#something about is so soft and yet so alive and sharp

[bucketsp]

pazzi - best friends but real lovey dovey on each other and paige does anything azzi wants her to do in front of their teamates

the space between us

pairing : pazzi

content : fluff, slightt angst (friends to lovers, mutual pining)

a/n : thank you anon for this request 🙏 i changed it up a little bit, but i hope you still loveee. also based it off of 23 - 24 roster because i miss niknik and lili. thank you as well for the support on snow day and repped, if you haven't read those, maybe u should? please remember this is all fiction. enjoy reading!

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from the day they met, it was always something a little more with them.

like the way azzi would ask, “can i sit here?” on every away-game bus ride, even though paige always saved her the window seat.

or the quiet, “can i have a sip?” as she reached for paige’s water bottle mid-practice. and paige never said no, she never even blinked.

they were best friends. that’s what they told everyone.

but best friends didn’t flirt like that, didn’t look at each other like this, didn’t act like it had always been them, a team of two, orbiting each other, no one else getting close enough to matter.

they didn’t need to say it out loud.

they had each other. and that was enough.

until it wasn’t.

it started with azzi spending more time with this girl from the track team. bree. funny, loud, magnetic in a way that drew people in. she was the kind of person who never hesitated, especially with azzi when she asked her out right at the door of the champions center, handed her a smoothie and said, “you free friday?”

paige saw it from across the court, of course. yet all she did was watch azzi smile back and say yes.

and something in her chest cracked open, soft and sharp at the same time.

not because she was jealous, not exactly. she was happy for her, but because suddenly she wasn’t the first one azzi told about her day, and suddenly the pre-practice routines were off, the stolen glances in the locker room or the shared inside jokes as the team was being told off by geno.

and paige didn’t know what to do with that.

so she did nothing.

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

practice the next day was tense. azzi kept looking at paige like she wanted to say something. paige kept pretending not to see it.

and then, during a full-court drill, paige fumbled a pass and muttered under her breath.

azzi jogged over, concern on her face. “you okay?”

“i’m fine,” paige said, too quickly. “you don’t have to check on me.”

“what does that mean?”

“nothing"

“paige.."

“just go, az.”

the silence that followed was deafening.

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

they didn’t talk for two days.

paige stayed late in the gym, long after everyone else had left. it was easier to be around ghosts than to look azzi in the eye and feel that ache in her chest grow stronger.

until friday night, when azzi walked in just as paige was lining up a free throw. she didn’t say anything, just caught the ball on the rebound and passed it back.

paige stared at her.

azzi crossed her arms. “you’ve been avoiding me"

paige swallowed. “i’ve been busy, march madness is coming up”

“you’ve been hiding"

a beat.

“maybe.”

“why?”

paige was silent. she caught the ball again, dribbled once. twice. then let it fall.

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

it starts at ted’s.

because it always does. late-night runs after big games, when the adrenaline’s still in their veins and no one wants to go back to their dorm just yet. it’s loud inside, a little sticky, the lights a shade too bright, but it feels like home. like uconn tradition.

paige sits in the corner booth with azzi pressed in beside her. her thigh is warm against paige’s. her hair’s tied back, but a few loose strands fall forward, and paige has to grip her root beer float like it’s keeping her alive.

they’re not talking. not really. just sitting in that kind of silence that’s not awkward, but heavy. azzi’s bouncing her knee. paige keeps glancing at her. she looks nervous. too quiet, too still in the wrong ways.

"paige,"

and even before paige could even look directly at her azzi's already leaning in.

slow.

intentional.

her hand brushes against paige’s jaw like a whisper.

and then she kisses her.

it’s soft. hesitant. it tastes like cherry coke and something sweeter. like hope.

and paige, she’s waited forever for this, dreamed of it, begged for it in silence.

but she pulls back.

just an inch. just enough.

"azzi, stop. you're drunk"

“i'm not, paige.”

paige tenses. "you are, what happened to bree?"

azzi looks down, then back at her. her eyes are clearer than they should be, considering how many fries she just devoured. “i have to tell you something.”

paige stiffens. her hands go cold, but she feels a little hope inside her.

“i never told you,” azzi’s voice doesn’t waver. “we broke up.”

paige’s heart stutters. “when?”

“a week ago.”

“why didn’t you say anything?”

azzi lets out a breath. “because i didn’t want to lie to you about why. or pretend like it didn’t matter when it did.”

paige stays quiet, letting her talk.

“she cheated on me,” azzi says flatly. “with some guy from the LSU football team. i found out the day after that scrimmage. i didn’t tell anyone.”

paige stares. “what?”

azzi shrugs, like it’s nothing. like it’s old news even though it’s clearly not. “i think part of me already knew. not about the guy. just… that she wasn’t the person i wanted to tell good things to. not anymore.”

and then she looks at paige.

really looks at her.

“you were.”

paige swallows. hard. her throat feels too tight. the air’s too heavy.

“you always were,” azzi adds.

paige’s eyes flutter shut. “then why’d you pick her?”

“because you scared the shit out of me,” azzi says. “and because i thought i had more time.”

it’s not perfect. it’s not a line. it’s just true.

“you’re sure?” she asks. “this isn’t about bree?”

azzi shakes her head immediately. “this has never been about bree. not even once.”

“she cheated on you.”

“and you stayed,” azzi says. “even when i made it impossible.”

paige covers her eyes. her voice cracks when she speaks.

“you don’t get to kiss me if you’re not sure.”

“i’m sure,” azzi says.

and this time when she kisses her, it’s different.

hungrier, deeper, like nothing else mattered.

and paige kisses back like she’s drowning. like she finally found the surface.

they don’t even notice kk standing there with her milkshake in hand, eyes wide as saucers.

not until kk blurts, “HOLY SHIT.”

paige freezes. azzi jumps a little, lips still inches from paige’s.

then the rest of the team explodes.

“FINALLY,” aaliyah yells from a booth behind them.

“i knew it,” nika says, pointing her fry at aubrey like she won a bet.

“i had money on them making out before the tournament,” ice mutters.

“you owe me twenty,” aubrey says smugly.

kk just stares. “yo. that was kinda hot.”

paige groans, hiding her face in azzi’s shoulder. azzi’s laughing now, full and free, her arm curling around paige’s waist like it’s always belonged there.

“i guess this means it’s official?” aaliyah calls out.

azzi grins, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“yeah. it’s official.”

and paige, with her heart finally whole in her chest, just nods.

“took you long enough,” nika says.

but paige doesn’t care.

because azzi’s still holding her hand under the table.

and this time, she’s not letting go.

[netflixbingger]

Cassian Andor x Senators Daughter Reader Series Sneak Peek 👀

Okay yes… I know I haven’t finished the last series yet (I swear I will, next chapter is out soon!!)

But I’ve been fleshing out this new one and… I kind of love it??

I’m really leaning into soft girl vibes with this one… something we don’t get enough of with Cassian, if you ask me 👀

So without further ado, here’s a little sneak peek of Chapter 1!!!

You wake to the sound of your name.

Not softly, not in the dreamy sort of way it usually is when your maids draw the curtains and ask what you’d like for breakfast. No, this time it’s firm, clipped—your father’s voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.

“You need to get up.”

You roll over with a groan, dragging the sheet over your head like it’s armor. “It’s not even nine.”

“It’s past nine.”

“So?” you mutter, muffled by your silk sheets and stubbornness.

There’s a beat of silence. Then: “We don’t have time for this today.”

You peek out from under the sheet, squinting up at him. He’s already dressed - navy coat, clean lines, expression tight in that way that means something’s happened. Something real.

That pulls you upright.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, silk nightgown slipping against your skin as you blink yourself into the day. Your room is still a dream - soft golds, tall windows, sunlight spilling in like honey. It doesn’t feel like anything could be wrong here.

But your father’s jaw says otherwise.

“What?” you ask, voice still scratchy from sleep.

He hesitates, just for a moment, and then exhales.

“There’s been chatter,” he says. “The Empire’s been sniffing around the shipments. They’re starting to notice the rerouted funds. And now… there’s a name.”

A pit opens in your stomach.

He shakes his head is disbelief. “It’s only a matter of time before they connect the rest.”

You cross your arms. “Then we tighten things. We move accounts again. We wait it out.”

“We can’t wait this out,” he says, and now he’s really looking at you - like a father, not a senator. “They’ve already made contact with the district enforcers. One wrong whisper, one loose-tongued dinner guest, and —.”

You narrow your eyes. “I haven’t told anyone anything. I’m not stupid.”

“No,” he agrees quietly. “You’re not. Which is why you’re going to listen when I say this…your freedom, the way you move, the life you’ve had until now - it’s over.”

That stings more than you expect.

You blink at him. “Excuse me?”

He softens, just a breath. “We don’t have that anymore. The luxury of pretending.”

“So what then?” you snap. “You want me to stay inside all day like some ghost? Be quiet, be good, smile politely while the Empire circles us like vultures?”

“No,” he says, and you hate how calm he is. “I want you to stay alive.”

You stand there, breathing hard. Heat pools behind your eyes, and you hate that too.

“Someone will be arriving shortly,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “From the Rebellion. A soldier. He’ll be stationed here until we can get you out. Maybe longer.”

You stare at him. “You’re giving me a babysitter?”

“I’m giving you a bodyguard.”

“What’s the difference?”

He only sighs. “You’ll find out.”

———————————————————————

You slip into a soft summer dress. Pale yellow, low at the back, open at the shoulders. Something expensive and breezy. It hugs you in all the right places. Your skin glows. Your hair falls in loose waves. You look stunning, and you know it.

You descend the stairs slowly, heels clicking with deliberate grace. When you reach the bottom, you pause at the final step - because there he is.

Your new shadow.

He’s talking to your father in the foyer. Dressed in black worn boots, flight jacket, stubble on his jaw like he’s never been taught what proper grooming is. He’s not tall, not particularly broad, but something about him feels… dense. Sharp around the edges.

He looks like someone who doesn’t smile unless he has to.

As if sensing you, he turns.

And for one moment, his eyes flicker down. Barely.

Then they’re back on your face, unreadable.

You arch a brow. “So. You’re the watchdog.”

He doesn’t reply.

Your father sighs. “Cassian Andor, this is my daughter Y/N.”

———————————————————-

Thoughts?!?

This one’s definitely leaning softer… less gore, less darkness, more fluff, tension, and slow-burn vibes.

I’m still debating whether to take it down a heavy sexual tension to smut path, or keep it more focused on the fluff and emotional build-up.

Would love to hear your thoughts!

Do you prefer smutty tension or tender romance?

[daisies-on-a-cup]

jean deville's art is soooo erotic.... his anatomy is insane

[satoruxx]

you're sweating when you wake up, skin sticking painfully to your bedsheets as your bleary eyes dart around, attempting to make focus of your surroundings. the room is still dark, barely touched by the slight bit of moonlight that attempts to peak through the closed windows—defiant. it takes a minute to realize that the sounds that are breaking the silence are actually coming from your own throat—breathy, wheezing gasps of terror.

your stomach drops when your fingers grip cold and empty fabric. he's gone he's gone he's go—

"what are you doing up, pretty?"

your head snaps to the doorway. satoru stands there, sweats hanging low on his hips even as his hand remains curled around a glass of water. his hair is tousled with sleep, but his cerulean eyes are sharp and lively.

as soon as he sees the panic lacing your expression, his eyes widen, long legs practically tripping over themselves as he stumbles towards you.

"what happened?" he asks sharply, frantically placing the cup on the bedside table to take your face into his palms. shades of blue dart back and forth across your features as he perches one knee on the mattress and peers down at you. "are you okay?"

his touch sends electricity through your veins—a splash of ice water pulling you away from that painful reverie.

your heart both clenches and soars, the idea of what you saw being terrifying, and yet finding out it wasn't true being that much more relieving.

"i just—" your voice comes out choked, and satoru's fingers twitch against your skin imperceptibly. "had a bad dream."

you think your brain must be cruel for conjuring up a dream in which satoru could suffer to such abhorrent extents.

"oh sweets." satoru's sigh is sympathetically soft, thumb brushing over the apple of your cheek just barely. "it was just a nightmare."

"i know," you swallow, voice shaking. there's an uncharacteristic wetness pooling at your waterline. "i-it just felt so real."

"baby..." satoru immediately pulls you against the steady planes of his chest, thick arms snaking around your waist to eliminate any measly amount of distance between you two. you prop your chin on his shoulder, sighing as you feel his snowy hair tickling at your cheek.

"it wasn't real, sweetheart," he says, pulling back just slightly to push a piece of hair from your face. his thumb then drags under your eyes, wiping away the unshed tears. "see. you're here, i'm here. everything's all good."

"yeah." you're nodding, unable to take your eyes off of him because he's real and alive and so breathtakingly perfect. "yeah, you're right."

he gives you a lopsided smile, eyes bright and glowing. "i don't like to brag, but i usually am."

you snort out a laugh, missing the way his expression turns pleased at the sound. "hilarious. you love to brag."

"you got me there," he shrugs, grinning as you stick your tongue out at him. the lighthearted banter solidifies the fact that satoru is fine and unharmed and completely yours, but you can still feel the apprehension coursing through your veins. chills run up your spine—you try not to show it.

but of course, satoru has always been able to see right through you.

his teasing smile goes soft, and he inhales deeply.

"was it about me?" he asks, climbing into bed next you. you lay back down carefully.

"yeah," you mumble, watching him tug the blankets over your body and tuck you both under a cocoon of warmth.

"hm." something in his tone tells you he's not unfamiliar with the feelings you seem to be experiencing—his body shifts closer to yours. ocean eyes carefully asses you, deep and calculating and so concerned even as he smoothes a warm palm over your shoulder blades. "wanna tell me what happened?"

the truth is you do want to, because satoru has always understood you better than you've ever understood yourself—you have no doubt he'd be able to comfort you just as well as he normally does.

and yet...

"no," you answer, pressing your nose into his neck. a deep breath in, the lively scent that is so inherently your gojo satoru filling your very soul. "it's okay. i think i'll be fine."

when you shut your eyes, images flash behind them—of bloodied bodies and stitches and swapped souls. yet a chaste kiss to your forehead pulls you back to where you're supposed to be, warm and grounding.

"i know you'll be fine," satoru murmurs, lips tickling your brow as he speaks. you think you can hear the gentle smile as he says it, and your grip on him tightens—never letting go. "i'm right here after all."

[mill3rd]

LIGHT OF THE LORD

synopsis. a woman of divine beauty, grace and fairness has plagued remmick’s mind and being. no matter where he goes, what time he’s in—you’ve been around every corner. he cannot escape your watchful eye. he knows you aren’t human but you are no vampire like him. and while he finds everything about his situation frustrating, he finds you quite intriguing.

tags and warnings. remmicks pov, hes pining unknowingly, mythical ambiguity for the most part, temporal ambiguity so lots of time skips, readers race isnt specified or specific to the story, know-it-all gf vs quickly humbled bf, fluffy, bit angsty, some discriptions of feeding

wc. 10k

© MILL3RD 2025 — all rights reserved. mature content. please do not steal my works

1,385 years. one thousand, three hundred and eighty-five long, excruciating years in which remmick had no choice but to endure your presence—your seraphic presence. seraphic, not in beauty, but in that maddening way you carried righteousness like armor, wisdom like a curse. your face, ageless and untouched by time, only deepened his resentment. the more he was forced to see it—those eternal, untarnished features—the more unbearable you became. there was nothing soft or lovely about it anymore. your immortality was a wound that never healed, and he bled quietly beside you for centuries.

you came to him first in the rawness of your glory—nude, your flesh supple and unnervingly perfect, like something carved from the dreams of old gods. it was only weeks after the catholics had spilled into ireland, clinging to their bibles and breathing scripture like smoke. remmick, newly turned and still trembling in the dark, didn’t yet understand what he was. he thought he had died from the wounds carved into him by war and man, and he sobbed like a child beneath the stars when he saw you approaching—not through the river, but on it. your bare feet pressed the water’s skin as if it were solid, each step leaving behind a shimmer like fireflies or some underwater bloom. the stream itself was dull, lifeless. it had never glowed before. it never glowed again. only when you walked toward him like it was the most ordinary thing in the world did it come alive with light.

“the lord does not encourage such violence,” was all you said. or perhaps not to him at all—your voice was distant, almost drifting, as if carried on mist. it felt less like a warning and more like a half-forgotten thought, spoken aloud without meaning to. weightless, airy, like you were reminding yourself of some rule you no longer believed in, repeating it out of habit more than conviction. the words hung in the air, delicate and hollow, and remmick wasn’t sure if they were meant for him or the sky above.

your words unsettled him. the lord. even hearing the name turned his stomach. after everything he’d suffered—everything he’d lost—invoking the man upstairs felt like a cruel joke. it was tone-deaf, sanctimonious. so when you opened your arms, all light and grace, offering some divine comfort, he recoiled like you were poison.

“stay away from me!” he snapped, stumbling backward. “i ain't interested in walking with god’s so-called vessel.”

his voice cracked, thick with fury and something raw beneath it—betrayal, maybe. or grief.

you merely frown and watch as he scrambles off deeper into the trees.

remmick wandered deep into the woodlands, far enough that the moon vanished behind the thick weave of branches overhead. the air grew colder there, denser, and the only light came in faint silver slivers where the canopy broke. he let the owls guide him, their low, rhythmic hoots echoing like warnings through the underbrush. every step tangled him deeper in roots and bramble, the trees growing close and ancient around him, as if they were watching.

then—a sound. sharp, low, guttural. a growl, too deliberate to be the wind. it came from ahead, thick in the dark. his eyes adjusted, and he saw them: teeth gleaming like shards of polished bone, bared in a snarl that pulsed with threat. a wolf. broad-shouldered, fur rippling like smoke in the moonless dark. remmick froze.

good, he thought. maybe now, finally, it would all end.

but something inside him stirred—deep, primal, and hungry. not fear. not relief. hunger. sharp and sudden, like a spike to the gut. his throat burned. his limbs ached to move. and before he understood what he was doing, he stepped forward, slow and silent, toward the wolf.

it blinked, muscles tense, and backed away—eyes locked on him, more confused than afraid. it knew something was wrong. it sensed something unnatural.

remmick kept moving, drawn not by instinct to survive, but by something darker, something ancient coiled now inside him.

before he could even think to lunge, a light broke open behind him—blinding, radiant, pure white. it wasn’t overwhelming. no, it was no different to the faint light of a flame. it was just unnatural underneath the shade of the canopy. the wolf didn’t wait. it bolted, tail low and body vanishing into the underbrush with a panicked rustle.

remmick turned, breath sharp, pupils blown wide as his eyes locked onto the source.

you.

you, this insufferable, god-touched creature, glowing as if the stars themselves bent to your will. no flame, no torch—just you, radiating light as effortlessly as a flower bleeds scent. it was unnatural. it was maddening.

remmick let out a low, guttural growl. his body trembled with hunger, pain pulsing in his torn flesh like a second heartbeat. he was wounded, starving, half-mad—and there you stood, pristine, untouched, a walking symbol of everything he’d come to loathe.

he squinted at you through the harsh light, eyes narrowed, seething with anger and exhaustion. “wha’dyou want?” he snapped, voice rough like gravel. “i thought i told you to stay away.”

you didn’t answer. instead, your gaze drifted lazily to his face, head tilting slightly, eyes calm—almost amused.

“you are drooling,” you said, voice soft and unbothered.

remmick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, scowling as he turned away. “can’t blame a man for being hungry,” he muttered, bitterness coating each word like tar.

you only smiled, a slow, knowing curve of your lips, and without a word, followed him—silent, steady, undeterred by his resentment. his anger rolled off you like water on stone.

“you will have to learn how to control that hunger,” you said, voice light, almost distant, like the words weren’t really meant for him alone, “you are not the man you used to be. not anymore.”

there was a quiet finality to it, as if the truth had already settled in the soil around you, waiting for him to catch up.

“what am i then?” remmick asked, voice rough and brittle, like dried bark about to snap. there was a weight behind it, something choked and bruised, the kind of heaviness that clung to a man who’d wept alone through too many sunless nights—because the sun, once warm and welcoming, had turned its back on him completely.

your expression didn’t shift. your voice was steady, almost cold.

“inhuman.”

“an’ what about you?” remmick’s voice cut through the air, a mix of frustration and suspicion. “you look human, but you ain’t one.”

you nodded slowly, your gaze steady, almost serene, as if every word you spoke was steeped in something far beyond him.

“a keen observation, remmick,” you replied, your voice soft yet filled with an ancient grace. “i am not human, nor have i ever been. i merely wear this face, this form, for as long as my time among mortals endures.”

remmick jumped at the sound of his name, the echo of it like a whisper from a past he hadn't invited. he never told you his name. never gave you the right to know it. yet, there it was, hanging between you like a thread woven from the air itself.

the world around him swayed, and it wasn’t from too many drinks of ale or beer. it was something far heavier.

“how did ya know my name?” he demanded, voice tight with disbelief, as his hand shot out, gripping your shoulder with an urgency that bordered on panic. “what even are ya? there’s something... unorthodox about you. nobody radiates light like that! and absolutely nobody galavants around naked, óinseach!”

you regarded him with an almost sorrowful expression, lips pressing together in a faint frown.

“i apologize,” you murmured, your tone gentle but laced with something ancient. “i can tone down my appearance if it frightens you.”

remmick froze, his pulse stuttering in his chest. then, before his very eyes, you shifted—your form bending, stretching, warping, as if reality itself could no longer hold the weight of your true essence. a blur of faces spun before him—his younger sister, laughing beneath the sun; his mother, her tired eyes soft with love; his wife, her smile warm, full of memories that felt like a dream; his older brothers, strong and brash, voices echoing through the corridors of his past; and his daughter, her innocent eyes full of questions, a life he’d lost forever.

each face flickered in and out of your shifting form, leaving a trail of aching familiarity in their wake, and remmick’s breath caught as the weight of it all settled over him.

a terrified yell ripped through remmick’s throat, his body jolting with a surge of panic as he stumbled backward, scrambling away from you. his legs carried him without thought, driven by instinct, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum of war.

he didn’t dare to look back. the images—the faces—clung to him like a curse, and the sight of them twisted something deep inside him.

this time, you didn’t follow.

you stood still, an immovable figure in the shifting darkness, watching him retreat with quiet understanding. your gaze lingered on the space where he had been, serene yet filled with a sorrow that was not yours to bear.

that was his first encounter with you and now he wears you like a burden. you didn’t show up for days after that and remmick began to believe you were a fever dream. something he made up due to delirium.

but then, just as suddenly, you appeared—the sound of waves washing softly on the shore marking your arrival. your natural glow was the only light beside the pale moon, soft and unearthly, illuminating the world around you in quiet brilliance.

remmick groaned in frustration upon seeing you, his shoulders sagging in resignation. “i thought ya’d have written me off by now. labelled me a lost cause.”

you shook your head, the motion slow and graceful, your presence like a steadying breath in the chaos of his mind.

“no,” was all you said, the simplicity of it carrying a weight beyond words.

without waiting for him to respond, you sat down beside him, where the sand darkened with the lingering traces of water’s touch. the cool salt air swept over you, and the ocean’s rhythm seemed to pulse in time with your being. the salty water kissed your skin, as though it had been waiting for you to arrive.

“i found some clothes so i would not stand out,” you chirped, your voice light and carefree as though nothing had transpired between you. remmick didn’t want any part of this conversation, but you were relentless.

he nodded, barely looking at you, pulling his head closer to his knee. “good on ya.”

“i wanted to give you space after our last conversation,” you continued, tone softening. “i realize i was... insensitive. and for that, i want to apologize.”

remmick raised an eyebrow, the bitterness in his voice sharper now. “if i accept it, will ya leave me alone?”

you laughed—a sound so unexpected and pure that it caught him off guard. the first time he’d heard it, and it was like a breath of wind through still air. “not forever, no. but for now, will that suffice?”

he sighed, letting go of the tension in his shoulders for a moment. “i forgive ya then.”

and just like that, you were gone. not with a quiet fade or a dramatic burst of smoke, but simply—gone. one second, remmick could hear the steady beat of your pulse, the rush of blood flowing beneath your skin, and the next, the world was empty, save for the sound of waves and the distant echo of his own heartbeat.

he waited in silence, the stillness of it pressing in on him, until his hunger clawed at him again, and he turned his focus to the water, waiting for a fish’s heartbeat to break the quiet.

it took remmick a long time to understand what he had become: a vampire. it wasn’t until he encountered others like himself that the true weight of his transformation hit him. in their eyes, he saw only the reflection of something monstrous—unnatural, evil. but remmick wasn’t evil. his life had been stolen from him, ripped away in a moment of violence, and now he was left to survive on instinct, just like any creature would.

that wasn’t evil. it was simply the harsh truth of nature’s cold hand. survival, stripped down to its most primal form. natural selection.

they taught him what it truly meant to feed, the raw satisfaction that came with fully indulging his hunger. feeding on humans—it felt strange, yes, but it also felt right, as if his body had been designed for this purpose and nothing else. there was no one to tell him there were other ways, no gentle voice reminding him of the choices he still had.

in truth, he hadn’t seen you in a long while. he hadn’t felt the comforting warmth of your light, nor the unsettling pull of your golden blood since that brief encounter at the beach. he had told you to leave him be, and you had listened—something he hadn’t expected but couldn’t help but feel grateful for.

still, as time passed, something gnawed at him. it was subtle, like a missing note in a melody, a strange emptiness in the quiet that followed your departure. part of him was glad you were gone, but there was another part—a part he couldn't ignore—that felt... unsettled.

when you finally appeared, remmick was nestled at the edge of an ancient castle ruin, tucked into the jagged rocks and rubble. the moonlight filtered through a gaping hole in the stone wall, casting silver beams across his form, and he lay there, eyes closed in quiet stillness. moonbathing, he called it. though, when you approached, he shot you a disgruntled look, clearly annoyed by the interruption.

“moonbathing?” you asked, your head tilting in quiet curiosity, “i understand that the sun darkens the skin, but why would you try to tan in the moonlight?”

remmick shrugged, not bothering to lift his gaze. “ha'fta keep my pale complexion up to date," he muttered with a dry smirk, clearly unbothered by your confusion.

“so you have no intention of tanning?” you ask, still standing in the frame of the hole in the wall. remmick shakes his head, “if i tried to tan, i’d get a little more than sunburn.”

you nodded slowly, a thoughtful motion, but before you could speak, remmick waved a hand and grunted, “move outta the way. you’re blocking the moon.”

he hadn’t exactly told you to leave, so you quietly stepped over the rubble, your movements as fluid as mist, and settled down beside him, folding your body against the cool stone as if it belonged there.

“do you know about constellations?” you asked after a pause, turning your head to face him, your voice gentle, like a breeze trying not to wake the earth.

remmick kept his eyes closed, but he could feel your gaze on him, steady and curious.

“no,” he muttered, “ya gonna give me a random fact o’ the day?”

you smiled faintly and nodded, undeterred by his sarcasm.

“many constellations are tied to the zodiacs,” you began, your voice slipping into that melodic cadence you often carried when speaking of old things. “twelve of them form a path the sun appears to follow throughout the year. the ancients charted them to navigate the seas, tell time, even predict their fates. and if you look just there—” you lifted a hand, pointing skyward “—you can see libra, the scales. it is faint, but present. balance, even in darkness.”

your words trailed off into the night, soft and steady, like starlight dripping into silence.

remmick grunted, finally cracking one eye open to glance at you. “fascinating,” he muttered dryly, “write a book about all that and they’ll string you up as a witch.”

“no one knows i exist,” you replied, calm and matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather.

remmick sighed and let his head fall back against the stone. “iontach. so i’m the lunatic talking to the ghost nobody else can see.”

“i am not a ghost either,” you said with a soft smile, the kind that barely touched your lips but somehow warmed the space between you. “i am sure you have figured out what i am by now.”

remmick let out a dry chuckle, the sound low and a little hollow. “my best guess?” he said, eyes fixed on the sky. “i’m seein’ things. you’re not real—just something my mind cooked up to keep me company when the silence gets too loud.”

“if that is what you believe,” you replied, your tone quiet, unreadable—neither confirming nor denying, as steady as still water.

then, without another word, you rose, movements fluid and precise. you stepped lightly across the scattered bricks, your figure momentarily silhouetted in the moonlight as you reached the jagged hole in the wall.

“until next time, remmick,” you said over your shoulder, voice echoing just slightly, like it belonged to the night itself.

remmick watches as you disappear but he swears your hand lingers on the brick for a second longer. he’s left in silence now until your words echo, until next time. he groans, what about never?

he does see you. again and again and again. your visits get more frequent until you’re both caught unexpectedly in war. the eleventh century. remmick thought he had escaped your watchful eye and found himself hitching rides with strangers in their carts, hiding under thick velvet rugs until nightfall where he bid his goodbyes and wandered off. he should’ve known you’d find him.

remmick stood at the edge of the treeline, deliberately keeping himself in the shadows, avoiding the last vestiges of sunlight that hung stubbornly in the sky. his eyes scanned the valley below, where the battle raged fiercely, men clashing in a frenzy of steel and blood. the air was thick with the sounds of war—shouting, the clang of weapons, the stampede of hooves. it was chaos, but he was content to watch from afar, detached from the madness.

and then, as if summoned by some unseen force, you appeared. he didn’t need to see you fully to know—it was the light that gave you away. a soft, golden glow that seemed to push back against the fading daylight. it clung to you, hovering just at the edges of your presence, and for a brief moment, it felt like the world itself dimmed just to make room for you.

“ain’t bored o’ me yet?” remmick muttered, his voice laced with annoyance and something else—something he refused to acknowledge.

you didn’t answer immediately. instead, there was a slight rustle in the air, a shift in the atmosphere as you moved closer. when you did speak, your voice was serene, effortless. “not at all.”

he couldn’t see it, but he could feel the subtle shake of your head, the shift in the air that told him you were amused. you always were, always so certain and unbothered by his disdain.

he huffed, rolling his eyes and returning his focus to the battle below. you were like a persistent, unavoidable breeze—always there, no matter how much he tried to ignore you.

its silent between you two as you both experience the rage of the battle of hastings below, the cries of men filling the air as blood stains the earth beneath. the dying light of the sun casts long shadows across the field, and the sky is a mixture of fading reds and purples. you stand at the edge of the treeline, your presence almost otherworldly, that strange divine glow surrounding you like a halo. it's the kind of light that would make anyone believe you're something holy, untouchable, perfect. but remmick doesn't care about any of that.

he stands next to you, his arms crossed, eyes bored as they track the chaos below. his face is hard, indifferent—he's seen enough of human suffering to not bat an eye at it. to him, they're all just ants. he turns his attention to you, though, the faintest hint of annoyance crossing his features. it’s the same thing every time. you show up, radiating light, acting like you’ve got a hand in this world’s fate. he’s sick of it.

you speak, your voice a soft, almost ethereal whisper. “do you ever wonder if they know what they are fighting for?”

remmick scoffs, the sarcasm dripping from his words. “i’m sure they’re all very aware of their ‘noble causes,’” he mutters. “but it don’t matter, do it? they’ll die anyway.”

you give him a sidelong glance, those piercing eyes of yours studying him like you always do. “do you think death is all they’re meant for?”

“i think most of them wan’ it,” he responds flippantly, his gaze flicking over to the chaos below. “or maybe they're just too stupid to know when to stop fighting.”

you shake your head, a quiet sigh escaping your lips, your tone almost sad. “you’re so jaded, remmick.”

he looks at you then, an eyebrow raised. “and you’re so holy.” he leans against a tree, crossing his arms tighter. “if you think they’re all so deserving of your pity, why don’t ya help ‘em out?”

you ignore his question, your gaze fixed on the battle once more. it’s almost as if you can’t help yourself—you have to watch, to be present. but then something catches his attention. the flicker of an arrow in the last rays of sunlight. it's a fleeting thing, but remmick notices it.

before he can react, the arrow strikes you.

it’s quick. too quick for him to fully process. he hears you gasp, and then you stumble slightly, your hand clutching at your side. the arrow, so perfectly aimed, has found its mark in the divine part of you, piercing through the space where your beauty and immortality should be untouched.

he doesn’t react immediately. instead, his gaze lingers on you, observing the way your breath hitches as the golden blood begins to seep through your fingers. his mouth curls into something that might have been a smile, but there’s no warmth in it. there’s nothing but quiet satisfaction in the knowledge that he’s right.

you’re not as untouchable as you think.

“oh, look at that,” he murmurs, the words coated in a kind of cruel humor, “a little scratch. guess you ain’t as perfect as everyone thinks.”

he watches for a moment longer as you stand there, your form still glowing faintly even as blood drips from you. you’re not the same now. you’re broken. you’ve been touched by the same death that touches everyone, and for some reason, that gives him a sense of relief.

you look at him, and there’s a flicker of something in your eyes—concern, maybe. or maybe just a question. but remmick isn’t interested. he’s never been interested in your divine presence. he’s only been stuck with you because you follow him, despite the fact that he wants nothing to do with you.

he takes a step back, turning his gaze away from you. “well, i’ve seen enough,” he says flatly, his voice devoid of any emotion, “you’ll be fine. immortals like you don’t just die from an arrow.”

he called you immortal because he didn’t know what else you were.

and with that, he turns, disappearing into the trees, leaving you there. blood staining the ground, your divine light flickering weakly.

he doesn’t care if you survive. in fact, a part of him hopes you don’t.

he leaves you there, under the dying light of the sunset, and walks away without a second thought. the darkness of night soon envelops him, and for the first time, he feels a strange sense of relief. maybe this is what he wanted all along—an escape from your presence, from your light, from the divine pressure of your existence.

he doesn’t look back. he doesn’t even think about it. he’s long gone, disappearing into the night.

remmick hadn’t seen you in over five hundred years. for a while, he thought the peace would last. the solitude had been... bearable. a century of living on his own terms, without your relentless light or your judgmental eyes, was a relief. he wandered through europe, a ghost in the shadows of history. he watched the rise of new dynasties, the endless wars of vikings, the decline of the roman empire, and the brutal reign of genghis khan. centuries passed, each one feeling like a whisper in time, and he thought he had finally outrun you.

but the renaissance? that was the point where it all fell apart. it was the 16th century in france, and somehow, against all logic, he had managed to convince the royal family that he, too, was royalty—a lost prince from some forgotten kingdom. he was skilled in deception, after all, and no one really questioned an enigmatic figure like him. they believed his stories, and the royal family, desperate to flaunt their connection to ancient lineages, eagerly threw a ball in his honor.

“to celebrate the visit of prince remmick i,” they announced, and the court was abuzz. everyone was charmed by the mysterious foreigner, the one whose origins were as hazy as the fog that rolled across the french countryside.

as the night stretched on, lit by shimmering chandeliers and the glittering eyes of aristocrats, remmick found himself drifting through the crowd, always watching, always smiling with that knowing smirk.

he should have known. he should have known that your light would pierce through the shadows of his false life. and yet, he didn’t hear your footsteps, didn’t see your radiance until you were already standing before him, like a vision from another time, another world.

"ain’t bored o’ me yet?" remmick asked, half-amused, half-resigned. he starts the greeting the same way he started the last one you had.

you smiled softly, as if you'd never left, "not at all," you replied, your voice soft as always, yet carrying a weight he could never ignore. you seem to remember too how he greeted you.

remmick’s fingers curled into his palm, nails digging into the flesh. how long had he really been free? how long could he ever escape your watchful eyes?

the music swirled through the air, soft and alluring, as the orchestra in the corner of the ballroom played their delicate tune. the sound of strings filled the grand hall, echoing off the gold-trimmed walls. remmick held you close, his hand firm on your waist as he led you in the dance, effortlessly twirling you through the sea of guests. each step felt like a rhythm he had known forever, like he'd danced this dance with you a thousand times, even though it was only now that he realized you were real—more than just a haunting image from his mind.

you moved with an ethereal grace, laughter bubbling from your lips like a song he couldn’t help but chase. when he spun you, the light caught in your hair, and for a brief moment, it almost felt like the entire room faded away—just the two of you, floating through time. his chest tightened as you laughed, that soft, knowing sound, and he couldn’t help but notice how your presence filled the space around him. he’d never let himself feel this before, not for someone like you.

but before he could think on it too long, the dance shifted. your hand slipped from his and suddenly, you were in the arms of another man—an older figure, no doubt a noble, with a grasp on your waist that was far too close, intimate. you laughed again, a bright, airy sound that made remmick's stomach twist and churn.

this is the moment remmick realises you have a physical manifestation and you truly weren’t apart of his imagination.

he stood still for a moment, watching as you moved away, the warmth of your hand no longer in his, replaced by the weight of something heavy that clawed at his insides. his eyes narrowed instinctively as you, effortlessly, slipped into another’s embrace. the man held you close, spinning you with a tenderness that made remmick’s skin prickle.

it shouldn’t matter, but it did.

he swallowed down the odd bitterness that had risen in his throat. it was absurd. he wasn’t allowed to feel this way—this possessive ache. but still, he couldn’t help himself, watching the way you laughed in his arms, the way your eyes shone so brightly for someone else.

remmick shook his head, forcing himself back into the present. the princess he had been dancing with swirled into his arms, but his gaze never wavered from you. he couldn’t look away. it was as if the room had ceased to exist around him—there were no voices, just the sound of your laughter and the light that shimmered around you.

he knew it was futile to hold on to any of it, but for as long as he could, he would keep you in his line of sight, hoping you wouldn’t slip away again, like you always did.

as the music reached its final notes, remmick's gaze never left you. he watched as you slipped gracefully from the arms of your partner, your presence like a flicker of light lost among the throngs of well-dressed nobles. the man—his face now blurred by the growing distance between them—seemed unaware of the way you had subtly detached yourself, drifting into the crowd of silks and velvets, where the shadows danced just as intricately as the guests.

remmick felt an inexplicable urgency seize him. his fingers grazed the princess’s hand, and with a smooth smile, he pressed his lips to her delicate knuckles in a gesture that seemed far more rehearsed than genuine. “my apologies, princess,” he murmured, the words slow and languid, “but i’ve promised myself a moment alone. something about cutting the cake, you know? a royal tradition, i suppose.”

she blinked, clearly satisfied by the excuse, her smile warm and unsuspecting. “of course, prince remmick. go enjoy your cake.”

and with that, she was lost to the crowd of swirling dancers, her attention already diverted. remmick didn’t waste a second more. he gave her a lazy bow and watched her retreat into the gilded glamour of the ballroom. then, with a fluid, practiced motion, he slipped into the labyrinth of bodies around him, the rich fabric of coats and gowns folding into a soft blur of color.

he didn’t care about the cake. he didn’t care about any of it. all that mattered was finding you again before you vanished into the shadows once more. his heart pounded as his feet carried him swiftly through the crowd, his eyes darting over the sea of faces, seeking that unmistakable glow that had haunted him for centuries.

there. between the columns of the balcony, under the flickering candlelight. your silhouette, radiant even in the midst of so many others, a beacon amidst the chaos. remmick’s pulse quickened, a feeling—half desire, half something darker—stirring deep in his chest.

“long time, no see…” you breathe, your voice soft as you stand at the edge of the courtyard, staring out into the cool night. the moonlight catches the edge of your dress, making it shimmer in a way that feels almost too ethereal. “remmick.”

he swallows, his throat dry, and his eyes track the curve of your silhouette in the dim light. there’s something about the way the dress clings to you tonight—it suits you better than anything he’s seen you wear before. he can’t help but notice, even in the midst of everything else, how striking you are, even when you're so distant.

“yeah…” he hums, his voice rougher than he intends. “how long’s it been?”

you don’t turn to face him, but he knows you’re listening. “ah, five hundred years. it was quite the break from your presence,” he adds, with a hint of bitterness that slips from his lips before he can stop it.

you give a small nod, the movement subtle, but it feels like you’re acknowledging something deeper, something unsaid. your gaze doesn’t waver from the distant horizon, the city lights far below barely flickering. “it was quite the goodbye. if i remember correctly, you left me to die.”

remmick laughs, a hollow, cold sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “you remember correct. i’m quite fond of that memory, actually.” the words fall out like a joke, but the edge to his tone betrays him. there’s something about it that feels unfinished, unsaid.

you remain silent for a moment, your eyes still lost in the night. then, slowly, your head falls into your hand, your fingers pressing lightly against your temple as if to hold back something that could break through. remmick watches you, his smile fading, the silence stretching between them.

he doesn’t say anything more, because he knows—no words would make this any less complicated.

so, he let’s you speak first.

“why did you leave me like that?” your voice is quiet, but it cuts clean through the space between you. you still don’t turn to face him, your figure leaning into the cold stone railing like it might offer some kind of answer he won’t give. the moonlight brushes your skin like a veil, softening the tension in your shoulders, but remmick can still see it—the weight you carry.

“i got quite the scolding after that,” you add, almost like an afterthought. “that was your… one hundred and fifty-sixth second chance.”

the number hangs heavy in the air. remmick shifts behind you, a half-sigh caught in his throat. he wasn’t keeping count—but of course you were. of course you would remember every time he failed to live up to whatever cosmic expectation you held over him.

you don’t sound angry. not really. just… tired. like the years haven’t worn you down, but his choices have.

“glad to know someone’s keeping count,” remmick mutters, easing in beside you. the stone railing presses into his spine as he leans back, angling his body just enough to catch a glimpse of your face in the moonlight.

your eyes drift to his—slow, reluctant—and for a moment, something catches in his chest. if he still breathed, it would’ve hitched, tight and sharp. you weren’t supposed to look like this.

he’d seen your face in every imaginable light: serene, righteous, unreadable. you always wore that same celestial calm like armor. but now… now you just look exhausted. not weary in the way mortals age and sag with time—but a deeper sadness, old and quiet, like the fading echo of a hymn long forgotten.

remmick isn’t sure what unsettles him more: the silence between you, or the way you won’t quite meet his gaze.

he swallows when you don’t respond, the silence stretching longer than he expects. so he tries again, voice lower this time, almost unsure, “if i’m on my one hundred and fifty-seventh chance… why didn’t you give up ages ago?”

you still don’t answer, and that unsettles him more than any sharp retort would have.

he shifts beside you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a crooked attempt at a smile. “seriously. you should probably reevaluate your standards after that.”

it’s meant to be a joke, light enough to pull you from whatever place your mind’s wandered to—but it lands heavy, as if even he knows it doesn’t quite cover the question he’s really asking.

after a long, deathly silence, you finally lift your head and meet his eyes. there’s no lightness in your expression—just that same quiet, ancient sorrow that’s lingered beneath your skin for centuries.

“do you want to know what i am?” you ask, voice soft but unwavering. “i am sure you have been wondering for a while.”

remmick lets out a dry chuckle, one corner of his mouth curling up. “you’re right about that,” he says, eyes scanning your face like he’s searching for the answer there.

“i am an angel of the lord,” you say, finally standing upright, your voice calm, absolute. “i was sent down to watch you—because god knew you would be trouble. that you would walk on both sides of the line between chaos and order.”

remmick stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. his eyes narrow, brows knit in disbelief, but somewhere beneath the confusion, it starts to make a horrible sort of sense.

“an angel?” he mutters, almost to himself. “an actual angel’s been breathing down my neck this whole time?”

he lets out a bitter laugh, scrubbing a hand down his face. “no wonder i couldn’t stand you.”

“you say that in past tense,” you note, stepping toward him, “it could not be that you havee grown fond of me, could it?”

remmick smirks, “it could be.”

“you are angry. i have seen it,” you say quietly, stepping down from the balcony into the courtyard, your voice almost drowned by the hush of the wind through the hedges. you gesture for him to follow, and after a beat, he does—reluctantly, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable.

you walk side by side beneath the open sky, your glow washing over the stone path, brighter than the moonlight itself.

“when everything first happened—when the celts came, preaching christianity,” you begin, eyes forward, “it was not meant to be violent. but vikings... they are unpredictable, as you know. they brought fire to what should have been light.”

remmick stays quiet, glancing sidelong at you.

“god wanted someone to keep a close eye on you,” you continue. “he saw your heart. the way you could bend the world. not out of malice—but defiance. if left to your own instincts, you would unravel the threads of his design.”

you look at him then, calm, steady. “so, he sent me.”

remmick stops in his tracks, brow furrowed. “i’m sensing a but,” he mutters, voice dry. “there’s always a but.”

“but,” you say, and the word hangs in the air like judgment, “after a while, he realized you could not be saved. not in the way he intended. salvation was never going to come easy for you.”

remmick stiffens under your gaze, caught in the weight of your eyes—ancient, unwavering. he doesn’t need you to say it. he knows exactly when that shift happened. the moment everything inside him twisted beyond repair.

you step closer, your voice softer now, though no less resolute. “it took me five hundred years to convince him to let me walk the earth again… to stay in your shadow. because even if you could not be redeemed, you still needed watching. without guidance, you would leave only wreckage behind.”

remmick clenches his jaw, but doesn’t look away.

“i thought,” you add, quieter, more human somehow, “if i told you the truth this time… maybe you would finally be open. maybe you would stop running long enough to let something reach you.”

the silence that follows is thick with everything unsaid.

“you seriously believe i can change?” remmick asks, his voice low, edged with disbelief.

you don’t nod. instead, you shake your head slowly and keep walking, the gravel beneath your feet crunching softly beneath your light steps.

“no,” you say. “you cannot change what you are. that isn’t the point.”

your voice is calm, measured, not cruel—just certain.

“what drives you is not redemption,” you continue, “it is motive. it has always been motive. family… yes? connection. people who see you. who understand you. who can stand to be near you without fear.”

you glance at him, eyes catching the dim moonlight. “that is what keeps you from falling completely.”

your voice fades as you round the edge of a hedge, soft as mist, leaving remmick behind for a moment in the quiet. he blinks, then stumbles forward, hurrying to catch up, boots crunching against the earth. there’s something in the way you move—slow, graceful, unbothered—that makes him wonder if you see him more clearly than he’s ever let on.

he walks beside you in silence for a beat, eyes narrowed in thought. then, low and uncertain, he asks,

“why’ve i been given another chance?”

the words feel foreign in his mouth, like they don’t quite belong to him.

“partly because i begged for it,” you admit, “but also because the fates favour you.”

remmick raises a brow, “favour me?”

you nod, slow and deliberate.

“they do,” you say, voice like distant thunder softened by the night. “you have been offered two paths. one carved from selfishness, where every step takes you closer to your own undoing. and the other…”

your eyes lift to the stars, catching their faint shimmer.

“the other is compassion. it asks more of you, but it gives something in return—quiet, contentment, maybe even joy. and one day, if you choose it, you might find yourself watching the sunrise not with dread, but with purpose.”

“so you know how i go out?” remmick asks and you nod, confirming his assumption. he wants to bombard you with questions but you hold your hand up, “we should head back.”

he listens without a protest.

before you part with him at the balcony entrance, you offer him some words of advice, “do not take my words lightly, think about your actions and do not rely on me to tell you what to do.”

remmick watches you as you glide through the crowd, mingling effortlessly with the nobility, your light drawing them in like moths to a flame. it’s a scene so far removed from him—so foreign—that the ache he had felt earlier surges back, tight and gnawing at his insides. it pulls at him, twisting his stomach in ways that leave him feeling hollow, desperate.

he tries to shake it off, but the hunger claws at him, demanding attention. he stumbles away from his place, moving quickly through the high, echoing halls of the palace. the walls, steeped in rich history, stretch endlessly before him, their reflection of his shadow twisted and distorted as he moves through them, a ghost within his own skin.

the overwhelming scent of life all around him hits like a wave, drowning his senses. the guests, oblivious, stand in clusters, their warmth and the steady pulse of their blood flooding his senses. it's all he can focus on now. the desire to feed is primal, insistent. there’s no escaping it, no distraction from it. not when the banquet is brimming with potential prey.

at the end of the hall, a figure catches his eye. the princess, the one he danced with earlier, stands alone for a moment, separated from the throngs. the hunger takes over before he can stop himself, and he jogs toward her, the rhythm of his steps faster than he intends.

“your highness,” he greets, bowing low, his voice smooth, almost too smooth. she smiles, a demure expression. she asks him about the cake, her voice light and innocent. he tells her, with a playful tone, how divine it was—how it tasted like nothing he had ever known.

she seems to believe him, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, but her guard is down, naive to the danger she’s unwittingly stepped into. with the fluid ease of someone accustomed to getting what he wants, remmick guides her away from the crowd, leading her into a quiet, dimly lit chamber.

the door closes softly behind them.

he doesn’t waste time. with a practiced movement, he presses her against the cold wall, his fangs sinking deep into her neck. the warmth of her blood fills his senses, and the ache, that terrible, gnawing ache, begins to fade with each drawn breath. he feeds greedily, thirstily, until there’s nothing left to take.

when it’s over, the room is silent, save for the faint echo of his own breath. her body slumps in his arms, lifeless, pale. he lets her fall to the floor, her blood staining the carpet beneath her.

remmick stands over her for a moment, his chest rising and falling as he surveys the damage. a small flicker of something—guilt, maybe? regret?—crosses his mind, but it’s fleeting.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his hunger sated, but the emptiness inside remains. the cycle repeats. it always does.

he’s not going to change.

not long after that night, remmick fled paris—your footsteps trailing his despite his growing resentment. he never lingered anywhere for long, slipping through cities like smoke through fingers. yet, somehow, you always followed. unwillingly bound or stubbornly tethered, you were there.

he dragged you through the winding streets of spain, the frostbitten stretches of russia, the misty peaks of the balkans. he even wandered through the dense, humming cities of asia for a time, lost in a sea of languages and lanternlight.

but no matter how far he roamed, his footsteps always led him back to ireland. something about the damp green hills, the crash of waves against the cliffs, the ache of memory in the stone—his heart answered to it like a song half-remembered. it was the one place that still felt like his. or at least, where the ghosts felt familiar.

you’d washed up on the english channel in 1888, clothes heavy with salt and divinity, and drifted through london’s smoke-stained streets before finally making your way toward ireland. but your journey was delayed—four months, to be exact—by a detour you hadn’t planned.

a pitstop, as remmick called it.

he confessed with a twisted grin that he’d developed a taste for the blood of london’s street women. easy prey, he said. no one missed them, and no one looked too hard when they vanished. they came willingly, and their fear made their blood taste as sweet as it was tangy, he added, and left quietly.

you spoke to him as you always did—with the calm patience of eternity. you reminded him of light, of the path laid by the divine, of mercy, and restraint. you quoted scripture, invoked parables, and offered him alternatives. but he only scoffed, sharp-eyed and smirking.

“nothing beats an easy target,” he muttered once, licking the blood from his fingers as if it were honey.

and that was when you realized: some pitstops aren’t delays. they’re tests.

remmick came home that final night drenched in blood, the crimson soaking through his shirt and shining beneath your glow like oil on water. you didn’t ask where he’d been. you already knew. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and flung the bloodied fabric into a dark corner of the hostel you’d both occupied for months. you didn’t meet his eyes. instead, you recited, quiet and firm,

“violence shall no more be heard in your land, devastation or destruction within your borders; you shall call your walls salvation, and your gates praise.”

remmick snarled at the sound of scripture, his lip curling as if the words burned him, “i told you to quit spewing that holy bullshit around me, angel.”

he said your title like a curse, like something he’d spit into the dirt.

still, you smiled—an expression that almost reached your eyes, though it never truly did.

“you live in a world built from devastation and oppression,” you said gently, stepping closer, “but the real prison, vampire, is the one in your own mind.”

remmick, in a sudden fury, swept a plate of fine china off the rickety wooden table. it sailed past you and shattered against the headboard of your borrowed bed, shards of porcelain raining down like splinters of his frustration.

“ain’t nothin’ wrong with my mind,” he barked, chest heaving. “i’m livin’ off what i know. what i am!”

your frown deepened. the glow around you dimmed, like a flame shying from wind.

“rough night?” you asked softly.

he groaned, dragging a hand down his face, smearing blood across his jaw.

“nearly got caught,” he muttered. “some fella interrupted my meal.”

you nodded slowly, walking toward the mess he’d made, stepping carefully over broken china.

“you have built quite the reputation for yourself,” you said. “jack the ripper, they are calling you now.”

remmick scoffed, holding up a hand as if to physically reject the accusation.

“that ain’t me,” he said. “there’s a difference. he—he guts ‘em. rips ‘em open like game. i just puncture the neck, nice and neat. drain ’em sideways, clean as i can. i got some standards.”

your eyes narrowed. “do you?”

“for my kind, i do,” remmick mutters, casting you a sidelong glance as he sinks onto the edge of the bed. the frame creaks beneath his weight.

he feels it again—that phantom pump, the ghost of a heartbeat that only stirs when you’re near. if blood still moved through his veins, it might’ve rushed to his face, warmed his skin. instead, he remains pale, a static figure carved in cold ash and shadow.

you don’t move. you stand there, still as a monument, graceful and ethereal. divine. everything about you—your poise, your silence, even the way the light bends to wrap around you—makes his chest ache with something unfamiliar. something like longing.

your glow brushes his skin like the edge of sunlight, and in that moment, he swears he can feel your heart. or maybe it’s his own, trying to remember how to beat. he shakes his head, breaking the moment like glass.

“i’m leaving tonight,” he says, voice flat. final.

you just watch him—silent, as always—as he picks up his old acoustic guitar. it fits in his hands like it was always meant to be there, an extension of him. he’s always had a gift for music. even in the earliest years, before he knew what he was, he’d whistle back at the birds when they sang at sunrise, tap rhythms into the bones of tables, the sides of carriages, the hollow of his own chest. it was instinct. but once he found the guitar, it all came together.

remmick doesn’t look at you as he starts to play, but you can see his shoulders ease. his fingers move fluidly over the strings, coaxing out a tune that feels older than this life. you pull out a chair and sit, the wood creaking softly beneath you. no words pass between you. for once, there’s no biting sarcasm or divine reprimands. just the melody, soft and unhurried.

he plays like it’s the only honest language he’s fluent in. and you listen, like it’s the only time you truly hear him. it's brief, but in that moment, there’s peace.

remmick knows it, you know it. you’ll follow him wherever he goes.

remmick stayed in ireland for three decades, tucked away in green hills and rain-soaked stone villages. of course, you were there—always there. disappearing for weeks, months even, only to reappear when he least expected it, glowing like a bad omen he couldn’t shake.

then came 1921. something called to him—a sound, delicate and haunting. a woman playing an instrument so beautiful it made his dead heart ache. he boarded a ship of irish immigrants bound for boston, chasing the echo of her melody. he claimed he wanted to reconnect with his roots, to find the family he’d left behind. the truth was more selfish.

the voyage was a disaster.

desperate to reclaim what he thought he’d lost—music, love, belonging—remmick tried to turn them all. everyone on board: children, parents, the elderly. but vampirism is no gift, and none of them survived the transformation. blood ran like wine below deck, and the woman with the gifted hands? lost to the chaos. he never even learned her name.

when the ship docked three days later, reeking of death and silence, he slipped off unnoticed. another new instrument slung over his shoulder like a trophy. the only thing he managed to save.

but you? you were gone.

no glow in the shadows.

no soft footsteps trailing behind him.

for once, he was truly alone.

the last time he saw you—really saw you—was at a juke joint deep in the mississippi delta, about twenty years later.

he’d been lingering just outside the shack, half-shrouded in trees and night, the thrum of blues rolling out of the open door like the sweet aroma of pie out a window. his mouth was wet, glistening—thick ropes of blood and spit clung to his lips, soaked into the collar of his shirt, cooling on his skin.

he was a mess. a predator fresh from the hunt.

but even in that haze, he felt it. that pull. that warmth.

you.

your light slipped through the trees before you did, soft and steady, brighter than the porch lamps and louder than the music.

he didn’t need to feel warmth anymore to know it was you.

he’d always know.

"i should be more surprised that you’re here," remmick groaned, not bothering to turn around. he didn’t need to see your face to know what expression you wore—he could picture it perfectly: the sharp furrow of your brow, the disappointment etched into every line.

he leaned against a tree, dragging a bloodied sleeve across his mouth.

"why now?" he muttered. "gonna try and talk me down again? throw a bible verse at me like it’s some kind of holy water? think i’m gonna suddenly grow a conscience 'cause you showed up glowing?"

his voice was tired, bitter.

"you always show up when i’m at my worst. like clockwork."

“you are straying from your righteous path,” you say, your face unreadable but your voice heavy with sorrow. “are you sure you want to do this?”

remmick waves a dismissive hand, “i’m sure.”

you shake your head slowly. “you did not heed my warning.”

he arches a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “you warn me all the time. how’m i s’pposed to know which one?”

he knows exactly which warning you mean. but remmick aims not just for the best—he strives for something beyond that. his selfish path feels carved into stone, unchangeable. you’ve spoken of another way, a second path meant to offer hope. but he never entertained that hope. not once.

“i know what you think i do not know,” you begin, your voice steady, eyes fixed on the back of his head, “there is more for you, if only you listen to my age-old warning.”

remmick clicks his tongue in frustration, something sharp and bitter rising in his chest.

you continue, voice gentle but firm,

“life is beautiful, remmick—whether you see it or not. and i know you are unable to, not anymore. you have grown bitter, i have watched it happen, piece by piece. but it does not have to stay that way.”

your eyes focus on his form, steady and unwavering.

“you still have time. you can make peace with them, with yourself. you can reclaim what you have lost. not everything is beyond reach.”

you pause, searching for something in his body language—anything.

“do not do this. do not spill the blood of good people just because you have forgotten what goodness looks like.”

your calmness feels like mockery. he snaps—like a wire pulled too tight—spinning around so fast it startles you.

“you can’t seriously expect me to listen to anything you have to say,” he growls, eyes burning, “not after you vanished for twenty damn years just because you finally saw what i was capable of! how are you supposed to be my guardian angel when you’re so unbelievably shit at your job?”

you think your heart breaks—and remmick thinks he hears it. not a dramatic crack, but something quieter, crueler. like dry glass splintering under pressure.

his eyes flash a deep, dangerous red. for a moment, it looks like he’s considering it—really considering tearing into something holy.

he’d been cruel before, callous beyond belief. but something about tonight lands differently.

you don’t shout, you don’t plead, you don’t fall apart.

instead, just a few tears slide down your cheeks, slow and soundless.

and that’s what gets him.

he never thought he’d see the day an angel would cry. from what he knew, you were carved from calm, built to endure without cracking.

but now, standing under the weak light of a crooked moon, he sees it. sees you.

not a symbol, not a mission. just someone deeply, utterly tired.

you don’t let him linger in your sorrow. as soon as you feel the tears, you turn away—too proud to let him see what he’s done. too divine to shatter completely in front of him.

your wings unfurl—slow, deliberate, and unlike anything he’s ever seen. vast and radiant, feathers pure as untouched snow, glowing faintly with a divinity that makes the dark around him feel smaller, weaker. they catch the breeze like sails on a departing ship.

remmick freezes. not because he’s scared, but because he understands.

this is it.

you’re leaving.

and this time, you won’t come back.

a part of him, the part still clinging to something human, wants to call out. wants to say don’t.

but he doesn’t.

he stays silent, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight as he watches with empty eyes.

you offer him one last verse—your final tether, a hope you quietly beg he'll remember.

“judge not, that ye be not judged. for with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.”

your voice echoes long after your wings do.

with a single, mighty flap, the earth stirs beneath you. dust kicks up, grass bends, and then—

you’re gone.

all that remains is the soft imprint of your departure, a shallow crater in the earth where heaven once touched down.

his heart no longer beats in faux rhythm.

and when the sun finally rises, catching him where the shadows fail, remmick doesn’t flinch. doesn’t snarl or thrash or claw at the light like some cornered beast. he doesn’t beg, doesn’t run.

he just stares.

the light crawls across his skin, golden and relentless, and for the first time in one thousand, three hundred and eighty-five years, he lets it. he watches the sunrise not with fear or hatred, but with something else—something closer to awe.

his inhuman eyes brim with tears, not from pain, but from peace.

he knows you’re near. he can feel it. after all this time, he can still sense the pull of your presence like gravity. maybe you’re watching the same sunrise from some rooftop or ruin, silently praying for what’s left of him.

and maybe—just maybe—he’s praying too.

he imagines his ancestors waiting for him, the ones he lost to time and blood and tragedy, their arms open and music playing. but more than anything, he hopes you're there too.

and as the fire takes him, a slow, searing bloom that begins at his chest and spreads outward like a star going nova, he closes his eyes.

not in fear.

but in surrender.

in peace.

and he smiles.

you stand over the scorch-marked earth where remmick had burned. there’s no trace left of him—no body, no ash, just the faint smell of smoke clinging to the morning air and a body of water that moved indifferently as if remmick was never there.

you do not cry.

you knew this ending. had seen it coming centuries ago.

but still, your chest aches in a way that feels foreign. not divine. not righteous. just… human.

quietly, you kneel by the edge of a shallow stream, its waters catching the soft gold of the rising sun. your hand, steady and sacred, slips beneath the surface. it doesn’t take long. the chain finds you, just like he always did.

you pull it from the water—his gold chain, warm despite the cold stream, still whole.

your fingers trace its pattern, each link familiar, worn from centuries of wear.

you smile. not wide. not bright. but soft. pained. knowing.

“goodbye, old friend,” you whisper.

the wind stirs the trees behind you, and the morning continues.

you would not see his soul in the holy place.

not because he was born into darkness—he wasn’t. not because he was forced to live as he did—though that part was true.

but because remmick’s choices stretched far beyond instinct, beyond what was natural. he had time. he had chances. and every time, he chose wrong. knowingly, willfully.

and heaven does not make room for those who choose to burn.

[goofygubegubler]

𝑺𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒐𝒃𝒋𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒅

Spencer throws out a comment so uncharacteristically bold that even Morgan is speechless.

wc: 768 | F!Reader (established relationship) | cw: VERY suggestive

A/N: I’m honestly blown away by all the love on my first fic—thank you so much! I’ve got more in the works, including blurbs and maybe even a few one-shots. My asks are open, so feel free to send requests or just chat! Hope you enjoy this one—it's short and oh so sweet <3

Your desk was a mess—files spread out, coffee half-drunk, and a notepad filled with half-legible scribbles. Across from you, Spencer was deep in his own pile of paperwork, meticulously writing everything out by hand, as usual. Despite having access to every digital tool imaginable, he still swore by pen and paper, claiming it helped him retain information better. It was kinda endearing, in a stubborn, old-man way.

You were in the middle of reviewing a case file, flipping through pages while absentmindedly tapping your pen against your desk, when you heard Morgan stroll over to Spencer’s desk.

“Come on, pretty boy,” Morgan said, dropping his coffee onto Spencer's desk with a thud. “You mean to tell me you, the guy who once used the word ‘cloacal kiss’ in casual conversation, has nothing to say about his own mating habits?”

Your fingers hovered over your mouse as you scrolled through your playlist on your monitor, hesitating between switching to something instrumental or letting the indie rock keep playing. Oh boy. Here we go.

Spencer barely looked up, flipping a page in his file. “Because, unlike you, I don’t feel the need to turn my personal life into locker room talk.”

Morgan grinned. "I’m just saying, man, if all that reading has you treating sex like a final exam, I got some study guides for you."

Spencer finally lifted his head, blinking at him like he was the dumbest person alive. “Morgan, your definition of 'expertise' is having a lot of experience. Mine is actually understanding the mechanics of what you’re talking about.”

Morgan scoffed. “That’s not even—listen, Savannah and I are solid, okay? And I’m just saying, for a guy who overexplains everything, you sure get real quiet about this topic.”

Spencer gave him a flat look, putting his pen down. "Morgan, sex isn’t complicated. It’s just applied physics with a little bit of chemistry—and if done correctly, some very impressive biology."

JJ, who had apparently been listening in, snorted. "That might be the nerdiest thing you’ve ever said—and that’s saying something."

Morgan threw up his hands. "See? This is what I’m talking about! The man could turn seduction into a science fair project."

Morgan pointed at Spencer, then at you, then back at Spencer, clearly trying to form a comeback. Before he could, Spencer sighed and said, "Morgan, what do you want me to say? Yes, I have sex. Yes, I enjoy it. No, I’m not about to give you a play-by-play."

Morgan opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, searching for something—anything—that wouldn't result in him taking yet another loss. Finally, he let out a deep sigh, grabbed his coffee, and pointed a finger at Spencer. "We're not done."

Spencer just smiled, leaning back slightly in his chair. "Morgan, I hate to break it to you, but we were done the moment you started this conversation."

You were still working, or at least making a half-hearted attempt at it, but you weren’t exactly subtle. Your grip on the pen had tightened, your page-flipping slowed, and the barely-contained smirk on your face was giving you away completely. Spencer noticed—of course, he did. His sharp eyes flicked toward you, and the way his lips curled just slightly told you he knew you were listening.

He tilted his head, eyebrows raised in amusement. "Don’t act like you didn’t hear that."

You huffed, shaking your head as you clicked play on your music.

The first few soft notes of "Juno" by Sabrina Carpenter filtered through your headphones.

But your mind was already elsewhere—lingering on the way Spencer had leaned back so casually, how he hadn’t hesitated once, how damn sure of himself he had been. You bit your lip, heat crawling up your spine. You liked the way he’d said it—like he knew exactly what effect he had on you, and he wasn’t afraid to use it. Like he enjoyed it. Like he was claiming something, not just stating a fact. And that was the part that really got to you. You liked being seen, being wanted, being talked about like you were something worth studying, something worth knowing inside and out.

But you were at work. And work meant focus, control, and professionalism. You exhaled, straightening in your chair and forcing your attention back to the case file in front of you. Even as you tried to push it aside, the heat still curled in your stomach, his voice replaying in your head like a song you couldn’t shake.

And then, as if on cue, Sabrina Carpenter’s voice cut through the moment:

 "Sorry if you feel objectified."

[cherryxbooo]

Yeah, I’m the lucky one

Summary: Hiding it when you're sick from your boyfriend is one thing, but hiding it from your clingy boyfriend is a whole other challenge.

Reader x Lando Norris

Genre: fluff

The paddock is alive with energy, buzzing with anticipation, the sound of engines roaring in the distance, and the hum of the crowd outside.

Lando is in his element, calm yet radiating an excitement that’s palpable.

The focus in his eyes is like nothing I’ve ever seen, and it’s clear that today matters more to him than most.

The weight of the race, the pressure of the expectations, and the fire in his heart are all simmering beneath the surface.

It's a mix of raw determination and adrenaline, and it brings out the best in him.

But me? Well, I feel the complete opposite.

I woke up feeling off, my head pounding and my body aching with a fever I couldn't shake.

I knew I should stay in bed, but I couldn’t. Not today.

Not with everything he’s worked for. I couldn’t let something as trivial as being sick get in the way of him having the best race of his career.

He’s been talking about this day for weeks, getting ready for it with an intensity that I’ve only seen in the world of motorsport.

But as I made my way through the paddock, trying my best to act normal, I felt the weight of my own discomfort pulling me down.

I’ve been silently counting the minutes until I can just crawl into a quiet corner and hide.

But the last thing I want is for him to see me like this. He’d immediately worry, go into panic mode, and lose focus.

Lando, with his big heart, would put everything aside just to take care of me, and I don’t want to do that to him.

Not today. Today is about him.

As I stand next to his family, making small talk with his friends, I feel dizzy.

The lights are a little too bright, and the sounds a little too loud.

I try to steady myself, offering a weak smile whenever someone glances my way, but the effort feels exhausting.

Lando’s mum catches my eye, and for a brief moment, I see a flicker of concern in her expression.

But she doesn’t say anything, just gives me a warm, reassuring smile. I’m grateful, but I can tell she knows something’s off.

Then, out of nowhere, I feel a familiar hand on my back. A small shiver runs down my spine as I turn to face Lando, and I instantly feel a warmth spread through me, despite the fever still creeping in.

“Hey baby, you okay?” His voice is soft, but there’s a sharpness in his eyes, like he’s always aware of everything around him, especially me.

I don’t want to worry him. I can’t.

So I give him a smile that’s more practiced than I’d like to admit,

“Yeah, just a little tired. Big day, huh?”

Lando raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it.

He studies me for a second, his gaze lingering a little longer than usual, his hand gently squeezing my back.

The touch is warm, comforting. “You sure? You don’t look so great.”

“I’m fine,” I assure him, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

“You focus on the race. I’m just here to cheer you on.”

Lando hesitates, his lips pressed into a thin line as if trying to gauge if I’m really okay.

But then he nods slowly, though his concern doesn’t quite vanish.

“Alright… but if you need anything, you let me know, okay?”

His voice is almost a whisper, like he’s trying not to give away just how much he cares.

“I will,” I promise, trying to keep my tone light and convincing.

But as he walks away to prepare for the race, a sense of loneliness settles over me.

The noise around me feels overwhelming, and the crowd only amplifies the ache in my head.

I find a quiet corner, away from the chaos, hoping to just breathe for a moment.

I didn't realize that I had been hiding away for a while already.

But before I know it, Lando’s voice cuts through the distance.

“You’ve been hiding from me.”

I turn to see him standing there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed with a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

His presence alone seems to calm the storm inside me.

“I wasn’t hiding,” I protest weakly, though my voice cracks just slightly.

“Just… taking a break.”

Lando raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it.

“Taking a break from what? From me?”

He takes a step closer, his hand reaching out to gently touch my cheek, his fingers warm against my skin.

I close my eyes for a second, leaning into the touch, even though I feel like I might collapse at any moment.

“From the chaos of the paddock,” I admitted softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze softens, the teasing in his eyes fading. He steps in closer, his body brushing against mine as he gently cups my face with both hands, forcing me to meet his eyes.

“Hey…” His voice is tender now, a deep, comforting lull.

“Are you really feeling okay love?"

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat suddenly unbearable.

“Yes, don't worry Lan. I'm fine.”

I whisper, my voice slightly breaking as I fight the urge to lean on him completely.

I stare up at him, feeling a mix of love and pain.

I don’t want to be the one who holds him back, but I can’t deny how much I crave the support and warmth he gives me without even thinking.

Lando lowers his hands, but not without giving me one last comforting touch, his fingers brushing my wrist.

“You need to rest,” he says firmly, but there’s a hint of playfulness behind his words now.

“I’m not going to let you make it through today without me taking care of you at least once.”

I laugh softly, despite the dizziness still swirling in my head.

“I’m fine, Lando. You go be amazing out there.”

He looks at me, his eyes soft but filled with determination. “I will be. But only because you’re here.”

Before I can say anything else, he leans in, planting a gentle kiss on my forehead.

“I’ll be right back, okay? I’ll make sure to get at least P3 for you.”

And with that, he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd of engineers and teammates.

But the moment he’s out of sight, I feel my energy drain completely.

Regardless of how I felt I still made my way to the rest so I could support Lando and be there for him.

Everywhere I look, there’s movement, excitement, and a sense of urgency.

Lando’s already suited up and surrounded by his team, getting ready to focus on the race that could mean everything for his career.

I’m supposed to be the one cheering him on, being his support, his calm, but instead, all I can do is try to survive the overwhelming wave of heat coursing through me.

Every few seconds, my head spins, my chest feels like it's on fire, and the nausea rolls in like a tide.

It’s getting harder to keep it together, but I’m trying. I can’t let anything distract him.

I can't make this his problem today, not when he’s been working so hard for this moment.

I take a seat next to Max and Pietra, hoping the three of us can keep the mood light and give Lando a little peace before he heads into the race.

I force myself to laugh at Max's joke about the weather, but it comes out more like a wheeze.

My throat feels like it’s coated in something dry and scratchy, and each breath feels like I’m not getting enough air.

Max doesn’t notice, but Pietra does.

She’s always been that way, observant, kind, and so very perceptive.

I’ve always admired how in tune she is with people.

She shifts in her seat beside me, her eyes narrowing as she studies my face.

“You okay, Y/n?” she asks gently, her voice laced with concern.

“You look a little pale.”

I immediately try to put on a smile, but it feels like the most exhausting thing I’ve done all day.

“I’m fine, really,” I say, hoping I can convince her.

“Just a little tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Pietra doesn’t buy it, not even for a second.

She leans in closer, her gaze steady as she inspects my face, my trembling hands.

“You sure?” she presses, her brow furrowing.

“You don’t look fine. Maybe you should lay down for a bit?”

The room suddenly feels like it’s closing in on me.

The dizziness that had been simmering beneath the surface is starting to take hold, and it’s all I can do to keep my eyes focused on her.

I swallow hard, trying to push the wave of nausea down, but it’s impossible to ignore now.

I nod weakly, doing my best to stay composed.

“I’m okay, Pietra. Just... a little dizzy. I think I’ll sit down for a moment.”

Max, still glued to his phone, glances up briefly, probably sensing the shift in the air.

His eyes scan me quickly before he leans closer to Pietra, muttering something under his breath, probably about how pale I look.

I’m about to wave it off, to reassure them both that it’s nothing, when Pietra’s soft hand touches my shoulder.

It’s warm and grounding, her touch gentle but insistent.

“No, you’re not okay, Y/n,” she says firmly.

“You’re not fooling me. You need to go back to the hotel and rest. Max and I will handle everything here. Don’t worry about Lando. He’ll understand. He doesn’t need to know right now, and you’re not helping him by pretending you’re fine.”

My heart clenches at her words. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to make him worry.

He’s about to race, about to compete for something so important to him.

The last thing I want is to make this about me. But Pietra’s expression leaves no room for argument.

Her hand squeezes my shoulder, and I feel a wave of guilt hit me hard.

“I... I can’t just leave,” I whisper, my voice shaky.

“I don’t want him to—”

“Y/n,” Pietra interrupts, her voice soft but full of authority.

“Lando will be fine. He’ll be more upset if you stay here, pretending to be okay when you’re not. Let us take care of everything. He doesn’t need the distraction. He needs you to get better, not to keep pretending.”

I shake my head, still fighting it. “But he’s going to think I don’t care.”

“He knows you care. You don’t have to prove it by running yourself into the ground,” she says, her tone firm yet reassuring.

“You need to listen to your body. Max and I can make sure everything’s fine here.”

I hesitate for a moment, my vision swimming in and out of focus, and then I feel it, the dizziness getting worse.

My stomach turns violently, and I barely suppress a gasp. Before I can protest, Pietra’s up and at my side, helping me stand.

“Max,” she calls out to him, her voice tinged with urgency.

Max looks up from his phone, his attention now fully on us. He doesn’t need to ask questions.

Without a word, he stands, motions to security, and gestures for them to clear a path.

“We’re getting you back to the hotel,” Max says, his voice gentle but decisive.

“No arguments.”

I open my mouth to protest, to tell them I’m fine, but the dizziness overtakes me again.

I feel my legs wobble, my knees threatening to give way beneath me. The nausea is so strong now that I can’t hold it back any longer.

My head feels like it’s filled with cotton, and my heart races as I fight to keep everything together.

“Okay,” I whisper, too weak to resist any longer. “Okay, let’s go.”

Max’s arm wraps around my shoulder, steadying me as Pietra follows closely behind.

I glance over my shoulder at the paddock, seeing the hustle and bustle of the team preparing for the race.

And even though I want nothing more than to stay and support Lando, I know Pietra’s right, he doesn’t need to see me like this.

As we make our way out of the paddock, past the busy crew and excited fans, the world seems to blur again.

All I can think about is Lando, how much he’s worked for this, and how much I wish I could be there cheering him on.

But right now, all I can do is focus on getting back to the hotel and trying to heal.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Pietra murmurs, sensing my anxiety.

“Lando will understand. We’ll make sure he stays focused.”

“Thank you,” I whisper back, squeezing her hand.

Max looks over at me, offering a reassuring smile.

“No problem, Y/n. We’ve got you.”

And as they guide me toward the exit, the sound of the engines roaring to life in the distance feels far away, almost like a distant memory.

All I can focus on is putting one foot in front of the other and hoping that, by the time Lando crosses the finish line, I’ll be okay.

Meanwhile,

The race was intense, there was no other way to describe it.

Lando’s heart was pounding, his breath coming in quick bursts as he fought to stay focused on the track ahead.

Each corner, each straightaway felt like it mattered more than the last.

The roar of the engine under him, the vibration in his hands as he gripped the wheel,it was like the world was screaming at him to push harder, to get everything he had into every lap.

And he did.

Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, the world outside of his car becoming a blur of colors and sounds.

But amidst the chaos, there was something else tugging at his mind, something he couldn’t quite shake.

Just before the race started, he had caught sight of Y/n sitting among their friends, looking beautiful as always, but something was... off.

Maybe it was the way she had looked at him, her tired eyes betraying a sense of exhaustion that didn’t quite match the energy of the day.

Or how quiet she seemed, like a flicker of something hidden behind her usual smile. He couldn’t pinpoint it, but something wasn’t right.

But there was no time for that.

He pushed those thoughts away, focusing back on the race, his hands steady on the wheel as he navigated the track with everything he had.

He couldn’t afford to think about anything but the next corner, the next lap, the next move.

And when he crossed the finish line, the elation of victory should’ve been enough to make everything feel perfect.

After all, he had gotten P2.

The cheers, the confetti, the roar of the crowd, it was everything he’d been working for, everything he’d dreamed of.

But in the midst of it all, he couldn’t shake the nagging thought of Y/n.

His gaze searched the area, instinctively looking for her.

He was surrounded by teammates, sponsors, friends, but all he wanted in that moment was to see her smile, to know she was okay.

He scanned the area again, but she wasn’t there.

Not where he had left her. His stomach tightened, his mind racing. Something wasn’t right.

Lando quickly moved through the crowd, dodging everyone on his way, his eyes darting between faces, searching for any sign of her.

He was so focused on finding her, he almost didn’t see Max and Pietra standing off to the side.

When he finally noticed them, his heart skipped a beat. You weren't there.

Lando’s pace quickened as he approached them, his voice betraying the worry he couldn’t hide.

“Where’s Y/n?” he asked, his words coming out sharper than he intended.

Pietra exchanged a glance with Max before she sighed, the look on her face telling Lando everything he needed to know.

"She wasn’t feeling well," she said softly, her eyes clouded with concern.

"We had to send her back to the hotel."

Lando’s chest tightened, a heavy weight settling over him.

His pulse quickened, the sudden rush of guilt and worry clouding his thoughts.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” The words slipped out before he could stop them, his voice rising slightly, not in anger, but in genuine confusion.

Max stepped forward, his expression calm but serious.

"Mate she didn’t want to distract you. She said it was important not to take your focus away from the race."

Lando’s mind was spinning now, the elation of his victory evaporating as quickly as it had come.

Guilt was flooding him, he couldn’t believe Y/n had been struggling, that she’d hidden it from him.

She’d always been there for him, supportive, understanding, even when he was caught up in his own world.

And now, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d let her down.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the weight of the situation was suffocating.

He didn’t know what to say.

All he could think about was how she had been sitting there, probably feeling miserable, and he hadn’t even noticed.

The race, his career, all of it felt so insignificant compared to the thought of Y/n being alone and sick.

“Why didn’t she just tell me? I would’ve understood. I could’ve—”

Pietra stepped forward, her hand gently resting on his arm, grounding him in the moment.

“Lando, she didn’t want you to worry. She knew how much today meant to you. She didn’t want to take that away from you.”

Max nodded in agreement.

“She’s always there for you. But she’s not the type to let herself be a distraction, not when you’re in the zone like that. You know how she is, she cares about you more than anything, but she didn’t want to pull you away from your focus.”

Lando let out a long breath, feeling like the weight of the world was pressing down on his chest.

“I should’ve noticed,” he muttered, his gaze dropping to the ground.

"I should’ve been paying more attention."

"You’re not a mind reader, Lando," Pietra said, her voice calm but firm.

Lando realized that she was right.

He quickly greeted the rest of his family and did some other duties before changing and heading back to the hotel.

Lando arrived at the hotel room, his body still buzzing from the race, but his mind consumed by a different kind of worry.

As soon as he entered, the first thing he did was quietly close the door behind him.

The soft hum of the air conditioning and the dim light from the lamps were the only sounds in the room.

His eyes immediately fell on your figure, still asleep, your peaceful face glowing softly under the sheets.

The sight of you, so vulnerable yet so beautiful, made his heart ache with both affection and guilt.

He quietly pulled a chair from the small desk and sat down beside the bed, never taking his eyes off you.

He wanted to be close to his girl, but he didn’t want to wake you.

He knew you needed rest, but the worry of the day, the worry about you, hadn’t let up.

He reached out, brushing a lock of hair from your face.

His fingers lingered there for a second before he let out a soft breath, resting his chin in his hand, his elbow on his knee.

He could almost hear the questions running through his mind, wondering why you hadn’t told him what you had been feeling.

He could feel the weight of your absence, the quiet ache in his chest from not knowing exactly what had been going on with you.

The minutes seemed to stretch on, each tick of the clock amplifying his thoughts.

He hated this uncertainty, this feeling that something had been left unsaid.

Then, after what felt like forever, a soft groan escaped from your lips, and Lando’s attention snapped to her immediately.

Your eyes fluttered open, blinking against the dim light in the room.

Your gaze slowly focused on him, confusion settling on her face as she took in her surroundings.

Lando watched her with a mix of relief and concern, his heart lightening at the sight of you waking up but still heavy with the questions that lingered in his mind.

"Hey, sleepyhead," Lando said softly, his voice full of warmth and affection.

My vision cleared, and I smiled sleepily at him.

Lando’s heart squeezed.

"You’re awake. I’ve been here waiting for you to wake up for, like, ages now." He chuckled softly, though his eyes were still filled with concern.

"But seriously… why didn’t you tell me?"

I sighed, feeling the weight of everything pressing on me.

My hand reached for his, finding his fingers weakly, and I squeezed them, my fingers trembling a bit.

"I didn’t want to be a burden," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I didn’t want to ruin your day or take away from the race. It was important to you. I just… I didn’t want to distract you."

Lando smiled at me softly, his thumb gently stroking the back of my hand.

"You’re never a burden, Y/n." He looked at me with such sincerity, it made my heart ache in the best way.

"You are always my priority, okay? Not the race, not the fans, not the win. You. Always."

I felt my heart flutter at his words, my eyes softening as I looked back at him.

The tears I’d been holding back threatened to spill, and I could feel them welling up.

Being sick just makes people extra emotional, give it a break yeah?

"I’m sorry," I murmured, my voice breaking slightly.

Lando shook his head, his heart aching.

He leaned closer, cupping my cheek gently, his thumb brushing over my skin.

"You don’t have to apologize," he whispered.

"You never have to hide anything from me, especially not when it comes to you."

I felt the weight of his words, the tenderness in his touch, and I wanted so badly to just melt into him.

I was so grateful for him, for the way he always made me feel safe, loved, and heard.

Lando sat beside me on the bed, leaning back just enough to grab the water and medicine he’d set out earlier.

"You need to drink this," he said softly, his voice gentle but firm.

"Get some rest, and I’ll be right here with you. Just take it easy."

I hesitated for a moment, but then reached for the glass of water he held out to me.

My fingers were still shaking slightly, but I took it from him gratefully.

There was a small, tired smile on my lips as I drank, and Lando’s eyes never left me.

He was watching me closely, making sure I was okay. It felt nice to be looked after this way.

After I finished the water, Lando sat back down next to me again, his hand finding mine once more.

"You don’t ever have to hide something like that from me, okay?" he said, his voice soft but serious.

"If something’s wrong, you have to tell me. Promise me you’ll tell me next time."

I looked up at him, my eyes full of emotion, and I nodded slowly.

The tears I’d been holding back finally spilled over, and I felt a few of them slide down my cheeks.

Before I could say anything, Lando quickly wiped them away with his thumb, his touch light, tender.

"I’m sorry," I whispered again, my voice barely audible.

He slightly laughed, "You're such a crybaby when you're sick babe."

Lando leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment.

"You don’t have to apologize," he said, his voice full of love and affection.

"I love you, baby. I love you, and that’s all that matters." His voice was quiet but strong, filled with reassurance.

I pulled him closer, resting my head against his chest, letting out a small, exaggerated sigh.

"Mmm, this is the best pillow ever," I mumbled, half-laughing, half-groaning in exhaustion.

Lando wrapped his arms around me, pulling me in tighter.

His chin rested on top of my head, and he chuckled softly.

"You come first," he said with a mock-serious tone, trying to sound all deep and dramatic.

"Always."

I snuggled in a little closer, feeling his warmth.

"Oh, I know now," I said, glancing up at him with a grin.

"You’re basically my personal butler, aren’t you? Always there when I need you."

He let out a dramatic gasp. "But of course! My whole existence is to serve you, my queen."

I rolled my eyes, fighting back a laugh.

"Thank you for being here," I said, the words half-sweet, half-teasing.

Lando smirked, pressing a kiss to my hair.

"Please don't cry again... and well yeah, where else would I be? I’m not going anywhere."

Then, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he added,

"Besides, you’ve got me wrapped around your finger. You know that, right?"

I couldn’t help but laugh lightly, feeling him grin against the top of my head.

"Oh, I know," I said, playfully tapping his chest.

"You're my big soft marshmallow. I practically own you."

Lando chuckled, his arms tightening around me. "You absolutely do. And you’re not even sorry about it."

I smirked, rolling my eyes. "Well, I am your number one priority, aren’t I?"

His eyes sparkled with affection, and he pulled me a little closer.

"You’re my number one everything, Y/n. No competition."

I snorted, unable to help the grin that spread across my face.

"Good. Glad we’re clear on that."

As we sat there, wrapped up in each other, the world outside felt miles away.

All that mattered was us, his heartbeat, my tired sighs, and the way we fit together like we’d always been meant to.

For a moment, everything else faded, and all I could think was: Yeah, I’m the lucky one.

The end

[liuhsng]

─────⋆˚࿔ ⋆ in lilac and gold ( lhs ! )

✩ˎˊ˗ enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — heeseung x fem!reader ⤷ word count — 21.2k ⤷ based on this request by @heesbbygurl ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ a/n — i had so much fun writing this—truly. this honestly might be one of my favorite pieces yet. also, please don’t mind the enhypen masterlist, it’s still under editing and a little messy 🤍

⤷ warnings — smut (minors dni), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), reincarnation au, royal au, prince!heeseung, princess!reader, modern!heeseung, modern!reader, past lives, heavy emotional themes, mentions of childbirth, faint references to past death, soulmate trope, red string trope, fluff, angst, destiny/universe themes, mentions of pain (labor), crying, protective!heeseung, foul language, mentions of historical war/politics, romantic tension, fate-written love, farmer george reference, happy ending, breeding kink, marking, biting, light possessiveness, overstimulation, praise kink, slight size kink

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — as the crown prince of a powerful kingdom, lee heeseung was raised to rule—with sharp instincts, a loyal heart, and a crown that never sat too heavily on his head. he was born for diplomacy, bred for war, and destined for a throne. but the only thing he truly lived for was you. his wife, his queen, the only soul who could quiet the chaos inside him. you loved each other until your final breath. and somehow, even after that. or, where two strangers meet under the eyes of their past selves, and something the universe once forgot finally begins again.

The sun poured golden ribbons over the stone path, warm and gentle as it kissed the castle grounds. Somewhere beyond the hedges, the faint splash of the courtyard fountain echoed—a lullaby of water meeting water, rhythmic and calming.

You sat nestled within the pale embrace of a gazebo, its wooden frame delicately laced with ivy and blooming wisteria, soft petals swaying with every tender breeze.

The book in your hands was worn in the corners but loved—its parchment pages aged, the ink slightly faded yet still carrying the weight of every word.

A sigh left your lips, soft and drawn out.

“'And in silence, he longed for what he dared not touch,'” you read aloud, your voice barely rising above the wind. “What a tragic sort of devotion…”

Your fingers tightened around the spine.

The garden stretched out before you, a sea of color—roses, tulips, peonies, and little blue forget-me-nots nestled near the base of every trimmed bush. Everything was alive, and yet it all stood still, like the entire world paused to listen.

Footsteps padded softly across the gravel behind you.

“Milady,” came the quiet voice of one of the castle maids, her head bowed low as she placed a fresh tray of refreshments upon the small table beside you. Crystal glasses caught the light, and the silver tray gleamed beneath the sun.

You offered a gentle smile. “Thank you.”

She returned it, modest and fleeting, before stepping back. “Shall I leave the strawberries as well?”

“Yes, please,” you replied, adjusting the folds of your gown with one hand.

The silk skirt pooled around you in waves, layered with pale pastels, laced edges, and gold-stitched bows that shimmered every time you moved. A corset hugged your waist, cinched just enough to be proper, but not unbearable—a compromise between elegance and comfort.

She bowed again. “Call if you need anything, my lady.”

“I always do,” you murmured, your gaze falling back to the book.

You turned the page delicately, brushing your fingertips against the words as though they were fragile glass.

And then, quietly to yourself, “How strange it must be, to long for someone in secret… and be loved loudly by someone else entirely.”

You were just about to turn the page—fingertip sliding gently under the parchment—when you heard it.

Footsteps.

Your gaze lifted from the book and drifted to the right, toward one of the many winding paths that led into the garden. Sunlight spilled across the white cobblestone in slanted rays, dancing between the petals and ivy.

Prince Heeseung.

Your breath caught for only a second—but your smile came instantly, unbidden, as if your heart had recognized him long before your eyes did.

He looked like he belonged in the very pages of your book—dressed in a tailored white coat lined with gold filigree that caught the sun at every turn.

The fabric shimmered faintly with each step he took, the polished black boots beneath his dark trousers clicking softly against the stones. His hands were careful, cradling a fresh bouquet of lilacs—your favorite, which he never once forgot.

The lilacs were nearly the same shade as the ribbon in your hair.

His dark hair was brushed back in soft waves, a few strands falling loosely near his brow. And those eyes—those warm, honey-brown eyes—found yours with ease, with something gentle tucked inside their gaze.

“Princess,” he greeted with a smile that turned your knees to air. His voice, low and warm, always had a way of curling around your name like a promise.

You sat up straighter, your hands folding over your lap as you tilted your head at him, playful. “You walk like a man with secrets.”

“I walk like a man bringing flowers to the only one who makes the garden look dull,” he said, grinning as he reached the steps of the gazebo.

“Oh, how terribly dramatic of you.”

Heeseung chuckled, holding out the bouquet. “And yet it made you smile.”

You accepted the lilacs carefully, the scent washing over you like a memory. “You know, the florists will start suspecting you’re courting someone.”

“I am courting someone,” he replied easily, eyes never leaving yours.

Your cheeks warmed under the weight of his gaze.

“Lucky her,” you said softly, brushing your thumb over one of the petals.

Heeseung stepped closer, just enough to lower himself onto the bench beside you—his posture relaxed, his shoulder brushing yours faintly. His arm rested casually behind you on the seat, not quite touching, but close enough to feel.

“Lucky me,” he corrected, leaning in the slightest bit as his voice dipped lower. “For having a princess who reads poetry and meets me in gardens.”

You laughed under your breath, looking down at the bouquet once more. “You always say the right things.”

Heeseung tilted his head, expression soft. “Only when I’m around you.”

You gave him another smile, one that crinkled your eyes and pulled at the corners of your lips. Then, with a careful hand, you set the bouquet beside the refreshments—delicate lilacs now resting in the sun’s golden glow, nestled beside chilled lemonade and a dish of strawberries.

“Come closer,” you said gently, patting the spot beside you with a slight tilt of your head.

And he did.

Heeseung obeyed with that boyish grin tugging at his lips, sinking into the bench with ease until his shoulder brushed yours—warm, familiar. The closeness was effortless, the kind that came with hours and weeks and years of knowing. Of loving.

He turned slightly, eyes gleaming as if simply sitting beside you made the world right again.

“How was practice?” you asked, reaching instinctively for his hand, your thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles.

He let out a dramatic sigh, one that rattled from the very depths of his chest before he leaned in further—head finding its way to the crook of your neck, nose brushing the soft skin there as he inhaled.

“Exhausting,” he murmured, voice muffled by your skin. “Sunghoon almost ripped my sleeve off.”

Your brows raised, amused. “Did he now?”

“All because I told him he ought to start thinking about finding a lady of his own. He’s only two years younger than me, but you'd think I told him to marry a goat the way he reacted.”

You stifled a laugh.

“And Jongseong?” you asked, already guessing.

“Backed me up, of course,” Heeseung grinned into your neck. “He even dragged Jungwon into it—said the two of them were becoming old maids with swords.”

You gasped playfully. “Cruel!”

Heeseung laughed, his breath tickling your skin. “Cruel but not wrong. So naturally, the younger ones decided the only reasonable response was chasing us through the courtyard with their blades drawn like little terrors.”

You blinked. “With actual swords?”

“Oh yes,” he said, sounding far too amused. “They meant business. The knights on patrol just stood there, watching. I think one of them placed a bet.”

You giggled, running a hand through his soft hair as he leaned further into you, completely unbothered by decorum or the passing time. Your fingers threaded through the dark locks gently, combing through with care as if he were the most precious thing in the garden—and he was.

Heeseung hummed under your touch, arms moving around your waist as he drew you closer until there was no space left between you.

“You spoil me,” he mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.

“And you let me,” you replied with a teasing smile, brushing your fingers along his temple.

“That’s because I’d gladly die in your hands,” he muttered sleepily. “Even if your hands are… very soft. And smell like roses.”

You laughed again, delighted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours,” he corrected, holding you tighter.

And then—without warning—he leaned in and began pressing warm, slow kisses against the slope of your neck. One. Then another. His lips trailing softly just below your jaw, then lower, brushing against the skin just above your collarbone—barely hidden by the delicate neckline of your gown.

“Your dress is unfair,” he whispered between kisses, voice low and teasing. “Makes it impossible to behave.”

You let out a breathy giggle, hand curling into the fabric of his sleeve. “You’re impossible, Heeseung.”

“Mm, say it again.”

“You’re impossible?”

“No. My name. I like it when you say it like that.”

You cooed gently, tilting your head as he angled for your lips. His gaze dipped to your mouth, and his hand moved up the side of your back, eyes half-lidded and completely enamored.

And just as your lips were about to meet—

“Heeseung hyung!”

The prince froze mid-movement, groaning against your skin like a man personally betrayed by the gods.

Another voice followed, louder and more frantic.

“Hyung? We’ve been looking for you for ages!”

From beyond the tall rose bushes near the edge of the gazebo, two familiar figures stumbled into view—Sunoo and Riki, each looking like scolded puppies who’d wandered too far from their leash.

“Unbelievable,” Heeseung muttered under his breath, finally lifting his head with the most exasperated expression. “What could possibly be so urgent?”

Sunoo offered you a sheepish smile as he waved. “Good afternoon, Princess. Sorry to interrupt.”

Riki, meanwhile, had already sauntered over and shamelessly plucked a macaron off the silver tray in front of you, examining it like he’d just discovered a new species. “Pink. My favorite.”

Heeseung narrowed his eyes. “Riki.”

“I figured if I’m going to interrupt, I may as well get a snack.”

Sunoo sighed and folded his arms. “Hyung, the head of the knight guard—Hwan—has been looking for you. Something about finalizing next week’s banquet security plans?”

At that, Heeseung visibly deflated, letting out a second, louder groan before dramatically resting his chin on top of your head like a sulking child. “I’m not going.”

You stifled a laugh, reaching up to play with the ends of his hair. “You do know you’re the crown prince, yes?”

“I do,” he mumbled. “And yet I feel incredibly underappreciated.”

Riki snorted as he took another bite of the macaron, his voice muffled by sugar. “Relax, brother. Princess (Y/N)’s not going anywhere.”

Heeseung gave a noise of agreement and nuzzled further into your hair, arms still locked firmly around your waist. “Exactly. This is clearly a case of poor timing and disrespect toward royal romantic affairs.”

Sunoo rolled his eyes. “You say that as if your ‘romantic affair’ isn’t sprawled across a public gazebo.”

“Then they should build us a private one.”

You laughed again, threading your fingers through his hair as he melted into you like a spoiled cat. Riki and Sunoo exchanged one last glance before Riki shrugged and grabbed a second dessert.

“We’ll tell Hwan you’re ‘in conference.’”

“And tell him to come back never,” Heeseung added, voice muffled into your hair.

You sighed through a soft laugh, tapping his arms gently where they were stubbornly wrapped around your waist. “My Prince,” you said with mock sternness. “If you don’t get going, Hwan will double your training hours. Maybe even triple.”

He let out a groan—not very prince-like—as he nuzzled into you one last time. “Cruel. You wound me, my love.”

“You’ll survive,” you hummed, gently nudging him away. He reluctantly loosened his grip, though he still hadn’t made any effort to actually stand.

You smiled fondly. “Come on. The earlier you finish your duties, the earlier you can be with me again.”

That made him perk up, his eyes suddenly lighting like sun-touched gold. “Now that is motivation.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your cheek—warm, lingering, a promise tucked into it.

“Ugh,” Sunoo groaned dramatically, throwing his head back. “Do you have to kiss every five seconds?”

“Some of us are still single,” Riki added, arms crossed with an exaggerated pout.

You grinned. “Well, maybe if you two stopped terrorizing every debutante at every ball…”

Heeseung snorted, standing at last with a stretch before he placed one last, feather-light kiss to the top of your head. “Ignore them, princess. They’re simply jealous.”

You brushed your hands gently along the front of your gown, preparing to stand as well. “I must get going back inside,” you murmured, glancing toward the palace doors. “The sun is starting to turn hotter, and I might melt before you return.”

Heeseung stepped beside you immediately, his hand finding the small of your back with natural ease. “Then I’ll escort you,” he said. “It’s on the way to the courtyard anyway.”

He looked to Sunoo expectantly. “That alright?”

Sunoo gave a small, understanding nod. “Of course. We’ll catch up with the captain while you two take your sweet time.”

As you moved forward, the heavy layers of your gown shifted around your legs, the delicate fabric and gold embroidery trailing slightly behind you. You let out a tiny sigh, brushing your skirt to the side.

“These gowns were not made for walking,” you muttered.

“They were made for floating, though,” Heeseung teased, offering his arm with a grin. “And I’m honored to be walking beside the most beautiful one to ever wear them.”

You flushed as you took his arm, allowing him to guide you gently toward the entrance of the palace. Behind you, Riki mock-gagged and grabbed another macaron while Sunoo simply shook his head, already anticipating a very dramatic retelling of this moment at dinner.

“I’m serious,” you added playfully over your shoulder, glancing at Heeseung. “Hwan is already so tired of your antics. Please, spare the poor man.”

That made the prince laugh—a sound so full and bright that it echoed against the walls of the palace garden like music. “Alright, alright,” he said, pulling you just a little closer. “For your sake, I’ll behave. But only slightly.”

The afternoon breeze was kind to your skin—neither too warm nor biting. It danced through the open corridor, carrying the scent of roses and distant sunlight as you strolled leisurely, your gown trailing behind like golden water. The lace fluttered slightly with each step, your slippers tapping gently against the polished stone floor.

Your two handmaidens flanked you, both young, bright-eyed, and as full of energy as always. The three of you had long abandoned any sense of formality as laughter echoed softly down the hall.

“White and gold,” you said confidently, letting your fingers trace the embroidered detailing of your sleeve. “No combination has ever looked better.”

They both gasped as if you had uttered gospel.

“I told her the same thing!” one of them chirped. “Gold goes with everything. It brings out the elegance in the plainest of things.”

“And it’s so regal,” the other sighed dreamily. “Like something only worn by goddesses and queens.”

You laughed, soft and genuine, as you reached the spiral stairs that led to the tower balcony. The stone was cool beneath your fingertips as you climbed, sunlight spilling in through narrow windows that cast slanted beams along the walls.

Stepping out onto the balcony, the three of you were greeted by the view of the castle’s courtyard below—alive with the clang of swords, thuds of boots, and echoes of distant chatter.

“There they go again,” your handmaiden giggled, pointing toward the princes at the far end of the yard.

You followed her gaze and stifled a laugh of your own as you caught sight of Jungwon’s sword accidentally hitting Riki with the hilt—straight to the side.

Riki let out a loud yelp, and without missing a beat, launched himself at the cat-like prince, chasing him in furious circles around the yard as their sparring partners stood stunned.

“They’re going to fall face-first into the fountain one of these days,” you muttered, watching as the younger princes dashed around wildly.

Your eyes scanned across the yard—rows of knights moving in formation, sparring amongst themselves, or preparing equipment—until they landed on a more composed sight. Prince Heeseung.

He stood slightly away from the others, deep in conversation with the ever-serious Captain Hwan. Between them lay a large scroll, its corners pinned with small weights, possibly a map of the castle grounds.

You could just barely make out their gestures—Heeseung pointing toward a marked area while Hwan nodded sharply. Likely preparations for next week’s banquet, you thought.

“The crown prince looks far too serious today,” one of the girls murmured, following your gaze.

“He always does when Hwan’s involved,” the other added, then nudged your arm with a sly smile. “Now those knights over there, though…”

You turned your head just as she gestured to the opposite end of the courtyard, where Prince Jaeyun and Prince Jongseong—both shirt-sleeved and flushed from training—were surrounded by a group of younger knights. Their laughter echoed faintly, the two clearly in the middle of friendly teasing.

“They’re the heart-stoppers of the guard,” she sighed dramatically. “Imagine catching one of those eyes from below the helmet.”

You chuckled, resting your arms on the balcony railing. “They’re charming,” you admitted. “But Prince Heeseung has my heart.”

Both girls turned to you with the same dreamy expression.

“As he should,” one said, smiling. “You’re both lucky.”

“Betrothed and still looking at you like he’s thirteen again, sneaking out of language lessons to see you in the garden,” the other added with a fond laugh.

You let out a soft breath of laughter, the memory settling sweetly in your chest. “He still acts like it,” you mused. “He gifted me lilacs this morning and almost forgot he had training until Sunoo dragged him out.”

They both laughed at that, clearly endeared.

“And every time he kisses you in public, Prince Riki looks like he’s about to hurl,” your handmaiden added through a grin.

You covered your mouth to stifle the sudden laughter, nodding in agreement.

“Honestly,” you sighed, “I should start rewarding the poor prince for tolerating all our affections.”

“You already do, Your Highness,” one handmaiden said with a wink, leaning her elbows on the stone railing.

The other smiled softly, her voice quieter now, a sincerity woven into her words. “You were the sister figure they always needed, you know.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in tone.

“They’re adored by everyone,” she continued, eyes trailing down to the chaos of the courtyard. “The Queen loves her sons dearly—but with the business of the court, the councils, the expectations—well… they needed someone to be there. And you were.”

“She’s right,” the first agreed. “From the moment you met them… they looked up to you. Just as much as they look up to Prince Heeseung.”

The wind blew gently again, carrying with it the laughter of the younger princes and the faint scent of lavender from the courtyard gardens.

Your gaze softened as it drifted across the yard—Riki now wrestling Jungwon to the ground playfully while Jaeyun scolded them half-heartedly in between sword swings.

They had always looked at you that way, hadn’t they? As if your presence gave them peace in ways no royal decree or bloodline ever could. They weren’t just princes to you. They were yours. In some small, cherished way—they had become the brothers you never had.

You sighed through a smile, delicately pushing your hair back over your shoulder, careful not to disturb the lilac bow resting perfectly near your crown.

“Enough with this sentimental talk,” you murmured, though your voice was thick with affection. “You’re going to make me cry.”

Both handmaidens giggled, nudging each other playfully.

“I’d offer my handkerchief, but it’s silk and I don’t want to ruin it,” one teased.

“Such loyalty,” you quipped, laughing along, your heart lighter now.

Your gaze floated back to the courtyard, naturally—always—seeking him.

Heeseung was still beside Hwan, nodding along to something the knight was pointing to on the map. His arms were folded behind his back, posture noble and every bit the Crown Prince. But then—almost as if the gods whispered your name into his ear—he looked up.

Right at you.

The seriousness faded instantly. His brows softened. His lips curved into a grin brighter than any sunbeam could ever hope to rival.

You giggled quietly, your hand raising in a gentle wave toward him. Heeseung returned the gesture with no hesitation, his smile only growing wider as he waved back, completely unbothered by Hwan’s sharp sigh beside him.

Below, the courtyard erupted.

“OI—LOOK AT THAT! THE PRINCE IS SMILING!”

“You sure that’s our Crown Prince?!”

More teasing hollers rang out as knights and princes alike noticed the sudden softness in their usually stoic eldest. And then—

“Noona! Hi!” Jungwon shouted from where he was pinned by Riki, waving his arm wildly while the younger prince sat on his back like a triumphant puppy.

You covered your mouth, trying—and failing—to hold in the laughter that spilled from your chest.

Then Jongseong’s voice echoed from below, loud and teasing. “Come down here! It’s hot up there, you know!”

He wasn’t wrong. In the few minutes you'd lingered at the stone balcony, the once-soft breeze had given way to a harsher warmth. The sun bore down with more intent now, and you found yourself squinting slightly under its golden glare.

You nodded in agreement and stepped away from the railing, your handmaidens trailing just behind, still giggling about the interaction like it had been the most charming thing they’d seen all day. You couldn’t blame them—it really was.

As you descended the winding steps and approached the edge of the courtyard, the sight that greeted you was one of casual chaos—Jungwon brushing dust from his tunic.

Riki now tugging at Sunghoon’s sleeve as the elder prince tried to ignore him with utmost patience while seated on one of the carved stone benches. Knights moved in rhythm nearby, sparring or catching their breath, the clang of steel and soft thuds of boots filling the air.

Your handmaidens, ever the schemers, gave you one last nudge forward.

“Go on,” one whispered with a grin.

“Oh, don’t give us that look, Your Highness,” the other added when you turned to glare, all faux-offended elegance. “You’re the one engaged to him.”

Before you could retort, they laughed and slipped away—heading straight toward a few young knights polishing their swords under a shaded tree, whispering and giggling like it was a market square and not royal training grounds.

You sighed with fond exasperation, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”

But your thoughts were quickly interrupted by a familiar warmth at your back.

A hand gently found your lower spine, fingers curling just slightly—a touch meant only for you. You looked up to see Heeseung already beside you, as if drawn by instinct.

“Princess,” he murmured softly, before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. His voice was low, threaded with affection and familiarity.

You smiled at him, heart fluttering despite how often he did that—how natural it had become. “Your brothers are creating chaos.”

Heeseung chuckled, eyes lifting briefly toward the mess of limbs and swords still clashing nearby. “If they come back with their tunics torn again, I’m blaming Jongseong.”

“I heard that!” Jongseong called from somewhere near the fencing rack, earning another soft laugh from you.

The two of you began walking toward the area Heeseung had been previously, where a large table had been set under a temporary canopy.

Scrolls and maps lay sprawled across it, Hwan stood nearby, his posture straight and composed as always, though his expression warmed when he saw you.

“Princess (Y/N),” Hwan greeted with a small nod, voice crisp.

“Sir Hwan,” you replied, offering a gentle smile as your eyes flicked toward the detailed flood plan spread out before you.

Ink lined the parchment in precise, looping script—notes and arrows detailing various parts of the castle, side entrances, garden paths, and service tunnels. Red wax marked certain points, perhaps the ones in need of reinforcement.

The upcoming banquet was to host royals from three nearby kingdoms—it was no surprise security had become the highest concern.

Heeseung stepped beside you again, eyes flicking toward the plan. “We’re adjusting the placements for the northern watchmen,” he explained. “The last storm weakened the stone wall near the greenhouse.”

“I see…” you murmured, leaning in just a bit. “Does that mean the western rose arch will be blocked off?”

Heeseung blinked, a touch surprised. “Yes—how did you know that?”

You smiled faintly. “I remember which part of the garden floods first. We used to race through there, remember? When we were younger?”

Heeseung chuckled. “You always cheated. You’d pretend your skirt got caught, and I’d turn around to help—then you’d sprint past me.”

You tried not to laugh, but failed. “I never cheated.”

Hwan cleared his throat politely, trying not to smile too much. “Well, if we’re done reliving the princess’s war crimes…”

Heeseung chuckled, the sound low and fond as he pressed another kiss to the top of your head—like habit. His hand curled more firmly around your waist as he turned back toward the map, eyes scanning the ink-streaked parchment with renewed focus.

“Minjun,” he called, gesturing to one of the younger knights standing nearby, armor gleaming faintly under the sun.

“Take the final plan to the western and southern wings. Make sure Sir Jiwon and Sir Minho review them thoroughly. And pass it along to the patrols stationed at the back gardens.”

“Yes, Your Highness!” the young knight responded quickly, already moving with purpose.

“And Sir Hwan—” Heeseung added, catching his knight just as he began to turn away, “hold a meeting with the guards tomorrow morning. I want every possible weak point reinforced and every post briefed, understood?”

“Understood, Your Highness.” Hwan bowed at the waist, casting you a brief respectful smile before walking off. His exit left a small bubble of quiet around you and Heeseung amidst the occasional clatter of sparring swords and the buzz of wind.

With the absence of his ever-stoic personal knight, Heeseung turned fully to you.

A grin tugged at his lips, soft and lazy, like he had no interest in returning to the royal rhythm of duty just yet. He looked down at you, eyes twinkling, and then without warning, both hands found your hips—gentle but confident.

You blinked up at him, caught off guard. “Heeseung,” you hissed, eyes flickering to the side where a few knights—not so subtly—pretended to focus on tying bootlaces or checking their gear. “Are you serious? In front of all these young men?”

Heeseung only laughed, head tipping back slightly. The sound was musical and boyish and so unlike the Crown Prince everyone else bowed to.

“They’ve seen worse,” he teased, leaning in a little, nose brushing yours before pulling away just slightly. “Besides, I’m only reminding them what love looks like.”

You gawked at him, flustered and trying not to smile.

Heeseung's grin softened then, his thumb rubbing a slow circle against your hip. “Do you have plans this afternoon, my heart?” he asked, voice low and full of intention. “Because if not, I was going to steal you away.”

You laughed under your breath, warmth bubbling in your chest. “I do, actually. Tea time.”

Heeseung pouted dramatically. “Again?”

“Yes, but this time your mother invited me,” you said with a knowing look. “And apparently, your brother Sunoo begged her to include him. Said he was going insane from training every day, and sparring with Sunghoon is ‘slowly ruining his will to live.’ His words. Not mine.”

That made Heeseung snort. “Poor Sunoo. I warned him—Sunghoon takes no prisoners, not even in practice.”

“He said your brother has no mercy,” you confirmed with a giggle, “and refuses to hold back just because he’s younger.”

Heeseung rolled his eyes, mock-exasperated. “Sunghoon doesn’t even hold back on me.”

You shrugged playfully, “Well, he has your mother’s approval for being ‘disciplined.’”

Heeseung groaned. “Please don’t tell me she said that again.”

“She did,” you replied, smiling wide. “Right after she compared you to a ‘cloud of mischief.’”

Heeseung dragged a hand down his face, clearly wounded. “I’m her firstborn. How is this fair?”

You only leaned in to whisper, “You’re my favorite prince. That’s all that matters.”

Heeseung looked at you like you hung the stars just to light his way.

But a smirk crept up on his face, the type of playful mischief you knew all too well. He leaned in closer, voice low and teasing against your ear, “So you’re saying… you have other favorites?”

You gasped dramatically, eyes widening with faux betrayal. “What? I would never—” you paused for effect, then added with a grin, “But if I did… Jungwon’s a very close second.”

Heeseung clicked his tongue, pretending to pull away. “Unbelievable. Betrayed in daylight. By my own betrothed.”

You laughed, unable to hide your grin as you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “You’re still number one.”

“I better be,” he murmured, before cupping your cheek gently and stealing a real kiss this time—soft, warm, and full of all the affection he never seemed to run out of. You smiled into it, fingertips brushing the hem of his sleeve as you stayed there for a breath too long.

“I’m honored, noona!”

You both startled at the voice, pulling away just in time to see Jungwon grinning wide, his hands clasped behind his back as he strolled over with a puffed-out chest. He practically radiated smugness.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he added innocently, though his mischievous eyes said otherwise.

You giggled, arms opening instinctively. “Come here, you.”

The second youngest prince leaned in, wrapping you in a brief but warm hug. You ruffled his hair with a sisterly laugh just as Heeseung groaned beside you.

“Oh no. Now we’re hugging him too?”

Before Jungwon could respond, Heeseung reached over and roughly tousled the younger boy’s hair, effectively ruining the neat style Jungwon’s handmaid had worked on earlier that morning.

“Hyung!” Jungwon yelped, swatting at his older brother’s hand with a glare. “Do you mind?!”

Heeseung shrugged with a proud grin, not sorry in the slightest. “Affection builds character.”

“It builds trauma,” Jungwon muttered under his breath, brushing his dark bangs back into place with a scowl.

Still, he didn’t move away right away. He just sighed, casting a sideways look at his brother before straightening his shoulders like he had something important to say. “Come on, hyung. I’m not eleven anymore.”

That made you smile fondly.

“I know,” Heeseung said quietly, voice laced with something softer, something older. “But you’ll always be my annoying little brother.”

Jungwon rolled his eyes, cheeks flushing the tiniest bit before he turned on his heel with a dramatic huff. “Whatever. Just don’t embarrass me again in front of the knights!”

Heeseung smirked as he watched the younger boy storm off.

“No promises,” he said, just loud enough for Jungwon to hear.

“I heard that!”

You and Heeseung laughed, watching the youngest stalk toward the training field like a prince on a mission.

Still smiling, Heeseung turned to you again. “So… Jungwon, huh?”

You looped your arm through his. “He’s charming.”

Heeseung made a dramatic face as he led you away from the courtyard, your steps falling into rhythm with his as you both began walking through one of the many open-air corridors that stretched between the training grounds and the main castle. Sunlight filtered through the tall arches, casting golden lines across the stone floors.

“Charming,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “Unbelievable.”

You rolled your eyes, swatting his arm lightly. “Come on, don’t pout. Doesn’t he like some princess from the neighboring kingdom or something?”

“My love,” he said with a faux-wounded pout, placing a hand over his chest. “You are from the neighboring kingdom.”

You gave him a deadpan look. “The other one, Hee. You know what I mean.”

He chuckled, his shoulder bumping yours as he nodded at a few knights that passed by and bowed to their Crown Prince. “I’m only teasing, my love. You wound me with your accusations.”

“Oh please,” you drawled, pretending to flip your hair. “You’d survive a thousand of my wounds and still crawl back with a bouquet of stolen garden roses.”

“I don’t steal them,” he said defensively, eyes wide. “I borrow them.”

You snorted. “They're still dying in a vase somewhere, my thief.”

“Ah, but they die for love,” he whispered dramatically, and you both burst into quiet laughter, the sound echoing softly against the archways.

As you entered the main castle, the air shifted cooler against your skin. The familiar stretch of marble under your shoes and the pristine white-and-gold corridors felt like coming home.

You leaned into Heeseung naturally, no longer needing to keep up appearances of royalty. Here, you were just his. And he was just yours.

“Did you know,” Heeseung started, voice low and casual, “that one of the kitchen boys swears he saw a raccoon sneak into the pantry last night?”

You blinked. “What?”

“He says it ran off with a wedge of brie. I’m inclined to believe him.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “If it’s the same raccoon that stole my slippers last month, I’m filing a formal complaint.”

Heeseung smirked. “We’ll draft a letter. ‘To His Royal Sneakiness, Lord Raccoon.’”

“‘Please return the slippers. And the cheese.’”

You both snorted again, shoulders brushing, hands nearly touching but not quite. Not until Heeseung gently reached over and linked your pinky with his.

As you approached the end of the hallway, two stationed knights nodded respectfully at Heeseung, who gave a short nod back, the air between you momentarily still.

Then, with a small tug, he guided you down a quieter wing of the castle and opened a pair of familiar ivory doors—the ones adorned with subtle silver embroidery, vines carved into the wood. Your shared bedroom.

It wasn’t common for betrotheds to share a room before marriage. But then again, nothing about you and Heeseung had ever been traditional.

You’d known each other since you were in diapers, practically raised beside him during summer visits and royal meetings. Your parents were longtime allies, your mothers best friends, and your fathers forever trying to outmatch each other in chess.

So when Heeseung looked his parents in the eye and asked, “Why wait?”—with that charming, persuasive voice and soft gaze—they had merely exchanged a look and nodded. And you had moved into the Crown Prince’s wing a week later.

Heeseung stepped aside to let you in first, hand brushing your lower back gently.

“I still can’t believe this room is technically mine too,” you murmured, looking at the familiar blend of warm candles, velvet throws, and the little reading nook by the window he’d helped you decorate himself.

“You say that every time,” he smiled, closing the door behind you.

“And I mean it every time.”

You moved to sit at the edge of the bed as Heeseung discarded his royal sash and coat onto the nearby chaise. He walked over, cupped your cheeks, and leaned down until his forehead pressed against yours.

“My love,” he said softly. “This room was mine. But it’s only ever felt like home when you were in it.”

“And, you’ve been sleeping in the same bed with me since we were fifteen. Why do you always act like you’ve kissed me for the first time?” he murmured, eyes gleaming.

Your jaw dropped in disbelief. “You arrogant—”

Without hesitation, your fingers found his cheek and you pinched—hard.

He hissed. “Ow—! Okay, okay, that’s uncalled for!”

“Shut up, Lee Heeseung,” you grumbled, though the amused twitch in your lips betrayed you.

He laughed, low and full, his hands finding your cheeks once more—but this time, there was no trace of playfulness in the way he tilted your chin upward, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Come here, then,” he whispered.

And then he kissed you.

A proper one.

His mouth moved against yours with practiced ease, tilting just enough to deepen the kiss, his hand sliding to the back of your neck to keep you exactly where he wanted you. You sighed into him, hands curling around his forearms as the warmth between you bloomed fast—like fire catching silk.

He pulled back barely an inch, just enough to catch his breath and your dazed expression. Then, without a single word, he sank onto the bed, tugging you by the waist and pulling you to straddle his lap.

You gasped, landing atop him with a jolt as your palms pressed against his chest.

“Heeseung!” you hissed. “You little—”

He cut you off, arms curling around your waist and dragging you in closer—flush now, no space between your chest and his, your skirts spilling around both of your legs. His lips brushed your ear.

“Finish that sentence, and I’ll make sure you say my name louder next time,” he whispered.

Your breath hitched.

“Heeseung,” you warned, voice trembling from the heat he lit in your stomach.

“Yes, my love?” he said, all mock innocence—his hands not-so-innocently sliding over your waist, fingers curling around the fabric at the dip of your back.

“I have tea with our mothers and Sunoo,” you reminded, heart racing, mind spinning.

He clicked his tongue. “They’ll understand. They adore you. Especially Sunoo—he probably planned this delay.”

You let out a half-laugh, half-sigh, resting your forehead on his. “We can’t keep doing this in broad daylight.”

“Then let’s get married already,” he replied instantly, eyes gleaming as his grip on your hips tightened just slightly, anchoring you to him. “That way, I can kiss my wife whenever I damn please.”

You leaned in again, eyes twinkling, catching his lips in a playful kiss that had him chasing after more.

As you pulled back just enough to breathe the words into his mouth, you smiled, “We are at the end of the month, patience, my prince.”

But Heeseung only growled lowly, a sound vibrating in his chest, deep and utterly possessive.

“Not when you sit on me like this,” he muttered—voice thick, the restraint cracking.

He didn’t wait for your teasing reply.

He surged forward, claiming your lips in a kiss that had nothing soft about it this time. It was all heat and desperation—his mouth molding to yours, tongue brushing boldly against the seam of your lips until you gasped and gave in.

You couldn’t stop the small sound that escaped your throat, your fingers digging into the lapels of his shirt, clutching him like he was the only solid thing keeping you grounded.

Your breaths grew louder, shorter—shared between kisses that turned more and more feverish. Heeseung only paused to stare at you, chest rising and falling. His eyes, which held stars just seconds ago, were now blazing with something darker, needier.

And still—still so full of love.

He didn’t say anything as his hands moved behind you, already knowing what to do—his fingers skillfully unlacing the back of your corset. It wasn’t the first time. It was second nature to him by now, and the realization sent a rush of heat all over you. While you would usually fumble with the ties for minutes at a time, he did it in less than ten seconds, eyes never leaving yours.

“Show-off,” you muttered breathlessly, cheeks warm.

“You wouldn’t need help if you didn’t keep choosing the ones with so many damn laces,” he shot back with a smirk, but it faded as quickly as it appeared—his gaze trailing down.

Your hands went to the buttons of his vest with haste, lips brushing against the edge of his jaw as you worked them open. He let you, watching with a hunger that made your fingers tremble slightly.

Once the last button gave, you pushed the garment off, and Heeseung flung it somewhere across the room with zero care.

“Too slow,” he murmured.

You barely got a breath in before he was tugging at your sleeves, your dress slipping down your shoulders in one smooth motion. The soft fabric hung loosely on your arms, exposing the delicate skin of your collarbones, your chest rising and falling rapidly beneath it.

“You’re killing me,” he said quietly, forehead leaning against yours again. “Do you know what you do to me?”

You couldn’t answer. Not when he was looking at you like this.

Not when his mouth kissed every bit of skin the dress dared reveal. From your shoulder to the hollow of your throat. Slow. Devout. Like worship.

“I want you,” he whispered into your skin. “Not just now. Not just like this. I want every part of you, every night, every morning. In this room. In that temple. Before the gods and after them.”

You shivered, pulling him closer by the front of his shirt. “You already have me, Heeseung. You always have.”

A guttural sound tore from his throat as his hand gripped the laces of your dress. “Say it again,” he breathed, lips brushing against your collarbone.

“You have me,” you whispered, heart pounding. “Every piece. Every breath.”

With one swift motion, he loosened the bodice, the fabric sliding off your shoulders and pooling at your waist. He drew back slightly, chest rising and falling, eyes devouring the bare skin now revealed to him. His gaze was starved—like he’d waited centuries to touch you like this.

“Mine,” he groaned, hands trembling slightly as they moved over your ribs, your waist, the dip between your hipbones. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

His mouth followed the path of his hands—slow, deliberate. He kissed down your neck, nipping at the skin just below your jaw until a breathy moan escaped you. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice strained as he left a trail of marks, warm and tinged with devotion. “The gods have nothing on you.”

When his lips reached the softest part of your chest, his hands gripped your hips tightly—almost possessively—pressing his forehead against your sternum for a second like he was trying to calm himself.

Then he looked up at you, pupils blown. “I’ll worship you like this,” he said, voice rough, “until the stars burn out.”

You didn’t get the chance to answer.

He grabbed your thighs, flipped you effortlessly onto your back, and pressed you into the mattress. Your breath caught in your throat as he pulled the rest of your dress off with a low growl, letting it drop to the floor. His body hovered above yours now, heat radiating between you as your bare skin met his.

“You make me lose control,” he said, almost like a confession. “And I don’t want it back.”

His mouth was everywhere—claiming your neck, your shoulders, the curve of your stomach. His name slipped past your lips again and again, soft and helpless, like a prayer and a curse all at once.

He kissed you then—deep, head-spinning, like he wanted to taste your soul. “Let me have you,” he murmured between kisses. “Let me love you the way I was always meant to.”

And when he finally lowered himself between your legs, hands splayed across your hips, tongue tracing fire across your skin, he whispered, “I’ll leave no part untouched.”

His lips grazed the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing you inch by inch. His thumbs dragged upward, parting you gently, and when he looked up—eyes dark, hungry, reverent—you nearly forgot how to breathe.

“Stay just like this,” he murmured, voice low, almost trembling. “Let me taste what’s mine.”

And then he buried his face between your thighs.

A gasp tore from your throat as his tongue moved against your core—firm, relentless, like he had something to prove. And maybe he did.

Maybe he was proving that no one else could ever make you feel like this. That no other hands, no other mouth, no other name would ever fall from your lips in this way.

Heeseung groaned against you, the sound vibrating straight through your bones. “You’re everything,” he muttered, voice muffled by your skin. “Sweet. Divine. Addicting.”

Your hips bucked, but his grip only tightened—holding you down, keeping you open. “Don’t run from it,” he said, looking up briefly, mouth glistening. “Take it. Take all of me.”

Then he dove back in—slower this time, more intentional. He licked into you like a man starving, like he wanted to carve his name into you with every flick of his tongue.

Your fingers twisted into his hair, a moan spilling out of you so raw and desperate it made him groan again—deeper this time, as if he felt it.

He sucked gently, then harder, then just right—and your body arched, breath catching as your thighs shook around his head. “That’s it,” he whispered, not letting up. “Come undone for me. I want to feel you lose yourself.”

And when you did—back arched, fingers digging into his scalp, his name a broken chant on your lips—he didn’t stop. Not even then.

Heeseung stayed there, kissing you through it, tongue softening to gentle licks, like he couldn’t bear to let go of the taste of you.

“You taste like heaven,” he said hoarsely, crawling back up your body. “And I’m never going to stop sinning.”

His mouth captured yours in a kiss so deep and possessive, it left you dizzy. His hand cradled the back of your head, the other splayed at your waist as he kissed you like he’d never let you go.

When he finally pulled away, your lips were parted, your breaths uneven, your body still aching for more.

You blinked at him, dazed. “I should—shouldn’t I… return the favor?” you managed to breathe, fingers lightly tracing the edge of his jaw. “It’s only fair.”

But Heeseung only chuckled, low and fond. He clicked his tongue as he cupped your chin between his thumb and forefinger, shaking his head. “Not now, my love,” he said, tone full of mock discipline. “Don’t you have tea with our mothers and poor, bored Sunoo?”

You stared at him, scandalized. “You—!”

Your mouth hung open in shock, lips still tingling from his kisses, body still humming with want, and Heeseung had the audacity to smile—smile—as he kissed you again. Tender, slow, and sweet. But the taste of you still lingered on his lips, and the moment it hit your tongue, your cheeks flushed deep crimson.

He pulled back with a grin, clearly satisfied with your flustered state. “There’s that look I love,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the corner of your kiss-bitten mouth.

You squeaked as he got up, completely unhurried, and bent to retrieve your dress from where it lay pooled on the carpet. He handled it with surprising care, holding it up like it was made of glass, before walking over to grab your corset next—still slightly unlaced from earlier.

He turned to you, holding both items up. “Come now, princess. I may be a selfish man, but I’m not about to be blamed for you being late to tea.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You are absolutely going to be blamed. You undressed me, Heeseung.”

He only smirked as he crossed the room again, kneeling in front of you as he gently helped you slip back into the gown. “And I’ll do it again later,” he whispered, wickedly close to your ear, “but slower.”

You hissed, slapping his shoulder lightly. “You menace.”

Heeseung laughed softly, guiding your arms through the sleeves and then slipping around to lace your corset like it was second nature—deft fingers pulling the strings tight, not too firm, but enough for you to feel properly put together again. His knuckles grazed your back as he worked, and you swore he did it just to rile you up.

“You’ve done this way too many times,” you mumbled, folding your arms as he tied the last ribbon neatly.

“Practice makes perfect,” he replied cheekily, placing a final kiss on your shoulder before straightening up.

Your reflection in the gilded mirror caught your eye—cheeks rosy, lips swollen, hair slightly mussed, but glowing in a way you couldn’t quite hide.

You groaned under your breath.

With a quick sweep, you pulled your hair over one shoulder, trying in vain to cover the fresh marks Heeseung had shamelessly left trailing along your neck and collarbone.

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered as you frantically smoothed your sleeves and tried to pat down the mess of curls he’d tangled earlier.

Behind you, Heeseung strolled over, a knowing grin tugging at his lips. “Here,” he said, lifting the delicate golden circlet that had been knocked off and tossed aside somewhere between his kisses and your surrender.

He gently placed it atop your head, careful not to tug or misplace a single strand. Then, with surprising finesse, he combed his fingers through your hair and pulled a few pieces loose to frame your face just right. The strands softened your features, made your flushed cheeks look like a gentle blush rather than a royal scandal.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Forgive me for the mess, my love,” he whispered against your skin, his voice laced with playful guilt.

You puffed out your cheeks, glaring at his reflection in the mirror. “Mess? Heeseung, I look like I just survived a storm.”

You puffed out your cheeks, glaring at his reflection in the mirror. “Mess? Heeseung, I look like I just survived a storm.”

“You look like a woman in love,” he teased, clearly far too pleased with himself. “And slightly ravished, yes, but radiant nonetheless.”

You smacked his arm as he burst into soft laughter.

He reached for his coat from the chaise and slipped it on with practiced ease, but left his royal sash on the side—too formal for a simple walk across the castle, and besides, you both knew he wanted an excuse to not look too princely in front of Sunoo, who would definitely tease him about it.

He offered his hand, and you took it with a begrudging sigh. “You’re lucky I’m fond of you.”

“I’m aware,” he grinned.

With your hand in his, he opened the door and gently tugged you along the corridor, nodding at the knights stationed nearby, who respectfully bowed but absolutely did not miss the light flush on your face or the smug tilt of Heeseung’s smile.

As the two of you walked, fingers still entwined, you couldn’t help but glance sideways at him.

“Should I expect a scolding from your mother for being late?”

Heeseung hummed thoughtfully. “No. But from Sunoo? Absolutely.”

You groaned. “He’s going to smell the perfume and still say, ‘Why do you smell like sex?’”

Heeseung laughed out loud. “Because you do.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You planned this.”

He just gave your hand a little squeeze. “I can’t help it. I like when you leave with part of me on you.”

You choked back a sound—half flustered, half delighted—and smacked his chest again. “You’re awful.”

“And you’re late for tea.”

You rolled your eyes fondly as Heeseung gently tugged you down the main marble steps and out into one of the many open-air gardens nestled in the kingdom’s sprawling palace grounds.

A breeze kissed your cheeks as the scent of lilacs and chamomile floated in the air, winding between columns and trellises of soft wisteria, the sunlight hitting just right

Then the scent grew stronger—steeped lilac tea, freshly poured.

You paused with a soft inhale. “My favorite,” you murmured with a smile.

Heeseung glanced sideways at you, eyes already on your face. “Yeah, I know,” he said simply, like it was obvious—because to him, it was.

You rounded the hedge-lined path and reached the open gazebo area in the heart of the garden. Woven vines framed the white pillars and soft silks blew gently from above, casting dappled shadows on the large round table filled with silver-tiered trays of fruit tarts, scones, sweet breads, and golden jars of jam. The sound of bickering cut through the serene setting.

“No, I’m telling you! Apricot is a universal jam—like, anyone would pick it!”

“Universal doesn’t mean it’s good, Riki! Raspberry is superior, and everyone with a tongue knows that!”

You laughed under your breath at the familiar sight of Sunoo and Riki, seated on opposite ends and leaning toward each other with exaggerated scowls.

Sunoo’s sleeves were dramatically pushed up like he was ready to duel with a spoon, and Riki’s pout was so intense it could’ve curdled milk.

Your smile grew as your eyes landed on the two women seated elegantly between them—your mother, Queen of your homeland, draped in soft burgundy with jewels that shimmered beneath the garden light, and Heeseung’s mother, the Queen of this kingdom, regal in deep navy lined with gold.

They sat side by side, teacups in hand, mid-conversation and sharing a laugh—the kind that spoke of decades of friendship, diplomacy, and sisterhood.

Heeseung slowed beside you, offering a slight bow of his head.

“My queens,” you said softly as you approached, your tone still laced with respect despite the fondness behind your eyes. You followed Heeseung’s lead, dipping your head slightly.

“Oh, please,” your mother groaned playfully. “Do we still have to do this every time?”

The Queen beside her smiled knowingly. “You’re about to be our daughter-in-law, not a courtier.”

“Sit, sit,” your mother added with a wave of her hand.

You and Heeseung chuckled, and he leaned in to kiss the top of your head once more, hands resting on your arms just a moment longer before he let go.

“I’ll leave you in good company,” he said, eyes locking with yours. “Try not to let Sunoo drag you into jam debates.”

Sunoo looked up, eyes wide. “You agree with me, right?” he demanded before Heeseung could even take a step back. “You like raspberry more, right?”

Heeseung only smirked. “I like peace and quiet. Which I clearly won’t get here.”

You snorted behind your hand as Heeseung’s mother laughed, waving her son off. “Go, Heeseung, before Sunoo recruits you into his crusade.”

Heeseung chuckled and gave you a parting wink before disappearing through the garden arch.

You turned back to the table and gracefully took the seat beside your mother, smoothing down your skirts.

Sunoo immediately leaned in and whispered, “Tell me you noticed the lip marks on your neck.”

“Sunoo!” you hissed, glancing at the queens who pretended not to overhear, amused smiles tugging at their lips.

“What?” Riki snorted, sipping his tea far too smugly. “You’re the one who came back glowing like you just won a war.”

You sighed deeply, cheeks already flushing again. “I hate both of you.”

Your mother smiled behind her cup. “Oh, sweetheart… you’re in love. We were all insufferable once too.”

The night of the banquet arrived with stars high and proud in the velvet sky, but even they would dim compared to what awaited within the castle walls.

You stood before the towering gilded mirror in your shared chambers, the scent of roses and lavender oils clinging softly to the air. Your hair was being twisted and pinned into perfection by skilled fingers, each strand smoothed and coiled as your lady-in-waiting delicately fastened glittering earrings to your ears.

Another slid your necklace into place—a heavy yet elegant piece of red garnet and obsidian, catching the flickering glow of the chandelier like drops of fire and shadow.

Your gown was made of the richest velvet in black, kissed with deep red silk layers beneath, cascading like spilled wine around your legs. Embroidered gold vines twirled across the bodice and sleeves, wrapping you in something regal, something worthy of a queen.

A knock at the heavy oak doors pulled everyone’s attention.

“May I?” Heeseung’s voice called from outside, deep and silken, already warm with a smile.

You barely had time to answer before the door cracked open, and there he was—standing in all his glory.

The red and black of his coat matched yours perfectly, the fabric gleaming with intricate golden embroidery and crystal embellishments that sparkled beneath the room’s warm lights.

His broad shoulders carried the weight of a kingdom and yet, the moment his eyes found you—his world narrowed.

He stood there, still, breath caught in his chest.

“…My gods,” he whispered. “You look like you walked out of a dream.”

You gave a soft wave of your hand, a simple motion that dismissed the flurry of handmaidens and attendants. With quiet bows and knowing smiles, they exited swiftly, leaving only the two of you in your glowing, silent world.

Heeseung didn’t wait.

He crossed the room in long, purposeful strides and spun you gently in place, eyes devouring every inch of your form. Your dress flared at your movement, brushing against the polished marble like a whisper.

“You’re unreal,” he murmured, hands settling on your waist as he stopped your twirl. “You look like a flame carved into royalty.”

“And you,” you teased, trailing your fingers down the gleaming lapel of his coat. “Look like temptation in human form.”

Heeseung grinned, gaze dropping to your lips for half a second too long. “Then what happens when royalty meets temptation?”

You raised a brow, smirking as you replied, “A scandal the bards will sing about for centuries.”

Heeseung laughed, rich and deep, before tugging you closer by the waist. “Let them sing, my love. Let them sing.”

His forehead pressed gently to yours. “Tonight, everyone will see what I’ve always known.”

“That I’m yours?” you whispered.

“No.” He shook his head slowly. “That I’m yours.”

He kissed your hand before pulling your arm through his.

“Shall we go make the entire kingdom jealous?”

You grinned, your fingers tightening around his. “Lead the way, my prince.”

With that, Heeseung offered his arm like a true royal consort and guided you out of the warm, perfumed sanctuary of your shared chambers. The heavy double doors closed behind you, and the subtle echo of your steps fell against the polished stone floors.

Two royal knights—adorned in your shared kingdom’s colors of crimson and onyx—followed at a respectful distance, silent and poised.

The corridor was dimly lit by torchlight, flickering shadows casting dancing patterns across the walls. But inside your little bubble, the world felt quieter, warmer. You and Heeseung strolled side by side, caught in easy conversation that dissolved any remaining nerves.

“Do you remember last month’s banquet?” Heeseung asked with a smirk, nudging your side.

“You mean the one where you complained about the wine?” you teased, arching a brow.

He scoffed dramatically. “It wasn’t wine. It was grape juice in disguise.”

You burst into soft laughter. “You pouted about it for a full hour. Told the steward you expected something aged, not squeezed fresh that morning.”

“I’m a prince. I expect stringency in my wine,” he said in a mock-snobby voice, chin tilted upward as you giggled.

But your smile faded slightly as you reached the archway that led to the Great Hall. You could already hear it—the hum of noble chatter, bursts of light laughter, and the elegant trill of string instruments playing from the balcony above. The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filled the air.

Your posture straightened instinctively, hands smoothing down the front of your gown. Heeseung noticed.

He slowed his pace, his hand sliding gently around your waist to pull you closer. His lips dipped to your ear, his voice low and soothing.

“There’s nothing to be scared of, my love,” he whispered. “They should be scared of you.”

“You are the future Queen of both kingdoms,” he continued, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, a quiet storm of pride behind his smile. “And you’ve already won their prince.”

Your cheeks warmed, but the nerves began to ease. You exhaled, squeezing his hand in silent gratitude. “Thank you,” you whispered.

Heeseung only grinned, squeezing back once before the chamberlain standing just outside the banquet doors struck his staff once against the marble.

“Presenting,” he boomed, his voice echoing through the high-arched ceilings, “Crown Prince Lee Heeseung of House Lee, and Crown Princess (L/N) (Y/N) of House (L/N).”

At once, the hall stilled. Music faltered. Conversations died mid-sentence. It was like the world hushed—like the wind itself bowed.

All eyes turned.

Every noble, every knight, every courtly guest from both your homeland and Heeseung’s, rose from their seats. Heads lowered in bows and curtsies, hands pressed over hearts in solemn reverence. But more than formality, there was awe—undeniable awe—at the sight of you two.

Your steps were fluid as you and your prince made your way toward the long banquet table seated at the front of the room. Your parents were already seated—your mother glowing in cream and emerald, your father in sleek royal navy. Heeseung’s parents sat beside them, regal and composed, eyes glinting with something between pride and fondness.

The long table had empty seats between the kings and queens—but your eyes caught the familiar shadows of six tall figures standing further back. The other six princes. They stood at the side of the hall, backs straight, hands clasped behind them, watching as the two of you passed.

When you drew near, they bowed in unison with the crowd—a sea of heads dipping low in reverence.

But only they rose slowly, eyes glinting with quiet respect.

Jungwon was the first to lift his head, a smirk tugging at his lips as he mouthed dramatically, “About time.”

You suppressed a laugh.

Heeseung only rolled his eyes subtly and pulled your chair out for you like the proper gentleman he always was. “Your throne, my queen,” he teased softly.

The moment you were both seated, the hall gradually stirred back to life. Conversations resumed, the orchestra picked up its melody again, and the clinking of goblets filled the golden-lit room.

You greeted your parents first—your mother reached over the table to press a kiss to your cheek, her rings cool against your skin. “You both look stunning,” she said, eyes dancing. “But don’t just sit there like old monarchs.”

“Go,” Heeseung’s mother added, smiling behind her teacup. “Socialize. Be young. Dance. Be adored.”

Your father gave a playful huff. “Yes, yes, impress your subjects.”

Heeseung let out a breathy laugh and rose from his seat, pulling your chair out once again as he offered you his hand. “Shall we obey our queens and kings?”

You took it with a grin. “What choice do we have?”

He placed a gentle hand at the small of your back as he led you from the front dais and into the growing crowd. Your gown swished elegantly around your legs as you walked, and the subtle music and chatter wrapped around you like silk.

It didn’t take long to reach the cluster of princes near the long side of the room—familiar faces all dressed in variations of dark velvet, adorned with gold, sapphire, and crimson embellishments. The other royal heirs.

“Look who decided to show up,” Jongseong teased as he raised his glass at your approach, eyes glinting. “And matching too. I should’ve expected the dramatics.”

“You’re just jealous,” Heeseung quipped, “that your partner doesn’t coordinate with you.”

“You don’t have a partner,” Jaeyun pointed out.

“Exactly my point,” Heeseung smirked.

You couldn’t help but laugh, stepping a little closer to the group when—

“Oh my gods!” A familiar voice squealed behind you.

You turned just in time to be pulled into a sudden, elegant hug, delicate perfume surrounding you as Wonyoung grinned from ear to ear.

“It is you,” she beamed. “I told Yujin it was you and she said, ‘No, that can’t be her, she’s probably still getting ready—’”

“That does sound like me,” Yujin said with a giggle as she joined, wrapping her arms around you in a warm embrace. “But seriously, look at you! This dress? That crown? Prince Heeseung’s gonna have a hard time keeping people away tonight.”

“Please, he’s already glaring at everyone who makes eye contact with her,” Wonyoung whispered playfully, tipping her head toward your prince.

You glanced back—Heeseung, very much still engaged in conversation with Sunghoon, had his arm folded as he gave the other prince a look. You couldn’t hear the words, but you definitely saw the eye roll Sunghoon gave in response.

“Still boring as ever,” Woonyoung said under her breath, giving Sunghoon a pointed look.

Heeseung caught the tail end of that and shook his head with a laugh, muttering to Sunghoon, “Don’t mind them, they’ve been like this since we were kids.”

“I do mind, actually,” Sunghoon muttered back dryly, lifting his glass. “I was having a nice quiet moment before the fanclub showed up.”

“Oh, poor baby,” Wonyoung cooed sarcastically.

You giggled as she and Yujin each hooked an arm through yours, pulling you just a little away from the boys and deeper into the social haze of the room.

“You have to tell us everything,” Yujin said, eyes wide with curiosity. “How’s your room? Did the Queen really let you redecorate the west wing? Is it true that Heeseung almost punched a steward for misplacing your earrings last week?”

“Okay, that one was not my fault—” you began.

“Defensive,” Wonyoung grinned. “That means it’s true.”

You let out a snort, eyes trailing briefly to Heeseung just a few feet away, standing tall among his brothers. He caught your gaze with that familiar amused tilt of his head, his lips twitching as if he was holding back a laugh of his own.

“I swear,” Wonyoung continued, drawing your attention back. “Sunghoon nearly pushed me into the fountain last week.”

“What?” you blinked.

“All I said was that he walks like he owns the ground he steps on,” she huffed dramatically, flipping her hair. “Which is true, by the way. And he said, ‘Perhaps you should walk on water next time so I don’t have to see your face.’ Can you believe that?”

You burst into laughter, hand covering your mouth as Yujin gasped beside you. “He did not say that.”

“Oh, he did. Ask him.” Wonyoung nodded toward Sunghoon, who—unaware he was being discussed—was now slowly sipping from his own goblet, side-eyeing the trio of you as if expecting more trouble.

You and the girls dissolved into giggles again, your shoulders bumping lightly as the night continued to swell with warmth and music. Soon enough, more familiar faces began approaching, drawn to the lively cluster you had unintentionally created.

A group of princesses from neighboring kingdoms swept in, silk gowns gliding across the marble floor, their hair braided in intricate gold-threaded patterns, each one offering hugs and kisses on the cheek in greeting.

“Princess (Y/N), it’s been too long.”

“You look divine tonight, truly.”

“We heard about your new position—Crown Princess now, huh?”

You smiled graciously, cheeks warming under the compliments as you exchanged hugs and pleasantries, your fingers brushing over glittering sleeves and layered skirts. The perfume of lilac and fresh berries mixed with the sound of laughter and violins in the air.

Then, Yujin reappeared with a golden goblet, holding it out to you with a grin.

You eyed it skeptically. “You know I have the alcohol tolerance of a dying rabbit, right?”

“It’s not wine, your highness,” she sing-songed, lifting her chin. “It’s grape juice. I promise. I even tasted it.”

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious. “Yujin, last time you said that I ended up singing to a ficus tree.”

“That ficus was deeply moved,” Wonyoung said solemnly, hand over her chest. “You had it in tears.”

You rolled your eyes but took the goblet anyway, the cool metal glinting in the light. You took a sip—sweet, chilled grape juice, just as she’d said.

“…Okay, fine,” you mumbled. “You’re forgiven.”

Yujin smiled smugly. “As I always am.”

The chatter around you buzzed softly—princesses and lords weaving in and out of conversations, the noble youth of kingdoms mingling under chandeliers and candlelight.

You glanced once more toward Heeseung, only to find he was already watching you. Elbow leaned against a polished oak table, golden goblet in hand, the lamplight tracing the sharp line of his jaw. His head tilted in quiet admiration, lips slightly curled upward like he couldn’t help himself.

You gave him a soft smile, one only he could read through the crowd, and mouthed, “I’m okay.”

His grin deepened just slightly before he dipped his head in a subtle nod, his attention returning to the conversation he was having with someone you recognized instantly—Prince Taehyun of the Southern Kingdom, poised and calm as always, expression unreadable even while sipping wine.

“Did you hear,” Yujin leaned in close to whisper behind her goblet, her voice conspiratorial, “Prince Beomgyu’s got it bad for Taehyun’s older sister?”

Your brows shot up. “Seriously?”

“Oh, deadly serious. And Taehyun doesn’t approve—” she paused, nose wrinkling, “—or disapprove. Which, honestly, makes it worse.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. “Of course he doesn’t. He’s too diplomatic to give a straight answer.”

Wonyoung perked up beside you, eyes wide. “Wait, wait. Isn’t she the one who wore that gold corset at the Summer Moon banquet last year?”

“The very one,” Yujin confirmed, nodding. “And Beomgyu’s been in love ever since. I’m telling you, it’s been a mess.”

You nearly choked on your sip of juice, laughing. “Oh gods—do you remember the night Beomgyu told me about it?”

Yujin blinked, then her mouth split into a knowing grin. “The drunken night in Dalanor’s banquet hall?”

You nodded, eyes sparkling at the memory. “He had one too many glasses of wine and started ranting about how Taehyun keeps throwing him into a spiral.”

Wonyoung leaned in eagerly. “What did he say?”

“He was so drunk, he grabbed Heeseung’s shoulder like he was the last sane man in the world,” you said through a giggle, “and went, ‘Your Highness, is it yes or no? Does he want me to marry her or does he want to stab me in my sleep?’”

Yujin laughed, nearly spilling her drink. “I remember Heeseung’s face! He just laughed and poured him another drink.”

You grinned. “And Beomgyu started sobbing into his goblet about how Taehyun winked at him when he mentioned the wedding idea. A wink. What does a wink even mean?”

“It means,” Wonyoung drawled dramatically, “welcome to royal romance hell.”

The three of you burst into laughter again, the sound bubbling up and mixing with the music in the air. You glanced back over toward Heeseung just in time to see him casually glance your way once more—his gaze lingering for a beat longer than it needed to, as if your laugh pulled his focus no matter where he stood.

Then he turned back to Taehyun, the two princes deep in what looked like a heated discussion about wine—or possibly the definition of flirting—while the night carried on around you.

You fidgeted with your fingers, gloved hands resting delicately over the fabric pooled at your lap. The royal carriage swayed gently with each turn, the soft creak of gilded wheels and distant sounds of celebration muffled behind velvet-lined walls.

Your white wedding gown—stitched with fine silver thread and delicate pearls—billowed across the floor like a river of moonlight. It was heavy, grand, and far too large for the carriage… but you didn’t mind.

Matching jewelry adorned your ears, neck, and wrists—heirloom pieces passed down through generations, each gemstone kissed by history and polished for this day.

Your veil shimmered like frost under the faint sunlight peeking through the curtained window, yet none of it glittered as brightly as your nerves.

Across from you, your mother and father sat side by side, their fingers loosely intertwined as they watched you with a softness that only parents could carry.

Your mother smiled first, the kind that carried decades of wisdom behind it. “Your hands always fidget when you’re nervous,” she said, gently reaching over to fix a strand of hair that had slipped from your veil.

“But you don’t need to be. You’re marrying for love—not alliance, not duty. That alone makes your union more powerful than any treaty signed before it.”

You blinked, lips parting in a slow smile. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so,” she replied, squeezing your hand. “I’ve seen the way Heeseung looks at you. Like the stars themselves would bow if you asked them to. That kind of devotion cannot be taught—it’s rare, and it’s real.”

You felt your throat tighten just a little.

Then your father let out a quiet sigh, the sound a little too heavy to hide. His eyes stayed on you, warm and just slightly glassy. “I told myself I’d be ready for this,” he said. “But nothing could prepare me to see my little girl in a wedding gown.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out half choked. “You’re going to make me cry.”

He reached for your hand, squeezing it between his own. “You’ll always be my little girl. Even when you're crowned queen. Even when you have children of your own. That will never change.”

You nodded slowly, breathing through the swell in your chest. “Thank you, Father. Thank you both.”

The carriage began to slow, the golden wheels rolling over polished stone as the sound of bells rang out in the distance.

Your breath hitched. You could hear the faint murmur of voices outside, the gathered crowd, the music… and just beyond it all, the sacred temple—its white marble steps lined with petals, towering pillars wrapped in garlands of lilacs and white roses, the banner of your kingdom billowing gently in the breeze beside Heeseung’s.

A high priest awaited at the top of the stairs, hands folded in reverence. The temple doors stood open, glowing with sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. It looked like a dream carved into reality.

The door to the carriage opened with a creak.

Your father stepped out first, extending his hand to help you. You took a deep breath as your gloved fingers slid into his, and your feet touched the polished stone ground. The hem of your gown brushed the flower-strewn path as you stood tall, eyes lifting toward the temple ahead.

“Ready?” your father asked, voice low beside you.

You nodded, slowly, then turned to look back one last time at the carriage—at the road that brought you here—and finally, forward again. “Yes. I’m ready.”

Your mother let out the smallest breath of a smile, a hand delicately pressing over her heart as she watched you with glassy eyes. One of the royal knights approached her with a polite bow, then gently extended his arm.

She took it with practiced grace, allowing herself to be escorted to her place at the front row of the temple—where the sacred lights from the stained-glass windows painted the marble floors in hues of gold and violet.

You stood at the start of the long aisle, the flower-strewn carpet lined with lanterns and pale petals. The air inside the temple was reverent, heavy with the scent of lilac and rosewater, lit only by candlelight and divine sunbeams that poured through the windows like blessings themselves.

And at the end of it all—standing before the altar beneath arching stone and blooming ivy—was Heeseung.

His white ceremonial suit shimmered under the temple lights, the gold embroidery gleaming with each breath he took. Crystals lined the trim of his royal jacket, catching the light like stars. His hair was perfectly styled—yet a single strand still fell naturally over his brow—and gods, he had never looked more like a king.

Heeseung swore his breath left his lungs.

The moment your figure stepped onto the aisle, framed by light and shadow, your gown flowing like starlight behind you and veil trailing with each slow, graceful step—he couldn’t stop the smile that bloomed across his lips. Not the small kind. Not the gentle kind. The full kind, the one that crinkled his eyes and made his chest ache with a thousand unsaid words.

“By the gods,” he murmured under his breath. “She’s real.”

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Could only stand there in full awe as if you were the very goddess the temple was built for.

Your gaze met his—warm, filled with every memory and every dream you’d ever shared. And as you stepped closer and closer to the altar, the sounds of hushed gasps and admiration filled the pews.

Heeseung barely heard them. He only saw you.

At the end of the aisle, your father stood tall but emotional as he gently guided you the last few steps forward. Once the music slowed, he turned toward Heeseung, looking the prince in the eye with all the weight of a father handing off the most precious thing he’d ever protected.

He took Heeseung’s hand and placed yours in it.

“Take care of her,” your father said, his voice deep but warm, soft with meaning. “She’s always been our light.”

Heeseung’s expression softened instantly. He nodded—not with stiff formality, but with reverent sincerity. “Always,” he whispered. “With all I have.”

Your father gave a small, proud smile before stepping aside, finding his seat beside your mother, who wiped the corner of her eye with her silk handkerchief.

You and Heeseung now stood before the altar together.

Fingers interlocked.

He looked down at you, and the way his thumb grazed the back of your knuckles sent a wave of calm through you.

“You look like every prayer I never thought would be answered,” he murmured so only you could hear. “And I must’ve done something right in a past life… because you're walking straight to me.”

You felt your heart rise to your throat as your eyes welled up—but you smiled, wide and unstoppable.

“Then hold me like you’ll never let me go,” you whispered back, voice trembling slightly.

“I already do,” Heeseung breathed, gaze locked on yours. “I already have.”

And somewhere behind you, the temple bells began to chime.

The ceremony was about to begin.

The gods were watching.

And the entire kingdom held its breath—for this union, for this love, for the future they believed in.

Laughter spilled from your lips like music, even as your hand tightened around Heeseung’s. The sky was dusted with sunset, the air alive with the roaring cheers of thousands—your people, your kingdom, the witnesses to a union that would be written into history books and bedtime stories alike.

“Careful,” Heeseung chuckled, eyes glinting as he helped you navigate the ornate steps of the royal carriage. “The gown’s winning the battle right now.”

You gave him a playful glare but let him hoist the heavy train of your dress just enough so you could climb inside without tripping. The velvet cushions cradled you immediately, the whole space fragrant with rose petals and wild lilac—gifts from the palace staff who had prepared it in secret.

Heeseung followed in after you, and the moment he closed the door behind him—sealing out the deafening celebration, the blinding flash of royal photographers, the weight of the world—

He turned to you.

And pulled you into him.

The kiss was firm and full of everything he hadn’t said at the altar. His hands cradled your jaw with devotion, lips pressing to yours like they were finding home.

You smiled against his mouth—because how could you not?—arms wrapping around his shoulders as your laughter was swallowed into the warmth of him.

He only pulled away when your lungs begged for air.

And even then, he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand, fingers trembling ever so slightly as his gaze dropped to the dazzling ring glittering on your finger.

A rare golden band, wrapped in tiny vines of diamonds. At its center—a stone so clear and so rare, it was said to have been taken from the gods’ altar themselves, gifted only to royal soulmates.

Heeseung sighed softly, brushing his lips against the gem once more, before lifting his gaze back to you.

“My wife,” he whispered, as if saying it for the first time made it real. His voice cracked with the weight of it, eyes shining like the stars overhead. “My beautiful wife.”

The word settled in your chest like a prayer answered.

You reached forward, cupping his cheek, fingers threading into the strands of his dark hair that had begun to fall from their styled place. His skin was warm under your touch, his eyes—god, his eyes—were filled with nothing but wonder.

Your voice trembled as tears began to blur your vision. “And you’re my husband,” you whispered. “My beginning. My middle. And my always.”

Heeseung’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, as if the moment was too much. Then he leaned into your touch, turning just enough to kiss your palm.

“Remind me to thank the gods for making you,” he said softly, pressing your forehead against his. “Because there is no way I deserved this. Deserved you.”

“You deserve everything,” you whispered, pulling him closer. “Everything, Heeseung.”

You let out a soft breath, letting your forehead rest gently against his chest, the rise and fall of it slow and steady beneath your cheek.

His arms wrapped around you instinctively, pulling you closer, your white gown crinkling slightly between your bodies but neither of you cared.

“We’re headed to the island, right?” you murmured into the fabric of his coat, fingers curling around the lapel, the velvet soft under your touch.

Heeseung hummed, chin resting gently on the top of your head, his voice vibrating against your cheek. “Mhm. The very island I had that mansion built on… for us.”

He smiled as he spoke, almost shy about it. “Just for the two of us to spend our honeymoon in peace. No titles. No duties. Just you. Me. And the sea.”

You giggled, tilting your head up slightly to press a kiss to the tip of his chin. “I swear, I have the best husband ever. The perfect prince ever.”

That made his whole face light up. He beamed, heart full, like he was just realizing he could finally hold you like this without rules or eyes or limits. His hand slid to your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin as he whispered, “You’re perfect. Really perfect.”

You flushed, lips curling in a soft smile. “Well… I’m just glad the island isn’t that far from the mainland. At least we can come and go whenever we want.”

Heeseung snorted, pulling back just enough to give you a playful look. “You mean you can come and go as you please,” he said, eyes teasing. “Because you have a habit of storming off on me, my love.”

You gasped with a laugh, swatting lightly at his chest. “That was one time—!”

“Three,” he corrected smoothly. “Once after I forgot your birthday flower, the other when I fell asleep halfway through your poetry reading—”

You narrowed your eyes. “And the third?”

He grinned. “I don’t even remember, I think you were just being dramatic.”

You let out a mock gasp of offense, which only made Heeseung laugh harder. He pulled you back in, kissing your temple as he whispered, “I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth, you know. Even if you storm off again.”

“Even in this giant dress?” you teased, gesturing to the sheer volume of fabric surrounding you.

He nodded solemnly. “Even if I have to carry you and the fifteen layers of it across the entire kingdom.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing too loudly, burying your face back into his chest as the carriage bumped gently along the road—your fingers tangled in his, your heart full, your future already unfolding before you in soft gold and island winds.

You gasped as Heeseung thrust into you again, deep and unrelenting, his rhythm messy and desperate now—etiquette forgotten, restraint burned to ash.

He moaned low into your ear, voice wrecked. “Fuck—been dreaming of this,” he whispered, lips dragging along your jaw. “Years of holding back—do you even know what you’ve done to me?”

You whimpered, arching into him as your nails raked down his back, drawing soft, broken curses from his lips. “Heeseung—”

“That’s it,” he breathed, kissing you hard, possessive. “Say my name like that again, sweetheart—please—”

“Heeseung,” you gasped, body trembling under him, overwhelmed by the sheer stretch and heat of him, of this, of everything. “You’re my husband—y-you’re really mine—”

That did something to him.

He growled low in his throat, pulled out, and you whined at the loss—but then he flipped you onto your stomach, firm and commanding, and patted your ass twice, a dark gleam in his eyes as he said, “Up, love. Let me see you.”

You obeyed on instinct, body moving to all fours, ass raised, face flushed against the pillows.

“Fuck,” he muttered behind you, dragging his hands down your spine. “Look at you… gods, you’re perfect.”

He lined himself up again, the thick head of his cock brushing against you, teasing, making you whine and twitch in anticipation.

“Beg for it,” he said, voice barely steady. “Just once. Please, baby—after everything—I need to hear it.”

“Please, Heeseung,” you whimpered, backing against him. “Please… I need you.”

He slammed back into you with a groan that echoed off the high ceilings, one hand gripping your hip, the other wrapping around your waist to pull you against him. The sound of skin meeting skin was shameless, vulgar, as he lost himself in the heat of you, panting curses into your shoulder.

“You feel like fucking heaven,” he moaned, head dropping to your back. “This body—this fucking body was made for me.”

Your cries grew louder as his thrusts deepened, more erratic now—driven by years of pent-up love, desire, obsession.

When he reached forward and wrapped his fingers around your throat, pulling your back to his chest, he whispered against your ear: “Mine. My queen. My wife. I’ll spend the rest of my life ruining you like this.”

And as your walls clenched around him, body trembling from the pleasure blooming like wildfire inside you, he kissed your temple—soft, reverent, the only gentle thing in that moment—and whispered, “Give it to me, love. Let go. Let me have all of you.”

You shattered with a cry, the kind that echoed off the walls, one hand gripping the sheets as your body convulsed around him. Your release hit hard—white-hot and overwhelming—and Heeseung groaned against your skin, hips stuttering as you clenched tight around him.

“That’s it,” he rasped, pressing kisses along your shoulder, hips still lazily rocking into your overstimulated body. “Fuck—so good for me, so perfect.”

You could barely breathe, chest rising and falling as sweat clung to your skin. But Heeseung wasn’t done—not even close.

He hooked two fingers under your chin, lifting your face to meet his. Your eyes were glossy with tears, lips parted as soft whimpers spilled out of you. Heeseung’s gaze flickered between your eyes and mouth, his own expression completely undone.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmured, then kissed you—sloppy, desperate, like he was trying to taste the moans still lingering in your throat.

But then he pulled away—just enough to flip you back onto your back, drawing a gasp from your lips as he manhandled you closer to the edge of the bed.

“Heeseung—” you breathed, voice cracking.

He leaned down, kissed the tears slipping from the corners of your eyes with such gentleness it made your heart ache.

“I know, baby,” he whispered. “I know. But I need you one more time.” Then he raised your legs, resting them over his shoulders, and thrust back in.

Your cry was broken, high and breathless, your hands flying to his arms for something to hold onto as your body arched into him.

“Still so tight,” he groaned, hips rolling into you deep and slow, like he was savoring every second. “Gods, you take me so well, even after—fuck, I’ll never get over this.”

You sobbed softly, overwhelmed by the stretch, the intensity, the sheer love in the way he moved inside you.

He leaned down, folding your legs closer to your chest, his forehead pressed against yours as he whispered, “Look at me. Let me see you fall apart again.”

And then he slammed into you—hard and sloppy, each thrust punching a moan out of your throat as he hit that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back instantly.

“Heeseung—ah—!” you cried, voice ragged, high, needy.

“That’s it,” he rasped, watching your face with a wild hunger in his eyes. “That’s the face I wanted to see—gods, look at you—so gone for me.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. The pleasure was blinding, white-hot and all-consuming as he plunged into you over and over, cock hitting so deep and so perfect, your body had no choice but to obey.

Your mouth hung open, drooling a little, moaning with every deep, brutal thrust—and Heeseung ate it up like a man possessed.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, sweat dripping from his brow as his pace grew faster, rougher. “I’ve fucked you stupid, haven’t I?”

You whimpered, tried to answer, but only a breathless moan left your lips.

He smirked darkly. “Can’t even talk. Just taking it. Letting me ruin you.”

Your body jolted with every movement of his hips, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the chamber like a prayer.

“I’m close,” he panted, voice shaking. “You’re squeezing me so tight, gods, I’m gonna—fuck—”

You could only whimper, tears sliding down your cheeks again from the overwhelming heat building inside you.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear, voice low and wrecked. “I’ll fill you up,” he whispered. “Make you mine. Want you so round and full of me. Barefoot in the palace with my child inside you—fuck, baby, you’d look so perfect like that.”

A strangled moan ripped out of you, nails digging into his arms as your legs trembled around his shoulders.

“Wanna get you pregnant,” he kept going, voice turning desperate as his thrusts grew rougher. “Wanna see your belly swell. Everyone’ll know you’re mine—all mine. My wife. My queen. My everything.”

You cried out, and he kissed the tears from your cheeks again, groaning as your body tightened around him.

“Gonna give it to you,” he gasped. “Take it—take all of me—”

And then he buried himself deep one final time, spilling inside you with a long, low moan, his whole body shaking as he pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged, arms trembling.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “I love you—I love you—I love you.”

He kissed you again—deep, slow, as if trying to pour every bit of himself into your mouth, like he didn’t know where he ended and you began. His hands were still trembling, still greedy even now, cradling your face.

Then, slowly, gently, he eased your legs down from his shoulders, never once letting go. His hips shifted just enough so that he could wrap his arms around you, rolling onto his side and taking you with him—still buried inside you, warm and full and his.

You let out a soft gasp as your body adjusted, sensitive and raw, but comforted by his arms pulling you flush against his chest.

Heeseung let out a shaky exhale, pressing his nose into your hair. “Still with me?” he murmured, lips brushing your temple.

You nodded sleepily, breath shallow, heart pounding as you pressed your palm against his bare chest—feeling his heartbeat racing beneath your fingertips.

He kissed your forehead, and then your cheek, then the corner of your lips, his voice low and thick. “I’m not pulling out,” he mumbled, half-drunk on love, half-drunk on you. “Not yet. Not ever.”

You laughed softly—weakly—body still pulsing from everything. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” he muttered, pulling you impossibly closer, like he wanted to fuse your bodies together. “I meant what I said, you know. About getting you pregnant. About seeing you with my child.”

“I want all of it,” he whispered. “You in this bed, in our castle. You walking through the palace holding your stomach. You with my name, my ring, my child. I want everything.”

You could barely speak. So you just whispered, “You already have everything.”

His eyes fluttered shut at that, a soft, boyish smile tugging at his lips.

The room was quiet, save for your breathing, the soft rustle of the silk sheets tangled beneath you. You were both still trembling from the aftermath—but wrapped in him, filled by him, you felt like the world had stopped moving just for the two of you.

The royal library was bathed in the soft light of the afternoon sun, golden beams streaking through the high arched windows. The gentle rustle of pages echoed quietly, along with Jaeyun’s voice reading aloud from a worn leather-bound storybook.

“…and then the young prince lifted the veil of thorns, finding the princess fast asleep, untouched by time, heart still waiting for his,” Jaeyun read, lips curling into a fond smile as he glanced down at your belly, voice softening even more. “He kissed her, and—”

You huffed, adjusting your position with an audible grunt as you shifted your weight on the deep-cushioned couch. It was custom-made, one of Heeseung’s many attempts to appease your growing complaints about how “every chair in the palace was clearly built for pain and suffering.”

Jaeyun winced. “Uh… did I do something wrong, noona?” he asked carefully, lowering the book.

You sighed heavily and gave him a sweet smile, brushing his arm. “No, sweet boy. You’re perfect. Don’t let the thundercloud above my head scare you.”

His brows furrowed in confusion before glancing up—and that’s when he saw your husband, standing near the grand shelf of magical history books, looking like a deer caught in divine, hormonal headlights.

Heeseung blinked. “What… what’d I do?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just stared. A slow, furious, finger-pointing kind of glare.

Heeseung looked behind him. Then pointed at himself. “Me?”

Jaeyun immediately started packing up the book with the speed of a trained soldier. “I’m gonna, um… give you two some privacy. Or leave the continent. Whichever’s safer.”

You gently held his wrist. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Jaeyun. Don’t let the idiot standing near the bookshelf convince you otherwise.”

Heeseung’s jaw dropped. “Wait—what idiot—hey!”

That’s when you sniffled. Loudly. Tears instantly welled up in your eyes as your lip trembled, and you looked down at your round belly, hand resting protectively over it.

Jaeyun froze in horror. “Noona—wait, are you crying? Did I—?”

From across the library, Jungwon’s head snapped up, quill falling from his fingers. He was at your side in a heartbeat, eyes wide and worried.

“What happened?” Jungwon asked, voice soft but urgent, his hand gently resting on the edge of your couch as he leaned over. “Noona, what’s wrong?”

You pointed at Heeseung again, face crumpling as the tears rolled down your cheeks. “He forgot my pickles and sour cream,” you sniffled. “I woke up and it wasn’t there and I waited and waited and I was starving and craving and he just—”

“Oh.” Jungwon tried very, very hard not to laugh, biting the inside of his cheek as he nodded seriously. “Pickles and sour cream. A fatal offense.”

“I didn’t forget!” Heeseung defended, walking closer, arms flailing slightly in helplessness. “I mean—I did, but not on purpose! I had to help Jungwon with the—”

Jungwon lifted his hand, still grinning. “Forgive my brother, noona,” he said sweetly. “I think it’s partly my fault. I made him stay up last night helping me deal with some… knight stuff.”

You raised a brow, still crying, still very much hormonal. “What kind of knight stuff?”

Jungwon cleared his throat. “Uhm. A few of the southern patrol horses were unshod, and the stablemaster said the armory budget was overspent again. So we were fixing allocations and—”

“Oh, so horses are more important than your pregnant wife?” you cut in, voice trembling as you narrowed your eyes at your husband.

Heeseung panicked. “No! No, absolutely not—I would die for you. I would kill for you. I was going to go after breakfast and—”

“You said that yesterday!” you cried, covering your face.

Jaeyun stood behind Jungwon now, whispering, “We should probably leave before she gives birth out of spite.”

“Smart,” Jungwon whispered back.

Heeseung rushed to your side, dropping to his knees in front of you and placing both hands gently on your belly.

“My love, please,” he said, looking up at you with big, guilty eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ll get you all the pickles. All the sour cream. I’ll grow a pickle tree if I have to. Just please don’t cry, it breaks my heart.”

You glared at him for one more moment before sighing, lower lip still wobbling. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Heeseung beamed. “That’s a relief. Because I love you too. And you, little one,” he said, pressing a kiss to your belly. “Don’t worry, father will bring home all your weird cravings.”

You sniffed again, wiping your face as Heeseung pulled out a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed your cheeks gently.

“…You want ice cream with chili flakes too?” he asked cautiously.

“Obviously,” you muttered. “I’m not a monster.”

Jungwon and Jaeyun had already vanished by then, likely off to send a servant to retrieve a very urgent royal order of pickles and sour cream.

You sniffled once more, dabbing your own cheek as you tapped your fingers insistently on Heeseung’s arm.

He blinked. “Huh?”

You gave him a look.

“Oh! Right—right, sorry!” he scrambled, immediately hopping to his feet in a heartbeat. One arm slipped behind your back, the other lacing through your fingers with practiced ease. “Here we go—one, two—”

You groaned as he gently helped you up from the cushioned couch, belly stretching against the fabric of your soft dress. “Ugh. This is all your fault.”

Heeseung winced. “Yes, I—I know.”

“I should have your cock chopped off for this, you little—”

“Whoa—! Okay!” Heeseung laughed nervously, heart thudding against his ribs as he tucked you closer to his side. “Easy now, love. You scare me sometimes.”

You shot him a narrowed glare. “Sometimes? You should live in fear.”

“I do!” he said immediately, guiding your steps slowly and carefully as you waddled your way toward the hallway. “Every waking second, actually. Have I mentioned how stunning you look while plotting my demise?”

You clicked your tongue, though your cheeks betrayed you with the faintest tinge of blush.

Pregnancy had turned you into an emotional tempest. One second, you were smiling sweetly and asking Heeseung if he’d sing to the baby—and the next, you were threatening bodily harm over poorly cut fruit or lukewarm tea.

He loved you more for it. Terrified? A little. But madly in love? Completely.

Heeseung tried not to laugh at the memory of last week, when one of your most beloved royal cooks almost got fired.

You had wobbled your way down to the kitchen, belly-first, eyes ablaze. He had just finished making your requested plate of crackers—and forgot the sour cream.

The way you gasped, horrified, clutching your chest like your world had ended.

“I waited all day for this,” you whispered like a betrayed ghost. “And no sour cream? Off with your hat. No—your head!”

The poor man stood there, blinking in shock as you fumed.

By the time Heeseung had rushed in—dragging Sunghoon behind him for backup—he found you mid-sob and mid-threat, the cook still trying to apologize.

Sunghoon, eyes wide, bowed quickly to the cook. “We’re so sorry—she’s, uh—pregnant. Very pregnant.”

The cook only chuckled, waving it off. “It’s alright, Your Highness. This happens all the time. It’s quite normal, really.”

“Normal?!” Sunghoon whispered in horror as you let out a wail again.

Back in the present, Heeseung looked down at you now, walking slowly through the castle hallway, his hand cradling your back while you leaned your weight into him.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You sighed. “No. I’m bloated, I’m mad at you, my ankles feel like they’re being crushed by divine punishment, and I’m sweating in places no princess should sweat.”

“…So that’s a yes?”

You smacked his chest, and he only grinned, leaning down to kiss your temple again. “I love you, you know. You’re terrifying. But I’m obsessed with you.”

“I know,” you muttered, lips twitching upward despite yourself.

As you passed a stained-glass window, you paused and turned to face him—hand still on the curve of your belly.

“…You really forgot the pickles?” you asked again, narrowing your eyes.

Heeseung’s face went pale. “I swear to the gods, I’ll name our firstborn Sour Cream if that’s what it takes to make it up to you.”

You burst into laughter so hard you had to lean against him again.

The palace gardens were in full bloom.

You walked slowly beneath the soft morning sun, the wind warm and gentle as it kissed your face. Every step felt like a task and a half at nine months pregnant, your belly stretching the limits of your once-elegant maternity dress that now clung to you like it was begging for retirement.

Still, you needed the air.

The lilacs and lavenders had just been planted—your favorite colors. A gift from Heeseung after you spent an entire evening crying because you missed the way your childhood home used to smell.

“They’re blooming beautifully,” you murmured as you waddled beside your mother and mother-in-law, who were deep in discussion about installing fountains near the kingdom gates.

“A marble structure, perhaps,” your mother-in-law offered, gesturing with her fan. “Something timeless, to match the new rose archway.”

Your own mother nodded, her hand resting gently against your back. “And maybe benches shaded by wisteria vines—good for walks like these.”

You smiled faintly, hands settled protectively over your belly. You felt huge. Round and sore and terribly emotional.

Lately, all you wanted was Heeseung. You missed his hands on your belly, his kisses at the corners of your mouth, the way he’d whisper “You’re still the most beautiful woman in the world” every time you cried over not fitting into your royal robes anymore.

Poor Heeseung had endured months of emotional whiplash—you throwing pillows at him one minute, begging for cuddles the next—but he never wavered. Always patient. Always soft.

You sighed. “That man is too good for me.”

A sharp pang shot through your lower abdomen.

Your hand shot down to your belly as your breath caught, and in the next heartbeat—warm liquid trickled down your legs, soaking the hem of your dress and dripping onto the garden soil below.

Your eyes widened.

The queens turned to you instantly. “Darling?” “What is it?!”

“I think… I think my water just broke,” you whispered.

Panic, majestic and maternal, swept through both women. Your mother’s voice shot up first. “Servants! Fetch the midwife—now!”

“The healer too!” your mother-in-law added. “And blankets! Bring towels! Quickly!”

You winced again, grabbing at your lower back as another cramp rocked through you. “I can walk! I’m fine—just… need help.”

“Absolutely not,” your mother huffed, hooking her arm under yours with impressive strength for someone in full court attire. “You’re not walking anywhere without us.”

The two queens flanked you like royal guards, one on each side, carefully helping you take slow, careful steps back toward the palace. You groaned at each movement, breath labored, hands trembling.

“Where is Heeseung?” you whined, voice wobbling.

“He’s in council with the stewards—someone will fetch him,” your mother-in-law promised, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “Don’t you worry, darling. He’ll be with you before the next contraction hits.”

“I swear if he misses this—” you hissed as another pain bloomed in your spine, “—I’ll induce a second pregnancy just to make him suffer through the next one!”

Both queens laughed despite themselves.

“You’re doing wonderfully, sweetheart,” your mother whispered, kissing your temple. “Heeseung will come running the second he hears. Just hold on a little longer.”

“And scream at him when he does,” your mother-in-law added with a mischievous grin. “It’s tradition.”

You let out a strangled half-laugh, half-sob as your foot crossed the marble threshold of the castle.

“Bring hot water!” a maid cried out. “Prepare the birthing chamber!”

Servants scrambled like a military drill as the two queens continued leading you toward the royal wing.

And as another wave of pain rolled through you, sharp and sudden, you gripped both women’s hands tightly and muttered—

“…Heeseung is so dead.”

The words had barely left your mouth when a young servant, barely older than a squire, nodded frantically at your mothers’s command.

He turned on his heel and sprinted down the castle corridors, nearly slipping on polished marble as he weaved past nobles and guards. His face was pale, his steps frantic—because everyone in the kingdom knew that when it came to you, Prince Heeseung did not waste time.

Especially not today.

The council room sat in a gilded hallway of the eastern wing, its doors heavy with ornate gold carvings, muffling the sound of bored sighs and shuffling chairs from within.

Inside, the seven princes were scattered across the long oak table, listening—somewhat respectfully—as an aging duke discussed property disputes near the northern border.

Heeseung sat at the center of the table, shoulders square, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. His jaw tensed as he adjusted the fit of his vest, trying to mask just how miserable he looked.

Beside him, Jongseong leaned on an elbow, eyes half-lidded in sheer exhaustion. “If he says the word acreage one more time, I’m jumping out the window.”

Sunoo, who had long given up on pretending to listen, was poking Jungwon with a quill, whispering, “Bet you a week of your rations that hyung zones out and agrees to give the entire north to some greedy lord.”

Jungwon rolled his eyes, muttering, “He already did last month.”

Across the table, Riki and Sunghoon were whispering animatedly—probably about girls or sword duels or which of them would win in a wrestling match if their lives depended on it.

Jaeyun had a book propped open on his lap, held just under the table’s edge, completely absorbed and occasionally mouthing the words under his breath.

Heeseung cleared his throat, trying to gather enough composure to politely end the duke’s hour-long monologue. “We’ll reconvene to review—”

The council room doors flew open so hard they rattled on their hinges.

All seven princes shot up, hands instinctively flying to their sides as if expecting danger. The guards posted at the entrance had barely enough time to react before the young servant stumbled into the room, panting so hard it sounded like he’d just outrun a horse.

Heeseung was already halfway to standing, eyes sharp and alert. “Speak.”

The servant didn’t even bow. “T-The princess! Princess (Y/N)—she’s gone into labor!”

The words hit Heeseung like lightning.

Everything else vanished. The air, the weight of duty, the politics, the room itself—it was all just static in the background.

“Council dismissed,” Heeseung ordered, voice hard and final.

He didn’t wait for a single reply. He threw his glasses on the table with a clatter, not even bothering to place them gently, and shrugged off his coat as he made for the door. His vest was still half-buttoned, his cravat slightly askew, but he didn’t stop to fix any of it. He just ran.

“Hyung!” Jongseong called after him, but he was gone.

Sunoo blinked. “He didn’t even breathe.”

“Why do I feel like we’re in labor too?” Riki muttered, already on his feet.

“Heeseung-hyung’s going to faint before (Y/N) does,” Sunghoon said, half amused and half terrified.

Back in the halls, Heeseung’s footsteps echoed like thunder. Servants scrambled out of the way, bowing quickly before darting aside. He passed the main stairs, two wings of the palace, and stormed through three doors before finally reaching the private chambers near your bedroom—where the royal birthing room had been prepared days in advance.

He saw the royal guards, saw the maids darting in and out with wet cloths and blankets.

And then he heard you.

A muffled cry of pain from within.

His heart nearly stopped.

Heeseung stood just outside the doors, hand on the carved gold handle, breaths ragged as he tried to steel himself—but just before he could push it open, a commanding voice echoed through the corridor.

“Prince Heeseung, you cannot go in.”

He turned, startled, eyes narrowing as he was met by the flowing robes of the Archbishop of Decelis, flanked by a few elder members of the High Council—those who hadn’t been in attendance during the earlier meeting. Their expressions were grave, respectful, but firm.

“What?” Heeseung snapped, his tone already laced with disbelief. “Why not?”

One of the older men stepped forward, hands folded neatly in front of him. “My prince, it is tradition. Men are not permitted inside the royal birthing chambers. It is an honored law of the land.”

Heeseung dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated and on the verge of unraveling. “Tradition?” he echoed, almost laughing bitterly.

“That’s my wife in there. My child. And you’re telling me I can’t be with them because of some old, dusty decree written before any of you were even born?”

The Archbishop stood firm. “It is to maintain the sanctity and protection of both mother and child. We must follow protocol.”

Heeseung clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring, his heart screaming inside his chest. Behind him, hurried footsteps approached—the rest of his brothers flooding into the corridor one by one, panting and wide-eyed.

“Hyung, we came as fast as—” Jungwon began before seeing the situation unfold.

But Heeseung didn’t turn to them.

Because just then, through the thick double doors, he heard you scream again.

His spine straightened. His vision tunneled.

A young maid appeared from the side chamber, looking breathless and flushed. “Prince Heeseung!” she called, bowing quickly. “Her Highness is calling for you. She keeps asking—she’s crying, asking where you are.”

Heeseung moved for the doors again, only for the Archbishop to raise a hand, stepping into his path once more.

“Your Highness, please—”

“Do you like being the Archbishop of Decelis?” Heeseung asked sharply, voice low and dangerous.

The man froze.

The council members stiffened.

“Do you?” Heeseung repeated, eyes like wildfire.

“…Yes, my prince.”

“And you all,” Heeseung turned to the councilmen. “Do you like your titles? Your seats? Your influence?”

No one answered.

He took a slow, threatening step forward, each word like a blade. “Would you like to remain the Archbishop of Decelis? And remain members of this council?”

The hallway went deadly silent. Even the guards didn’t breathe.

Because Heeseung had never raised his voice. Never threatened anyone. Never looked like this before. But now—he was livid. A man unhinged by love, fear, and a cry from someone he couldn’t bear to be separated from.

“You forget your place,” he growled. “That’s my wife. That’s my child. And I swore before gods and men to protect her, cherish her, be by her side in every joy and every pain. And if any of you think for a second that I’ll let her scream for me alone while you stand here quoting traditions—”

His voice cracked at the edge.

“Then you’re not just wrong. You’re finished.”

The Archbishop opened his mouth—then closed it again.

“I said move.”

The men parted.

Heeseung didn’t waste another second—he slammed the doors open and marched in, not as a prince, not as a future king, but as your husband.

As a man about to become a father. As someone so in love with you that the thought of you suffering made him feel physically ill.

You were there, on the padded birthing bed, your back supported by pillows, your hair sticking to your forehead with sweat, hands gripping the sheets so tightly your knuckles were white.

Your mother and mother-in-law were at your side. The midwife—an older woman with gentle hands and sharp instructions—was calmly checking your status.

You looked up, eyes glassy and tired, and—

“Heeseung,” you whimpered.

He rushed to you without a word, dropping to his knees beside the bed and grabbing your hand. His fingers trembled as they laced through yours. “I’m here. I’m here, love, I’m right here.”

“I told you you were dead,” you gasped between contractions, squeezing his hand hard enough to crush bone.

Heeseung winced. “If I survive this, I’m building you another garden. Bigger. Full of lilacs. And pickles. And sour cream. Just—keep breathing, okay?”

You cried. “This is your fault!”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed, kissing your hand desperately, forehead resting against your arm. “I’m a terrible husband. I’ll never touch you again—I’ll sleep in the stables if I have to.”

“You’re damn right you will,” you hissed, then screamed through the next wave of pain.

Heeseung paled, but kissed your temple anyway. “You’re doing amazing, my love. You’re almost there.”

Behind him, one of the queens whispered, “He’s more scared than she is.”

And he was.

Because he’d faced sword fights, battles, political scandals, and enemy threats. But nothing terrified him more than the idea of you in pain.

The midwife barely glanced at him, too focused on the task. She peeked between your parted legs and gave a tight, pleased smile. “She’s fully dilated. We’re ready.” Then she dropped onto the birthing stool at the end of the bed and called over her shoulder, “You, get the clean towels. And the water, now.”

“Yes, madam!” a maid stammered as they scurried to follow.

“Alright, Your Highness,” the midwife addressed you gently now, her voice calm but firm. “When I say push, I need you to push hard, understand?”

You nodded, breath hitching. “It hurts—gods, it hurts so much—”

Heeseung was already at your side, kneeling beside you despite the thick gold embroidery of his royal vest crumpling beneath him. He took your trembling hand and pressed it to his lips, his forehead leaning against yours.

“You can do this, love,” he murmured, voice cracking. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You sobbed softly, body trembling. “I’m scared…”

“I know,” he said. “But you’re strong. So strong. You’re everything. And our baby—our little prince or princess—they’re so close. Just a little more, okay?”

Another contraction hit and the midwife barked, “Push!”

You cried out, gripping Heeseung’s hand so tightly it felt like you might break it, and he welcomed every second of it—because if he could take your pain for you, he would a thousand times over.

“That’s it!” the midwife encouraged. “Good girl, Your Highness, again!”

Heeseung wiped the tears streaking down your cheeks with his other hand, pushing the damp strands of hair off your sticky forehead, his lips kissing every inch he could reach.

“I love you,” he whispered. “You’re doing so well, I’m so proud of you.”

But after another few rounds, you fell back against the pillows, exhausted. “I can’t… I can’t anymore, Hee…”

“Yes, you can,” he whispered, desperate now, tears pricking his eyes. “You’ve made it this far, you can. Just one more, darling. Please. Our baby’s waiting for you.”

You whimpered, chest rising and falling fast, but his hand didn’t leave yours, and his words—warm and trembling—wrapped around you like armor.

“One more push!” the midwife called again. “I see the head! One big push, my lady!”

You screamed as you gave everything, every last ounce of strength in your body—and then—

A sharp, high-pitched cry cut through the air.

The room stilled.

Heeseung gasped, tears immediately spilling down his cheeks as the sound hit him like an arrow through the heart.

“She’s here,” the midwife breathed with a smile. “A healthy baby girl!”

The moment your daughter was wrapped in warm linens and placed against your chest, your body quaked with sobs—relief, exhaustion, love, everything. She was tiny, pink, and perfect, crying softly as her fists curled against your skin.

“Oh, gods,” you wept, arms trembling as you cradled her. “She’s so… she’s so little…”

Heeseung was crying openly now, brushing soft, trembling kisses over your cheeks, your temple, your lips—everywhere.

“You did it,” he breathed, voice shaking as he stared at you like you hung the stars. “You did so good, love. She’s perfect. You’re both perfect.”

He pressed his forehead against yours, his hand gently stroking your daughter’s soft downy head. Her cries softened, soothed by your warmth, and when her tiny hand flailed, Heeseung instinctively wrapped his finger around hers.

“She’s got your nose,” he whispered with a teary laugh.

“And your eyes,” you whispered back, voice breaking as more tears fell.

He kissed you again, lingering and reverent.

“My queen,” he murmured, voice soaked in awe, “my love, the mother of my child…”

And for the first time in forever, the kingdom outside went quiet—because in that room, on that bed, with your daughter in your arms and your husband holding you like you were made of gold.

You stood in the quiet, polished halls of the royal wing of the museum, the scent of aged books and lavender floor polish lingering in the air.

Jungwon and Sunoo had excused themselves a few minutes ago, excited to take pictures by the towering marble fountain near the entrance, leaving you to explore at your own pace, sipping on the lilac tea you bought from the museum café.

Your footsteps slowed to a stop when you turned the corner and came face to face with it.

A massive oil painting, stretching from the polished floor almost to the vaulted ceiling. Encased in a golden frame, dusted only at the corners with time. And in it, frozen in hues of soft ivory and golden light—

“Prince Lee Heeseung and Princess (L/N) (Y/N), in a timeless embrace beneath a canopy of lilacs and lavenders.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The artist had captured something so impossibly intimate it made your chest ache. Heeseung stood tall, dressed in a white military-style coat, adorned with golden embroidery that shimmered even under the museum’s soft lights. His hand gently cupped the princess’s cheek, gaze tender and unguarded, as if the entire kingdom didn’t exist when she was near.

The princess wore a flowing white gown with a lilac sash, long sleeves embroidered with delicate gold threads, mimicking vines curling around her arms. She looked up at him, her eyes almost tearful with love, one gloved hand clutching the edge of his coat as though anchoring herself to him.

But it wasn’t just the beauty of the painting that left you frozen.

It was her face.

Her face—your face.

Same eyes. Same smile. Same shape of the nose and curve of the chin. Even the way she tilted her head slightly, like she was listening to something only he could whisper.

You took a shaky breath and stepped closer, glancing at the golden standee resting just beside the red velvet rope:

“Prince Lee Heeseung and Princess (L/N) (Y/N). Captured in the royal gardens during the Spring Festival of 1782.

This portrait is one of the most beloved in the royal collection, known not just for its artistic mastery, but for the love story it represents. Theirs was not a marriage of convenience or political alliance—but one of deep, enduring love.

They were said to have loved each other until their very last breath.”

You blinked at the plaque, rereading your name etched in gold again and again, as if the letters might rearrange themselves into something more logical.

“…That’s not funny,” you whispered, barely audible.

A slow chill crawled up your spine as you looked back at the painting.

What were the odds? Your name. Your face. The same features captured in oil centuries ago. Was the tea messing with you? Were you sleep-deprived?

You turned to glance behind you, half-expecting Jungwon and Sunoo to be playing some elaborate prank, but the corridor was empty.

You let out a small exhale and turned back to the painting.

But you weren’t alone anymore.

There was someone standing beside you.

A tall figure, dressed in a sleek black blazer and slacks, his silhouette sharp against the soft golden lighting of the gallery. His hands were tucked into his pockets, posture relaxed, but his gaze… his gaze was fixed right where yours had been moments before—on the painting. Unmoving. Focused. Like it meant something.

Your eyes flicked down to the silver pin on the left lapel of his blazer: the Decelis University insignia. A student, then.

You shrugged to yourself, figuring he was probably here on the same field trip. You took another sip of your lilac tea, the floral taste now bittersweet on your tongue as your heart settled in your chest again.

“It’s uncanny,” he murmured beside you.

You blinked and tilted your head slightly. “Are you talking to me?”

His lips curved, not quite into a full smile—but into something quieter, gentler. And his voice—God, his voice was warm. Deep, but velvety.

“Maybe,” he said. “I don’t really see anyone else here besides you.”

You let out a soft laugh, caught off guard. “Wow. Is that your line, or do you just flirt in front of 18th-century paintings?”

“Only with people who look like they’ve just seen a ghost,” he teased.

You turned to him, finally taking in his features properly. And your breath caught in your throat.

His hair was dyed a soft lilac—the exact same shade as the flowers in the painting. It caught the sunlight pouring in from the museum’s high glass windows, casting a faint halo around his head. But it wasn’t just the hair. It was the eyes. The way he looked at you—not like a stranger—but like someone remembering.

“What did you mean by uncanny?” you asked softly, your grip tightening around your tea cup.

He glanced at the painting again, then back at you.

“Well,” he began, “for starters… she looks exactly like you.”

You swallowed. “Yeah,” you said, voice smaller than you meant. “I noticed that.”

The stranger beside you let out a soft laugh—not the polite kind, but the real one. Full-bodied and warm, the kind that came from the chest, from somewhere deeper. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, something boyish blooming across his face as he fully turned to face you now.

He was breathtaking up close.

Lilac hair tousled like the wind had played with it on the walk here, his blazer crisp and worn with ease, like he wasn’t trying to impress anyone—but still somehow did.

There was something timeless about him. Like his face didn’t belong to any specific era. Like it had been painted in oil and carved into memory long before today.

He glanced back at the painting again and tilted his head slightly, a smirk playing at his lips.

“Well,” he teased, “the real one looks way better.”

Your breath hitched.

Heat rushed to your cheeks before you could stop it. “Oh my gods,” you muttered under your breath, fighting a smile as you stared at the floor, willing it to open and swallow you whole.

He chuckled, clearly pleased with your reaction.

You sighed, defeated, and risked another look at him.

The way he stood there, relaxed but attentive. The way he smiled like he already knew you—like he was waiting for you to remember too. The way his eyes searched yours with a kind of gentleness, like he didn’t want to scare you off, but couldn’t help getting drawn in.

You finally found your voice again, soft but steady.

“Well,” you said, looking right at him this time, “you look exactly like him, so…”

Your hand lifted slightly, finger pointing toward the prince in the painting, but he didn’t follow it. His eyes were on you. Only you.

He took a step closer.

Not too much—but just enough that you could smell his cologne, something clean and woodsy, like cedar trees after the rain.

“You think so?” he asked, voice quiet, as if the question itself held centuries of weight.

You nodded.

And you gave him the smallest smile. The kind of smile you only give someone you feel like you’ve known your whole life—someone you’ve missed before you even met.

His eyes softened.

And then he looked up at the painting once more, but not for long. “They say those two married for love, not for politics,” he murmured. “That they stayed together until their last breath.”

You blinked. “You know the story?”

“Bits and pieces,” he said. “My professor’s a nerd about royal bloodlines. Said they were the last real fairytale before the world became… complicated.”

“…That’s kind of beautiful,” you said quietly.

“Yeah,” he replied, looking back at you. “It is.”

You stared at each other for a moment too long.

And in that silence—filled only by distant footsteps and the soft hum of the museum—you felt it.

That pull in your chest.

Like gravity—but gentler. Like you’d been waiting your whole life to stand in this exact spot, with this exact person, under the eyes of your past selves immortalized in paint and gold leaf.

You swallowed down the weight in your chest and cleared your throat, unsure how to ask the question on your tongue without sounding absolutely unhinged. But the curiosity burned hotter than your nerves.

So you looked up at him, voice hesitant but steady.

“…What’s your name?”

He turned to you, that boyish grin softening into something quieter—shyer, even. He chuckled under his breath and reached a hand toward you, the sunlight from the glass ceiling catching on the silver ring he wore.

“Lee Heeseung,” he said.

You stared.

You had to blink once, twice, to make sure you heard him right.

The same name etched into the gold plate by the painting.

The same name whispered by fate across brushstrokes and centuries.

The same name that made something in your bones stir like they remembered.

Was the universe playing a joke? A test? A cosmic prank?

Or had it been quietly arranging this moment since the day you were born?

You were certain if someone snapped a photo of this second, the stars would burn a little brighter behind the frame.

You reached for his outstretched hand, your fingers brushing against his palm. The moment your skin touched his, a jolt shot up your arm—not painful, not harsh. Just… warm. Familiar. Like home.

He didn’t let go.

And honestly? You didn’t want him to.

His fingers wrapped around yours just right, firm but careful, like he already knew you needed both comfort and gentleness.

“And you?” he asked, voice softer now. Like he was scared to breathe too hard and shatter something delicate.

You swallowed, heart loud in your ears.

“(L/N) (Y/N),” you said, breathless.

Something shifted in his eyes.

Like a sunrise cracked through storm clouds.

Heeseung smiled—slowly, knowingly. “Nice to meet you, Princess,” he murmured, still not letting go.

Your breath hitched.

The nickname shouldn’t have meant anything coming from a stranger. But from him—it felt like the world had finally remembered a story it forgot to finish.

In that fleeting space between his smile and your breathless heartbeat, you realized something:

Maybe some loves weren’t just meant to last lifetimes.

Maybe some loves were lifetimes.

Maybe you and him—Lee Heeseung, the stranger who felt like a memory—had been chasing each other through history, always finding, always losing, always waiting.

And as the sunlight spilled through the stained glass, casting lilac and gold across your skin, you smiled.

Because somehow, in a crowded museum filled with relics of the past—you had found your future.

© 2025 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[rrysbabydoll]

A God On Stage

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

CW: Explicit sexual content, public setting intimacy, dominance/submission dynamics, fingering, penetrative sex.

Synopsis: After Harry’s steamy Barcelona performance, Y/N can't contain her need. Backstage, he takes care of her, first with his fingers, then with his body.

The lights dipped low, the air thick with heat and anticipation. Barcelona pulsed under Harry’s voice, the stadium alive with the screams and chants of thousands. Y/N stood just off-stage, her fingertips clutching the edge of the curtain like it could keep her grounded.

And then he walked out.

Harry. In that outfit.

The vest. Electric blue, beaded fringe swinging like it was flirting with gravity. Open. His chest glistened under the stage lights, a sheen of sweat outlining the tattoos she’d only just begun memorizing in real life. Leather pants hugging his hips with reckless precision. His arms stretched wide like he was claiming the whole city.

She nearly moaned.

Her knees actually buckled.

They’d only been officially together for a couple of weeks, still in that dizzy stage of soft touches and shy smiles, but this? Watching him like this, knowing he was hers now? It was too much. The heat wasn’t just from the Spanish summer anymore, it bloomed low in her belly, sparked something aching and raw inside her.

Her body leaned closer before her mind could catch up.

“You good?” Glenne, ever-casual, asked from beside her, sipping something sparkling.

Y/N nodded far too quickly. “Yep. Just watching.”

Dying.

Harry strutted to the mic, chest heaving. His fingers ran through his hair, tossing it back. The crowd exploded. And she knew, she knew, he did that on purpose. He caught her eye for a second, and that smug tilt of his lips was proof.

The bastard.

Every time he sang a certain line with extra rasp, every hip thrust, every spin, it all compounded. Her thighs pressed together, helpless.

She tried to focus on the music. She really did. But her mind was lost somewhere between the sharp line of his collarbone and the tattooed ferns disappearing beneath leather.

He was glowing. Drenched in the moment, in confidence, in sweat. He moved like he owned the stage, and maybe he did. He definitely owned her thoughts.

By the third song, she was desperate.

Not for anything graphic, yet. Just for him. His mouth on hers, his voice in her ear, his fingers wrapped tight around her wrist. She ached for it. For that closeness only he could give, the kind he offered in quiet hotel rooms and long, slow kisses after midnight.

But she wasn’t bold. She was quiet. Soft. That was what he liked about her. So she stood there in her white dress and matching sneakers.

He caught her eyes again. This time, it lingered.

His smirk deepened.

And then, he winked.

She needed to breathe.

She needed to survive this concert.

Backstage was chaos and color and champagne. The post-show energy buzzed through the dressing room like electricity. Everyone was glowing with sweat and laughter, congratulating each other, hugging.

Harry wasn’t in yet.

Y/N sat on the little couch in the corner, sipping cold water and trying to not squirm. The second he came offstage, she knew she’d crumble. How could she not? She’d just spent two hours watching the man she was dating—barely dating—command the attention of tens of thousands. Half-naked.

And now, she was supposed to…what? Greet him like everything was normal?

Please.

The door burst open.

His presence hit first, hot, confident, heavy. He was still glowing, hair damp, rings glinting as he peeled off the vest and threw it aside. The leather pants remained.

Her thighs clenched again. Harder.

“Hi, lovie,” he said, voice low, lazy.

Jesus.

“Hi,” she whispered, eyes wide.

He strode straight to her. Didn’t stop. Just leaned down and kissed her, slow and deep, like they were alone. Her fingers curled into the sides of his arms. She melted instantly, her body responding with all the desperation she’d held in.

“You alright?” he murmured against her cheek. “You looked a bit flushed earlier.”

She stared at him, blinking. Her whole body screamed I need you.

Harry’s eyes darkened, like he heard it.

“C’mere,” he said softly, tugging her to her feet.

They slipped out of the room without anyone noticing.

The dressing room down the hall was smaller. Private. It smelled like his cologne and something clean, expensive. The second the door shut, the tension snapped.

She gasped as he pressed her back against the wall, lips hot on hers, hands firm on her waist. It was a kiss that made time blur. One of those kisses where she lost herself, her thoughts, her name.

“You were lookin’ at me like you wanted to eat me alive,” he said, voice husky, breath against her cheek.

She whimpered. “You looked so— Harry, I—”

“You gettin’ all worked up, bunny?” he teased gently, dragging his nose down the side of her neck.

That nickname. It made her knees wobble.

“I couldn’t focus,” she confessed, eyes glassy. “You—your chest, the pants, and the way you—”

“Shh.” He kissed her again. “S’okay. I know. I felt it. Saw those little thighs of yours pressin’ together.”

She buried her face in his neck.

“You’re not very subtle, sweetheart.”

She was dying. Absolutely dissolving. She couldn’t speak. Just clung to him like he was the only thing tethering her to Earth.

“I couldn’t wait to get my hands on you,” he whispered. “Knew you’d be so worked up, watchin’ me.”

“I am,” she managed, voice trembling. “I need you.”

Harry groaned.

That shy confession flipped a switch in him.

His hands slid under the hem of her dress. “Let me help you, yeah?”

She nodded frantically. “Please.”

“Look at me when you beg,” he whispered.

She met his eyes, wide and glassy. “Please, Harry. I need you so bad.”

That did it.

He spun her gently and pressed her front to the wall. His hands lifted her dress, exposing soft thighs and pink panties. He groaned low.

“God, you’re cute,” he muttered. “Drippin’ through these.”

She gasped as his fingers slid over the damp fabric, teasing.

“I barely touched you,” he said, a note of awe in his voice. “You’re just this needy from watchin’ me?”

She nodded helplessly, whimpering.

He kissed her shoulder, slow and tender. “I’ve got you.”

His fingers slid beneath the fabric, finally touching her. She cried out softly, forehead pressed to the cool wall.

“Quiet, baby,” he murmured, curling his fingers inside her. “Don’t want anyone hearin’, yeah?”

She bit her lip, hips rocking helplessly back into his hand.

“Such a sweet girl,” he praised, moving faster. “Knew you’d come undone so easily.”

She whimpered. “Harry—gonna—”

He didn’t stop. “That’s it. Let go. I’ve got you.”

She shattered.

His name fell from her lips in a broken whisper as her body trembled. He held her through it, kissed the back of her neck, whispered sweet things against her skin.

But he didn’t stop.

She was still catching her breath, lashes fluttering, when she felt the firm press of him against her backside.

Her breath hitched.

“Want more, bunny?” he murmured, lips warm on her shoulder. “Still feelin’ needy, huh?”

She nodded.

He smiled. “Knew you would.”

Her panties were peeled down slowly, carelessly tossed aside. She was already squirming when he pulled the leather waistband of his pants down just enough to free himself. Her eyes fluttered shut at the sound of his zipper, her entire body aching.

“Turn around for me.”

She did. Her back against the wall again, dress bunched around her waist, chest heaving.

“Gonna go slow,” he promised, leaning in to kiss her, “but I need you. Been hard since the second I saw you standin’ side stage in that little dress.”

“Harry…” she whimpered.

“I’ve got you.”

He hooked her leg over his hip and slid in all at once.

Her gasp echoed through the room, fingers digging into his biceps.

He paused, pressed his forehead to hers.

“So tight,” he groaned. “Fuck.”

She clung to him, overwhelmed. She was still sensitive, every nerve raw, stretched perfectly around him. Her eyes welled up from the intensity.

“Too much?” he asked, instantly soft.

She shook her head, voice barely a whisper. “Feels good. So good.”

He kissed her hard, a filthy, desperate thing.

Then he started moving.

Slow, deep strokes. Her back thudded lightly against the wall with each thrust. Her fingers clutched his shoulders, his curls, anything she could reach. He grunted low with each movement, gripping her hips like he couldn’t get enough.

“That’s it, baby,” he rasped, “takin’ me so well.”

Her head fell back, a soft cry escaping as he hit just the right spot.

“That’s the one, huh?” he smirked.

She nodded, helpless, needy.

He angled his hips, driving into her just like that again and again, watching her fall apart. She was barely holding on, and he knew it.

Her thighs trembled around his waist, lips parted as little gasps escaped.

“You gonna come again for me, bunny?” he whispered. “Need you to.”

“Harry—please—” she breathed.

“I know, I know.” He kissed her again, sweet and deep. “Come on, baby. Let go.”

And she did. Her second orgasm hit harder, sudden and intense, her whole body pulsing around him. Her moan cracked in the middle as she came, legs shaking, back arching.

“Fuck,” Harry growled, losing control.

He didn’t last long after that. Just a few more thrusts before he stilled, groaning deep into her neck as he came hard, her name falling from his lips like a prayer.

They stayed there for a moment, sweaty, tangled, breathless.

When he finally pulled out and lowered her leg, she nearly collapsed.

He caught her with both arms. “Got you, sweetheart.”

She blinked up at him, lips kiss-bruised, skin glowing.

He smiled.

“Think Barcelona’s my new favorite city.”

She giggled, hiding her face in his chest.

He kissed her hair. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

simon having a girlfriend, the 141 knows about it but they've never seen her, only glimpses of it on ghost's phone. one day (idk how) they all meet, and she's nothing like they expected : even more quiet than ghost, rbf, even kind of aloof. they just expected simon with a sweet thing...

Unexpected

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Warnings: Strong language, implied injury, Ghost being surprisingly soft, the team being nosy

Author's Note: This was such a fun request! I love the idea of Ghost being with someone even more intimidating than him especially since people (including me) write Si with an Angel of a partner who’s normally so sweet and soft. Hope you enjoy!

Summary: The 141 has always known Ghost had a girlfriend, but they’d never met her—until now. She’s nothing like they expected.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The first time Soap caught sight of the name Love on Ghost’s phone, he nearly choked on his drink.

“You—wait. Hold on,” he sputtered, jabbing a finger at the screen before Ghost locked it. “Who the hell is Love?”

Ghost just stared at him with that unreadable expression, dark eyes betraying nothing. “My bird.”

Gaz perked up. “Your bird? As in—”

“As in my girlfriend, yeah,” Ghost said, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

It sent the team into a spiral. They had known something was up. Ghost occasionally disappeared for a few days of leave with no explanation, and while that wasn’t entirely unusual, there had been signs—the faintest traces of something softer underneath all that darkness. The rare moments he checked his phone with a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. The times he was quieter than usual, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

Still, the idea of Ghost—their Ghost—having a girlfriend was mind-blowing.

Soap was convinced she must be the kindest, softest woman alive to put up with Simon. “Bet she’s the sweetest thing,” he had said more than once. “Real gentle. Y’know, keeps him sane.”

Gaz figured she was probably a civilian, something normal and grounding for him. “No way she’s in the military,” he reasoned. “He needs someone to balance all that out.”

Price had never commented much, but he assumed she must be warm. Someone who balanced out Ghost’s sharp edges. Someone who could crack that armor of his.

And yet, despite all their curiosity, Ghost had never offered them anything. No name. No stories. Just the knowledge that she existed and the occasional glimpse of her name flashing on his phone screen.

Then came the mission where Ghost took a minor hit—not serious enough for the medics to worry, but enough for bruises and a few stitches. He brushed it off as nothing, but his phone wouldn’t stop buzzing on the way back to base.

Love: Heard about the mission. You alive?

Love: Simon. Answer the phone.

Love: I’m coming to base.

Price, ever the observant one, had glanced at the messages and raised an eyebrow. “She’s persistent.”

Ghost sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah. She is.”

Soap, meanwhile, was grinning like an idiot. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

——

The moment she stepped onto the base, the temperature seemed to drop.

They had been expecting someone soft, someone warm—maybe the kind of woman who would fuss over Ghost the second she saw him. Instead, the woman who strode into the room was silent. Unreadable. Her eyes scanned the space with sharp precision, lingering on each of them for a moment before locking onto Ghost.

Her expression was flat. No smile. No relief.

She crossed the room in a few steps and stood in front of him, arms crossed. A heavy silence fell between them before she muttered, “You’re an idiot.”

Soap actually gawked.

Ghost—who barely let anyone within arm’s reach—let her step right into his space. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stiffen. Instead, he just huffed out a quiet laugh, something close to amusement flickering in his eyes.

“Hello to you too, love,” he said, voice softer than the team had ever heard it.

She didn’t react much beyond narrowing her eyes at him. “Let me see.”

Ghost sighed but didn’t argue. He let her reach for his arm, fingers grazing along the bandage. It was a touch the rest of them would have never dared, but Ghost stood still, letting her check him over with a quiet, practiced efficiency.

“You should be resting,” she muttered, finally releasing him.

“I’m fine,” Ghost said.

She exhaled through her nose, clearly unimpressed, before finally turning toward the rest of the team.

Gaz, ever the diplomat, offered a friendly smile. “So, you’re—”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

Silence.

Soap cleared his throat. “Uh, we were expectin’—”

“She’s not what you thought,” Ghost cut in smoothly.

“No,” Price said, watching her with open curiosity. “She’s not.”

——

Soap was the first to attempt conversation. “So… how’d you two meet?”

She just blinked at him. “That’s classified.”

Soap’s eyes widened. “Wait. For real?”

“No,” she said, voice flat. “But I’m not telling you.”

Ghost actually chuckled. A small sound, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

The team stared.

Price just nodded to himself, as if he finally understood something none of them did.

Gaz leaned in, whispering to Soap, “Mate, I think he found his match.”

Soap didn’t respond, too busy processing the fact that this woman might actually be more intimidating than Ghost.

——

Later that evening, when they were finally alone in Simon’s quarters, she stood in front of him with her arms crossed.

“Let me see,” she said again, gentler this time.

Simon sighed but sat down on the edge of his cot, allowing her to kneel beside him. Her fingers brushed over his forearm, carefully unwrapping the bandage to check his stitches.

She didn’t scold him this time. Didn’t say anything at all at first. Just traced over his skin lightly, checking for any signs of trouble.

After a moment, she muttered, “I worry about you.”

Simon let out a quiet breath. He reached out, his fingers curling around her wrist, grounding himself in her touch. “I know.”

She didn’t say anything else, but she leaned into him, her forehead resting against his shoulder. Simon closed his eyes and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her in.

The silence between them was familiar, comfortable.

She wasn’t soft in the way the team had expected. She didn’t fuss over him, didn’t spill over with affection or warmth. But she cared. She knew when to push, when to hold back. She knew how to settle into his quiet without trying to fill it.

“Stay the night,” Simon murmured.

She nodded against his shoulder. “I was going to.”

His lips quirked up slightly. Of course she was.

——

The next morning, as she walked past the rest of the team, she gave them a single nod before leaving.

Soap watched her go, then turned to Simon. “I gotta say… didn’t see that comin’.”

Price hummed. “Neither did I.”

Gaz smirked. “She’s just like you.”

Soap shook his head. “No. She might be worse.”

Simon, unbothered, just muttered, “Good.”

Because if there was anyone who could stand beside him—who could understand his silences, match his sharp edges, and still choose him—he knew it was her.

And that was more than enough.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[girl-lostconnection]

Komodo dragons thrive on hierarchy and you are starting to push it. Thin ice there.

Oh? 👀

Continuation to this

@nightunite friend, come eat. Also shout out to them for the idea of Reader not kissing John and using his beard as “seal kiss” to get information instead

John is not amused with how fast you get the ground in his team. John is even less amused with how quickly you manage to wrap all his men around your finger and never think to ask yourself whether it’s a wise move.

Almost like you don’t fucking care what he think about you or your methods, almost like you have no insecurities or cracks he can get a claw in and move around until doors to your head get off the hinges.

John doesn’t like it.

You are seemingly everywhere and all at once — you lunch with Kyle and you train with Johnny and you shower with Simon and you shoot with Kyle and you work with Johnny and you train rookies with Simon and you chat with Kyle and you groom Johnny and you kiss Simon—

You don’t seem to have place for one more person.

You don’t even seem to think about fitting in one more person, like John isn’t even the fucking captain of his TaskForce anymore. Fucking hell.

John furrows his brows at you murmuring something in Kyle’s ear which leaves him dazed and a little lovestruck, his eyes so sharp you could cut to the bone, his eyes so hungry Price would start worrying whether or not Garrick is going to eat you alive.

But seems like for now Kyle only wants to eat you out.

And judging by the looks of it, you have yet to give in — teasing his sergeant like it’s your job, sliding the tips of your fingers between his shoulder blades and offering to rub his aching back after day full of drills.

Kyle preens and shows off, Kyle smiles at you and it would have been fucking deadly if he didn’t like you this much.

Kyle doesn’t like coming in last place.

Kyle is primordial greed and primordial ambition, Kyle is used to being the best of the best of the best, Kyle is the apex predator and the youngest sergeant on the team.

And Kyle dances in circles around you for weeks now with progress taking steps so small John thinks that Kyle is gonna get his fucking kiss from you next spring.

Only because you seem to have so much fun with it.

Still, John doesn’t like the effect you have on his men and he doesn’t like that he himself can’t seem to not like you.

John doesn’t like that he’s waiting for his kiss now.

But you already kissed Johnny and Simon, it’s only fair if John gets a kiss too, right? Don’t you worry that your captain might grow displeased with you?

Don’t you want to check “the vibes”?

But if you do, you seem to do a good fucking job not giving John a single fucking clue other than occasional grin here and there. Drives him up the fucking wall, it does.

He snaps at Simon when he notices that lieutenant is outright smirking, corners of his lips so sharp it’s a fucking miracle you don’t cut yourself on it when you pull Ghost by the scruff of his neck to kiss him again.

It’s not even fucking noon, why would you be kissing Simon now?

John huffs air out, his tail swishing through the air from side to side, his molars aching to bite down on the slope of your exposed neck — to squeeze, to topple, to get you down.

To get his fucking kiss.

He feels ridiculous for wanting it so badly, he’s a grown man for fuck’s sake.

So when you finally lean in a little closer than usually, your face so focused John can’t help but grumble out “need somethin’, sergeant?”, hating the way his heart pounds.

You get closer and John can feel salt on his tongue, high waters threatening to pull him under, currents sweeping him off his feet, your breathing soft thing on his lips.

Only you don’t kiss him.

John blinks, trying to scramble his mind back, trying to force down already blooming bruise of rejection when you nose at his beard instead and hum something unintelligible.

You pull away slowly, like you are coming up after a dive, even your breathing slows down — deep and controlled, you nose away at his chin before finally sitting back.

Price doesn’t know what to say because he doesn’t trust himself not to ask you what do you think is wrong with him. Is that the cigar smell? Are seals sensitive to scents? Are you sensitive to scents? What the fuck just happened?

Price doesn’t want to admit but he was looking forward to getting that kiss.

Price doesn’t want to admit but out of the corner of his eye he watches the way you kiss Johnny and Simon — the depth, the tenderness, the licking waves of your intimacy that you seem to submerge his men completely in.

Price doesn’t want to admit, but he keeps imagining himself in their place, thinking how you’d kiss him, playing endless scenarios in his head.

Would you let him get you on his desk and finally get a hold of you thighs, because god, one more leg day and John won’t be able to fucking concentrate. For the rest of his life.

Would you pull him in your lap instead? Would you melt into him like you melt into Johnny? Would you cuddle him like you cuddle Simon? Would you hold him?

But all of these are just endless fantasies, silly dreams that keep tormenting him when you smile with your teeth, when you bent down and he gets a glimpse of your unmarked throat, when you lean a little closer and he can taste salt on the tip his tongue.

On the bright side it seems like it’s not that John is damaged or anything of the sort, he tells himself. After all, you keep teasing Kyle as well — not letting hungry harpy sink his claws into you and tear out some bleeding meat out of you.

So that’s silver lining, right?

So John rubs his face until the image of you grinning under his eyelids is not as vivid and takes the whole team out for drinks after successful mission. God knows they need it.

He needs it.

You sit nestled in between Simon and Johnny, hand of the former is dripped over your shoulders, hand of the latter is squeezing your thigh.

As if you are going to run away if these two don’t hold onto you, anchoring you to the seat of the booth.

Johnny steals your chips, offering his fried fish instead. Steals more than chips, frankly, booze makes Soap needy and you ever the glutton for attention kiss him until lad’s palm starts squeezing your thigh a little too eagerly.

John pretends he doesn’t notice the way Soap’s knuckle traces the inseam of your jeans.

John pretends he doesn’t notice the way Simon’s fingers dip under the collar of your T-shirt, pads of his fingers tracing idle patterns. Simon doesn’t give a fuck how much you kiss his boy if he gets to watch.

Simon doesn’t give a fuck even harder if he gets a kiss as well while his boy watches.

Price down his whiskey and orders another one.

Silver lining starts losing its shine faster than he’d like it, because even though Kyle watches you like…well, like a harpy he is, you just blow him a kiss and then give Simon an actual one.

Ghost licks into your mouth with wet indecent sound and breaks a kiss just to murmur something in your ear. When he turns to his captain and youngest sergeant his smirk is wicked enough to make a grown weep.

Greedy bastard enjoys it way too fucking much.

But Simon excuses himself for a smoke so John pushes the glass away and follows him out. He needs to either break his lieutenant’s jaw or find out why the fuck you deemed him bottom of the barrel.

Why he’s not getting a kiss? Don’t you like your captain?

Ghost watches him like it’s the funniest shit he’s seen in literal weeks and it might as well be, because John feels like drinking some more and calling it a day.

Silver lining, he’s not alone in this boat. Silver lining, he’s not the last of the pick.

Silver lining strains, but shines through when he steps in the bathroom because Kyle is there. And you are there. And fucking Soap is there.

What is it, a bloody convention he didn’t get tickets to?

John kicks the three of you back to the booth, his mind hazy from whiskey, his throat aching with bitterness. It takes him another minute or so to realise Soap’s zipper was open. Takes him one more to remember you had hickeys on your neck.

John gets out of the bathroom, shaking water off his hands and stalks back to the booth, tail swishing, his agitation climbing up.

Silver lining chokes at the back of his throat like cotton, tastes like old oil and stuffs him bloody silent since Simon is back, listening to chatty tipsy Soap without a care in the world.

Simon doesn’t give a fuck who does what if he has his boy by his side.

Simon doesn’t give a fuck even harder when he knows where his other seal is.

Simon grins like a bastard he is, sharp points of the curl of his lips poking at the underside of John’s ribs and says that Kyle went out for a smoke.

John doesn’t ask where you went to when he knows you don’t smoke.

He just stalks out, swinging pub’s back door open and working his jaw because smoke break, his ass.

Kyle has you backed to the wall, cooing something unintelligible, nosing at your cheeks and throat, clicking his tongue at you when you giggle.

Your hands are wrapped around Kyle’s shoulders, pulling him in and closer. Sinking your fingers in the tight muscles of his wings, murmuring something in sergeant’s ear.

You are soft from beers you had, warm with buzz of the pub and tender in a way that makes John’s molars ache.

And all your focus is on Kyle, only on Kyle, ever on Kyle when say “don’t be like that”, when you say “I know, I’m sorry, that was mean. Did I upset you, baby?”, when you say “come here. can I kiss you? I really want to. Can I? Please, Kyle, I’m gonna be good, i promise”.

John’s silver lining cracks and withers away with the chapped pieces of cheap foil shining in the light of street lamps and the glow of your eyes when you pepper Kyle’s face with kisses.

Kyle is half-lidded and hazy on you, Kyle leans closer, almost pouting when you kiss him everywhere but on the lips. Very fucking funny, you see him laughing, darling?

Kyle clicks his tongue when you giggle again but his eyes are so fond it feels more of an act than genuine frustration. Like he can’t help but like you a little too much.

Kyle nuzzles in your palm and presses wet open-mouthed kisses to your wrist, softly nips the thin skin there, laves the imprint of his teeth with the wet slide of his tongue.

Molten, hungry, dangerous.

Kyle could bite down on your wrist and leave you without a hand, Kyle could bite out more than you can give and lick at the twitching muscle, tasting the feverish pump of your heart straight out the box.

But Kyle doesn’t.

Kyle coos something about you driving him fucking insane, Kyle tilts his head so you can kiss him properly and presses you into the brick wall.

His groan when you finally kiss him is the best reward there is, because yes, fucking finally, thank you, darling.

You are kissing him like Kyle is water you’ve been deprived of, you are kissing him like that’s the only thing that matters, you are kissing him and nothing else exists.

And Kyle doesn’t break the kiss, too hungry and greedy he surges forward — your teeth clicking, the wet sounds of yours are filthy enough to make John’s jeans a little uncomfortable.

You wrap yourself around Kyle and choke when he pushes a knee between your legs, drool dripping down your chin because if Kyle could he would have swallowed you whole.

Because you don’t need air, you need Gaz.

John doesn’t know for how long you kiss, but he can tell that for a moment there two of you definitely contemplated whether or not you want to fuck in a bloody alleyway behind the pub.

John doesn’t know what to say when you finally look at him so he just silently stares back, tail swishing behind him, his molar aching when you smile like nothing happened.

“Communication going well, sergeant?”, he asks for some godforsaken reason and tries not to cringe at the way his other sergeant tucks his palm in your back pocket. This generation has no bloody shame.

“I suppose so, sir”, you smile wide enough for John to see the peeking sharp points of your teeth from under your upper lip. “Seal to harpy communication, sir. I’d say we definitely found…a common ground”, you beam and John feels like ramming down the doors to your head.

Fuck looking for cracks, he wants to crack down on you and see what the fuck is in the head of yours.

Why don’t you like him? What’s wrong with him? Why don’t you kiss him?

But John doesn’t ask and just hums before returning back to the pub. His face so grim Simon does the wise thing and stuffs Soap’s mouth with another chip before he can ask anything.

On the contrary you return with Kyle’s palm still in the back pocket of your jeans and a handful new hickeys.

John orders himself another whiskey and says to himself that he is not going to look at you, that it’s just how it is, that he is not going to run after you and beg a kiss out of you.

John looks at you anyway and you send him a wink.

Glass almost splinters in his hand, whiskey slowly dribbling out on the wooden table, John’s tail swishing behind him, John’s molars aching when you smile with teeth.

Komodo dragons thrive on hierarchy and you just toppled the whole pyramid.

Ice is starting to crack.

[soaln]

i read ur op jealous hcs and they were so cute ! i also saw that you mentioned your inbox was open, so can i request zoro x reader who’s the completely opposite of him? reader who’s sweet and kind to everyone, and very gentle unlike their mosshead bf.. i love him lol

𝓞𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓

𓏵 ﹒ ┈ warnings : pure fluff, gender isn't mentioned. I realized I have a lot Sanji and Zoro request 😭😭 anyw req open I changed few things｡— ◟ 𖦹

The sun was setting low on the horizon, casting warm light across the deck of the Thousand Sunny like it was made of gold. The ocean stretched out endlessly, a sparkling blue as the ship drifted smoothly over the waves. You were sitting on the railing, your outline lit up by the fading light, your fingers busy making a crown out of flowers. Each petal brought a splash of color—soft pinks, creamy whites, and bright yellows—showing off your easy-going vibe and the simple happiness you found in little things.

Zoro was standing across the deck, looking like a statue made of stone as he pumped some weights with serious determination. His brow was furrowed, jaw tight, and his green hair—which everyone joked looked like messy moss—was shining with sweat under the setting sun. He was the definition of strength and toughness, rarely saying much and showing even less weakness. But every now and then, his sharp eyes would wander over to you, pulled in by the warmth of your presence.

You two were totally different. While you were all about warmth and sunshine, he had this tough vibe that felt shady and intense. Your kindness shone like a beacon, making people feel good, while Zoro’s rough edge seemed to push folks away. Still, there was this cool connection between you that neither of you could fully put into words, but you both respected it a lot.

“Oi,” he said, his voice deep and rough as he walked up to you, a towel tossed over his shoulder. “What’s up? Just hanging out here alone?”

You turned to him, your smile as radiant as daylight. In your hands, you held the finished flower crown, its delicate magnificence a stark contrast to the man before you. “I made this for you,” you told, your voice a melody that seemed to soften even the edges of his hardened demeanor

Zoro’s brow arched, his expression a mix of skepticism and amusement. “Flowers? Seriously?”

You laughed, the sound like wind chimes dancing in a gentle breeze. Rising to your feet, you placed the crown atop his head, your fingers brushing lightly against his green hair. “There,” you declared, your tone teasing yet tender. “Now you look like a silly warrior ruler.”

A faint blush crept across his cheeks, and he reached up to remove the crown, but your hand caught his wrist, stopping him. “Leave it on,” you pleaded, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “Just for a little while, Please?”

He hesitated, his hand hovering in the air, before he let out a resigned sigh. “Fine,” he grumbled, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward ever so slightly. “But if anyone sees me like this, I’m blaming thus on you.”

Your heart swelled with affection, and you leaned up to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Zoro,” you murmured, your voice warm filled gratitude. “You’re the best.”

He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, but the faint blush that wiped his cheeks betrayed his true feelings. Beneath his gruff exterior, Zoro sheltered a deep appreciation for your gentle nature, even if he would never admit it aloud.

As the crew began to gather for dinner, the deck came alive with the sounds of laughter and camaraderie. Luffy’s wild voice echoed across the ship as he demanded more meat, while Sanji moved with practiced grace, setting the table with his usual flair. Nami and Robin conversed in calm tones, their laughter like music, while Usopp and Chopper animatedly recited one of their many adventures.

Zoro glanced at you, his expression softening in a way that was reserved only for you. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go eat before Luffy devours everything.”

You nodded, slipping your hand into his, your fingers intertwining as if they were always meant to fit together. “Okay,” you smiled, your smile as bright as the stars beginning to appear in the night sky. “But you’re keeping the flower crown on, right?” You grinned.

He rolled his eyes at you, but the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed his actual feelings. “Yeah, yeah,” he stated, his tone gruff but affectionate. “Whatever makes you happy.”

After that, the two of you joined the rest of the crew, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of contentment settle over you like a warm blanket. Despite your differences, you and Zoro were a perfect match—a symphony of opposites that created a harmony all your own. And in that moment, you knew that your gentle heart and his rugged soul were forever intertwined

[iydiamartinx]

MORAL MIDDLE GROUND

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources word count: 986 synopsis: He wants answers. You want a little fun. But when kids are in the line of fire, the games stop and you drop the mask. a/n: Had this sitting in my drafts, don't ask me what exactly Sionis is up to cause I don't know, I just made some shit up that sounded cool and didn't bother to edit it to make sense.

The room was dimly lit, its only illumination coming from a flickering overhead bulb that cast long shadows across cracked walls and peeling paint. Rain tapped steadily against broken windowpanes, and beneath the musty scent of mildew and gunpowder, you could still make out the copper tang of old blood.

Jason stood opposite you—arms crossed, helmet discarded on the table beside him, jaw clenched tight. The Red Hood persona radiated off him even without the gear, all tightly coiled rage and ruthless control. His voice was low and sharp, slicing through the silence like a blade.

“Tell me what you know about Black Mask’s new operation.”

You sat comfortably, legs crossed.Your left hand toyed lazily with a lock of hair while your right held a cigarette, the ember glowing faintly as it hovered near your lips. A drying cut traced your cheekbone, your bottom lip was split and tender from the earlier scuffle you had with him. You took a slow drag, exhaling smoke with a small sigh, perfectly at ease despite the sting in your jaw and the man in the Red Hood pacing just a few feet away.

“You’re no fun tonight,” you pouted, groaning. “No witty banter? No threats? Not even handcuffs? Tsk. You’ve gone soft, Hood.”

Jason didn’t flinch. “You’re stalling.”

“Obviously.” You smirked, taking another drag. “Because you haven’t even said please. Or better yet, gotten down on one knee. A girl likes a little effort and action.”

He stepped forward, shadows casting over the red mask as he loomed over you. “Cut the act. I know you’ve been tailing Sionis. You were at the docks last Tuesday. You broke into Crane’s lab before that. You know something.”

You leaned in, closing the distance between you with a playful tilt of your head. “I always know something. It’s what makes me so charming.”

The mask he wore gave nothing away—no expression, no tells—but you didn’t need to see his face to know he was agitated. It was in the subtle things. The way his index finger tapped against the metal table with increasing tempo, and how his shoulders stayed bunched, tight beneath the weight of his jacket like he was holding himself back from lunging across the space between you.

The truth was, you wanted no part in this mess. If Sionis found out you were the one who spilled, he’d flay you alive—and not metaphorically. You’d seen what he did to traitors. Heard their screams echo down warehouse corridors long after their mouths had gone silent. And you quite liked your skin exactly where it was.

But… everything was worth the risk for the right price.

You let the silence stretch before continuing, voice dropping to a sultry murmur. “But where’s the fun in giving away answers for free? Maybe I want something in return. A kiss, perhaps? A dance? A few hours alone with your bike and a set of keys?”

He didn’t blink. “He’s moving weapons into the Narrows. Street-level. Military-grade tech. There are shelters there. Schools. Kids. Word on the street is he’s planning to launch an attack at one.”

Your smile faltered.

Just a flicker. Barely noticeable to anyone else. But Jason caught it.

He pressed in. “Yeah. You like to play games, but you’ve got a line, don’t you? A red one you don’t cross. Kids get hurt, you suddenly lose your appetite for chaos.”

Your gaze sharpened, flirtation bleeding out of you like smoke in the wind.

Well, fuck.

You hadn’t known that little tidbit.

You groaned and threw your head back with a frustrated growl.

“Fuck! Fine! I’ll tell you—but if Sionis finds out, he’s going to skin my ass alive.”

The words tumbled out in one breath, fast and sharp.

“Three shipments came in through the old sewer system under Blackgate. Ex-military tech—non-traceable, high-end. This isn’t another drug run. He’s building something. A control hub. Surveillance and weapons grid in one. Real-time targeting.”

Jason didn’t interrupt.

You continued. “It’s not about money this time. He’s trying to root himself into Gotham’s infrastructure. Digital chokehold. Every gang that signs on gets a piece of the network—and every civilian caught in the middle becomes leverage.”

“Drones,” Jason muttered.

You shrugged. Your fingers tapped once against the metal chair, then stilled. “He’s testing it in the Narrows. Wants to see how many people he can disappear without a headline.”

Jason’s fists clenched.

You exhaled slowly, the edge in your tone quiet but unmistakable. “Look, I don’t give a shit what he does to people like us—we chose this life. But you’re right. I draw the line the second he drags kids into it.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. You stared the red helmet covering the Hood’s face wondering what he was thinking. 

Jason finally nodded. “Where’s the hub?”

You stamp out your cigarette. 

“I’ll take you.”

“You sure?”

You stood, brushing imaginary dust from your thighs. “I might be a lot of things, Hood. A thief. A liar. Sometimes a bitch, depending on the day. But I’m not a coward. And I don’t look away when innocents bleed.”

He nodded. “Then let’s go take him down.”

You smirk, your playful personality returning. “I’d say you owe me dinner after this.”

“I’m not taking you to that dive you like,” he said dryly, strapping his gun into place. “You’ll probably flirt with the bartender just to piss me off.”

You smirked wider, trailing after him as he stalked toward the exit. “Don’t be jealous. I’d still let you walk me home.”

He didn’t reply—just pushed open the door and let the night air sweep in, rain misting against his armor. But as you stepped out behind him, he glanced at you again, voice low beneath the hum of the city.

“Survive tonight… and maybe I’ll even let you pick dessert.”

Your eyes glittered.

“Oh, baby,” you purred, “you are dessert.”

[kngrose]

𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐌𝐄 𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄'𝐒 𝐌𝐄; 𝐈𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐀 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆.

situationship with sevika part two

WARNINGS: mentions of cheating, coercion if you squint, kinda steamy

from roselí. ᡣ𐭩 : see part one here. ^^

“You gonna answer that?” she asked, her voice low and teasing.

The smell of whiskey and faint smoke lingered in the room, the soft glow of a lamp casting shadows on the walls. You hadn’t meant to come here—not again. Yet, your feet had carried you across the city, through dimly lit streets, and to this place that held so many secrets.

A single unread message glared in your mind, though you hadn’t dared to open it. It was from him. Your boyfriend. You shook your head, feeling the burn of guilt prickling at your chest. “I shouldn’t even be here,” you murmured, but your words lacked conviction.

Sevika stood by the window, her broad shoulders silhouetted against the pale moonlight. Her cigar burned lazily in her metal hand, the smoke curling upward in lazy spirals. She turned slightly at your rebuttal, her sharp gaze settling on you with that same unreadable intensity.

“But you are,” she replied simply, taking a drag from her cigar before stubbing it out in the ashtray. She stepped closer, her boots heavy on the floor, the sound reverberating in the quiet room. “And this isn’t the first time, is it?”

Your breath hitched. She was right. Despite every promise you had made to yourself—and to him—you were here. Again. The memory of the first encounter was still vivid—fleeting moments of passion, stolen in the shadows.

That night had been a mistake. At least, that’s what you told yourself. But the way she had touched you— the heat of her touch, the way she made you feel alive in a way you hadn’t in months. It was a mistake, you remind yourself. A one-time thing. But as the days stretched on, you couldn’t stop thinking about her, about the pull she had over you.

“Guess that boyfriend of yours isn’t enough for you.”

Her words hit a nerve, and you flinched, guilt and shame swirling inside you. “Don’t,” you whispered, but even to your own ears, it sounded weak. You swallowed hard, your resolve wavering as she closed the distance between you. She stopped just a breath away, her metal arm glinting in the dim light as she reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face. Her touch was deliberate, teasing, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

You glanced up at her from your spot on the couch, your head eye level with her hips. “It’s not right,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her. Her metal hand brushed your cheek, the touch cold but strangely grounding. “It’s not right…” she murmured, repeating your words. “Doesn’t stop you from wanting it, hm?”

The question hung in the air, daring you to respond. You looked at her—broad shoulders, sharp jawline, the dangerous glint in her eyes that drew you in like a moth to a flame. She leaned in, and your breath hitched as her fingers traced a slow path down your arm, sending shivers through your body. “You don’t have to stay,” Her voice was calm, almost mocking. “But if you do… you know how this ends.”

You hated how true her words were, hated the way your body betrayed you as she she pulled to to your feet, backing you into the wall. “I…” you started, but the words died on your lips as she leaned in, her scent—smoke, leather, and something distinctly her—filling your senses. Her lips brushed against yours, “Tell me to stop.”

You should have. You knew you should have. But instead, your hands found their way to her chest, clutching at her shirt as if holding on to her could steady the chaos inside you. “I shouldn’t—”

“But you will,” she interrupted, her voice firm, her tone leaving no room for argument. Her hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer until you could feel the warmth of her breath on your lips. “You didn’t come here to say no.”

Her hands, one warm and human, the other cold and unyielding, gripped your waist as she pulled you impossibly closer. You shouldn’t be doing this—not again. But the way she touched you, the way she made you feel like the center of her world, was impossible to resist.

Your chest tightened with guilt, but it wasn’t enough to stop you. It wasn’t enough to keep you from leaning into her, from letting her lips claim yours in a kiss that was just as intoxicating as you remembered. All the guilt, the hesitation, the promises you’d made melted away under the heat of her kiss. Her hands were firm and possessive, pulling your hips flush against hers, as though daring you to regret this later.

You knew you wouldn’t be leaving when she hiked your leg over her hip, gripping your ass with an almost aggravated slap.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and trembling, Sevika chuckled, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “Second time’s the charm, huh, Baby?” You didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. The weight of what you’d done—again—settled heavily in your chest. But as her fingers trailed down your arm, lacing with yours, a part of you wondered if you’d ever be able.

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[st4rg8te]

The Villainess' Redemption (P. 1?)

Various! Yanderes X Ex-Villainess! Reader

✦✧✦✧

Synopsis: You were once the villainess from some poorly-written romance novel, and somehow, you’ve ended up taking the place of a girl who shared your name—a girl who died while reading your story.

This world is different. Here, you’re no longer tied to a script or doomed to a villainess’s fate. Can you rewrite your ending, and find a place for yourself in this new reality? 

(aka cliche villainess reader gets transported into the modern times and suffers a lot)

✦✧✦✧

✦✧✦✧

The last thing you remember is the swing of the executioner’s blade against your neck—a fitting end for all the terrible crimes you’ve committed. 

Or so you thought.

When you wake up, it’s not the fiery pits of hell that greet you, but a room unlike any you’ve ever seen before.

Through blurred vision, you make out walls impossibly smooth and white, gleaming like polished marble. The light above burns unnaturally bright. The air is sharp and clean, carrying a faint, acrid tang that prickles at your nose.

Was this the afterlife?

Thin tubes are attached to your skin, running from your veins into strange machines you can’t begin to understand. A spike of panic grips you, your breath quickening as your mind scrambles for an explanation.

What if you weren't dead? What if they kept you alive to make you suffer more?

Your trembling hands brush over your body, and your face burns when you realize they’ve stripped you of your former clothes. You’re left in plain, white garments—clean, but thin and exposing.

The indignity is almost as much as the confusion, but you swallow it down, determined to unravel the mystery of this waking nightmare.

On the table beside you lies a book, its presence almost unnoticeable in the room. Yet something about it draws your attention, an unspoken pull that makes your hand reach out despite the unease in your gut.

The front is adorned with a vivid illustration: a man and a woman locked in a tender embrace, their faces soft with affection. There’s something hauntingly familiar about their faces, though you can’t immediately place why.

The title, etched in bold, flowing letters, reads: Enchanted by Fate.

You flip the book open, its pristine pages cool and crisp beneath your trembling fingers.

At first, it seems harmless—a typical romance, the kind that young noble ladies often liked to read. But as your eyes skim the text, a dreadful recognition dawns.

The names leap off the page like venomous snakes: his name—your old lover—and her.

Your heart pounds as anger flares, spreading through your chest. You can almost see her face again, the one who orchestrated your downfall, the one who plunged the blade into your back long before the executioner ever did.

Then your fingers freeze.

Your name.

Paragraphs upon paragraphs detailing your life, your crimes, and your eventual execution. The words blur as the memories resurface—the blade, the crowd, the jeers. Your breath hitches, and the sterile air suddenly feels suffocating.

You slam the book shut, the sound echoing unnaturally in the room, and throw it across the floor. It lands with a dull thud, pages spilling open like a gutted beast, taunting you from where it lies.

That book knew everything. It was impossible. Yet it was real.

With your mind still reeling from what you've just read, you fail to notice the woman entering the room.

Then, the sound of her voice cuts through the fog.

“She’s awake!”

You must have been right. This is your own personal hell.

✦✧✦✧

Human beings are resilient.

So, despite the mental blows you've suffered in a single day, you slowly begin to adjust to your strange new existence in the hospital over the following weeks.

There's so much about this world that you don’t understand, and begrudgingly, you admit that it still frightens you. You can’t shake the feeling that this is all some form of witchcraft.

The nurses, though kind, remind you of your old maids, their faces polite but distant as they introduce you to odd contraptions you can't begin to comprehend.

They call it technology, and they show you things like a 'television,' a box that displays moving images as though alive, and a 'toilet' that can swallow waste with a single flush—something that still seems impossible to you.

They find your lack of knowledge a little concerning, but none of them have the courage to say anything about it, chalking it up to a side effect of your memory loss.

It’s humiliating beyond words to be treated like a clueless child. The condescending tones, the endless explanations of things that feel like they should be second nature—it grates on you until the frustration threatens to spill over as tears.

In your past life, you were always the one in control. You were the influential daughter of a noble family—admired and feared by many. Now, all of that feels like a distant memory, a cruel joke played by fate.

You feel lost.

But the worst part—the part you can never quite confront—is the stranger in the mirror. The face staring back is not your own. You're told she shares your name, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

You can't help but avert your eyes every time you see reflections of yourself.

“[Y/N], are you doing okay today?”

The deep, gentle voice pulls you out of your spiraling thoughts. When you look up, a handsome man comes into focus.

It’s Your Doctor ♡.

Initially, he took an interest in you purely out of professional obligation. Your case was unlike anything he’d encountered before. He had treated patients with amnesia in the past, but never one as severe as yours. Especially considering the circumstances of why you were admitted in the first place. You reminded him of a wild animal—eyes darting with mistrust and fear, shrinking away from your surroundings. And yet, against his better judgment, he found himself drawn to you, compelled by the need to unravel the mystery of your mind. While you lacked even the most basic understanding of modern conveniences, certain skills and knowledge seemed to come to you effortlessly. You could converse fluently in multiple languages. You knew the names and precise uses of every piece of cutlery, from fish forks to soup spoons, and could recount their placement in a formal table setting. It was truly strange. He began to set aside his busy work, stealing moments during breaks to visit your room. It became a routine—teaching you; how to use a water dispenser, explaining the functions of a phone, or describing the significance of certain holidays and traditions.. He relished the way your face would light up in awe at the simplest things. The wonder in your eyes made him feel like he was witnessing the world anew, through your gaze. He still chuckles quietly to himself when he remembers your reaction to the television. The way you gasped, wide-eyed and almost frozen, as moving images flickered across the screen—it was unforgettable. “Pft.” The sound escaped him, soft but audible. A nurse passing by stopped in her tracks, stunned. She had worked with the doctor for years and had never seen him laugh—let alone blush. Yet here he was, smirking to himself like a schoolboy with a crush. After that, whispers began to circulate through the halls: that the hospital’s famous bachelor had fallen for someone.

"I'm feeling fine. Thank you for asking, doctor."

"I'm glad to hear that," he replied, his tone warm. "And you don't have to be so formal with me."

He sits down by your bedside, eyes curved upwards in a gentle smile as he begins to speak again.

"You're being discharged this afternoon. You'll be able to go home soon."

"Home?"

Would that mean that you would have to meet the body owner's family?

Throughout your entire stay at the hospital, not once had anyone visited you except the doctor and the nurse who attended to you daily.

A knot of nervousness forms in your stomach at the thought of finally meeting those people. What if they found your behavior too strange? What if they saw through you?

They didn’t know the truth—that their daughter was gone. Replaced by a stranger.

The doctor seems to notice the shift in your demeanor. Without hesitation, he reaches over, his hand warm and steady as it rests over yours. The gentle squeeze pulls you back to reality.

"Don’t worry," he says softly. "If you feel any pain or discomfort, please don’t hesitate to let me know. And I can give you my contact information—you can call or text me if you need help with anything."

"I... I’ve troubled you enough already," your eyes are fixed firmly on the bedspread, unable to meet his intense gaze.

Maybe it is normal in this world for women and men to touch eachother so casually like this.

"Nonsense," He replies with a chuckle. "Helping you is my job, after all ♡."

In the end, you are sent off with a small bag containing all your belongings and a crisp white slip of paper in hand, the string of digits scribbled neatly on it.

He watches you walk away, his gaze never wavering. A part of him wishes you had stayed longer.

He exhales a long, quiet sigh, his lips curving ever so slightly into a smile. You’ll call him soon.

And when you do, he’ll be there, ready to help.

✦✧✦✧

To your surprise, a nurse leads you to what they call a “car” parked in front of the hospital entrance—a carriage without horses. You feel a small flicker of pride in yourself for remembering the term.

It moves faster than any carriage you’ve ever known. And as the scenery blurs by, you can’t help but press your face to the window, eyes wide with wonder. Towering buildings scrape the sky, their glass and steel glinting in the sunlight. The bustling streets are filled with all kinds of people from all walks of life.

The driver eventually steers the car away from the bustling scene, guiding it into a quieter neighborhood. The streets narrow, and the towering skyscrapers give way to smaller, more subdued structures. Finally, the car comes to a halt in front of a large, old building.

"Have a nice day, miss."

"Ah… thank you," you say softly as you step out, your voice tinged with uncertainty.

The car drives off, and then you're finally left alone.

You turn to face the building, its weathered facade staring back at you. Compared to the grand mansion where you spent your entire life, this place feels cramped and shabby, its age evident in the peeling paint and creaking steps. Rows of numbered doors line each floor, stretching upward in a vertical maze.

Navigating the unfamiliar hallways proves to be a challenge, every turn leaving you more disoriented. When you finally find the staircase, you hesitate. The nurse had mentioned “elevators,” those strange boxes that carried people between floors. But the thought of stepping inside one fills you with unease.

Shaking off the idea, you take the stairs instead, the journey upward feeling longer than it should. Your legs ache with every step, and by the time you reach the supposed floor you live on, you’re out of breath.

At last, you find your door. Apartment 303. The brass plaque gleams faintly in the dim hallway light.

"Hello?"

You knock on the door, but only silence greets you. Anxiety begins to coil in your chest, tightening with each passing second. You glance around the empty hallway, hoping for a sign, a clue—anything. But nothing comes.

Your gaze shifts to the pad mounted beside the door. The arrangement of numbers stares back at you. It should be easy, you tell yourself. Just enter the code.

You press the first digit, then the second. It feels right—like you’re doing what you’re supposed to—but when you hit the final key, the pad lights up red and emits a harsh beep.

Locked.

Your heart sinks. You try again. But the result is the same: a flash of red and that sharp, cold beep.

Again.

Each failure making your frustration rise. Tears prick the corners of your eyes as the sudden overwhelming pressure of everything catches up to you.

The tears spill over, warm streaks running down your cheeks as quiet sobs escape your lips. You feel pathetic.

You miss your family.

You hadn’t allowed yourself to think about them until now—not fully. But their faces stay clear in your mind.

You miss your father’s embrace, your mother’s soothing voice, the way your brothers would tease and protect you in equal measure.

But they are gone. All of them, condemned to death because of your stupid actions.

And now, here you are—trapped in this foreign land, surrounded by incomprehensible machines and alien customs. The people here don’t know you, and you’re certain they never could. You’re an imposter in a world that feels as if it’s actively rejecting you.

And for the first time since you woke up in this strange world, you let yourself finally admit the truth.

You don’t belong here.

✦✧✦✧

"Holy shit lady, are you okay?"

The last thing Your Neighbor ♡ had expected after coming home was to find you sitting on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably by your apartment door.

The two of you have exchanged pleasantries a handful of times, maybe a nod or a muttered “hello” in passing. But it had still worried him a little when he hadn’t seen you in months. Hell, he even figured you’d finally had enough of this place and moved out for good.

"Do you… need help?" he asks, stepping closer cautiously.

Your face burns with embarrassment. You quickly wipe at your tear-streaked face with the sleeve of your shirt, sniffling as you try to compose yourself.

"I just… I can’t get the door to open.."

His eyes flickers to the lock and then back to you. "What, the code’s not working?"

You nod, avoiding his gaze. "I… I’ve tried it so many times, but it keeps locking me out," you say, your voice wavering. "Do you know how to open it?"

"Yeah, I can take a look. Just give me the code."

As he steps closer to the keypad, you wipe at your eyes again, trying to salvage what is left of your dignity.

What is wrong with you? Your mother would have been disappointed at you acting like this.

"Hey," he say after a moment, glancing at you over his shoulder. "Don’t sweat it. This lock’s a piece of crap. Happens to me all the time."

"Um... do you know if anyone else lives in this place with me?"

The man tilts his head, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "I don’t think so."

A part of you feels relieved. The idea of facing her family—the family you now supposedly belong to—had been gnawing at you since you left the hospital. At least you don’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not.

But at the same time, the thought of living alone makes your stomach twist. You’ve never been on your own before. In your old life, you were always surrounded by people—your parents, the servants, ready to spoil you rotten. You never once thought about what it would be like to have to manage on your own.

This is your punishment.

The irony isn’t lost on you. The gods must have seen how you mocked her—your father’s bastard. You used to laugh at her and make fun of her upbringing. Now you can't help but think that she would have done much better if she was in your situation.

"Thanks." you mutter finally, your voice barely audible.

She wouldn't have cried over some stupid door like this and humiliate herself in front of a random man!

"Anyway, that's how you do it. If you need help with anything else, just knock on my door-"

BAM!

Before he could finish his sentence, you were already gone.

✦✧✦✧

Your Neighbor ♡ thought that would be the last time you two would really talk to eachother.

Every time he saw you in the hallway or from across the parking lot, you’d scurry away like a startled rabbit, avoiding eye contact. He figured you were just shy—or maybe embarrassed about how you’d met. Either way, he didn’t expect to hear from you again.

So, he was surprised when, a week later, there was a knock on his door.

When he opened it, there you stood, cheeks flushed an indignant pink, holding a neatly folded napkin in your hands.

"What’s this?" he asked.

"I made it for you," you said, thrusting it toward him. "It’s a gift for helping me that day."

He unfolded the napkin and blinked in surprise. His name was carefully stitched onto the fabric, surrounded by flower motifs.

"Holy shit. You made this?"

It was the sweetest gift he had ever received.

I-I noticed you seem to… sweat a lot. Whenever I see you. I thought it might help," you added, the words tumbling out in a rush.

It took him a second to register what you’d said, and when he did, he couldn’t help but laugh. "Oh, that’s because I go to the gym a lot. Not because I’m just… sweating everywhere."

Your eyes widened, mortified. "Oh! I didn’t mean—"

He grinned, cutting you off. "Relax, it’s thoughtful. Thanks."

There was an awkward pause before he gestured behind him. "You want to come in?"

That moment marked the beginning of something—he wasn’t quite sure what to call it. Friendship? Maybe. But that night, over tea, you finally opened up and told him about your memory loss.

A protective instinct had sparked in him the day he found you crying outside your apartment, and it only grew stronger as the two of you started spending more time together.

Before long, it became a routine—going back and forth between apartments, sharing meals, and finding small ways to help each other.

You didn’t know how to cook, so he often brought over dinner and started teaching you how to make simple meals. At first, you were hesitant, your pride making you stubborn, but he patiently guided you through every step.

Grocery shopping became another shared activity, with him pointing out what to buy and explaining things you didn’t recognize. Though he did like to tease you whenever you added far too many sweets to the cart.

One day, he had casually mentioned his interest in learning an instrument, and before he could blink, you’d practically leapt at the opportunity to teach him. Your enthusiasm embarrassed him at first, but he couldn’t say no to you.

When you discovered the dusty electronic keyboard he’d tucked away in a storage box, your eyes had lit up like it was treasure. From that moment on, you became his self-appointed music tutor, insisting it was your way of repaying him for everything.

“Why do I feel like you’re only spending time with me for the keyboard?” he jokingly asked after yet another lesson.

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m doing this because I want to help you.”

He couldn’t hold back his grin.

The more time he spent with you, the harder he fell. You were blunt and prideful, but also sweet and endearing in a way that caught him off guard. When he told you about his job as a club bodyguard, you had compared him to a knight, which made him burst out laughing.

On his way to the gym, a nosy neighbor had stopped him. “So, are you two dating yet? I remember her asking around about your name once.”

He blinked in surprise before the memory clicked. It must have been when you made that embroidered napkin for him. The image of you nervously going door to door asking around, too shy to talk to him directly, made his chest tighten.

Without thinking, his hand drifted to his pocket, where he still kept the cloth. He was on cloud nine the entire day.

Ah, he’d ask you to be his girlfriend soon. That much he was sure of. If only you weren’t so wary of relationships—and that other man who kept hanging around you. How irritating.

The man claimed to be your doctor, but what kind of doctor visited his patients so often? He wasn’t naive, and he could see the way the guy looked at you, the way he lingered too long in your presence. He knew those signs well enough.

Well, no matter. He’d just have to keep a closer eye on you.

After all, you were his to protect.

✦✧✦✧

EXTRA:

After slamming the door in the man’s face, you sighed in relief.

Finally, some peace.

Turning to the apartment, you fumbled around for the light switch. When the bright light flickered on, it hit you—and so did the sight in front of you.

"What the hell?!"

The walls were plastered with posters—of him. Your old betrothed. His smug face stared back at you from every direction, alongside her, the woman who ruined your life.

You froze, taking it all in. It wasn’t just posters. There were figurines, framed photos, and even a pillow with his face on it.

It didn’t take long to figure out the awful truth. The girl whose body you’d taken wasn’t just any stranger—she was a die-hard fan of the book you came from.

✦✧✦✧

A/N: I hope you guys enjoy this wacky gift for New Years. I plan to introduce 2 more love interests if I ever get to writing the second part. They're like color coded. Anyway, this was like massive compared to my other works.

I'm still writing Twisted Affections Pt. 3, but some pieces of smut are probably going to come out before that. Thank you for patience!

✦✧✦✧

[dark-l-angel]

Could you do yandere damian wayne who is now running wayne enterprises, y/n was his personal assistant but he started drugging her morning coffee to make her ill so that he can take care of her

A/N: guys something inside my chest is reacting weird to this version of damian, I think i need help or you'll probably start hearing more ramblings about him on 4am 🫠✨

Yandere CEO!Damian Wayne x Reader

You were his assistant. Now? You're something else entirely.

Your morning routine is clockwork. Open the blinds. Feed the cat. Get to Wayne Tower before 8:00. And of course, your usual: a large caramel latte waiting at your desk, piping hot, the post-it note always signed in Damian’s precise handwriting..

For you. Don’t be late.

D.W.

But lately… something’s wrong.

Your stomach’s been turning. Dizzy spells. Nausea. Cold sweats in board meetings. And every time it happens.. he’s there.

Damian Wayne, young, cold-blooded CEO of Wayne Enterprises, sharp as a knife and just as dangerous. He's infuriatingly composed, but when you're sick?

He becomes... softer. Attentive. Gentle in a way no one else ever sees.

"You’re pale again" he says, voice like silk laced with iron. "Come. I’ll drive you home."

"Damian, you don’t have t-"

"I want to."

And there’s no arguing with Damian Wayne.

You think you're overworking yourself. He insists on you taking time off. Brings you soup. Replaces your pillows with imported silk. Keeps the room cool because your skin’s been so hot lately. He even combs your hair once, fingers brushing your temple like it’s intimate.

"You don’t need to go back to work yet" he murmurs, crouched by your bedside. "The company’s running fine without you."

That should’ve been your first red flag.

You never realized he was watching your medicine cabinet. That the pills you’ve been taking were swapped. That your "illness" has been carefully curated.. a slow drip of toxins hidden in your morning latte, regulated just enough to keep you weak... and dependent.

And when you finally catch on.. when you piece together the pattern.. he doesn’t lie. He doesn’t panic.

He sits on the edge of your bed in that black-on-black tailored suit, gaze steady, voice calm:

"You kept trying to leave. You were burning yourself out. But you rest when you’re sick."

"So I made sure you'd stay."

You try to get up, but your knees fail.

And Damian catches you, as always.

"Hush, habibti. I’ll take care of everything. Just let me."

You shake your head, tears threatening.

"You poisoned me…"

"No. I saved you."

His hand curls behind your neck. Not rough. Not forceful. Just possessive.

"You’re mine. I won’t let this world eat you alive. So rest. Obey. Stay in my arms where you belong."

And as your vision dims again.. warm arms wrapping around you, breath on your temple.. you realize something chilling..

You never had a choice. Especially after everything went blank and dark..

You wake up in a silk-draped bed, hazy and weak, your head pounding like you’ve been run over by your entire to-do list. You try to sit up, but your limbs betray you.. you were in a bad position all soft and trembling.

Damian’s sitting beside the bed, dressed in his earlier tailored black suit that fits him like sin.. collar slightly undone, sleeves rolled up like he’s been busy doing something more hands-on than paperwork. His eyes, that unsettling green, scan your face with surgical precision. Your eyes scanned the room you're in... It's not your bedroom.. but his.. did you pass out that long? What he might have done with your body? How did you end up in here-...

"You’re awake" he murmurs, brushing a cool hand across your forehead. "I was starting to worry. Not that you'd ever admit you were running on fumes." He broke your thoughts.

He smiles, the kind of smile that should send chills down your spine. The kind that says he thinks he knows better than you do.

You try to speak, but your throat is dry, your voice barely a rasp. He catch on and he sat on the edge of the bed, held your body against his chest then helped you to hydrate your weak body.

He put down the bottle on the nightstand, you asked why... Why would he do such thing?

"I love you." His voice is like velvet over a knife. "You work yourself to death, darling. And I can’t stand watching you collapse. So I made sure you couldn't."

He leans in closer, brushing his lips over your temple. "You’re mine. And I take care of what’s mine."

Around you, the room is quiet. Fragrant with sandal wood and something like a manly cologne. There's no phone, no laptop. No escape. Just Damian, the billionaire obsessed with your every breath, now playing nurse and jailor in equal parts.

He spoons warm soup into your mouth later that evening, his expression soft, affectionate.. even proud. "You’ll feel better soon. Then we’ll talk about reducing your workload permanently. Maybe even working from home... here. With me."

Damian watches you, perched at the edge of the bed like a king admiring his most prized possession. His green eyes gleam under the dim golden lights of the room, every inch of him reeking of power and patience.. dangerously blended.

He leans closer, his breath ghosting over your ear, a devil’s whisper meant only for you.

"You know..." he says, his voice low and silk-smooth, "I realized something while you were sleeping..."

"You probably would’ve never come back to work if you left again.." he murmurs, the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You would have run yourself into the ground, chasing deadlines, drowning in obligations... forgetting that you were supposed to be worshipped."

He trails his fingertips down your arm, featherlight, making goosebumps rise in the wake.

"So here’s the new plan, beloved.." he purrs, like he’s offering you the keys to heaven when really he’s locking every door behind you. "You’re going to live here now. In my mansion. You're going to spend my money on your everything. Clothes, jewelry, lazy afternoons... whatever your heart desires."

He smiles, but it’s not sweet. It’s possessive. Obsessive. Dangerous.

"You'll never lift a finger again unless it's to reach for me."

You try to protest, but he catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to meet his gaze.. commanding, magnetic, inescapable.

"You belong here.." he says, each word branded into your soul, slow and deliberate. "With me. Under my care. Under my control."

His hand slides to your throat, not squeezing... just resting there, a reminder. A promise.

"You just have to let me take care of you... and I’ll make sure you never have to think again."

The way he says it... it’s not a request. It’s a sentence.

And deep down, some part of you, broken and starved for tenderness, for obsession, almost wants to surrender.

Almost.. just almost.

Yet he notices the way you tense under his touch, the way your gaze flickers between fear and disbelief. In the past, the old Damian.. the boy forged in blood and sharpened in shadows... might’ve snapped at you, demanded obedience, forced your submission with the cold blade of authority.

He brushes his thumb across your cheekbone, so softly it nearly undoes you. His voice lowers, warm like melted chocolate.

But THIS Damian? The man he grew into? He learned somethings far more dangerous than violence.

Patience. Tenderness. Affection.

"I know you're scared, habibti..." he says, and God, hearing him call you that in that low, reverent tone almost breaks you in half. "But you don't have to fight anymore. Not with me."

He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering there, breathing you in like you’re the first and last thing that ever mattered.

"You’re not a soldier.. " he murmurs against your skin. "You’re not a machine. You're mine. My woman. My heart."

The kisses start piling up.. your temple, your eyelids, your nose.. each one gentler than the last, as if he’s afraid you’ll shatter under the weight of his devotion.

"You don’t have to earn anything with me" he whispers. "You just have to be."

He tucks you closer into his chest, wrapping you in his arms like a fortress of silk and steel. His heart beats steady and slow against your ear, grounding you. Safe. Impossibly loved.

And then.. his words, a velvet knife:

"I want you to live a soft life, beloved. I want your biggest worry to be whether you want pearls or diamonds that day."

A kiss to your hairline.

"I want to be the one you come home to, not the life you run away from."

He learned, over the years, that real power wasn’t in forcing loyalty. It was winning it. Making someone choose you, over and over, without a blade pressed to their throat.

And that, miss wayne, is how Damian Wayne truly became unstoppable.

Not by breaking people.. no..

But by acting so sweetly, so devastatingly, he not only win their trust And souls, but their attention as well... Just like that Arabian moral says :

"ما لم يسقط بالسيف، يسقط بالهمسة."

(What the sword could not bring down, a whisper did).

Another one so you take your Arabic dose for damian 🙂

"كلمة حلوة تفتح باباً يغلقه ألف مفتاح."

(One sweet word opens a door a thousand keys cannot).

I’d rather die than leave him. Would you?

A/N: took a little long but it was worth it but in conclusion we learned that I love damian 💕.