yelp softly, laugh against his throat, and he huffs out a breathless chuckle that turns into something deeper.

The doors to your chambers are already cracked open. He kicks them wider.

The room beyond is quiet. Candlelit. Fresh linens, tossed shoes, and half a glass of wine still left untouched on the bedside table. You don’t see any of it.

Just him.

He sets you down gently, reverent in a way that makes your chest ache.

You sit on the edge of the bed as he leans in, hands braced on either side of your thighs, lips ghosting over your cheek, then your jaw.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice low and warm.

You reach up. Thread your fingers into his hair.

“Kiss me like you did that night,” you say. “And don’t stop.”

He grins against your mouth. “Gladly.”

And he does.

⋆｡°✩

The world falls away the second his lips meet yours again.

There’s no crowd here. No music. No kingdom watching. Just the sound of his breath and yours, the rustle of fabric as fingers drag slowly down your back, and the warm press of his palms against your skin like he’s memorising every inch of you.

You pull him closer. He goes willingly.

The kiss deepens. His mouth is hot and sure, moving with a rhythm that makes you dizzy. His tongue brushes yours, and you gasp into him—your fingers clutching the back of his shirt, your legs parting slightly as he slots himself between them.

He presses you gently back onto the bed.

The sheets shift beneath you—soft, crisp, faintly perfumed—and his weight follows, settling against you with a slowness that feels like worship.

His hand cradles your face as he kisses you again, slower now. Lingering. Like he has all the time in the world.

“Still sure?” he asks, voice hoarse at the edges, lips brushing your cheek.

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “I want you.”

Gojo exhales like he’s been waiting to hear that his whole life.

“Okay,” he whispers, “I’ve got you.”

⋆｡°✩

He doesn’t rush.

He undresses you carefully, easing your clothes from your body piece by piece, always watching, always touching, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. His hands trail down your arms, your ribs, your hips—every inch of your skin kissed, touched, praised.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, not like a compliment, but like a fact.

His own clothes fall away soon after, and when he kneels above you, bare in the candlelight, you forget how to breathe.

He’s strong. Slender. Scars across his stomach, down his hip—each one traced gently beneath your fingers. His eyes darken when you touch him, a low sound humming from his chest as you explore him with quiet wonder.

He kisses your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thigh. Each press of his mouth is tender, reverent. You shiver when his lips ghost lower—when he parts your legs with one slow sweep of his hand and settles between them like he was always meant to be there.

When his tongue touches you, your fingers curl in the sheets.

He’s slow. Gentle. Languid.

Learning you. Reading every twitch of your hips, every gasp, every whispered plea. He hums when you moan, the sound low and satisfied.

You arch when he wraps his arms under your thighs and pulls you closer.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers, voice rough and thick with want.

And he does.

With his mouth, his fingers, his voice—coaxing you open, unravelling you gently, turning heat into warmth into fire.

By the time you come undone, you’re panting, legs trembling, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

He doesn’t leave you. Doesn’t pull away. Just presses slow kisses to your skin and climbs up to meet your mouth again, breath catching as he feels you cling to him.

You reach for him. Trace the line of his jaw.

“Take me,” you whisper.

And he does.

⋆｡°✩

He enters you slowly, carefully, stopping when you tense, kissing your throat until your body melts into his again. His hand finds yours against the pillow, lacing your fingers together as he presses deeper.

It’s intense. Full. Your breath stutters, and his does too.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod.

He starts to move, and it’s overwhelming.

His weight on you, his breath on your neck, the way your bodies move together—every thrust angled with care, every sound he makes pressed against your ear like a secret. He moans when your hips rise to meet him. Groans when you say his name like you mean it.

He doesn’t look away. Watches you fall apart underneath him. Watches your lashes flutter, your mouth part, your breath hitch.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he says, voice wrecked.

You pull him down, kiss him hard, gasping against his lips as heat blooms low and deep in your core.

He speeds up—just enough.

The sound of skin on skin, the headboard creaking gently, the rhythm of his hips, your hands in his hair—it all builds into something slow and bright and utterly consuming.

You fall apart first, back arching, thighs clenching around his waist.

He follows with a gasp, pulling out just in time, his hand stroking you through it as he spills onto your stomach with a trembling groan.

⋆｡°✩

After, he’s quiet.

He wipes you down gently, kisses your chest, your temple, your knuckles.

Then he pulls you into his arms, your head tucked beneath his chin, his thumb stroking slow circles into your spine.

You’re half-asleep when he whispers, “I’m never letting you go.”

You smile.

“You better not.”

Later, as the sun dips below the rooftops, you’re sprawled together on the balcony, limbs tangled, cheeks flushed, breath finally slowing.

He presses his forehead to yours.

You close your eyes.

The world is quiet again.

Until—

Scurry scurry.

You open one eye.

Yuji. Then Megumi. Then Nobara.

The mice dash across the stone railing, tails twitching, feet fast, all three heading for the figure standing just beyond the edge of the light.

Shoko.

Still in her boots. Still in her long coat. Still impossibly cool.

She holds out one palm.

The mice leap into it without hesitation.

She glances at you and Gojo, sprawled out and glowing like kings in love.

“Cute,” she says.

You sit up. “You stayed?”

She lights a cigarette with a flick of her fingers.

“Nah,” she says. “I just came to collect my assistants.”

Gojo squints. “Assistants?”

“They picked you,” Shoko says, looking directly at you.

You blink.

She exhales a thin ribbon of smoke into the sky.

“My job’s done.”

And then— She vanishes.

Just like that.

⋆｡°✩

You sit there for a moment.

Gojo’s hand finds yours.

The stars come out.

And this time—

You don’t wish on any of them.

You already have everything you asked for.

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#male reader #bottom male reader #x male reader #jjk x reader #jjk x male reader #x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x male reader #gojo saturo #saturo x reader #gay #smut

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beloveds-embrace · 2 months ago

Text

(p3 fae poly 141 x cursed human reader) || Masterlist || cw: angst

When it came, it did so in layers; not all at once like fire razing down a forest, but like snowfall. Gentle and inevitable, each melting flake a small forgetting.

First, it was names.

You would look at Kyle, his familiar grin flashing like sunlight through trees, and call him by a title from a kingdom long swallowed by moss and time. You would laugh at his expression, uncertain why the sound tasted strange in your mouth, and the room would grow unbearably heavy, as if the walls themselves could sense the fracture forming inside you.

You’d ask Johnny to bring you tea, then wonder aloud- like a child startled awake- if you even liked tea anymore.

You stopped calling Simon by anything at all, not out of cruelty, but because your mind could no longer find the thread of him. As if the loom of your memories had begun unraveling, one golden thread at a time.

You even forgot Simon’s face one day.

He finds you curled in the hollow beside the singing well, where fae voices forever hummed through the mist. The stones were slick with memory, the air heavy with time and sorrow. You were wrapped around yourself, a trembling creature of light and loss.

“I didn’t know who you were.” You whispered when he sat down beside you.

He nodded, his eyes dark wells of unspoken grief. “That’s all right.”

“I thought you were going to take me.” You looked down at your trembling hands. “I thought… you were here to end it.”

“You’ve never been anything but safe with me.” He said. His voice was steady like old oaks, but he didn’t speak again for a long time, and neither did you.

The castle then watched it continue.

its stones bones shivered in mourning as it saw the way your footsteps faltered in the mornings now, how you stood at the edge of the corridor with your hand against the wall, trying to remember which direction leads to the garden and which leads to the throne room. It murmured gentle guidance beneath your feet, shifted the stones so you always turned the right way. But you still hesitates. Still frowned, still murmur apologies under your breath.

“Sorry, sorry… I knew this. I knew this.”

The will-o'-wisps that once flickered mischievous in the shadows now clustered around you like living stars, their tiny bodies pulsing gently as they guided you step by step, glowing a mournful silver instead of their usual playful blue.

You asked John one evening- while he read to you from a worn book in your shared chamber, his voice a steady beacon in your fogging world- if the stars had always looked like that. The question was so soft, so simple, and yet it cracked something in him, because you used to name the constellations like old friends.

You were afraid of shadows that weren’t there yesterday. Of reflections that looked a second too slow in catching up. Of voices you knew, but couldn’t name.

Next, it was time itself.

Not hours or days- years. You’d call for your parents in the twilight, confused and teary when they didn’t come, not remembering they’d passed so long ago not even the tree spirits remembered their faces. You'd clutch letters to your chest like they'd just arrived, unaware they'd been yellowing on your shelf for decades.

You’d forget your own mirror image.

You’d wake screaming from dreams you couldn’t describe. You’d shrink from your reflection, pressing trembling hands over your face and whispering, “That’s not me. That can’t be me. I was- I never- John, John? John, please-“

One night, you stood in the courtyard barefoot in the snow, robe fluttering like moonlight. You stared at the moon and asked no one in particular: “… Am I a prisoner here?”

Thrain was with you, as he always was. He nuzzled your shoulder in response, trying to soothe the fear rising within you. You gripped his fur and leaned against him like a child lost in a storm.

And gods, the way they ached.

Johnny laughed louder now, louder and wilder like the summer storms of the old world, trying to cover the shattering silence your confusion left behind. He called you "lass" in every sentence so you'd feel anchored to something. He walked a step behind you everywhere, pretending it wasn’t because he was worried you might forget where you were.

Ghost began carrying tokens- little things. Ribbons, dried flowers, silver buttons and tinkling bells. Each one had a story of you, and each time you forgot one, he’d hand it to you gently and say, “Yours, love. You gave it to me.” He’d say, like it was a cherished secret between the two of you.

Gaz took to humming your favorite tunes beneath his breath as he worked, even though you no longer sang with him. When you looked at him in confusion, he just smiled and said, “You always liked this one, remember?”

They stayed with you, every hour they could. But John- John suffered.

He sat with you for hours even when you didn’t speak- when words were too difficult and you forgot what clouds were called and what shapes they were. He kissed your hands when they trembled. When you woke in the night and begged to go home, not knowing what "home" meant anymore, he held you close and whispered: “You’re already there, darling. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

But, still you were slipping like mist through their fingers.

And the castle mourned with them. The walls dimmed, the corridors wept condensation like tears. Will-o-wisps flickered low and quiet, guiding you slowly even when you no longer asked. They stuck to your clothes and your palms, and did not have the heart to leave you alone.

And Thrain watched with the most solemn of gazes.

When you grew too afraid of your own chambers, he stood beneath your window all night. When you refused to eat because you thought the food was poisoned- memories of old war resurfacing from broken pathways- he let you feed him first, licking berries from your hand until you giggled faintly and took a bite yourself. He walked the castle grounds with you in silence, letting you lean against his massive shoulder when your steps faltered.

But none of it stopped the slow unraveling.

One morning, you looked into a mirror and didn’t recognize the face staring back. You reached out and touchd the glass, brows furrowed. “Who is she?”

Kyle was behind you, hands full of ribbons meant for your hair, and he hesitated. “That’s… you, love.”

You blinked, tilting your head. Slowly, a strange expression on your face, you pulled back. “She looks sad.”

He swallowed hard. “You’ve been hurting. But we’re going to fix it.”

“You promise?”

He knelt, took your hand, and kissed your knuckles. “All of us. Every damn one.”

Another day, you looked at John- his beard newly trimmed, his eyes soft and hopeful- and asked him quietly, your hands twisting the soft fabric of your dress. “Are you my husband?”

His face broke, the way cliffs crumble slowly into the sea.

You don’t remember the look he gave you. But you remember that night’s dream- a whisper of a man in a blue cloak with hands like warmth and a voice like thunder saying: “Yes, love. Always.”

And somewhere in your heart, you think you believed it. Even if you didn’t understand why, even if you didnt remember when.

“Will you still love me when I forget what love is?”

“Yes, love. Always.”

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alice-angel12x · 2 months ago

Text

The Blue Knight pt.3

The complicated heart arch.

<- Part 2/ Part 4 -> this way

It was a challenge as we continued our journey through beast yeast. Each step of the way, we would find another shard of the light of freedom. Each time I would see this Silent salt figure and the green hooded figure, Bliss Butter.

But we continued to press on, till we came across a real Fairy Cookie! According to Pure Vanilla, White Lily Cookie had met this fairy. They saw it in the vision from the light of freedom.

I wish I weren't so out of the loop and receiving completely different visions. Nonetheless, the fairy Silver Bell Cookie led us to the Fairy kingdom to see White Lily Cookie.

-------------------------------------

Y/n and the others stood in awe at the beautiful kingdom made of plants and silver. The fairies sing a song to white lily cookie in the hope of her return. She is a hero, a savior of sorts to these cookies.

Y/n's heart tightens slightly, not helping with their slight sting of inferiority. Eventually, Silver Bell led them to a glass case, inside was the hero herself.

'Wow, she is really pretty,' Y/n thought to themselves. ' No wonder Pure Vanilla's heart still flutters for her.'

Y/n watched as Pure vanilla stood over her case, eyes full of longing. But just as Pure Vanilla explained the light of freedom, a new fairy arrived.

"Silver Bell! I hear you let outsiders into our kingdom," The gray and silver fair said.

"Ah! Mercy Knight Cookie! These cookies are friends of White Lily Cookie," Silver Bell explained.

"Well, his majesty has ordered that these outsiders be brought before him.

"The king wishes to see us?" Gingerbrave asked in awe.

"Elder fairy... He should have many answers about white lily Cookie's past, and this great calamity," Pure Vanilla thought aloud.

"Then let's not keep his majesty waiting," Y/n nods.

--------------------------------------------

The group stood before the king, a moderately tall Cookie with a slim build, somewhat elderly periwinkle eyes and pointed eyebrows, and dark magenta dough. His pale lavender blue hair is styled into triangle bangs.

"So it is you. Those who claim to be white Lily cookies' ally," He says slowly. "Well, all but one of you."

He looks at Y/n Knight Cookie.

"I never met her, so I can't say I am. But Pure vanilla sees her as an ally, so I will too," Y/n Spoke, giving a nod to Pure vanilla who smiles back.

"I see cookies who bear the fate of the Dessert world on their shoulders before me," Elder Faeie Cookie says.

"A cookie who controls his own fate with his bravery," The king looks to Gingerbrave.

He shifts his gaze to Strawberry and Wizard Cookie. " A warm-hearted cookie who always puts her friends first. And a Cookie of short stature."

Wizard Cookie was a bit annoyed that his height was mentioned.

"And an ancient hero, a cookie of light who protects the balance of this world," He says as he walks past Y/n to Pure Vanilla.

"Your majesty, allow me to introduce us. This is Y/n Knight, Gingerbrave, strawberry Cookie, and wizard Cookie. And I am Pure Vanilla Cookie. We come from the land of Crispa. We have come to-"

"Find Dark Entrantress Cookie," the Elder faerie said.

"How did he know?!" Gingerbraves asked in awe.

"Since ancient times. I have protected this silver tree at the order of the witches." The King started to explain.

As he spoke Y/n's eyes wandered to the tree. A large tree with branches that twisted into the shape of the soul games. A large vine wraps around the trunk, keeping whatever is inside locked away.

As the fairies sang around the tree, visions flashed across Y/n's eyes. The tree on fire, the tree destroyed, the tree restored, a figure standing before the tree. They wore a green hood and a star-shaped candy jewel.

"The power of Virtue, purified by the witches themselves... The Soul Jam that you harness," Elder Faire's voice rings in Y/n's ear. "You are not the first to wield that power."

The faerie King began to tell the story of the legendary virtues, how they were to bring cookies into their golden age. But over time, they fell into darkness. As Y/n listened to the story, they couldn't help but feel like something was being left out.

"Excuse me, Your Majesty. I have a question," Y/n raised their hand.

"Yes?" The king asked patiently.

"Was there a beast who went by Bliss Butter Cookie? I think she had a star-shaped Candy Jewelry," Y/n asked slowly.

Everyone was silent. Pure vanilla and Co. were simply confused by the question. The fairies looked at her with bewilderment, but Elder Fairy tensed slightly. He walks closer to Y/n Cookie to whisper something.

"Hold onto that question," He says quietly.

He turns quickly and explains how to awaken White Lily Cookie. Just as Pure Vanilla Cokkie and the rest were about to leave, he noticed Y/n staying behind.

"Ah, Lov-.. Y/n, aren't you coming?" Pure Vanilla asked, concern in his voice,

"I need to speak with them, you go and collect the rest of the light of Freedom," Elder Faerie Cookie explained.

"I'll be fine, you go ahead," Y/n smiles slightly.

"Alright. We'll meet you back here, okay," Pure Vanilla replies.

Y/n nodes and quickly follows the fairy king.

--------------------------

The two walked silently through the kingdom's garden, and the silence was intense.

"So is there more to that story than you let on?" Y/n cookie asked.

"Indeed, for this beast stands apart from her peers. When the great witch created her, bliss butter was meant to be a guiding star. Guiding the cookies and her fellow virtues to the brightest possible future," The king explained.

"But when her peers fell to darkness, despair consumed her."

"So what happened? She doesn't seem to be sealed away with the others," Y/n pointed out.

"That's because Bliss Butter was Clever, and the power her soul jam granted her only more unpredictable," The king said darkly.

"What power?" Y/n asked.

"Bliss Butter's Light of Hope granted her the power to foresee every possibility. Meaning she could guide cookies to either fate or their doom. She saw where the beast's path led, so she pretended to aid the witch. From there, I am unsure why she vanishes. For all we know, this is all according to her plan," the Elder fairy said.

"So why keep this quiet? Why didn't you tell the others?" Y/n asked.

"Because after she vanished, the Blue Lily Dragon became the holder of her Soul jam. And she saw that the next holder would come asking about Bliss Butter," Elder Faeire Cookie pauses and looks to Y/n Sorrowfully. "And when that happens, Blue Lily Dragon would have long since perished. Leaving you with a heavy burden that I wouldn't even wish on my enemies."

__________________________________________________

DUN DUN DAAA!! till next chapter.

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brittle-doughie · 5 months ago

Text

Doomsday is Calling (Creme Republic)

———————————————————————

Cookie Union Officer: “Excuse me, sir. I can’t let you in.”

Pure Vanilla couldn’t believe it. He had arrived to the Creme Republic along with the other heroes and leaders to discuss the threat of the Beasts.

Yet he was being..turned away?

Cookie Union Officer: “That is right. Unfortunately, you were not invited and neither was your companion.”

White Lily Cookie: “I’m sorry, Pure Vanilla Cookie. I’ve tainted your reputation…”

Y/N Cookie: “Come on, can’t you make an exception? White Lily is not the same as Dark Enchantress Cookie.”

Cookie Union Officer: “Forgive me, Great Y/N Cookie, but haven’t you heard? The Vanilla Kingdom’s membership in the Union has been suspended due to ties with our enemy. As much as I hate going against your word, the Union has made their decision final on this matter.”

Y/N Cookie: “I…er…”

Clotted Cream Cookie: “….”

Golden Cheese Cookie: “….”

Pure Vanilla Cookie: “Y/N Cookie, please. You are also aware that the two are different, don’t you?”

Cookie Union Officer: “I’ll have to ask you to vacate the premises…”

———————————————————————

DOOOT!

Cookie Union Soldier: The forces of the Beasts. We’re doomed…argh! They’re cutting through our defenses!

Y/N Cookie: “Crumbs, we have to fall back to the last defense line!”

Dumpling Cookie: “Go! We’ll cover you!”

Y/N Cookie: “Come on, Cookies! We’re pulling back!”

Salsa Cookie: “They’re already here! Brace yourselves!”

Crowned Cupcake Cookie: “No Beast can ever put me away from you!”

Cookie Union Soldier: “Too powerful…ugh!”

The walls set up to protect the perimeter are brought down with a mighty force. You and the others brace yourselves for the impending attack.

Arrows fire right at Salsa Cookie, who did her best to dodge or deflect them, but it came at the cost of exhausting her. This left her with just a large enough blind spot for an arrow to strike her side, making her yell out in pain.

Burning Spice Cookie rushed at Crowned Cupcake, trading blows with their weapons. Both having a rush with their strikes, but share the same goal of bringing down the opponent before them. Crowned tried as she might, but one powerful strike was enough to send Crowned Cupcake flying back and landing next to you.

Dumpling Cookie, being left with no choice, readied her dual chopsticks.

A flash of purple light from amidst the smoke was all the warning she got before Silent Salt Cookie rushed at her with their blade, blocking them just in the nick of time.

You needed a bit to try and drag back Salsa and Crowned to safety, but that was barely enough before Dumpling herself was pushed back towards you.

Dumpling Cookie: “Go, Y/N Cookie. Run!”

Get it? :D

Y/N Cookie: “I won’t leave you!”

Mystic Flour Cookie: “Then allow me to do it for you. Fall.”

The three cookies before you started to cough as they turned pale.

Y/N Cookie: “No! What are you doing!”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Lookie lookie, I found my Cookie!”

Y/N Cookie: “I’ll stop you! No matter what it takes!”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Ooh, so scary~! Come on, Y/N Cookie. Your Guardians can’t save you this time~! Isn’t this just so fun to finally meet uninterrupted~?”

Mystic Flour Cookie: “This was a long time coming, Y/N Cookie. Futile as always to try and fight it…”

Burning Spice Cookie: “How incredibly BORING! Why did I expect a princess to entertain me with that effort!”

Silent Salt Cookie: “….”

Eternal Sugar Cookie: “Finally, my love! Oh, how I’ve waited all this time! I can way better than a dainty princess!”

Y/N Cookie: “You-“

Pure Vanilla Cookie: “No….”

Y/N Cookie: “What the?”

You turned to your right to see Pure Vanilla Cookie, his head down as he muttered his words. Was he watching this whole time?

His head suddenly snapped up and for the first time in ever, he was angry. He was very angry…

Pure Vanilla Cookie: “YOU WILL ALL REGRET COMING HERE! I WILL DESTROY ALL OF YOU!!!”

———————————————————————

#cookie run #cookie run x reader #cookie run x you #cr x reader #cookie run kingdom #crk x reader #cookie run kingdom x reader #cr kingdom #pure vanilla cookie #shadow milk cookie #burning spice cookie #eternal sugar cookie #silent salt cookie #mystic flour cookie

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saintsanddevils · 5 months ago

Text

Never Alone - pt 4

Aaric Graycastle x Fem!Reader

Summary: It’s time for Threshing! You and Aaric are separated and try to find a way back to each other. If you can stay alive.

Warnings: very graphic violence, blood, swearing, dragons being dragons, yearning, idiots in love

Author’s Note: part 5 might be turning up the heat for this slowly burning slow-burn👀

Word Count: 5.3K

Part Three | Part Five

————

-Threshing-

(Aaric POV)

The sharp blade of a dagger hovers inches from Aaric’s throat. Any closer, and the edge would cut open his artery, making him bleed out all over the forest floor.

With heaving breaths, he meets the eye of the enraged cadet. Snarling, the first-year tries to press in, throwing his weight, but once his eyes snap to his knife, Aaric takes his shot. He throws his elbow into his opponent’s gut, before leaning forward and biting his fingers. He coughs a yell, dropping the dagger on instinct. Aaric doesn’t waste time. He throws every ounce of strength into tackling the cadet to the dirt. The stolen dagger slides into his grip as he quickly slices the man’s throat.

Blood sprays, and Aaric dives out of its path. The man’s hands come up to stop the bleeding, but it’s too late. He heaves and chokes, flailing, before his body suddenly stills.

He’s dead within seconds.

Aaric stares at the body for a moment before glancing down at the blood-covered blade. He recalls Y/N’s words from this morning. “Threshing will be a breeze.”

He scoffs, wiping the dagger off the dead cadet’s trousers to clean it. He recalls the rattled smile she gave him before reluctantly walking away. He knew she was trying to be positive, even though she was obviously worried and afraid. Aaric felt the same, but not for himself.

That’s why he has to find her. Immediately. He has to make sure she’s okay, that she’s alive.

Looking up at the golden leaves of the trees, he takes a deep, steadying breath.

She’s alive. She can take care of herself. She’ll bond a dragon.

Aaric chants this over and over in his mind as he scales down the forest mountainside towards the valley. Distant roars echo through the trees as he treads carefully.

A sudden feminine scream that’s immediately cut off causes him to freeze. It was close by.

It’s not her, it’s not her, it’s not her.

The chant carries him through scaling across boulders, one eye on the sky as he tries to take cover under a tree. The grumble of a dragon shakes the ground he’s standing on before he sees a flash of red.

Shit.

For years, Aaric has been gifted the best education by highly acclaimed tutors. Part of that education was studying everything their kingdom knew about dragons. What he knew about Red dragons: if you find yourself cornered by one? You’re already dead.

Red scales gleam in the sunlight. Smoke fills the air as Aaric catches sight of a charred body in cinders lying in the dirt. He takes quick notice that the body is far too short to be Y/N. It emboldens him, but he keeps an eye on the Red as it breathes deeply, snarling.

By the luck of the gods, the dragon hasn’t noticed him yet. He stands near the dragon’s tail, which he notices slithers through the leaves, nearing him. With all the calm he can muster, he slowly backs away, inch by inch, to not draw the dragon’s attention.

Another distant roar suddenly echoes through the valley. But this time, it comes from behind Aaric. He curses every god he can name when the Red’s head swivels to look right at him.

The gleam in its gold eyes, where scars abound its hide, looks entirely too murderous for Aaric’s liking. He stills to appear less threatening, but it’s too late. The Red’s eyes narrow on the bloody dagger in the prince’s hands.

Fuck.

Aaric has seconds to dive out of the way before a stream of fire consumes the tree he was standing in front of. The fire follows him as he runs as fast as he can down the mountain, sliding through mud and leaves. He keeps his footing and just as the dragon’s fire stops, he ducks behind a boulder. He hears its growl as it prowls forward, toying with him.

If this is supposed to be a breeze, like Y/N said, it’s quickly turning into a cyclone.

Panic tries to choke him, but he uses her method of counting backwards from 100 to keep calm and stay centered. If he can’t focus and stay present, he’s dead.

A flash of black in his peripheral is what saves him from being this Red’s next meal. Three cadets stumble upon the scene, enraging the Red further and drawing his attention. Fire singes the air once more, but far from where Aaric hides. He doesn’t waste a second before bolting through the trees.

Where are you?!

Panting, he pumps himself faster. He sees the rise of a cliff up ahead and knows that he can get a good vantage point of the whole valley from there. He could try and see if Y/N is anywhere near him. If not, he’ll assume she’s on the other side. Being on that cliff would leave him entirely exposed to any dragons flying overhead that think he’s better as a snack than someone to bond with.

It’s a risk he’s worth taking for her.

Once Aaric stands on the edge of the stone cliff, he scans the horizon. He sees smoke and wings darting through the trees to the west. A river cuts through the mountains to the east. Basgiath’s towers can be seen to the north.

With a quick surveying of his surrounding area, he knows Y/N isn’t nearby. That seed of hope that was guiding him slowly dies.

What if I find her and it’s too late?

Flashes of the nightmares that plague him nightly flash to the forefront of his mind. Her lifeless eyes trained on him, haunting him for the rest of his life.

A chill slides down his spine.

Aaric and Y/N have known each other for most of their lives. He’s spent every birthday, for as long as he can remember, with her. If this is how she dies because of him, he’ll never forgive himself. They’ve both come too far for this to be their end.

Withering dread slowly fills him to the brim. He can’t imagine life without her. A day without her laughter, her charm, her threats, her smiles, is a day not worth living.

If she dies, she’ll never know that I—

Something large and sapphire-hued streaks through his vision, cutting off everything he can see before he finds himself staring up at very large golden eyes trained entirely on him.

The dragon assesses the prince before landing in front of him, sending Aaric scrambling backwards. He stares up at the looming dragon, fear and apprehension coursing through him. But the previous emotions of panic and worry from earlier echo through him in sudden shades of rage.

Y/N is out there, and he has to find her. He’s going to find her. She’s alive. And if the only way through this damn valley is to fight every dragon he can find to get to her? So be it.

He grips the dagger in his hand, standing his ground. A pregnant pause weighs heavily between them before the dragon throws back its head. With a deafening roar, the Blue levels their head to look Aaric directly in the eye.

“I have been looking for you.”

Aaric’s stomach drops as a deep, gruff voice rings through his mind. The golden eyes of the Blue Clubtail narrow on the dagger.

“Do you wish to kill me, Camlaen Aaric Tauri?” A wave of sulfuric breath washes over the prince. The dragon’s slitted eye contracts as a grumble fills his chest, resembling thunder. “I must warn you, if you try, your mate will surely die.”

—————

(Reader POV)

I’m going to die.

The thought echoes in my bones as fire singes at the heels of my boots. My feet pound through dirt and leaves as I race through the forest.

The Orange Scorpiontail is gaining on me, and the burning trees aren’t helpful as ash and embers rain down from their limbs. I duck and roll beneath a falling branch as the Orange roars loud enough to startle me. I lose my footing and stumble, sending myself sprawling to the ground. Mud cakes itself all over my leathers as I roll to a stop.

Taking quick stock of my limbs to ensure nothing is burned or broken, I stare up at the sky.

Holy shit, I’m alive.

I breathe a heavy sigh of relief. Once I establish only a few bruises and aching ankles, I glance over to see the other cadet who crossed my path just before the dragon showed up. She’s sprinting towards a boulder when a scaled jaw, full of sharp teeth as long as my arm, clamps down on her leg and drags her, screaming. I take my chances, hoping this will distract the Orange, and haul myself out of the dirt.

Smoke covers me as I bolt through the trees. I run as far and as fast as I can, putting as much distance between me and the Orange.

Crashing through bushes and twigs, I hurl myself out of the woods at the sound of rushing water. A river cuts through the forest, sparkling in the sunlight.

I catch my breath, relief washing through me when I notice no one is around. The Orange didn’t follow me.

Looking to the sky, I take stock of what I can see. Mountains line the valley where wings tumble through trees and various dragons fly in circles. I didn’t realize bonding a dragon would be so difficult.

Late last night, Aaric had snuck out of the men’s dorms to meet me. We stole away to an alcove with a window overlooking this very valley I’m standing in now. Aaric’s face was tense with concern and worry. We both knew we wouldn’t be together during Threshing. It made everything harder, but we had to trust we would stay alive.

I close my eyes, letting the wind caress my face in the brief stillness.

He’s alive. He’s too stubborn and arrogant to die.

Aaric remained the top of the class for the last month, whether that be in academics or training. It’s not hard to guess he’s breathing and probably already bonded.

I swear to Malek if he’s bonded before me, I’ll—

A dagger whistles by, inches from my face, before embedding itself into the trunk of the tree I’m standing next to. Heart in my throat, I whirl to see two broad cadets standing in the trees. It’s plain to see the murderous intent on their faces as they asses me.

I don’t turn my back on them as I begin to walk backwards towards the river’s edge.

“Looks like we caught ourselves a mouse,” the one with a large, imposing nose drawls.

The other smiles, cold and menacing. Old burn scars cover the left side of his face, making him look even more threatening. “Let’s catch it,” he snarls.

Big Nose darts forward, daggers in hand. I reach behind, finding my throwing knives strapped tightly to my waist. With the flick of a wrist, two blades sail through the air. Big Nose dives out of the way, but the Burned Guy shouts in pain.

“You bitch!” The knife sticks out of his upper thigh. His eyes burning with hate as he limps forward, blood seeping through his pant leg.

“Careful,” I smirk. “The next one will castrate you.”

This mouse has sharp teeth.

Big Nose bounds towards me, trying to tackle me to the ground, but I maneuver out of his reach, backing onto the rocks lining the river. My hands brace my knives in my grip as I try to keep both cadets in sight.

As if he’s reading my mind, Big Nose whistles low to Burned Guy. They take either side of me, forcing me to choose. Burned Guy is injured, his limping growing more severe as he gets closer. He’s not much of a threat. Big Nose, however, with his daggers extended, is more intimidating.

Choice made, I face Big Nose fully just as I throw a blade towards Burned Guy. I hear him swear just as Big Nose aims to punch me in the face. I swerve before slashing at his chest, hard enough for the leather to give beneath the blade to draw blood.

Big Nose hisses before barreling towards me. I dive between his legs, tripping him with my foot as I go. Just as I turn to watch him fall into the rocks head-first, pain rackets up my skull as someone yanks my hair. I gasp in pain as I’m dragged backwards.

“Two against one,” Burned Guy huffs. “Stop fucking around and die already.”

Using my hair, he turns my face to look up at his, blood trickling from his injured leg and arm. I smile at the sight of my knives sticking into him like a pin cushion. Too bad he’ll have to deal with one more.

With every ounce of strength I possess, the throwing knife already gripped in my palm slams to the hilt into his crotch.

The scream Burned Guy unleashes is hair-raising. He lets me go as he falls to the rocks, crying and panting. His screams are blood-curdling as my knife’s grip sticks out of his pants right where his dick is.

“Told ya I’d castrate you,” I wink.

One down, one to go.

As soon as I look away, I’m caught around my middle by two large arms and thrown to the ground. The air is knocked out of me, causing me to wheeze as sharp rocks dig into my back. Big Nose holds his arm to my throat, crushing my windpipe. His body pins me to the ground.

Spots fill my vision as I scramble to punch him in the ribs, kick him in the groin, the leg, anything. He doesn’t budge. He only holds me more with his full weight, not holding back like Aaric does on the mat.

Panic begins to grip me as I try to reach for a knife, only to find the holster empty.

“Out of toys, bitch?” Big Nose spits in my face. His other hand grips my arm, pressing it into the sharp rocks before skin begins to break.

“You didn’t have to fight like that, ya know,” he huffs. “We would’ve taken care of ya. Made it quick. Besides,” he leans closer, my head swimming from lack of oxygen. “I’ve always loved a woman on her back.”

A shriek dies in my throat as he shifts his weight, pinning me to grab something I can’t see. The dagger gleams in the sun as he holds it flat against my cheek.

“You’re pretty,” he smirks. “Not pretty enough to live.”

A sudden roar echoes through the air, startling the cadet on top of me. His attention is briefly torn from me, and I take my shot. I bite his arm as hard as I can before the skin splits and blood rushes into my mouth. Big Nose hollers, bucking off of me, but I’ve already reached for his loosened grip on his knife. I tear it from his hand and throw my weight into tackling him to the rocks, pinning him as I thrust the dagger downward, straight into his eye socket.

Blood sprays from the wound, pooling into the soaked rocks beneath. He screams and thrashes as I rip it back out before plunging it into his throat, opening his artery and cracking the bone of his spine.

He’s dead instantly.

Sharp air slices my lungs like knives as my fingers let go of the pommel. I slide from his body, heaving.

The spots in my vision have begun to fade, and the flow of oxygen in my lungs slowly steadies me. The smell of autumn leaves and wet stone grounds me before I remember the roar from earlier.

A Red Daggertail, with scars covering the entirety of its scales, prowls towards me. Its tongue licks the air like a serpent, tasting the scent of blood.

I’m so fucked.

My heart stops as I freeze on the riverbank. I stare at the golden eyes, wondering if I’m supposed to be feeling something apart from fear. Is this dragon debating between bonding with me or eating me?

A snarl fills the silence as its lips curl, revealing sharp teeth that could crack me in half. It definitely wants to eat me.

Just as I try to move backwards, it lunges.

Another roar cracks the air, but this time, from behind me. I don’t take my eyes off the imminent threat as the dragon stops just before me, eyes snapped up to what is surely another dragon behind me.

I find myself caught between two dragons and I pray to every god there is that this isn’t the Orange Scorpiontail from earlier.

Sulfuric breaths heave behind me, shifting my hair. I freeze on the rocks, hoping the two dragons don’t notice me.

When the Red’s burning eyes snap to mine, I know I’m dead.

I’m so very, very fucked.

The Red darts forward, widening its jaws as it dives for me. In a blink, the dragon behind me rushes in, massive jaw clamping around the Red’s exposed throat and tearing it open. The dragon’s blood sprays the air, masking the world in a brief kaleidoscope of crimson.

The dragon behind me gleams like emeralds as it rips the hide of the Red and cracks the bones of its neck. The fight is over in a minute, and I sit there, dumbfounded and terrified, as the Red’s body slumps into the stream. Blood trickles from its torn neck, turning the crystal water red.

My breaths come out shallow and rough, jackhammering through me as I stare in shock at the dead dragon.

Holy shit, I just watched a dragon kill another dragon.

The ground rumbles like an earthquake as the Green dragon that’s hovering above me roars into the sky. When it’s done, the dragon huffs steam into the dead face of the Red before snapping its attention to me.

“Krik wanted to make you his next meal. I could not allow that to happen.”

The voice that carries into my mind is feminine. It’s soft as the wind and thunderous as a storm. Her eyes are a deep gold, like all dragons, but there’s a ring of green tinted silver around the slitted iris.

I stare in both wonder and bone-rattling fear as she moves her body closer to me.

“Do not be afraid, Y/N Y/L/N. It does not become you.”

I huff an incredulous laugh, but it’s cut off by the sounds of branches snapping. I twist to see the Orange Daggertail from earlier, snarling and kicking at the dirt as it emerges from the tree line.

And it looks pissed.

The Green (I glance to the tail of the dragon that just fucking talked to me as if that was completely normal) Swordtail stands tall, raising her head as she settles herself above me. Almost like she’s… claiming me.

They’re definitely communicating to one another as snarls and growls fill the space between them. The Orange begins to look more and more hostile, maybe even a bit rabid with blood soaking its teeth. I quickly get to my feet, backing into the Green since she saved my life already. She might do it again.

The leaves of the trees rustle and the branches bend as the wind picks up. My hair whips in my face just as a large shadow soars above before landing between the Orange and the Green. Shimmering sapphire scales that end with a tail in the shape of a club sit before me and the Green. A Blue Clubtail. And it’s the biggest dragon I’ve ever seen. It’s stunning.

The Green Swordtail isn’t happy to see whoever this is, that much is obvious. She snarls and bends forward to flash her teeth at the Blue. The Blue whips around as if chastising the Green.

I look up at my dragon. “Is he a threat too?”

The Green huffs. “One of the most stubborn, territorial, protective, and dangerous males in the Empyrean.”

I nod. “So, you’re not on good terms, I take it?”

“He interferes to protect us.”

I furrow my brows. Why would he do that?

As if in answer to my question, a cadet slides down the leg of the Blue dragon with ease. As if he’s done this a hundred times. Sandy-brown hair whips in the wind as he races towards me.

My heart pounds in my chest erratically at the sight. Aaric.

Unbidden, tears spring to my eyes as he rushes to me. I take quick stock of his body, noticing only a few cuts and fresh-blooming bruises before he tackles me into a hug. I laugh into the embrace, a tear falling down my cheek as he holds me.

The embrace is so familiar that it brings me back to every moment I’ve ever held him. Every breath, laugh, and smile I’ve shared with him.

He’s here. He’s alive. I’m alive.

I grip him like my life depends on it, gasping a sob into his shoulder. I don’t even care if dragons surround us, not even if this Orange attacks us while we hold one another. Nothing matters but Aaric.

I can feel his arms touching me in various places to ensure I’m all here. That I’m whole and uninjured. I smile before a blush rushes to my cheeks when his hands find purchase low on my hips.

“Are you alright?” He says into my ear. “Molvic warned me you’d be dead if-“

I pull back, smiling at him. “Molvic? You bonded?”

He nods, looking over his shoulder at the Blue Clubtail. Molvic. “He found me.”

Like she found me.

Molvic growls again, this time, raising his body to stand over the Orange in an obvious play for dominance. I notice the Green above me shake her head as if she’s rolling her eyes at him.

The Orange cowers before snarling again, lunging forward and snapping its teeth. The Green snaps back, but Molvic intervenes and cuts the Orange off.

Aaric shifts me further behind him as he turns to face the scene. I gasp as Molvic snaps his teeth inches from the Orange’s throat. He roars in its face, loud enough to make both Aaric and I cover our ears. The Orange finally relents before readying its wings and taking off into the sky.

Aaric’s tight grip slackens as the Orange fades from view and we’re left with Molvic and the Green.

“Did he just save us?” I question aloud.

“His involvement makes me look weak,” the Green snarls in my head. “I can protect my own.”

“We flew over as fast as we could,” Aaric turns back to me, only now noticing the blood staining my chin. His fingers automatically touch the skin, sending a jolt of awareness through me. “What the hell? Are you okay?”

I shrug. “It’s not mine.”

Aaric raises a brow before surveying the area around us, catching sight of the two dead cadets and the blood soaking the ground. “What happened?”

“They cornered me, followed me, maybe they were even hunting me,” I shrug before bending down to retrieve one of my fallen knives. “Either way, they’re dead and I’m alive.”

Aaric stares at me. “Obviously.”

His gaze finds the knife embedded into the crotch of Burned Guy’s dead body, and his eyes go comically large. “Holy shit, Y/N.”

“The prick deserved it for pulling my hair. I even warned him that would happen.” I nod to the other dead cadet. “Big Nose was harder to take down.”

Aaric whips around to me. “Big Nose?”

“Didn’t really have time to ask for his name while he tried to slit my throat, you know?”

Aaric tenses, his eyes honing in on my exposed neck. “Did he hurt you?”

I step closer to reach for his tightly closed fist. I smooth my fingers over his skin until he finally opens his and wraps them around mine.

I won’t ever lie to him. “Yes, he did. They both did.”

Aaric’s posture is rigid from the confession. If the cadets weren’t already dead, they’d be slaughtered by now. By his hand. The overprotective bastard.

“Did they suffer?”

I smile, squeezing his hand. “You bet.”

He relaxes slightly. “Good.”

The snarling of the dragons behind us has us turning to look at them. Whatever conversation they’re having is not going well.

“You think your dragon is going to kill mine?” Aaric whispers under his breath.

I shake my head, warmth spreading through me as he claims the Green as mine. “She’ll kick his ass, just like I can kick yours.”

That makes Aaric smirk. “Try taking me on tomorrow, and we’ll see about that.”

The snapping and gnashing of teeth have us tensing as the Green whips her tail around to face away from the Blue. Molvic closes his eyes as if he’s frustrated.

“Guess our dragons aren’t friends,” I whisper.

“Molvic and I can hear you,” the dragon hisses in my mind. I startle at her clipped tone. “Also, I have a name. I am Kesilarryium, Sword of the Realm. Not “the Green” as you keep calling me.”

A chill runs down my spine from her full name, just as warmth rushes to my cheeks in embarrassment. Nothing like being called out by your own bonded dragon.

I try to attempt her name in my mind, but she stops me.

“Call me Kesi.”

A strange, overwhelming sense of rightness fills me, as if her name and our bond are something I’ve been missing for years. I feel found, whole.

“As do I,” her tone is softer now as her large eyes snap to mine. “And to be clear, Molvic and I are not friends,” she sneers at the Blue who bows his head in submission as she flashes her teeth.

“We are mates.”

————

By the skin of my teeth, we make it to the flight field. I’m shocked I’m still breathing when Kesi lands. My teeth rattle in my skull from the force. I breathe deeply, staring out at the other dragons on the field. My fingers are raw and bleeding from holding onto her scales for dear life. The mud on my leathers is now fully dry and begins to crack as I maneuver myself off Kesi’s back. I practically fall from her leg before landing on my feet in the grass.

“We will have to work on your dismounting to ensure you do not break your neck.”

I wince. I guess it looked worse than I thought.

I catch sight of Molvic soaring overhead before landing next to Kesi with his wings fully extended. It looks like Kesi rolls her eyes as she shifts away from him. Molvic huffs, steam billowing from his nostrils as he stares at her in annoyance.

If I didn’t know they were mates, I’d assume they hate each other.

Mates. The word echoes in my head like a church bell. They’re rare and unheard of nowadays. The only mates I’ve heard of are Violet’s and Xaden Riorson’s dragons. At least Aaric and I are in the same year, so it won’t be difficult to deal with a mating bond.

Kesi growls low at Molvic, who huffs smoke in her face.

Oh gods, if they keep this up, they’re going to prove me wrong.

Aaric comes into view on Molvic’s shoulder before he slides down his dragon’s front leg and lands gracefully, to my utter annoyance.

“Of course you’re a natural at this,” I shake my head.

Aaric gives me a cocky grin as he comes to stand with me. “Jealous?”

I give him a sly smirk. “Why should I be jealous of a royal know-it-all?”

“Just admit it,” he winks. “I’m good at everything.”

I roll my eyes. “Not everything.”

His eyes slide to my mouth, causing my breath to get caught in my throat. ”Care to find out?”

Holy shit.

My pulse is racing as Aaric takes a step closer. I’m very, very, aware of every single part of him as his fingers come up to move a strand of loose hair out of my face.

“I was terrified I wouldn’t make it in time,” he whispers. “Molvic was super cryptic and made it seem like you were close to dying and—“ he visibly swallows, my eyes tracking the movement. “I couldn’t stand the idea of it.”

My eyes slowly meet his. “Of what?”

His green eyes are dark and enticing as he breathes out, “Losing you.”

His hand reaches up, sliding across my cheek. From months of hard training, his skin is calloused. It’s rough and warm against my skin, but comforting all the same.

I lean into him, gazing up through my lashes. “I thought I’d lose you too.”

The confession hangs heavy between us as we stare. As if gravity pulls us together, my face lies inches from his. Any closer and my lips would be—

“Uh, are your dragons alright?”

The voice startles us, springing us apart. I look over to see Sloane staring up at Kesi and Molvic, oblivious to what she just interrupted.

I can’t even meet Aaric’s eyes as warmth floods me. Gods, did we almost just—?

“We think they’re fighting,” Aaric coughs out, his voice strange and thick. “They’re mates.”

Sloane’s eyes are huge as she looks at the both of us. “Mates?! Holy shit.”

I nod, my cheeks still flaming, but I press on, still not looking at Aaric. “Yeah, it was a surprise to us, too.”

She looks between us for a moment before a smile curves her lips. “Honestly? Makes sense this would happen to you two.”

I tense. “What?”

Just before she answers, Rhiannon Matthias calls all the first-year cadets to attention, motioning over to the Scribe table where they’ll record our bonded dragons’ names. I catch sight of Violet standing next to her, who’s beaming at me. I smile back.

Aaric is at my side again, this time looking flustered. He won’t meet my eyes as he nods to the end of the field. “Guess we should—“

“Yeah,” I rush, interrupting him awkwardly.

Silence blankets us for a moment before Aaric begins walking ahead of me, his fists tight and shoulders bunched. I wonder why he’s so uptight.

“Your mate is frustrated he did not get the chance to kiss you.”

I startle, whirling to stare up at Kesi in bewilderment. My what?!

If dragons had eyebrows, she’d surely be raising hers at me. “Your mate. Your partner. Your lover. Whatever you humans like to call your significant others.”

I trip over my boots, catching myself before I fall into the dirt. Aaric?! He’s not my mate! He-he’s my best friend.

Kesi just stares at me. “The prince tried to kiss you.”

I shake my head. No, he didn’t. Nothing happened.

“You are in denial. Lying to yourself does you no favors, Y/N.”

I balk.

“Molvic agrees.”

I glare up at her. Don’t you dare give me relationship advice when you clearly are having issues with your own mate.

“So you agree, the prince is your mate?”

No!

I stomp away from her, frustration wracking up my spine as I find Aaric in the crowd of cadets lined before the waiting Scribes. His brows are furrowed and his jaw is clenched as if he, too, seems to be arguing with Molvic like I was with Kesi.

When his eyes meet mine, my stomach drops. I truly think I’m imagining the longing shining in his eyes. The obvious regret of something I wish I understood.

I tear my gaze away, panting. If my feelings for Aaric were complicated before, now it’s worse with two nosey dragons in our business.

We’re friends.

Friends.

I keep chanting it to myself to keep the doubt at bay. I’ve had years to keep my feelings hidden, ensuring Aaric never knows how I feel about him. It’s better if I get a grip on myself before it leads to eventual heartbreak.

We’re just friends. Right?

————

• moodboard of Kesi & Molvic below •

the fanart of Aaric is by etherealbookart, all other images are from Pinterest

Taglist: @bookishnerd1132 @abysshaven

@annthepenguin

‼️anyone can be added to the taglist so please let me know if you want to be tagged in the future

#fourth wing #aaric graycastle #aaric graycastle x reader #aaric x reader #cam tauri #fourth wing fanfic #fourth wing fanfiction #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x reader #iron flame #iron flame spoilers #onyx storm #fourth wing reader insert #fem reader #reader insert #the empyrean #onyx storm fanfic #angst #never alone aaric series

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acoraf · 10 months ago

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It just occurred to me while reading the conversation where Casteel finally opens up about Shea, that I don't think he ever told Poppy that Shea is Alastirs daughter.. But he is talking to her like she knows, which she shouldn't, when he hasn't told her 🙃

I'm sure it's just an oversight, unless he has a kazoo-kid moment later, or Kieran maybe told him Alastir talked, but xdoubt, lol

🫶📚🐛��

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iamnotoriginalphil · 6 months ago

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Royal Duty (Agatha Harkness x f!Reader)

Synopsis: Apparently princesses aren't meant to fall in love with their lady's maids. If only someone had told you that. If only you weren't meant to be marrying someone else. If only you had a way out of it.

Words: 4.1k

Warnings: Possessiveness, oral (R receiving), fingering (R receiving), marking, semi-public sex, teasing, jealousy

Tags: @sasheemo @buttercandy16 @chlondykebar @midnight-lestrange @babybeeelle @dontsblameme@grilledcheeseandguavajelly

“I can’t believe they’re doing this.”

You watched Agatha pacing in front of the fire she’d stoked not moments before. Lounging on your bed, having given up undressing when it became clear Agatha wasn’t going to be any help, you were watching her fume. She was stomping, teeth gritted, hair flying from where you’d let it down with deft fingers.

“Sweetheart,” you said, wondering if it would be possible to distract her before she really got going.

“It’s barbaric,” she growled, “don’t pretend as if you’re okay with this.”

“It’s not about being okay with it,” you said.

“And I’ve seen that so called princess. She’s puny. She can barely hold a sword. No one will ever find her intimidating,” she said, flinging the words out.

“Do we want her to be intimidating?” you mused, lying back to stare at the canopy above your bed.

“And you’re kidding yourself if you think her people will ever respect her. That advisor of hers is going to walk all over her until before you know it he holds all the power and you’re nothing but a puppet,” she continued.

“I’ll happily be a puppet if it’s your hand going up my skirt,” you said.

She paused, slow to spin towards you. You stretched your arms over your head, arching your spine, displaying yourself for her.

“Stop trying to distract me,” she said.

“Oh, you’re more than welcome to keep going.” Your fingers plucked at the strings of your dress, “but you’ll have to help me slip out of this while you do. I’d like to take my bath before the sun rises.”

“You’re playing dirty, pet,” she growled.

She advanced on you, blue eyes flashing. You grinned, raising your foot to press against her shoulder. Her fingers curled around your ankle, sliding it over her shoulder as she crawled towards you. Pushing the skirt up, her lips ghosted along the skin of your leg.

“It’s not dirty if you get what you want from it,” you sighed.

Her teeth nipped at the soft skin of your inner thigh. The noise you made only caused her to sink her teeth in deeper, most likely leaving a bruise. You loved when she got all possessive.

“If I was getting what I wanted, you wouldn’t be about to marry some idiot princess from the next kingdom over,” she said.

“Alright, you’re getting the second thing you want,” you laughed.

“Which would be?” She raised an eyebrow at you.

The heel of your foot pressed between her shoulder blades, guiding her towards where you wanted her most. The heat of her mouth on your most intimate parts was exactly what you were looking for. Fingers tangling in her hair, you kept her pressed against you. You’d always said she had one of the most talented tongues in the kingdom, and she was doing a good job at proving it.

You huffed when she pulled away, the throbbing between your legs demanding to be seen to. She dragged the back of her hand across her chin and climbed off the bed. You pushed up onto your elbows, staring at her as she stared down at you, eyes smouldering as she took in your sprawled form.

“Time for your bath, my lady,” she said.

You took her offered hand, letting her pull you off the bed. The fire in your veins made you unsteady on your feet, and as her nimble fingers unlaced you from your dress, taking the opportunity to ghost over your skin, you wondered if this was payback for not putting up more of a fuss about your upcoming nuptials. Your lips parted, watching her undress you, watching as her eyes darkened with each inch of bare skin she revealed.

She helped you into the tub behind the privacy screen. You settled in the warm water, leaning back against the side, head tipping back as you sighed. Her hands were gentle as they poured water over your shoulders. You closed your eyes, muscles relaxing under her care.

It was when they started wandering further down your body that you squinted them back open, watching her face. She wasn’t looking at you, focusing on your body. Hands stroked over your breasts, avoiding where you wanted her touch most. You arched towards her, offering yourself to her, urging her on.

She took her time, teasing you until you were begging her. Her hand slid down her body, finding the throbbing she’d left unsatisfied. Your head fell back, finding her shoulder as her finger began to circle your bundle of nerves. Her name was a soft sigh on your lips. Your legs fell open and she chuckled against your ear.

“Looks like you’re not getting any less dirty, my lady,” she murmured, “I suppose I’ll just have to try harder.”

Her thumb ground against your clit and your breath turned stuttering. You didn’t notice your door opening until you heard your mother’s voice ring out in your bedchamber.

“Darling, we have to discuss arrangements for tomorrow.”

You started, sitting up straighter, water sloshing over the side of the bath. Agatha grinned, her thumb pressing down. You grasped her wrist under the water, trying to tell her to stop. Her mouth attached itself to your throat, tongue running over your skin. Her thumb was making your thoughts turn hazy.

“Your fiancée will be arriving tomorrow morning.”

Agatha’s finger slid into you as her teeth sunk into you. You pressed your lips together, stifling the moan that wanted to break free. Your mother kept droning on about the preparation for your fiancée’s arrival and the wedding. In one week you’d be a blushing bride.

“And of course I have the seamstress coming to to fit you for your wedding dress,” your mother said.

Another finger joined the first and you couldn’t help your legs falling open again to Agatha. She was sucking at your skin, purposefully leaving a bruise to be found later. You were trying to keep your breathing under control. Her free hand tweaked your nipple, pinching, rolling it between thumb and forefinger.

“You will of course be retiring here for your wedding night,” she said.

Agatha’s palm ground against your bundle of nerves as her fingers curled within you. You gasped, making a small noise before you could stop yourself. It was hard to care when you felt on fire.

“Are you alright in there, darling?” your mother asked.

“Yes,” you gasped, “I’m fine.”

“Only fine?” Agatha murmured to quiet for your mother to hear, her lips brushing the shell of your ear, “clearly I should start doing a better job.”

You whimpered, just the thought of it making your head spin. Her thrusts turned slow, each one drawn out, barely brushing your clit. You’d been close, worked up and on the edge. This was torture. Just enough to keep you panting, but not enough to be satisfying. That encapsulated Agatha perfectly; a tease.

“Now, darling, I’m afraid I have to tell you about the wedding night,” she said.

Agatha growled. Her fingers began to increase in pace, twisting and curling. The way her thumb was stroking over your clit had your hips meeting her thrust for thrust. The water was slopping over the edge of the tub, soaking the floor, but you couldn’t care. The heat was climbing in your veins, the coil tightening again.

“That’s really not necessary,” you gasped.

“No, no, I can’t let you be unprepared,” she said, “now, once you’ve retired for the night, it will be expected that you perform for your new wife.”

“Mother, I promise I know what’s expected of me,” you said before a soft moan passed your lips.

“And you’re rather good at meeting expectations,” Agatha whispered in your ear.

“You might know the theory but in practice it can be very different,” she said,

Agatha’s fingers kept hitting that spot within you that melted your tension away. Her mouth was back on your skin, sucking bruises, marking you as hers for the world to see. Her thumb was back to grinding against your clit. You were breathless, going mad, trying not to cum with your mother in the room. But Agatha was so skilled and you were losing control.

“I don’t want you to feel anxious,” she said, and you realised she was going to be there for the long haul.

“Mother, that is the last thing I’m anxious about,” you managed to say, breathless and desperate, “I promise.”

“Oh good, because if I’m being honest, this topic was making me rather uncomfortable,” she said, “now about your journey back to Eastview…”

“Can’t we discuss this tomorrow, Mother? I’m rather tired and would like to retire so I’m well rested for tomorrow,” you said.

“Of course, darling.”

You waited until you heard the door close again before a filthy moan passed over your lips. Agatha was laughing softly under her breath, fingers working you harder.

“Are you sure you don’t want your mother to explain how to please your wife?” she asked, “or do you think you’ve had enough practical experience?”

“Keep going and I’ll let you know if I need more hands on experience,” you replied.

When your orgasm crashed over you, you weren’t keeping quiet. Her name rang around your chambers, echoing as she brought you to the height of pleasure. Reaching up, you curled your hand around the nape of her neck, pulling her into a kiss. Her tongue was in your mouth, muffling your moans as you began to relax again.

Her hand retracted from between your legs, focusing on kissing you. Boneless and tired, you realised the water had cooled to a chilled temperature. Her lips brushed your temple.

“Shall we get you into bed?” she suggested.

“Are you going to be staying?” you asked, looking up into her sparkling eyes.

“Whatever you want, my lady,” she replied.

“Not quite whatever,” you muttered.

She helped you stand from the water, eyes sliding over your body with obvious appreciation. Holding out a towel, you let her pat you dry, enjoying the way it felt to be touched by her. You caught her face in both your hands, pulling her in for a lingering kiss.

She shucked her dress off, leaving her gloriously naked as she climbed into bed beside you. You curled up against her, cheek resting on her chest, arm thrown over her waist. Her fingers were stroking through your hair, untangling the knots left over from your long day.

“I wish it could be like this forever,” you said.

“I do too, pet,” she replied.

The next morning, sitting in the throne room, you were doing your best not to squirm as you thought about how Agatha had woken you up that morning. You’d been waiting longer than you thought you should have been. The contingency from Eastview was late. That was the only explanation. And while waiting, your mind wandered to the only woman who owned you body and soul.

You sighed, chin resting in your palm as you slouched in your throne. Your father’s advisor kept shooting worried glances at the door, his weight shifting from foot to foot. He snuck a look at your father who was looking more and more thunderous with every passing second.

A trumpet sounded, loud and jarring. You jerked up, straightening your spine, turning towards the door. They swung open, a large contingency of people entering. Leading the way, bright red hair and pale skin, Princess Wanda was looking furious. At her side, her brother strode, straight backed and regal looking in a way that you had never quite managed to capture. From the looks of things, neither had Wanda.

You were rushed through the introductions before you were thrown out to take a turn about the garden, chaperoned by Prince Pietro. Walking by Wanda’s side, neither one of you seemed capable of coming up with a conversation starter. The silence had settled over you and you weren’t sure how to break it. If it was any indication of how your future marriage would go, the years were going to be long.

You took a seat on a stone bench overlooking the lake. You’d spent plenty of summer days immersed in the cool water, hidden away from the windows of the castle. Long drawn out days with Agatha in the sun, being as lazy as possible.

“Your grounds are lovely,” Wanda said.

“Thank you,” you replied.

Silence reigned.

“It’s wonderful to see how much chemistry the two of you have,” Pietro said.

You shared an embarrassed glance with her before staring out at the water again.

Dinner wasn’t much better and by the time you went to bed you were certain you were in for the quietest marriage of all times. Luckily, crawling into bed beside Agatha, you could drown your despair in the way she gasped your mind and praised you. At the very least, you knew you were wonderful at one aspect of marriage.

The next day wasn’t much better. You went from fitting to fitting, getting ready for the big day with your mother, Agatha trailing along behind. You made meaningless decisions about the menu and the decorations and the guest list. None of it mattered to you. But the way Agatha’s eyes darkened when she saw you in your wedding dress did.

By the time dinner came around you were exhausted and desperate to soak in the tub again. Ideally with a naked Agatha in your lap. Instead, you were sitting beside Wanda, wondering if you might manage to string two sentences together. Only she was staring into her plate like it had personally offended her. You decided to leave it be.

The rest of the week followed the same pattern. The two of you were chaperoned everywhere you went together. You made preparations. You stopped caring, just trying to get through the day until it was you and Agatha alone together at night. The comfort you drew from those hours you spent with her was immeasurable. You wouldn’t trade them for anything.

Except the night before the wedding you couldn’t sleep. Despite Agatha’s arm thrown over your waist and the hours you’d spent tiring yourself out, you couldn’t manage to quiet the thoughts in your head. As you wriggled, trying to find a comfortable position, Agatha grumbled in her sleep, arm tightening around you. You stilled, burying your nose in her hair, breathing in the scent of her. You’d miss this. The quiet moments with Agatha were the ones you felt safest.

Slipping out of the bed, you tucked the covers around her before throwing on a robe and sneaking out of your bedchamber. The castle was quiet, not quite early enough for the servants to have begun preparing for the day, but not so late they were still retiring for the night. You let your feet lead you through the halls. The air was cool against your skin and the shadows were dark. The quiet was all encompassing, a shroud around your shoulders as you wandered the halls.

The library doors were already open when you arrived. You slipped inside, keeping them from creaking. On the chaise longue, a book open in her lap but her gaze staring out the window, your future wife had already made herself at home. You paused, watching her for a moment.

“I see you’re just as excited for tomorrow as I am.”

She jumped, whipping around to look at you. You offered her a strained smile, moving further into the room. Sinking down into one of the armchairs, plush and comfortable, you tried to work out what to say to her.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said eventually, her shoulders relaxing when you made no further move towards her.

“Dreading the morning?” you asked.

“Why would you assume that?”

You shook your head, pressing your lips together to hide your smile. She wasn’t asking with anger, more confusion. As if she couldn’t understand why this marriage may not be the wonderful event your parents had even framing it as.

“I suppose because I think this is the most we’ve spoken to each other all week,” you said.

She stared at you for a moment before she slumped back.

“You won’t tell your father, will you?” she asked.

“It’s not as if I’ve been showing you my best, either,” you replied, “and I don’t need another lecture about royal duty and what it means to serve the people.”

“I don’t want you to think it’s because of you,” she said.

“Oh, I take none of it personally,” you said, “it’s not like it’s the ideal situation for me, either. Although I’m sure you’re lovely.”

“It’s not?”

“Wanda, I don’t know you. I certainly don’t love you. And the person I do love I can’t marry,” you said.

“You love someone else?” she asked.

You blinked at her. Clearly the conversation was not about what you thought it was about. The love sick look of despair as she’d gazed out the window had seemed cut and dry. You’d thought you were in the same position here.

“Don’t you?” you asked in return.

“Well, yes, but I thought I was the only one,” she replied.

“Who is it for you?” you asked, leaning towards her.

“My personal guard, Sir Vision,” she said.

“He’s very tall,” you said, nodding along, “I can understand why you’d be drawn to him. I bet he’s strong too.”

“Very,” she said.

“I’m sure he swept you off your feet,” you sighed.

“He did,” she said.

“Why didn’t he offer you his hand in marriage?” you asked, “a knight and a princess? That’s an acceptable match.”

“He did,” she replied.

“You didn’t say no, did you?” you asked.

“Of course not,” she said, sounding offended at the implication.

“So you have two fiancees?” you asked, straightening up. You felt on the edge of working out the issue but you needed one more puzzle piece to fall into place.

“Of course not. What do you take me for?” she demanded, “I have a husband and a fiancee.”

You stared at her, your mouth falling open. Her eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her mouth. The silence stretched and stretched. Hope bloomed in your chest and you felt breathless.

There it was, the final puzzle piece.

“You can’t tell anyone,” she said, surging forward.

Falling to her knees in front of you, she grasped both of your hands in a vice like grip. You tried to tug out of her hold but she tightened her hands. You made a small noise, your circulation being cut off from how tight her grip was.

“Unhand her.”

You weren’t expecting the doors to crash open or the loud voice ringing out in the library. Wanda fell back, landing on her butt as a half feral Agatha rushed at her. Rising, you caught her around the waist, intercepting her before her nails could drag over the skin of the princess’s face. She snarled over your shoulder at the other woman.

“Agatha, stop,” you said, forcing her back a step.

“I won’t. You might have accepted that you’re going to be married off like some object to help ease into a political alliance, but I haven’t,” she growled, “she will never make you as happy as I can.”

“I know,” you said.

“You keep your hands off her. She’s mine,” she snarled.

“Of course I am,” you said.

“You can’t have her. I’m putting my foot down. She can’t have you,” she told you, finally looking at you again.

“Sweetheart, I’m beginning to think you might be a bit jealous.” You pushed her wild hair back from her face.

“Damn right I am,” she said.

“Well then, it’s good I’ve just found out some information that might lead to all of us being very happy,” you said.

“You… what?” You loved whenever you could surprise her into speechlessness.

“Yes, Wanda and I were just sharing secrets and it turns out any marriage between her and I may not be legal,” you said.

“You’re related?” she asked, eyes widening as she stared at your face.

“Better. She’s married,” you replied.

“Oh.” Blue eyes swept over Wanda, considering her with interest for the first time, “we can work with that.”

“You’ll do no such thing. No one can know,” Wanda said, straightening up as she glared at your lover.

“Wanda,” you soothed, letting Agatha go to approach her on slow feet, aiming not to scare her, “surely you don’t want to do this. You know neither of us will be happy.”

“It’s not about being happy,” she said.

“But imagine if it could be. We both have the means to be happy. We just need to work out how to have it without starting a war,” you said, gently taking her hands.

“I don’t see how,” she said.

“I do. We let the king know she’s already hitched and then you don’t have to marry her,” Agatha said, flinging herself down into the chair you’d vacated to keep her from scratching out the other woman’s eyes out and starting a war all by herself.

“Or, we all just disappear into the night and no one knows any better,” you said.

“Oh, when I suggest it you couldn’t possibly do it, but when you suggest it suddenly it’s a great idea,” Agatha grumbled and you just knew she was crossing her arms and pouting.

“I’m just saying, with the four of us we have a better chance of surviving and not being found,” you said, “he comes with a big sword.”

“You’ve never complained about my sword,” she muttered.

“I have an idea…” Wanda said, gazing out the window again, “but it might make everyone very angry.”

The next day, you were beyond nervous. If only one thing went wrong, then it would all be over. You were quiet as you were dressed, and you kept catching Agatha’s eye in the mirror. Her grin was entirely too predatory and you were certain she was going to give the game away, but your mother didn’t seem to notice anything. Not even when she slipped away

Walking down the aisle, you stared at the vision in white at the end. Large dress and veil obscuring her face, your stomach clenched. You held your breath, coming to stand across from her, wishing you could see the face underneath.

You did your best to get through the vows. The weight of so many eyes was making you feel twitchy. You grasped the hands of your bride, the callouses scraping against the palm of your hands. It helped settle you as you repeated your vows, squeezing her hands.

You tensed as she began to recite her vows, certain this was going to be the moment it all fell apart. But then it had passed and the end of the ceremony was approaching. When the priest told you to kiss the bride you held your breath.

Throwing the veil back, Agatha grinned at you. Swooping in, she dipped you, kissing you deeply, and despite your anxiety, you melted against her. You always did. Something about her had ruined you for anyone else.

Straightening, you heard the outcry from your parents, from Wanda’s parents, from all the people surrounding the two families. Agatha’s arm tightened around your waist, hauling you against her body. You stared into your father’s thunderous face.

“Sorry, Father,” you said.

“This… this…” He didn’t have the words to express how angry he was.

“I love her,” you said.

“What have you done with my daughter?” King Maximoff demanded.

“Sent her off on her honeymoon with Sir Vision,” Agatha replied, grinning at him.

The roar of voices shouting was loud. You flinched back. Agatha held you tighter as you did your best not to look like you were trembling.

“This is our cue to exit,” she whispered, lips against your ear.

You nodded. She grabbed your hand and then you were flying back down the aisle, leaving the madness behind. Agatha was laughing and you couldn’t help but join in. In the distance, you saw two figures on horses, making their way towards the road to the next kingdom over where a very nice inn was awaiting their arrival.

“Come, wife,” Agatha said, waving to the couple, “time to consummate this marriage.”

When your family finally thought to check your bedchamber for you, it was far too late to annul the marriage.

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness imagine #agatha harkness #agatha all along #aaa week

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lullaby-lilies · 26 days ago

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How they flirt with you {TROP Elves}

Considering this is my first time writing one of these, I’m starting with a small batch of characters and who better than the elves of TROP? But I’m very much open to writing for different characters within Tolkien’s world and, of course, from TROP! Actually anyone who walked on Middle-Earth. The Valar? Sure, why not!

┏ •◦ Galadriel, Elrond, Gil-Galad, Arondir, Celebrimbor •◦ ┓

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Galadriel

■ Calculated, laced with challenge, and guarded vulnerability. Galadriel flirts like one might wield a blade. Testing for weakness, dancing just close enough to wound or woo.

■ She stands tall, unyielding, but when intrigued, her eyes betray her. They soften not with warmth, but with recognition. You’ve caught her interest, and now she watches you like a predator circling its prey… or a queen considering a subject for her court.

■ Cool and clipped, but with sudden flashes of dry wit. She’ll challenge your intelligence with a single eyebrow raise or a quip like, “Is that truly your best argument?”

■ She rarely touches. If she does, it’s fleeting: a brush of fingers as she hands you a blade, the press of her palm against your chest to stop you in training. These touches linger in your mind far longer than in hers — at least, that’s what she pretends.

■ She will only allow flirtation if she senses you're her equal. She doesn't seek comfort — she seeks conviction, someone who might dare to stand beside her, not behind.

■ When she finally lets her voice drop — lower, more intimate — you’ll hear it for what it is: a fortress opening its gates an inch. “You… surprise me.”

⇢ ˗ˏˋElrond

■ Quiet reverence, layered in intellect and gentle affection. Elrond flirts the way rivers carve stone: slowly, patiently, but with undeniable effect.

■ He tilts his head when you speak, eyes gleaming with attention. His hands fidget when he’s nervous: tugging at sleeves, smoothing scrolls, brushing imaginary dust from books.

■ Soft, warm, laced with dry humor and the kind of intelligence that flatters without boasting. “You know… I find myself quoting you more than I’d like to admit.”

■ He always makes space for you in a crowded room. He’ll guide you gently by the elbow, offer his cloak before you ask, and pour your tea while distractedly scribbling notes about the way your eyes reflect starlight.

■ Elrond doesn't flirt for pleasure, he does so instinctively, seeking connection. He wants to understand you completely. Every word, every silence, every unfinished sentence.

■ He’ll give you something irreplaceable — a poem from his youth, a story no one else has heard — and say, almost shyly, “I’ve kept this… waiting for the right person.”

⇢ ˗ˏˋGil-Galad

■ Subtle and perfectly timed. His words are carefully measured, but his presence says everything. He flirts with restraint and watches to see if you notice the moment it cracks.

■ He never approaches too directly. He waits until your eyes meet across a corridor or hall — then inclines his head, ever so slightly. If he steps closer, it’s intentional.

■ Regal, eloquent, slow. He crafts compliments like wine — rich, refined, and meant to linger. “You wear the dusk well. It favors your kind of quiet fire.”

■ He never touches first. But if you brush against him, his response is deliberate. A slow turn of the hand to catch yours, a thumb brushed across your knuckles as if in contemplation.

■ Gil-galad has learned to love without showing it, to yearn without leaning. His flirtation is a series of calculated risks; each word carries weight. Each glance is a signal, a lock awaiting a key.

■ When he speaks plainly for the first time without titles, without strategy, it will shake you. “I have led armies. Held kingdoms. And yet… I find myself wondering what you think of me.”

⇢ ˗ˏˋArondir

■ Quiet, present, and deeply emotional. Arondir doesn’t flirt with words — he flirts with devotion.

■ He always notices your discomfort before you speak it. He will reposition a chair so the sun doesn’t blind you. He will step between you and danger without thinking. And he will never mention it.

■ Rarely speaks without meaning. When he says something personal, it feels like the world has paused to hear it. “You are… unlike any path I’ve walked.”

■ Carves small tokens for you. A leaf from a tree that only blooms once a year, your name etched in Quenya on smooth wood. He leaves them without ceremony, then pretends not to notice when you find them.

■ His love is not showy, but it’s constant. He’ll watch you with the kind of gaze that says, I would wait an Age for you. And mean it.

■ The moment he finally touches your cheek, eyes locked with yours, is the moment he’s decided — silently, permanently — that he is yours.

⇢ ˗ˏˋCelebrimbor

■ Excitable, intense, and terribly earnest. He flirts by accident… and then makes it worse by being too sincere.

■ Hair tousled from long nights in the forge, hands stained from work, he runs fingers through his hair when nervous. His eyes light up around you and he doesn’t hide it.

■ Fast-paced, bright, layered with admiration. He’s always a little breathless around you, like you’ve thrown off his rhythm. “Wait, wait, you don’t think this is brilliant? Look - look at this, tell me that curve isn’t perfect. I based it on your — well. Never mind.”

■ Constantly gives you things: a chain he meant to throw away but thought looked “nice,” a ring he insists is “just practice,” or a sketch he swears wasn’t you (it was).

■ He falls fast, and deep. But his fear of being used makes him hesitant to admit it. So he’ll bury affection in gifts, conversation, and genius-level distractions.

■ He’ll give you something unfinished and whisper, “I want you to be the first to see it… even before it’s perfect.”

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luna-azzurra · 2 months ago

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Pirate (m) x Royal (f) prompts/dialogue?

Dialogue Prompts—

❖ Tethered by Circumstance

Royal: “You really expect me to dine with a pirate?” Pirate: “Call it dinner. Call it a truce. Call it your only chance to stay alive until morning.” Royal: “I’d rather starve.” Pirate: [leans in] “Then starve beside me, Princess. I’m not hungry either.”

❖ Threats That Aren’t Quite Lies

Pirate: “Don’t look at me like that unless you want to be kissed or killed.” Royal: “And which would you choose?” Pirate: “…That depends. Would you kiss me back?”

❖ High Stakes, Low Voice

Royal: “You’re enjoying this. Me, helpless.” Pirate: “No. I’m enjoying you trying to pretend you’re helpless. There’s a difference.” Royal: “You think you know me?” Pirate: “No. But I’d burn a fleet to find out.”

❖ Bitter Truce

Royal: “If you touch me again, I swear—” Pirate: “You’ll what? Call your guards? You’re on my ship now. My rules. My ropes. My mercy.” Royal: “Then I hope your mercy is short-lived.” Pirate: “Darling, it always is.”

❖ The Betrayal (That Wasn’t)

Pirate: “You think I don’t know you were sent to kill me?” Royal: “If I was, you'd be dead.” Pirate: “Then either you’ve grown soft... or you’ve grown fond.” Royal: “I haven’t decided which is worse.”

Scene Prompts—

❖ Forced Proximity, But Make It Life-Or-Death

They’re caught in a cave during a rising tide. He lifts her onto a ledge, their bodies pressed close as water floods below. She’s shivering, angry, panicked. He says nothing for a long moment—then quietly presses his forehead to hers and mutters, “If we die here, at least I’ll die remembering you finally shut up.” Later, when they survive, she pretends not to remember he held her hand the whole time.

❖ The Dance at the Enemy's Masquerade

They reunite in disguise. She’s undercover at a noble’s ball, and he’s infiltrated the same event—masked, suited, dangerous. He pulls her into a dance to keep her from being spotted. They’re inches apart. Neither speaks of the past. But every step is a memory. Every glance, a scar. When the music ends, he whispers against her ear: “Next time, Princess, don’t leave your dagger where I can find it.” She reaches for it—gone. Her thigh holster’s empty.

❖ Enemies by Blood, Allies by Fire

When her kingdom is attacked by traitors from within, he shows up to save her—not out of nobility, but because no one gets to kill her but him. He fights by her side in the burning palace, sword flashing like a storm. She spits blood, cornered. He appears behind her: “I told you not to die. I meant it.” Later, she finds his hands trembling from wounds—but he won’t let her see.

❖ Tenderness in the Shadows

She stitches a wound on his shoulder after a failed raid. He won’t meet her eyes, for once not smirking or teasing—just quiet. Exposed. Human. Royal: “You’re not what I expected.” Pirate: “Neither are you. Guess we’re both disappointments.” Pause. Royal: “Not to me.”

❖ Final Battle? Final Confession.

He’s ready to be executed. Shackled, bloody, bruised. She walks in. Crown on her head. Voice like steel. But her hands tremble. Royal: “Give me one reason not to sign your death warrant.” Pirate: “Because you still look at me like I’m not a monster. And that might be the only truth I have left.” She doesn’t sign it. But she doesn’t unshackle him either.

Bonus Little One-Liner Feels

“You hate me, Princess, but you never run.”

“We’re not enemies, love. We’re just a story no one dares to tell.”

“You can’t keep looking at me like I’m worth saving. I’m not.”

“You smell like fire and silk. I should have known you’d ruin me.”

“You keep trying to win. But I never asked you to fight me.”

“I don’t want your kingdom. Just you. Damn your crown.”

#writing #writerscommunity #writer on tumblr #writing tips #writing advice #writer tumblr #writblr #writing help #pirates #pirate oc #fantasy oc #fantasy #fantasy prompts

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callikari · 1 month ago

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INSIDE ★ MY ROOM

PRECIS 。 "stacks from all sides."

西村力 x fem!reader 831 idol au suggestive enemies to lovers dynamic inspiration from here ─ heavy flirtation skinship suggestive content ( still sfw) tension filled

REBLOG FOR A KiSS

the sleek black van slides to a stop under a barrage of flashing cameras.

the door opens like a curtain rising on a show.

you step out — black velvet sculpted to your body, slit high enough to steal breaths, neckline daring enough to break every phone’s autofocus. the crowd explodes—shouts, flashes, phones raised like weapons.

you catch his eyes through the chaos. riki’s stare cuts through the sea of photographers, silence folding around him the moment you appear.

your movements are slow, deliberate—shoulders back, heels clicking sharp on the pavement, eyes sharp as blades under the glare.

something twists in his chest, magnetic and raw.

his jaw tightens, an unspoken tension flickering in his gaze.

the cameras swarm you like a storm, but you don’t flinch.

you step forward, head held high, every inch the queen of this night.

and riki — watching, caught — can’t look away.

because no matter what he tells himself, this isn’t just your world anymore — it’s your kingdom.

the lights blaze down as you step onto the stage, the crowd’s roar swelling like a tidal wave. cameras flash nonstop, every eye burning holes in your silhouette — black velvet hugging your curves, slit slicing the spotlight just right.

riki watches from the wings, his gaze locked on you with a heat that makes your skin prickle.

the music starts — a sultry, pulsing remix that fills the room with a heavy rhythm, every bass drop a heartbeat you can feel deep in your chest.

you move center stage, every step measured, every glance calculated.

riki moves around you like a shadow—slow, deliberate, impossible to ignore.

“don’t pretend you’re not playing,” his voice cuts through the music, low and rough over the mic.

“unless you’re ready to lose.”

his hand brushes your waist — choreography, technically — but it lingers just long enough for the cameras to catch the electric spark, your satin choker tickling his knuckles.

your pulse flutters, but your expression stays ice-cold.

you turn toward him, slow, deliberate. chin raised, breath hot near his mouth.

“i’m not the one fumbling here, riki.”

the crowd roars, but behind the scenes, the cameras zoom in on the reaction shots—other idols frozen mid-smile, eyes wide, jaws tightening, whispering among themselves.

one idol nudges another, eyes darting back and forth between you two like they’re watching a live fire.

he chuckles softly, dark and dangerous, and when the chorus hits, you both move like magnets — pulling together and teasing apart. fingertips graze bare skin. your gloved hand slides over his jaw, firm and teasing.

the cameras catch every second — the electric tension, the near touches, the smirks exchanged.

he pulls you toward the velvet throne — hand gripping your wrist like a promise, not a command.

you sink into the plush fabric, velvet molding to your skin like devotion.

you look up at him, smirk tugging at your lips.

for a moment, he breaks — the act, the control — like he might shatter right there on stage.

“what are you trying to prove?” he murmurs, no mic now, just breath and heat.

your hand trails up his arm — slow, indulgent.

“depends,” you whisper back. “are you watching closely?”

the crowd roars louder, flashes explode, and the cameras catch the shocked, breathless faces of idols backstage—some biting lips, others exchanging looks that say everything without words.

then — the lights cut out.

darkness swallows the room.

you feel him right there — close enough to burn.

his breath hot against your cheek.

“keep looking at me like that,” riki murmurs, low and rough, “and i’m not gonna wait for the encore.”

you lean in, lips brushing his ear, voice a daring tease.

“then don’t.”

you slip through the glittering crowd of the after-party, the low thrum of music and murmured conversations wrapping around you like silk.

eyes flicker your way — some curious, some impressed — but you’re focused on one person.

riki leans against the velvet couch in a shadowed corner, a slow smile playing on his lips as he watches the room.

without hesitation, you cross over, heels clicking sharply on the floor, and settle onto his lap like you belong there.

his hands find your hips instantly, fingers pressing through the fabric of your dress, steady and sure.

around you, whispers ripple through the crowd.

sunghoons toward jay, voice low but filled with disbelief. “did she just—?”

gaeul bites her lip, eyes wide, stealing glances you can feel even without looking.

chaewon exchanges a surprised glance with yunjin, their conversation briefly halting as they watch.

beomgyu watches, jaw tight, eyes flickering with a mix of awe and something else you can’t quite place.

riki’s breath brushes your neck, voice a low murmur.

“still playing, or ready to lose?”

you smirk, fingers tangling in his hair, heart pounding against the music’s beat.

the night stretches on, the air thick with promises, and everyone watching knows the game has just changed.

enhypen taglist :: @nocturnebite @cheruphic @chrrific @jungwonbropls @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ijustreallylike2read @manariees

vi says :: made this right before my uncles wedding TT

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delusionalwritingsofagay · 4 months ago

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Home coming

Pairing :Alpha Daemon Targaryen x Omega Targaryen Male reader Tags: Omega verse, Targcest Word count :1516

Daemon had seen many strange things in his long and bloody life, but the news from King’s Landing felt the strangest by far. Viserys, that soft, ineffectual fool, had somehow managed to sire an Omega son. An Omega Targaryen. A gift from the gods, a whisper in the blood that echoed of old Valyria.

The very notion had tugged at something primal within him. Alphas, especially those with dragon blood like himself, were drawn to Omegas in a way that transcended mere desire. It was a claim, a need, etched into their very being. And a pure-blooded Targaryen Omega? Unheard of for generations.

He’d left Essos the moment the raven arrived, leaving behind bored courtesans and half-finished battles. Let them squabble. He had an Omega to claim.

Now, standing within the familiar, yet stiflingly dull, halls of the Red Keep, Daemon felt a familiar impatience prick at him. Viserys, bless his easily-pleased heart, had thrown a feast in his honor. How typical. All pomp and circumstance, and not enough fire.

But within the sea of faces, one stood out. A figure, slightly shorter than most men his age, with the unmistakable silver-gold hair of their house.Ten and Six, according to the whispers he had bothered to listen to.(Insert Name) .

He watched (Insert Name) from across the hall, his eyes narrowed, assessing. The boy was pale, almost ethereally so, and moved with a quiet grace that belied the strength of his blood.He seemed almost out of place amidst the boisterous revelry, his gaze darting nervously around the room. He spoke politely to those who approached him, but his smiles didn’t quite reach his eyes. Daemon could scent the Omega anxiety rolling off of him and he couldn't help but feel possessive of the nervous prince.

Daemon observed the young prince at the long table beside his father. All of the lords were loud and crass, a bunch of Alphas already vying for positions in the kingdom. But not (Insert Name), he wasn't roaring for attention, he was silent, and in Daemon's expert eye, afraid. Of course he would be, A newly presented Omega forced to be around hoards of Alpha’s.

The feast droned on, filled with endless courses and tedious toasts. Daemon forced himself to endure it, his gaze rarely straying far from (Insert Name).He noticed the way Viserys dismissed his son causing an eyebrow raise. But Daemon also saw the subtle tension in (Insert Name)’s shoulders, the almost imperceptible flinch whenever someone touched him without warning. He wanted nothing more than to tear the boy away from this suffocating court, to spirit him away to Dragonstone where they could finally breathe, and where he could finally scent him.

And then, as the musicians struck up a particularly grating tune, (Insert Name) slipped away.

Daemon watched him go, melting into the shadows that clung to the edges of the hall. He made his excuses to Viserys, something about needing fresh air, and followed.

He found (Insert Name) in the gardens, a small, secluded courtyard bathed in the pale glow of the moon. He seemed lost in thought, oblivious to the world around him.

Daemon approached slowly, his footsteps muffled by the soft earth, and took a deep breath of the night air, letting the scent of flowers and damp earth mingle with the uniquely intoxicating aroma that clung to (Insert Name).It was a subtle, sweet scent, laced with a hint of something wild and untamed, a promise of vulnerability and strength. It stirred something deep within Daemon, a fierce protective instinct he hadn’t known he possessed.

He stopped a few feet away, close enough to be heard, but far enough not to startle him. “A beautiful night for a walk, wouldn’t you agree, nephew?”

(Insert Name) jumped, turning to face him, his eyes wide with surprise. Daemon saw a flash of fear in them, quickly masked by a polite, if somewhat hesitant, smile.

“Uncle Daemon,” he said, his voice soft. “I… I didn’t see you there.”

“Clearly,” Daemon said with a wry smile. He gestured to a small package he held in his hand, wrapped in dark velvet. “I brought you a gift. From Essos.”

He stepped closer, offering the package to (Insert Name).The boy hesitated, his eyes darting from the gift to Daemon’s face, clearly unsure. “I… I couldn’t possibly,” he stammered.

“Nonsense,” Daemon said, his voice softening. “Consider it a welcome home gift. Or perhaps… a Presenting gift.”

He placed the package in (Insert Name)’s hands. The boy’s fingers brushed against his, and Daemon felt a jolt of electricity shoot through him. He suppressed a growl, forcing himself to maintain a neutral expression.

(Insert Name) looked down at the package, his fingers tracing the soft velvet. He seemed hesitant, almost afraid to open it. “What is it?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Open it and see,” Daemon said, his eyes fixed on the boy’s face, watching for any sign of discomfort or distress.

With a deep breath, (Insert Name) carefully unwrapped the package. Inside, nestled on a bed of silk, was a delicate silver Necklace, polished to a high sheen. It shimmered in the moonlight, reflecting the silver light.

(Insert Name)’s breath hitched, his eyes widening in awe. He lifted the necklace from its bed of silk, holding it up to the moonlight. “It’s… beautiful,” he breathed.

“It is Valyrian steel, The very same that forged Dark sister,” Daemon said, watching the boy carefully. “I thought it… suited you.”

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out, almost involuntarily, to touch the boy’s cheek. (Insert Name) flinched, but didn’t pull away. Daemon let his fingers linger for a moment, feeling the soft, delicate skin beneath his touch.

“You are a rare and precious thing, (Insert Name),” he murmured, his voice low and husky. “Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.”

(Insert Name)’s. He lowered the necklace, his gaze fixed on Daemon, his eyes wide and uncertain. He was clearly caught between a desire to trust and a deep-seated fear. Daemon could practically taste the omega's anxiety. He had to tread carefully.

“I... I don’t understand,”(Insert Name) stammered, his voice barely audible. "Why would you bring me this?"

Daemon stepped back, giving the boy some much-needed space. Too much pressure too soon would only frighten him. He needed to build trust, to show him that he wasn't some monster looking to take advantage. Though Daemon knew, the desire to claim him was building rapidly and it was becoming harder to control.

"Because, (Insert Name), you are family," Daemon said, injecting a touch of warmth into his voice. A lie, but a necessary one. "And because The world is a dangerous place, especially for one such as you." He let the words hang in the air, allowing the implication to sink in.

(Insert Name) swallowed visibly, his fingers tightening around the necklace. He knew exactly what Daemon meant. His presentation as an Omega had made him a target, a prize to be won or a weakness to be exploited. The looks he got from the Alpha lords at court were enough to make his skin crawl.

"The court... they don't understand," (Insert Name) whispered, his voice laced with a quiet despair. "They see an Omega and they assume... they assume..." He trailed off, unable to articulate the crude assumptions that dogged his every step.

Daemon's jaw tightened. He could imagine the leering gazes, the whispered offers. It made his blood boil. This boy, this jewel of their house, deserved respect, protection, and a love that transcended the base desires of lesser men.

"Then let us not concern ourselves with the court," Daemon said, his voice firm. "Let them wallow in their ignorance. What matters is what you know to be true."

(Insert Name) looked down at the Necklace, his fingers tracing its smooth surface. He seemed to absorb Daemon's words, drawing strength from them. A flicker of hope ignited in his eyes.

"What... what should I do?" he asked, his voice regaining a measure of confidence.

Daemon smiled, a genuine, reassuring smile that rarely graced his features. "That,(Insert Name), is entirely up to you. But know this, I am here. And I will do everything in my power to ensure your safety"

He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "Perhaps... perhaps we could meet again? Tomorrow, in the gardens? We could talk, away from the prying eyes and poisonous tongues of the court."

(Insert Name)hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Yes," he said, a small smile playing on his lips. "I would like that very much." The scent of the omega was calmer with his agreement, not so heavy with anxiety and more sweet. The alpha in Daemon wanted to stay and relish in the moment.

Daemon inclined his head, a silent promise passing between them. "Good," he said. "Until tomorrow, then, nephew."

He turned and walked away, leaving (Insert Name) alone in the moonlight, cradling the necklace. As he disappeared into the shadows, Daemon allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.

#x male reader #daemon targeryen x reader #prince daemon targaryen #daemon x reader #hotd daemon #daemon targeryan #daemon targaryen #house of dragon x male reader #house targaryen #omegaverse

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targaryenimagines · 2 years ago

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My Khaleesi

Dark!Daenerys Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,586

Summary: Daenerys claims more than the Iron Throne on the day she takes King’s Landing.

Warning(s): Smut and G!P Daenerys.

Notes: Wasn’t sure if you wanted Dark!Dany (in a sense) or not, but decided to just do it that way for this one shot! If you’d like another one with a non dark Dany, I’ll be more than happy to do that. Also, this is definitely the most graphic smut I’ve written… I apologize if it’s bad.

Series Masterlist

Ash still falls from the sky like distorted flecks of snow— rubble shifts under foot as you make your way through the courtyard of the Red Keep. You didn’t have to turn your head far to see the destruction that had been wrought across King’s Landing, a destruction that had come at the hands of the woman you love the most in this world.

Fire and blood had come to Westeros, you think, side-stepping a charred corpse. And penance seemed to have been paid in full.

The sights, along with the smells, that assault you the farther you trek into the once great city aren’t something that sits well with you, nor does the knowledge that Westeros had pushed Daenerys, your Dany, to this point. That all of her grief: Viserion, Jorah, Rhaegal, and Missandei, along with all of her men that she lost in the North, had forced her spirit into shattering so completely.

I don’t want to be Queen of the Ashes…

A saying that had constantly been thrown towards Daenerys, that had been used as a means to control her, keep her in line, and what better way to do that then remind her of her father’s legacy, a tale that’s haunted her ever since she discovered it, and had been continually repeated until Daenerys spouted it out as if she was simply talking about the weather. Her drive, the passion that had carried her through Essos, slowly being driven out of her the longer she spent in the toxic landscape that is Westeros; forever surrounded by the tales of her ancestors, by the fear and hatred that the people she saved showed her, at the clear refusal to ever accept her as anything more than a Targaryen Whore.

Rounding the corner of yet another hallway, you pause just outside of the throne room, or what you believe to be anyway, and think over everything that had transpired. Think of the darkness that had seemed to have only grown in intensity since the Night King had been dealt with. Would Daenerys, after all of this, still wish to see you? Would you still have a place by her side?

Only one way to find out…

With a deep intake of breath, you step fully into the debilitated area that had once been a source of great pride— at the head of it all being the almost legendary throne itself, a mass of melted together swords, and standing before it?

Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

At the sound of your approaching footsteps, Daenerys turns from her perusal of the throne, and a warm smile quirks her lips at your nearing form.

“Ñuha jorrāelagon,” she murmurs, adoration clear within violet eyes. Slim arms wrapping around your middle the moment your close enough for her to grab. A single gloved finger gently tracing down the expanse of your cheek, rubbing away the hints of ash that still remained. “I’m glad to see you unharmed. I don’t know what I would have done if that hadn’t been the case.”

You lean into the hand still resting on your cheek, a happy smile of your own making an appearance. “Burn down the rest of Westeros?” A dark look flashes through violet eyes, your joke suddenly taking on an all too serious light that you desperately wanted to veer away from. Bumping into her slightly, you disentangle from slim arms, warmed by the smallest bit of hesitance she had at letting you go, you step closer to the throne. “This is it? The Iron Throne?”

Daenerys settles next to you. “It is.” She touches the arm of it with an almost reverent air. “After all these years, all the trials and tribulations that I went through, I’m finally here. A Targaryen is finally the holder of the Iron Throne once more. I’ve brought honor back to my family.”

“You’ve honored them for years already, Dany. You simply being alive is honor by itself.” You angle your head, not surprised at all to see that she had already been looking at you. “This just exemplifies you into the ranks of Aegon.”

Violet eyes gleam with an almost childlike wonder, the hand closest to you touching your cheek with the same reverence she had shown the throne. “Aegon had his wives, he had his queens.” She steps away from you, taking her rightful seat on the throne. “Something that I’ll be in need of moving forward.”

Your head dips. “Anything I can help you with?”

Daenerys chuckles lightly, the sound rumbling from deep within her chest like one of Drogon’s roars. “There is, Y/N.” Gesturing for you to come closer, a command that you listen to without question, she gently maneuvers you into a kneeling position before her, slender fingers tangling themselves within the strands of your hair. “Say yes.”

“Your Grace?”

“Say yes to marrying me, to becoming my wife and queen.” Her holds tightens, forcing your head to tilt back. “Say yes to becoming mine and I’ll make sure everything you could ever want becomes yours.”

A small smile twists your lips upward. “Everything that I could ever want already is.”

At the words a small growl escapes Daenerys, her head dipping downward to press a heated kiss to your lips, maintaining that you’re kept in place by the iron-clad hold she still has on your hair. And, like with everything else, Daenerys didn’t hesitate in conquering what is hers, tongue barely brushing over your bottom lip before she plunders into your mouth, taking you for everything you have. The taste of you, the submission in which you’re showing her, along with the location no doubt, makes Daenerys almost frantic in her need for you.

Barely pulling away, giving you both a moment to breathe, before she’s claiming your lips once more— it’s wet, filthy in a way that makes your mind fog over in lust, and you can’t quite get enough air into your lungs through your nose, something that constantly ensures her scent is all that you’re surrounded by, but you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Wouldn’t want to be in any other position than where you are now; kneeling in front of your Khaleesi, her pleasure becoming yours.

Finally, with a ragged breath, Daenerys fully pulls away from you, a thin trail of saliva still connecting you both, before she shifts too far back and it snaps in half. Violet eyes, blown nearly black in lust, pin you in place as Daenerys slowly undoes the buckle of her pants, and jerks it down, the actions clear on what she expected from you. And, without preamble, or any sort of prompting, you help Daenerys with removing them, gently taking off her boots, before pulling her tight-fitting pants off her slim legs. The sight that greets you once you look up almost causing your mouth to dry up completely.

Daenerys Targaryen sat in all of her glory, bare from the waist down, her thick member jutting out from the apex of her thighs. The look in her eyes, in the darkness that lurks just out of reach, tells you all that you need to know, how your Khaleesi wished for you to service her next. Something you didn’t have a problem with doing, damn the consequences of potentially being caught in the wide open throne room.

Taking her into your hands, feeling her warmth, and the way that she twitches ever-so-slightly at your touch, is a heady sort of power that you’re never going to get used to.

Taking her into your mouth, jaw stretched wide to accommodate her girth, feeling the way she arches into the wetness it provides, hands tightening even further into your hair, the wonderful concoction of pain and pleasure, fuels you more than anything ever could.

Bobbing up and down, taking her deeper and deeper into your throat, listening to the breathy sighs she lets loose whenever she completely bottoms out, is a drug you never want to get off of. Her flavor— musky with just the barest hint of sweetness and something spicy— spreads across your tastebuds, your tongue lovingly swirling around the tip of her cock, taking in as much of her as you possibly could.

“Iksā doing sīr sȳz syt nyke.” The Valyrian praise escapes her in a low snarl, hands now guiding you in the exact way she wanted, your own simply being braced on her thighs as you let her use you. “Issare iā sȳz riña syt nyke. Ñuha sȳz riña.”

All you can do is moan in response, mouth completely stuffed full of her, but the vibrations makes her tense even further, another snarl rumbling from deep within her. You know that she’s close, can tell by the way her thighs were beginning to tremble underneath your touch, and the quickening of her thrusts, and your head moves even faster because of it— wanting nothing more than to feel her release down your throat, for your tongue to be coated by her cum.

“Issi ao jāre naejot gūrogon ziry mirre? Gūrogon everything bona nyke tepagon ao?” Daenerys groans out the question, clearly fighting with herself to not succumb just yet to the pleasure of her release. Peering up, you’re instantly met with darkened violet eyes, a rosy hue predominant across fair cheeks. Clearly waiting for a response, all you can do is gurgle around the cock currently in your throat, hoping that your eyes gave her all the answers she needed, which, by the tightening of her hands, absolutely did. “Sȳz riña.”

Within the next moment, jets of Daenerys cum shoots out, going straight into your stomach as you desperately swallow to make sure you don’t lose any of it. The feeling of warmth as her seed settles deep within you is one you’ve long since grown familiar with, but the possessive heat in her eyes as she watches you swallow it all down is definitely new. A reaction that causes your own arousal to come to the forefront of your mind finally, wetness clearly coating your thighs, waiting for your Khaleesi’s touch.

Daenerys pulls her cock from your mouth a moment later— the still hard length shimmering with the combination of leftover cum and saliva— allowing for you to take a deep lungful of air at last. Remnants of her still on your tongue.

Her thumb brushes across your bottom lip, briefly pushing into your mouth for you to suck on, before she retracts her hand and tugs you up onto her lap. Slim arms bracing your lower half perfectly against herself, settling her own body more fully on the Iron Throne.

“You did so good for me,” she murmurs, trailing slender fingers down your thighs. Nowhere near where you needed her the most though. “Do you want to continue?”

You nod. “More than anything, Khaleesi.“

Daenerys hums at the old title, hands gripping your hips in a hold that you know would leave bruises, lips ghosting across your jawline and down your neck.

“You’re mine, right?” Teeth nips into the sensitive flesh beneath your pulse point. “No one else can have you this way, fuck you the way that I can, or hear the beautiful noises you make when you fall apart.”

“Only you, Dany,” you whisper, nuzzling your nose against hers. “It’ll only ever be you. I’m yours completely.”

There isn’t need for more words after that, Daenerys simply hikes your dress higher up your waist, tearing your small-clothes away completely, before rubbing her hardened member against the wetness that has collected between your legs, a deep groan escaping her at the feeling of your clear want for her.

Within the next heartbeat, she’s buried to the hilt within you, a sharp keen being ripped from your chest at the feeling of complete fullness, the delicious stretch as your body tries to acclimate to the feeling of her, and begins to rut roughly into you. Hands slide from their place on your waist to settle on your hips, guiding you up and down as you begin to bounce in response to her thrusts.

A breathy moan falls from your lips, arms wrapped tightly around Daenerys neck, tugging her closer to you, continuing to ride her in complete abandon, wet slapping noise, intercepted by occasional grunts and moans, filled the air, echoing out across the empty throne room. A part of you thinks that you might even be able to be heard down below, the ripped open wall next to the throne offering an excellent siphon to the noises, but then Daenerys twists her hips in just the right way and everything, that doesn’t have to do with the mind numbing pleasure she gives you, vanishes from you mind in an instant.

Nails make crescent moons in the soft flesh of your hips, bruises no doubt already forming on your lower abdomen from how hard Daenerys was thrusting up into you, but the knowledge that your Khaleesi is marking you in such a way, that she’s lost parts of her control because of you, makes you not care in the slightest— you were hers, completely and irreversibly. Her pleasure was your own.

With another strangled gasp, your head falls to her chest, still clad in her formal garb, the metal cool against the heated expanse of your forehead, no longer being able to keep yourself upright. You could feel your climax approaching— coming faster and faster as Daenerys brushed against the spot within you every time she pulled out. Your core clenching around her desperately, trying to keep her within you, milk her for all that she’s worth, and the tight constriction causes a strangled sound of her own to resonate from your Khaleesi.

Feet planted firmly into the floor, she begins to piston fully into you, your body arching into her, allowing her to move you as she saw fit, clearly chasing her second release and your own.

“I’m going to mark you in a way that no one ever has.” Feverish violet eyes meet your own, strands of silvery-gold hair sticking to her heated cheeks, torn from their intricate braids, as her grip on you tightens more. “You’re going to bear my children, you’re going to continue on the Targaryen name. Would you like that?”

You moan. “Yes.”

The thought of carrying her children, of continuing on the Targaryen Legacy, filled you with a sense of purpose, a sense of warmth.

Pushing your head further into her chest, you plead. “Do it, Khaleesi. Claim me.”

With a ragged snarl, Daenerys’s hips stutter and before you know it jets of warmth fill you up, going straight to your womb. The feeling triggers your own release, a broken moan leaving you as you milk Daenerys for everything she has, everything that she’d be willing to offer. Harshly panting, Daenerys settles back onto the throne, hands gently running down your spine, holding you as closely as she possibly still could, still buried inside of you.

“Thank you,” she whispers, nuzzling you before she presses a kiss to your damp temple.

You sigh, content in her arms. “Always.”

Pressing another kiss to your head, Daenerys angles your face in order for you to look at her, the open look of adoration on her face one that’d only ever be reserved for you and her son.

“My beautiful love, my lovely wife.” She drops a chaste kiss to your lips, her hips beginning to move once more. “My eternal queen.”

“My Khaleesi.”

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