0leemoon0

[0leemoon0]

I will put more info out once it is finalized!!

[0leemoon0]

Velvet Chains-Finale

The Quiet After The War

Pairing: Han Jisung x reader

Word count:~3k

Genre:dark romance, angst, drama, forbidden romance, enemies to lovers, slow burn to intense, fantasy politic

Warnings:emotional abuse, power dynamics, secret romance, sexual content (consensual), possessiveness, emotional vulnerability, dangerous stakes, near-discovery, guilt vs desire, conflicted loyalties, escalating tension

Summary: You and Han Jisung were raised to hate each other—rival heirs of kingdoms scarred by war and betrayal. You’ve never officially met, but the tension has always simmered beneath the surface. The summit will change that. Do you really hate him? Does he really hate you? Or are those just the lies your parents taught you to wear—chains, hidden in velvet?

Master list

The day after the coronation, Elvaris woke under a new reign—and you, under new silence.

The golden ring on your finger weighed like truth against your skin, its presence foreign but grounding. It had felt real when he slipped it on, his voice reverberating through your entire being like scripture—when he said he could never see a world without you in it. When he said your name like it was his only prayer. When his eyes begged and worshipped in a way that even your deepest wounds hadn’t known how to brace for.

But morning came, and with it, the ghosts.

Your parents hadn’t spoken to you since the announcement. Not on the long carriage ride back to Virellia. Not at the palace gates. Not when the servants took your belongings and the guards you didn’t recognize flanked your door that night. It wasn’t rage in their silence. It was calculation. A quiet you’d known since childhood—a quiet that meant they were preparing something.

Jisung sent letters. Of course he did. Dozens.

But they didn’t reach you. You were locked away again.

This time, though, it was different.

They couldn’t beat you—your bruises had not faded entirely, and the council’s eyes were suddenly watchful. But they didn’t need fists anymore. Your mother simply walked into your room one evening while you sat at your window, looking out toward the direction of Elvaris, the ring on your hand a defiant flash against the dying sun.

She stood behind you.

“You really believe he’ll love someone like you forever?”

You didn’t answer.

“Someone ruined, someone disposable?” she said next, in a voice so calm it could’ve been a lullaby. “You think he’ll keep chasing you when he realizes what you are?”

Your eyes burned, but you didn’t blink. She couldn’t see you cry. Not anymore.

“He’ll have heirs to choose from. Kingdoms to please. You were fun, perhaps. A rebellion. A thrill.”

She stepped forward and placed her hand on your shoulder, squeezing it in mock comfort.

“You’re a fool, Y/N.”

When she left, you didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You didn’t move.

But the spiral inside you did.

It wasn’t until night fell fully that you let your head collapse onto your knees, heart spinning between the memory of Jisung’s warmth and your mother’s venom. You began to believe her—just a little. Maybe he would forget. Maybe he already had. You had no proof that his letters even existed.

You thought about the way he used to kiss your scars like they were sacred.

And wondered if he’d stop kissing them when they faded.

You began to rot quietly in that towered room. Days passed. You stopped trying to send him anything. You thought about removing the ring. You didn’t. But you did put it on a chain around your neck instead. It felt like less of a lie that way.

But far away, in Elvaris, Jisung was already burning the world to reach you.

The moment he realized the letters were being intercepted—when his messages returned unopened or not at all—he stopped waiting. He stopped writing. He stopped hoping for diplomacy.

He started preparing for war.

Not with swords. Not with fire.

With truth.

Jisung gathered every piece of evidence he had. The letters. The bruises he had witnessed with his own eyes. The testimony of servants from the summit. The testimony of his own guards. And the raw ache in his voice when he stood before the council of united kingdoms and told them what had happened to the Princess of Virellia.

How her parents had hidden their cruelty behind gold and tradition. How they had tried to silence her. How they would not allow peace to grow in the one place it had miraculously bloomed.

He didn’t weep in front of them—but his voice cracked when he said your name.

And that was enough.

The council voted unanimously to strip your parents of power. Their cruelty had gone on long enough, and with the eyes of the world now watching, their throne crumbled beneath them. The punishment was swift, the ruling absolute: they would never again hold positions of authority, not even over you.

Within a week, the royal escort from Elvaris arrived at your door.

You didn’t know what was happening at first—not until they entered your room, cloaks marked with the unified seal of the peace council. Your maid was weeping. The guards who once flanked your door stepped aside like shadows fleeing the sun.

Then one of the council representatives handed you a leather satchel.

Inside it were all of Jisung’s letters.

All of them.

The ones you thought had never come. The ones you thought were just a dream.

You opened the top one with shaking hands. It was dated a week after the coronation.

“If I could build a road to you with my bare hands, I would crawl it bloody to reach you. You are mine, not as property, but as prophecy. And I will not let you disappear—not when I’ve just started to breathe.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until you saw the wet ink blurring beneath your tears.

They let you pack your belongings.

No one raised their voice. No one touched you.

And by the time you walked out of that palace, head held high with the ring visible again on your hand, the council had announced the permanent removal of your parents’ titles.

You were no longer the daughter of tyrants.

You were now Princess Regent of Virellia.

But not for long.

Because Jisung met you at the edge of the border between your two kingdoms—his crown glinting like fire in the sun—and before the people, he took your hand.

“We’re not meant to lead alone,” he said. “Not anymore.”

And the papers were signed. The kingdoms merged. The past was sealed.

The name of the new empire carved into the marble gates of its capital:

Varellis.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You didn’t want to see them.

You didn’t want to walk the echoing halls of that sterile holding wing where time stood still and the air smelled like old stone and rot. But when the council insisted you had the right to face them, to speak your truth before the door finally closed forever—you knew you had to go. For yourself. Not for them.

The morning was cold, silver fog lacing the trees beyond the palace courtyard. And still you walked tall—head high, shoulders straight, fingers curled in Jisung’s hand.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. He simply walked beside you like a storm held at bay, eyes unreadable, his thumb drawing circles into your palm. You didn’t realize how tightly you were holding him until the door opened and the light in the cell turned your skin to paper.

There they were.

Your mother and father.

No crowns. No thrones. Just two broken relics of cruelty sitting in the shadows, stripped of everything but their voices—voices still sharp as knives.

You expected apologies.

You got venom.

“Is this what you’ve become?” your mother sneered. Her eyes were hard as frost, spite still blooming in them like poison. “A whore who opens her legs for the enemy and calls it power?”

You flinched—but only a little. Just enough for Jisung to squeeze your hand tighter.

“I should have killed the softness out of you sooner,” your father added. His voice was like gravel, his lip curled with disdain. “You were always weak.”

For a moment, silence pressed against your ribs like a blade. But you stepped forward. Just a half step. Not because they deserved your words—but because you did.

“No,” you said, your voice steady, “I wasn’t weak. I was kind. I was brave. I held pieces of myself together when you tried to shatter them with every breath. I survived you.”

Your mother scoffed, but you didn’t let her interrupt.

“You don’t get to rewrite what you did. You don’t get to speak to me like I’m still your daughter. I was never yours—I belonged to the world, to the people you made suffer. And now I belong to myself.”

The weight of it all pressed behind your eyes. But Jisung was still there. Still holding your hand like it anchored him, like you were the only thing that kept his rage from ripping through the world like fire.

You turned to your mother one last time.

“I want you to remember this moment,” you said. “Because when you rot in the dark and whisper to each other about the empire you lost—know that I didn’t become queen in spite of you. I became queen because I survived you.”

Your father opened his mouth to speak again, but the guards were already dragging them back into the shadows. The door slammed shut with a finality that tasted like freedom.

You stood there for a moment.

Silent.

Trembling—but not from fear. From the hollowing out of grief.

Then Jisung wrapped both arms around you from behind, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. “They’ll never touch you again,” he whispered. “Never.”

And for the first time in your life—you believed it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The coronation came swiftly after that. The council wasted no time in making it official.

You were crowned Queen of Varellis beneath a sky of mourning clouds, the heavens soft with mist. You stood on the palace balcony in a gown of deep violet and silver—colors of the new united kingdom—and watched as thousands filled the capital square to witness your rise. They weren’t cheering just for a queen. They were cheering for change. For strength forged in silence. For the girl who once thought herself unloved and now ruled an entire world beside the man who loved her more than his own breath.

When they placed the crown upon your head, it wasn’t heavy.

It felt like justice.

Jisung stood beside you, his own crown glinting like obsidian beneath the light. He didn’t smile—not the way he did in private. He looked at you like he was still in awe of you. As if the universe had stitched itself back together just to place you here, whole, luminous, and untouchable.

You held his hand in front of everyone.

And the people cheered louder.

That night, the castle was full of celebration—light and color and food and music that laced the corridors like stardust. But you didn’t stay long. Neither of you did. The moment the formalities ended, you disappeared hand-in-hand up the winding staircase to your shared quarters.

Not to escape the joy—but to claim it.

The room was dark, save for the moonlight spilling in over the silk-draped windows. You didn’t speak much. You didn’t need to. You simply stood there for a long while in the quiet, his forehead resting against yours.

You had dreamed of this. Not the crown, not the throne—but the peace.

Peace. The kind you thought you’d never touch.

That night, you didn’t cry from pain. You didn’t tremble from fear. You fell asleep wrapped in his arms, the windows open to a sky you no longer had to hide under. His breathing was steady. Your heart—finally, finally still.

You were not a prisoner. Not a pawn.

You were queen. And you were free.

And for the first time, the silence didn’t hurt.

It sang.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It wasn’t urgent, not this time.

Not stolen in the shadows. Not quiet gasps behind bolted doors, not the frantic, aching kind of need that had once ignited between bruised skin and bruised hearts. This time was different.

This time, it was peace.

He kissed you like he had all the time in the world—and perhaps, now, he did.

The soft weight of the crown was gone. Your hair unpinned, skin warmed by the soft flicker of candlelight scattered around the room. The moonlight draped the bed in silver. The palace outside had finally fallen into sleep. But your world was awake—in his hands, in the sacred quiet between your lips.

He hovered above you with a kind of reverence that made your chest ache.

Your hands ran through the mess of his hair as he kissed your collarbone, your shoulders, every part of you as if he were retracing a map he knew by heart. His breath stuttered against your neck when your nails grazed his back, soft sighs exchanged like secrets between your mouths. You whispered to him—slowly, softly—how much you loved him. How real he felt. How whole he made you.

He touched you like you were something holy.

His hands moved over your body like they were painting something—worshipping your curves with a quiet devotion that made your breath catch. When your legs tangled with his, he whispered your name like a prayer, lips brushing yours again and again as you melted into him.

Nothing rushed. No frantic tugging, no hurried grasping.

Just heat, and wonder, and the kind of rhythm that felt like music.

His eyes never left yours.

Even when the waves of pleasure crested, even when your hands gripped the sheets, he held your gaze like you were the last thing tethering him to earth.

And when it ended—slowly, gently, perfectly—he stayed inside the crook of your body, forehead pressed to yours, whispering promises that didn’t need to be spoken anymore. Promises already kept.

You fell asleep in his arms, the hush of the night wrapping around you both like silk.

For the first time in your life, you didn’t dream of escape.

You dreamed of staying.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two Months Later

The garden was in bloom again.

The blossoms along the castle terrace burst with blush pink and golden amber, filling the air with something sweet and lazy. You were barefoot in the grass, gown trailing behind you, and Jisung was sitting on a stone bench carving something into a piece of wood with half-focused concentration.

You walked over and stopped in front of him.

He looked up, eyes lighting instantly.

“Come to distract me?” he asked, smirking.

You held up the letter from the physician, folded carefully.

“Come to change your life,” you replied softly.

He blinked, brows furrowed as he stood.

You didn’t say anything. You just placed the letter in his hands.

He unfolded it with a curious tilt of his head—then froze.

You watched the lines in his face shift from confusion to disbelief, then wonder. His eyes slowly lifted to yours, glassy with something unspoken.

“Are you—?” he breathed.

You nodded.

And he just—sank. To his knees. Pressed his forehead to your stomach. Wrapped his arms around your waist and held you like you were carrying the sun.

A laugh broke from his throat. Then a tear. Then a shaky breath of absolute joy.

“You’re going to be a father,” you whispered, fingers slipping into his hair.

He looked up at you like he was seeing eternity. “You’re going to be a mother. You’re going to be everything.”

And when he stood and kissed you, it wasn’t gentle.

It was grateful.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Years Later

Your voice had softened with age, but not dulled. And when you spoke, your children listened.

The golden glow of the fireplace bathed the drawing room in warmth. You were sitting on a velvet settee, two little ones curled against your side, a third playing with a toy sword near the hearth. Your eldest sat by the window, watching you with your husband’s eyes.

Jisung stood behind you with a hand on your shoulder, silent and steady.

They’d asked again—how you met, how you fell in love. Why their mother, a queen from Virellia, had married the prince of Evaris and created the world they now called home.

So you told them.

Bits of it, anyway. Carefully, lovingly.

How once upon a time, you hated each other. How your kingdoms were at war. How peace seemed impossible until it wasn’t—until it became the only thing you craved more than pride.

You didn’t tell them about the bruises. Not yet.

You didn’t tell them about the letters stolen or the nights you wept into a pillow while the stars blinked indifferently above your window.

But you told them the truth that mattered.

That love could be found in unlikely places.

That strength didn’t always roar—sometimes, it was quiet. Sometimes, it was just surviving. And that sometimes, your greatest enemy could become the only person who made you feel safe enough to sleep.

They clung to your words like they were stories from an old book.

You glanced up at Jisung.

He was watching you the whole time.

Later, when the children were asleep and the fire had dulled to embers, he kissed your temple and whispered, “Thank you for surviving.”

You turned to him and said, “Thank you for making it worth it.”

The palace was still. The world outside, silent.

But in your chest, your heart beat like a promise.

Peace. At last.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Love didn’t save you.

Not at first.

It didn’t crash into your life like a hero with a sword, didn’t pull you from the fire with trembling hands and a promise on its lips. No, it came quiet. It came slow. It came like water in cracks you didn’t know existed.

It wasn’t the thread that pulled you out of the dark.

It was the match you struck once you decided you wanted to see the way forward.

You saved yourself.

But love—his love—stood beside you while you did.

It kissed the bruises, not to erase them, but to honor that you survived them. It didn’t fix your heart. It learned to live beside its scars. It didn’t silence your fear; it stayed while you learned how to speak over it.

And gods, how he loved you. Not the mask you wore or the silence you kept—but you.

He saw the storm in your eyes and didn’t flinch.

He held your trembling hands without asking why they shook.

He didn’t teach you how to be soft. He let you decide when you were ready to be.

You grew together. First through anger, then through fire, then through fragile hope.

You built a home in the ashes of two kingdoms.

You let yourself rest.

And now—after everything—there are nights when you sleep without nightmares. Mornings when sunlight hits your cheeks, not like a reminder, but like a promise. Your children laugh like the world has never known cruelty, and their joy echoes down the hallways of a palace built not on power—but on love.

And maybe now you finally understand:

Love is not a cure. It is a chemical reaction.

One spark.

Then full collapse.

Then floating.

Then falling again.

Then bouncing back.

And one day—wings.

You won’t feel them at first.

They’ll ache. They’ll tremble. You’ll doubt they’ll ever carry you.

But one day, they will catch the wind.

And when they do—when your feet finally lift from the earth, even just a little—you’ll remember:

Love can grow in the darkest soil.

It can live in the ruin and still bloom.

It can find you even when you’ve stopped searching.

Because you are living proof.

You are the fire that didn’t burn out.

You are the girl who found peace after war.

You are the queen who rose—not because of a crown, but because of her heart.

And one day, when someone else is trapped in their own silence, when someone else is aching to be seen—

they’ll hear your story.

And they’ll grow wings, too

Because it will not be the end.

A/n: was the whole entire story a little corny? Yes, but that is how I wanted it to be. I like when Jisung begs😏 jkjkjk (not jk). Anyways I got a little emotional writing this part because I think it’s really beautifully how she was able to become happy and grow with HER ENEMY. HELLO?? I’m really proud of it tbh. It’s a little more corny than I anticipated but I think it showed his vulnerability and care for her. Let me know if you catch the little song lyric in the end 😏. If you have any critiques please feel free to drop them in the comments or in my dms!! Writing is something I’m passionate about so I want to get better!! If you liked it please reblog!!

[0leemoon0]

Velvet Chains-part.7

The Crown Beneath His Knees

Pairing: Han Jisung x reader

Word count: ~2.5k

Genre:dark romance, angst, drama, forbidden romance, enemies to lovers, emotional healing, fantasy politics

Warnings:emotional abuse, trauma recovery, secret relationship, protective behavior, sexual tension, possessiveness, political tension, high emotional stakes, hidden affection, dangerous secrets

Summary: You and Han Jisung were raised to hate each other—rival heirs of kingdoms scarred by war and betrayal. You’ve never officially met, but the tension has always simmered beneath the surface. The summit will change that. Do you really hate him? Does he really hate you? Or are those just the lies your parents taught you to wear—chains, hidden in velvet?

Master list

It begins with silence.

Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that stretches for days, thick and soured, like stagnant water left to rot in a forgotten basin.

You’d sent the letter days ago—poured everything into it, scrawled every last shred of trembling hope and aching desperation into those lines. You didn’t even cry while writing it. You were too hollow for tears. Instead, your fingers shook. Your pulse was frantic. You sealed it with a kiss you didn’t quite believe in and gave it to your maid, whispering that it was for the Serene courier. Confidential. Urgent.

But the reply never came.

Every knock on your door since then had felt like a cruel mockery. Every flutter of footsteps in the hallway made your heart leap before crashing back down like a stone in your chest. You told yourself he was busy. That he was planning. That he loved you like he said. That he’d come.

But the days slipped by like sand in your fingers, and still—nothing.

Then came the crack.

Your mother had been eerily calm that morning. Breakfast was quiet. Too quiet. You felt it like a weight on your chest, like the moment before the air is pulled from your lungs. You didn’t even realize anything had happened until your maid whispered to you in passing, eyes wide and terrified, “They’re reading your letters. Every single one.”

And just like that, your blood turned to ice.

You ran. You ran through the halls like a hunted thing, storming into the study where they kept the locked drawers and sealed documents. It was empty, but your name was gone from the post ledger. You weren’t stupid. You knew.

You went to your mother next—rage burning hot in your throat. “You had no right—!”

But the slap came first. Sharp and sudden. So hard it blurred your vision.

“Oh, sweet girl,” she sneered, stepping forward like a lioness circling prey. “You really believed he loved you, didn’t you?”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

“You let a filthy Evarian crawl inside your mind—your body—” she spat. “And you thought that meant something? What are you, brainless? You’re nothing to him.”

Your hands curled into fists, nails biting into your palms, your heart screaming don’t believe her—but she didn’t stop.

“He used you. And you, in all your pathetic naïveté, fell in love with the fantasy. You’re just like your father said—soft. Weak. Embarrassing. Did you really think someone like Han Jisung would want someone like you? You’re a fool, Y/N.”

That broke you more than any blow ever could.

And she saw it. She always knew where to cut.

When she left, you stood in place until your knees buckled.

The next days were a fog of silence and surveillance. Your letters were confiscated. Your belongings searched. Even the maids avoided you—ordered to say nothing, do nothing, feel nothing. You lived like a ghost in your own palace.

You stared out the window for hours, watching the rain paint streaks on the glass.

You started believing she was right.

Because maybe you were stupid to think love could change anything. Maybe he really had moved on. Maybe silence was an answer.

Maybe he never meant any of it.

Every time your mind whispered his name, you forced yourself to remember your mother’s words.

Fool. Weak. Nothing.

You stopped writing.

You stopped eating.

You began counting down the days to your own quiet end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, far away in Evaris, Jisung sat at his desk in a storm of rage and panic.

Your letter burned in his hands, every word tattooed to his memory, trembling and desperate. I’ll give up the crown. I’ll give up everything. Just get me out.

But you never responded to his reply.

Because he never got to send one.

The next meeting came and you weren’t there.

The next one, and the one after that—still nothing.

He realized the pattern fast. He knew your parents. He knew the rot inside Virellia’s throne.

But he couldn’t act yet. Not without risking everything. Not with the coronation looming and the council watching like hawks. His plan—your freedom—depended on him becoming king.

So he waited.

And every day felt like a noose tightening.

Two months later, on the morning of his coronation, he stood at the edge of the world.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You didn’t want to go.

You hadn’t wanted to do much of anything for weeks. But your parents insisted. Because it was mandatory, they said. Because no heir could afford to miss the coronation of the next King of Evaris, they said. Because appearances were everything. Even if you were rotting behind your ribcage.

So you let them dress you in ice.

The gown was stiff and glittering, high-necked and silver like moonlight scraped raw across glass. It was too tight around your chest. You couldn’t breathe in it properly, but maybe that was the point. The corset kept you from sobbing.

Your hair was twisted into an immaculate braid, threaded with sapphires and silken cords. You looked beautiful in the mirror.

You hated her.

That girl. That doll. That obedient thing with dead eyes and no letters.

The carriage ride was silent. No one dared speak your name. Not even your father. Your mother only glanced at you once—just long enough to make sure your face betrayed nothing.

“You will not embarrass us,” she said flatly. “And you will not speak to him.”

It didn’t even sting anymore. It was just noise. A note in the background of a symphony of suffering. You stared out the window, fingers twitching in your lap. Each second closer to Serene made your body hum with something you tried to name—but couldn’t.

Not fear. Not hope. Just… ache.

And then the palace came into view.

Golden banners strung across the white marble halls. Evarian guards in polished obsidian armor. Music wafting through the air like perfumed fog. Bells chiming, crowds cheering, nobles flooding the courtyard like rivers of silk and pride.

The entire kingdom had come to witness the boy you once hated ascend a throne you used to dream of.

Han Jisung, crowned King of Evaris.

And still, you couldn’t bring yourself to look for him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You held your head high as you walked through the crowd, letting your face freeze into polite neutrality. You smiled when required. You bowed where expected. Your steps were silent and ghostly. You were there—but only barely. It was just like you used to be. Before you met him.

Inside the ballroom, everything gleamed.

Chandeliers like crystal constellations hung above dancers twirling in rhythm. Tables overflowed with delicacies. Courtiers whispered behind their fans and masks. A thousand eyes flitted across the room—and for once, none of them burned more than your own mother’s. You could feel her gaze stabbing your back like a blade.

You’d planned to slip away. To hide. To vanish before he ever saw you.

But you weren’t quick enough.

Because then—he was there.

Jisung.

Across the ballroom, a flicker. A figure in black and gold, standing at the foot of the steps leading to the throne. His hair slightly longer. His frame heavier with new armor and authority. But his eyes—

God.

His eyes.

They found you like he’d never stopped searching.

And they shattered.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. He didn’t blink. He just stood there, stunned, like the world had frozen around him. You turned away before you could drown.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He found you again thirty minutes later.

You had stolen a breath of air near the pillars by the side of the room, hoping to disappear among the silk curtains and candle smoke. But when you turned—he was there.

Jisung, in all his desperate glory.

He said your name like it was a prayer.

You didn’t answer.

“You’re here,” he breathed, voice cracked, like he still didn’t believe it.

Your fingers curled tighter into your skirts.

“I—” he stepped closer. “I wrote you. I sent so many letters, I—”

“You shouldn’t have,” you said coldly.

His expression faltered. “What?”

You looked up at him, letting your mask of ice settle over your features.

“It was a mistake. All of it,” you said. “We were foolish.”

His face twisted, pain blooming beneath the surface. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t. You can’t—”

You cut him off with a sharp look. “I’m here for diplomacy. For my parents. Nothing else.”

He stared at you like you’d gutted him.

“I see,” he whispered.

You stepped back, ready to leave, to shut it all down before the cracks showed.

But then his hand reached out—just barely grazing your wrist. “Wait—please. Y/N, what happened?”

You didn’t answer.

Because your mother’s voice was in your head again.

You’re a fool. You’re nothing to him. He used you. He doesn’t love you. He never could.

And you believed it. Even now, looking into his devastated eyes.

You yanked your hand away and turned to walk off.

But he didn’t let you.

He moved faster than you expected—grabbing your waist and dragging you with him behind one of the servant doors, into a quiet hallway veiled in shadow. You fought him, weakly, not wanting to make a scene. But the desperation in him was overwhelming.

“Let go of me,” you hissed.

“No,” he said. “Not until you tell me the truth.”

“Jisung—”

“Tell me what they did to you.”

The words were a blade.

And you cracked.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shook. You backed up against the wall like it could swallow you whole.

“I—I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” you whispered.

His eyes softened, torn with guilt.

“They took everything,” you said, voice breaking. “The letters. The meetings. They told me you never cared. And I believed them. I believed them.”

His hand moved to your cheek so slowly it made your throat tighten.

“I never stopped loving you,” he said.

You tried to look away. But he wouldn’t let you.

He dropped to one knee.

And for a second, you thought he was begging.

But—

He reached into his coat and pulled out a ring.

The room tilted.

“You told me once you’d abdicate everything to be free,” he said softly. “So I’ve spent every day since building a world where you wouldn’t have to.”

You stared at him, breathless.

“My father steps down today,” he continued. “When I’m king, no one—no one—will have power over you. Not your mother. Not your father. Not anyone.”

He held the ring up like it was made of his own blood and bone.

“So marry me,” he said. “Not for alliance. Not for peace. But because I’m not alive without you. I’m just a boy wearing a crown. But with you—I’m a man who feels. Who breathes. Who fights.”

Silence.

Then you crumpled to your knees before him.

And whispered, “Yes.”

The ring trembled between his fingers like it knew the weight of this moment.

It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t jeweled or royal.

It was simple, silver, engraved with the faintest carving of a sun split in half.

Your fingers shook as he slid it on.

It didn’t fit perfectly. It was a little loose.

But that made sense.

Because you weren’t made to fit into this world.

You were meant to change it.

You stared down at it like it might burn through your skin. And in a way—it did.

Because suddenly you felt real again. Present. Anchored. Loved.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, voice barely audible against the roaring in your ears. “And I swear to whatever gods will listen—I’ll destroy anyone who tries to touch you.”

You believed him.

Because he was no longer a boy who hated you across ballrooms and summits.

He was a man who bled for you in silence for two months and then got to his knees to give you a crown you weren’t born into—but were meant to wear.

“I’ll make this right,” he said. “You won’t go back there alone.”

You exhaled shakily.

“Then say it.”

He tilted his head. “Say what?”

You met his eyes with fire.

“Say it in front of them. My mother. My father. All of them. Say I’m yours.”

He smiled—not with sweetness. But with war.

“Watch me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ballroom was ablaze with golden light. The music had dimmed, the guests now gathering toward the steps beneath the throne, where nobles from all fifteen kingdoms leaned forward in their seats, waiting for the coronation address of the boy who would become a king.

And no one noticed that you were standing by the side wall now, breath tight in your chest, the silver ring cold on your finger.

Your parents stood a few feet away, arms stiff, expressions carved from stone. They hadn’t noticed you were gone. Or maybe they had—and decided it wasn’t worth causing a scene. Not when the eyes of the continent were watching.

You wondered what they’d do when they saw what was coming.

You watched Jisung climb the steps.

Every movement was poetry carved in armor and velvet.

He didn’t glance at you. Didn’t search the crowd.

He walked like the entire earth bowed under his heels.

And when he reached the top, he turned, faced the people of the kingdoms—and spoke.

“My people,” he began, voice low but resounding, “I was born into a name soaked in history and hatred. I was taught war before I knew how to dance. I wore swords before I wore silk. And I learned how to hate before I ever learned what love could look like.”

There was a murmur in the crowd.

Your heart pounded.

“But today,” he said, “I put all that behind me.”

He looked straight at you.

“I take this crown not just for Evaris, but for the future it will build. For the peace we’ve bled for. For the healing we deserve. And for the woman who taught me what living really is.”

Gasps.

The crowd turned.

You felt a dozen stares land on you like falling ash. Your mother’s hand shot out and gripped your wrist, nails digging into your skin—but you didn’t flinch.

Jisung continued.

“She is not Evarian. She is not mine by treaty or law. She is mine by choice. And I—hers.”

Your mother hissed something furious under her breath, but your ears rang with one sound only—him.

“So today, as your king,” he said, voice burning brighter, “I do not ask for your permission. I declare it: Lady Y/N of Virellia is to be my wife. My queen. And the rightful ruler of Evaris at my side.”

A beat of silence.

Then chaos.

Some cheered. Others gasped. A noble in red dropped his goblet. Someone from Darsienne clapped once, awkwardly, then stopped. You didn’t care.

Your parents turned to you slowly—faces drained of all color.

Your father’s lips curled into something monstrous.

“Tell me this is a lie,” he growled.

You said nothing.

Your mother’s voice cut sharper. “You will end this right now.”

Still, nothing.

You didn’t even blink. You just slowly lifted your hand.

And showed them the ring.

“I belong to no one but myself,” you said quietly.

And then, more boldly: “And him.”

Your father reached for your arm.

But Jisung was already there.

He moved through the crowd like a storm, guards parting, nobles scrambling aside as if they felt the heat radiating off him. He got to you in seconds—and stepped between you and the hand that meant to harm you.

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

“Touch her again,” he said calmly, “and I will burn your kingdom to the ground. And this time, I won’t leave the thrones standing.”

The room went deathly still.

Your parents froze.

No one dared move.

Jisung turned, took your hand, kissed your knuckles like they were holy, and whispered, “You’re safe now.”

A/n: yippeeeeeee I was lowkey getting tired of writing about her parents. Rude ash

[0leemoon0]

Velvet Chains-pt.6

Behind Closed Doors

Pairing: Han Jisung x reader

Word count:~4k

Genre:dark romance, angst, drama, forbidden romance, enemies to lovers, slow burn to passionate, fantasy politics

Warnings:emotional abuse, physical abuse, non-consensual violence (parental), trauma aftermath, obsession, possessiveness, sexual content (consensual), body image sensitivity (bruises), emotional manipulation, power imbalance, high-stakes tension, cliffhanger ending

Summary: You and Han Jisung were raised to hate each other—rival heirs of kingdoms scarred by war and betrayal. You’ve never officially met, but the tension has always simmered beneath the surface. The summit will change that. Do you really hate him? Does he really hate you? Or are those just the lies your parents taught you to wear—chains, hidden in velvet?

Masters list

The carriage ride home was silent.

You hadn’t spoken since the gates of Serene disappeared behind the hills. Every mile between you and Jisung felt like a thread being pulled tighter and tighter around your chest—until breathing became a conscious effort. The warmth of his goodbye still lingered on your lips, on your fingertips. His words echoed like a mantra in your mind.

“This will not be the end of us.”

But Serene was gone now, and Virellia loomed ahead—cold, merciless, and waiting.

When the palace gates appeared, you tried to steel yourself. Tried to conjure up his arms around you, the feel of his breath in your ear, the way his voice cracked when he whispered that he loved you. But even those memories couldn’t prepare you for what came next.

You stepped down from the carriage, your body aching from the journey but still humming faintly with the ghosts of him. The second your feet touched the marble, two guards flanked you. One on either side.

Your stomach dropped.

The grand doors opened with a shudder. The halls you once tiptoed through as a child felt suffocating now. The light didn’t reach them the same way it did in Serene. Everything here was colder, sharper.

Your mother stood at the end of the corridor, her arms crossed like a blade. Her lips were painted the color of wine and shaped like violence.

Your father stood beside her—stoic, unreadable. Except for his eyes. His eyes burned.

“Enjoyed yourself, did you?” your mother asked. Her voice was calm. Too calm.

You didn’t answer.

Your father stepped forward. “Answer your mother.”

You lifted your chin. “I represented Virellia well. The Council praised my speeches. The heirs voted me the most diplomatic voice of the summit. You should be proud.”

Your mother’s smile was razor-sharp. “Oh, we heard. But that’s not what we asked.”

She stepped toward you now, heels clicking against the marble like a death march.

“Tell me, little dove,” she whispered, brushing your hair behind your ear as if she were tucking in a child for bed. “Did you enjoy getting drunk and parading around like a whore in a Serene bar while the council watched? Did you enjoy dragging this kingdom’s name through the filth?”

You stiffened. “I made one mistake.”

“Did you?” Your mother’s nails scraped your jaw, turning your face to meet hers. “And the bruises the council reported when they examined you—were those mistakes too? You really think they would assume it was us?”

Your heart slammed into your ribs. So they knew. Not about Jisung. But the bruises you left exposed, the bar, those men.

You tried to take a step back, but your father was already behind you.

“I’m not a child anymore,” you said. “You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep hurting me and pretending it’s love.”

The second the words left your mouth, your father’s fist collided with your temple.

You crumpled to the floor like a marionette with cut strings.

The world blurred. Pain split your skull open like a cracked egg. You tasted copper on your tongue.

You heard your mother say something like “Teach her what shame tastes like.” And then the boots started.

You don’t know how long it lasted.

You don’t remember how many times your head hit the marble.

Only the cold.

And the blood pooling at the corner of your mouth.

And the echo of your own scream, hoarse and useless.

They didn’t even drag you to your room. They just left you there—your body twisted on the floor, limbs shaking, the world spinning like it wanted to spit you out.

Then came her voice again. Calm. Crisp. Unforgiving.

“We’ll tell the staff you’re sick. That you came back with a fever. No one sees you until your face heals. If you speak a word of this to anyone, you won’t be sick—you’ll be dead.”

And they left.

It was a maid who found you. Not your parents. Not your guards. A girl barely older than you who gasped and fell to her knees when she saw the mess they’d made of you.

She didn’t speak. Just wept silently as she helped you stand, her hands shaking as she guided you to the washroom. You tried to bat her away—you didn’t want anyone to see you like this—but your legs wouldn’t move on their own.

Your face was a palette of pain: your eye already swollen, your cheek split, your ribs screaming with every breath. Bruises bloomed down your arms like vines. Your lip trembled as the girl dabbed at your mouth with a cloth, and when she tried to clean the blood from your temple, you flinched so hard she dropped the bowl.

You were wrapped in blankets and placed in your bed, your window shuttered, your door locked.

For the next several days, you didn’t speak. Didn’t eat. Barely moved.

You weren’t sure if you were awake or just trapped in a dream stitched from agony and shadows.

But in the quiet—when the candlelight flickered just so—you let yourself think of him.

Of Jisung.

Of the way his hands had trembled when he kissed your scars.

Of the way his voice broke when he said your name like it was sacred.

And for the first time since returning to Virellia…

You began to count the days until the next diplomatic summit.

Not because of politics.

But because of him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bruises on your face had mostly faded by the time the second round of diplomatic meetings was announced.

They hadn’t vanished entirely—one still lingered faintly beneath your right eye like a shadow that refused to die—but it was just enough to convince the court that your “illness” had run its course.

Your mother examined you that morning like you were a doll she was considering selling off. She powdered the places that still looked too human and painted your lips a color that matched your silence.

You said nothing, of course. You never did anymore.

But your eyes… they were waiting.

Waiting for the carriage that would take you back to Serene.

Waiting for the eyes that saw you.

Waiting for him.

You’d received the first letter from Jisung exactly five days after your return. It had been smuggled inside a hollow book, tucked between pages of poetry. You didn’t know how it got past the guards. You didn’t care. You’d torn it open with shaking fingers.

“I don’t care how many walls your kingdom builds. I will write through all of them. I don’t know what happened after you left. I can guess, and the thought of it makes my throat close. You don’t have to tell me. But I need you to know that I haven’t breathed right since you walked away.

—J”

The second letter came a week later, hidden in a bouquet of pressed white lilies.

“I’ve written this letter fifteen times. I thought I wanted to be angry. I wanted to scream, Y/n. I wanted to rip through Virellias walls with my bare hands. But when I think of you I can’t be angry, I can only ache. I saw the bruises you’ve tried to hide. I see you, even now. I miss you.

—J”

You kept the letters beneath your mattress, pressing your fingers to the ink like it was his skin. You’d never written back. Not because you didn’t want to—gods, you’d tried—but fear was a louder voice than love in Virellia.

Still, you counted down the days.

And when the carriage finally arrived for the second council session, your heart thudded like something alive for the first time in weeks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The palace of Serene hadn’t changed. But something in you had.

This time, you weren’t here as a daughter performing a role. You were here as a girl with secrets written on her skin. And when your eyes scanned the room and found him—

He looked ruined.

Han Jisung stood near the far end of the ballroom when you arrived, speaking quietly with the Prince of Aeryn. But when he saw you enter, his voice died mid-sentence.

His eyes locked with yours and didn’t look away once. He was thinner. His cheeks a little hollower. But the fire in his gaze hadn’t dimmed.

If anything—it burned brighter.

He didn’t approach you that first day. He knew better. But he didn’t stop watching, either. Not during the introductions. Not during the council meals. And especially not when you danced with the heir to Darsienne in front of everyone, your smile stiff and empty.

That night, after the feast, there was a knock at your chamber door.

Three soft raps.

You opened it without hesitation.

He stepped inside like he couldn’t help it. Like his soul would rot if he didn’t.

His eyes searched your face, your arms, your body—gently, like a man cataloguing damage.

“You didn’t write back,” he said softly.

“I couldn’t.”

“I know,” he replied. “But I had to try anyway.”

You nodded, throat tight.

“Come here,” he whispered.

You did.

He didn’t kiss you right away. He wrapped his arms around you and just held you, his hand stroking the back of your head while your face pressed into his chest. He didn’t ask what they did to you. He already knew. His silence was reverent, not afraid.

You didn’t realize you were crying until you felt his shirt dampen beneath your cheek.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You met again two nights later—after curfew.

He snuck you into his room like you were made of crystal, shielding your body from every passing eye, wrapping you in his cloak so no one would see your face.

When the door shut behind you, you leaned into him like you couldn’t hold your own weight anymore.

He kissed you then.

Not hungrily. Not urgently.

But like a man finally returning home after being lost in a forest of silence.

His mouth told you everything. The I missed yous. The I dreamed of yous. The I saw your bruises in my sleep and woke up screaming.

You let your hands slide up his chest. Let your body rest against his. Let him cup your face as if you might vanish if he let go.

Then came his whisper:

“Will you let me see you again?”

You knew what he meant. His eyes were already tracing the line of your neckline. Not with lust—but with the aching tenderness of someone who had once seen every scar and memorized them like poetry.

Your hands trembled as you reached for the hem of your nightdress.

But you froze.

Because you knew what still lived beneath the silk.

Because you weren’t sure if you could bear the way he might look at you when he saw what had been done to you—again.

“I…” You swallowed. “I can’t.”

He stilled. “Why not?”

You turned your face away.

Then, with the softest voice you’d ever used, you said:

“My back still hasn’t healed.”

Silence.

Then his breath—sharp. Shaking.

He stepped away for a second. His fists clenched. His chest heaving.

“Was it them?” he asked, voice trembling with barely restrained fury. “Your mother and father?”

You nodded. “It always is.”

He was at the door within seconds, fully prepared to leave, to march back to their rooms if needed.

But you stopped him.

You grabbed his wrist. Pulled him back.

“Please, don’t,” you said. “You promised me.”

His jaw clenched. But he listened. He always listened to you.

He let you pull him close again.

And this time—when you took off your nightdress and showed him your body—he didn’t speak.

He dropped to his knees.

And he worshipped you like you were holy.

At first, it was soft.

Slow, reverent. Every inch of your skin was treated like something sacred, touched with a kind of aching gentleness that made your breath catch in your throat. His lips found each of your bruises like he was memorizing them—like he wanted to rewrite them with something kinder. He paused between each kiss to whisper how beautiful you were. How perfect. How he’d never forgive himself for not seeing it sooner.

When he kissed you this time, it wasn’t urgent.

It was deep.

Full of everything he hadn’t been able to say aloud.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer until there was no space left to fill, and he let you guide him. Let you move at your pace—until your pace changed. Until the softness made way for something hotter. Needier. Raw.

He didn’t hold back once you whispered that you didn’t want gentleness anymore.

You told him what you wanted with your mouth right against his ear, and the sound he made in response wasn’t words—it was a sound like surrender. Like devotion tipping into ruin.

And when he finally gave you what you asked for, you forgot how to breathe.

You’d never felt so thoroughly undone. He held you like he meant to keep you—gripping your hips, your jaw, your wrists—not out of cruelty, but desperation. His movements grew rougher only because you begged him to let go, and once he did, you felt it in your bones.

Every shudder. Every cry you tried to stifle.

And when he reached the point of no return, he didn’t stop—he buried himself in you like he was afraid of the world outside your body. His forehead rested against yours, his hand over your mouth when you got too loud, his other arm tight around your waist like a tether.

And even through the dizzying pleasure, even through the sting and burn of old bruises and new aches—you never felt safer.

You both shattered at once.

Not just physically—but completely.

It took everything from you. And gave everything back.

And in the quiet that followed, there was no shame. No fear. Just your bodies tangled together, breath returning slowly, and his lips pressed to the top of your shoulder, your temple, your cheek—over and over again like he still hadn’t had enough.

You could barely lift your arm, but you reached for him anyway.

And he came willingly, curling around you with all the softness he’d held back until now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next hour was spent in silence.

Not empty, but full. Full of the things neither of you had been able to say before. Things that couldn’t be spoken in public or letters or glances across long tables. Only here, in the dark. In the warmth of each other’s arms.

His fingers played with your hair while your head rested on his chest. He whispered little things between kisses to your forehead.

“I hated you,” he said once, like a confession. “You terrified me.”

You hummed, eyes closed. “Good.”

“I didn’t know how else to look at you without falling apart.”

You opened your eyes, meeting his.

“You fell anyway.”

He smiled, slow and tired. “Yeah. I did.”

There were other things too. Small things. You told him about the first time you saw snow. He told you about sneaking pastries from the kitchens and blaming the stable boy. You both shared things you hadn’t said out loud in years. Even laughed once or twice.

And when the silence came again, it wasn’t uncomfortable.

He kissed your hand. Pressed it against his chest.

“I want more of this,” he said. “Not just tonight. Always.”

Your throat tightened.

“Do you mean that?”

“I do.” His voice was steady, but low. “Whatever it takes. Letters. Carriages. Fake meetings. I’ll find a way to come to you. Just—don’t shut me out again.”

You hesitated, then nodded.

He smiled like he hadn’t breathed until that moment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time dawn started to creep into the sky, you both knew the moment couldn’t last.

Your skin still ached from the closeness. Your heart even more so.

He helped you dress, gentle as ever. Careful around your ribs and shoulders, brushing his fingers down your arms with something like longing. He buttoned the back of your dress with shaking hands, his lips lingering at the base of your neck one last time.

He walked you to your room in silence, the corridors cold and dim in the early light. The whole palace was still asleep.

At your door, you turned to him, and his eyes burned into yours like he was committing your face to memory.

“This isn’t the end,” he said.

You touched his face.

“Promise?”

He kissed you slowly.

“Swear it.”

Then he kissed your forehead—lingering, soft—and turned away before you could fall apart all over again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That morning, you were sent away.

A carriage waited before you could even unpack your breath. Your mother’s voice snapped orders, your father watched in cold silence.

They said nothing about bruises. Nothing about your absence the night before. But their silence was sharper than any blade.

You sat in that carriage alone, staring at the palace disappearing behind you. You didn’t cry. You didn’t speak.

But under your sleeve, in the pocket you’d sewn into your cloak, was a small folded note. The first of many.

“I meant every word this isn’t the end.

-J”

The next few weeks were… quiet.

Not peaceful—never that—but still. You obeyed. You smiled at the right people. You spoke when spoken to and bit your tongue until it bled when your mother looked at you with suspicion. You were careful. Perfect.

But every night, beneath your pillow, tucked behind pages of books you pretended to read, were his letters.

You read each one so many times the ink began to blur with the oils of your fingertips. He wrote to you almost daily. Sometimes long, poetic confessions that made your chest ache. Other times short, messy scrawl like he’d written them in a rush between meetings: “I saw a girl today wearing green. Thought of you. It looked better on you.”

And though you couldn’t say it aloud, you wrote him back. Every letter tucked away in secret compartments. Letters full of longing. Want. Desperation.

When the next royal summit arrived, it had been a full month since you’d last seen him. One full month of aching silence between paper and ink.

As soon as your carriage arrived, your heart wouldn’t calm. You tried not to look for him, but your eyes betrayed you. They always did.

And then, you caught him. Just for a second. Across the ballroom.

His mouth didn’t move. But the look in his eyes was loud enough: Find me.

When the dancing began and all the attention was turned toward wine and lace and diplomacy, you slipped out of the room unnoticed. Past the stone archway, through the corridor, to that quiet little parlor by the kitchens—forgotten by most, always warm.

He was already there.

The second the door closed, you were in his arms. He lifted you clear off the ground, spinning you once, twice, his face buried in your neck. You clung to him like breath itself.

“God, I missed you,” he murmured against your skin. “I missed you so much it made me sick.”

You didn’t answer—you didn’t need to. The way your mouth found his, hungry and certain, said everything. You kissed him like the world might end tomorrow.

And the strangest thing was that it didn’t feel strange at all. It felt like home.

You never would’ve imagined that the boy you once wished dead would be the only one who ever made you feel alive. But here he was—shaking under your touch. Needing you like air.

His hands cupped your face like you might slip through his fingers. Your fingers twisted into his coat. You could’ve stayed like that forever.

Eventually, reluctantly, you pulled apart.

You left first. Then he followed a few minutes later.

Back in the ballroom, your mother watched you like a hawk. But when Jisung came to offer you a dance, she didn’t protest. Not even a glare.

Because to her, it was still just politics. A performance.

She thought your act of getting along was for the sake of diplomacy. She didn’t know the truth.

You laughed and spoke softly as you danced—but if anyone could hear the things he was whispering against your cheek, they’d be scandalized.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“Keep your hands on my waist, Jisung.”

“You’re the one who kissed me like you wanted to devour me in that room.”

“I still do.”

Your laugh was so light and lovely that no one suspected the burn in your voice.

And later, when the music swelled again and attention drifted elsewhere, you disappeared once more. And so did he.

You met in the same room.

This time, he didn’t waste a second. He grabbed your waist and lifted you onto the table, his mouth already finding yours.

“You drive me mad,” he murmured against your lips. “You taste like sin.”

You kissed him like you were starving, his body slotted between your knees, his hands curled tight in your hair. It was just lips and mouths and breathless desire—nothing more.

Until the door slammed open.

Your heart dropped.

Standing in the doorway—livid and silent—were your parents.

Your mother’s face was contorted in fury. Your father’s jaw locked tight.

They’d seen you walk in. Together.

Your mother’s hand reached for you, nails like talons, but Jisung moved before she could.

He stepped between you and them.

“I wouldn’t,” he said coldly. His voice, for once, was not kind. Not soft.

It was lethal.

“If either of you touches her again—” his hand curled into a fist, trembling, “—I will drag your names through the mud of every kingdom. I will tell every king, every royal house, every diplomat what you’ve done. The bruises. The threats. The punishments. Everything.”

They froze.

Your father narrowed his eyes. “You dare—”

Jisung didn’t flinch.

“Touch even a hair on her head,” he growled, “and I will burn your castle to ash. With the two of you still inside.”

For a moment, no one breathed.

Then your mother sneered, turned on her heel, and snapped, “Come.”

They didn’t touch you.

But they took you anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were scolded for hours. Called reckless, shameful, disgraceful. But they didn’t lay a hand on you.

Not with his threat still fresh.

You locked yourself in your room that night and read through every letter he’d ever sent. Over and over.

And then, with shaking fingers, you wrote him one more.

“You have to get me out of here Ji. I’ll leave it all behind. I’ll abdicate if I have to. If it means I can be with you—- I’ll go anywhere. Just say the word.

—Y/N”

You folded it. Sealed it. Sent it by secret courier.

And waited.

A/n: I’m just gonna go ahead and post the last 2 parts!

[0leemoon0]

Velvet Chains-pt.5

The Quiet Between The Storm

Pairing: Han Jisung x reader

Word count:~4.5k

Genre:dark romance, angst, drama, enemies to lovers, slow burn, emotional healing, fantasy politics

Warnings:emotional abuse (referenced), trauma responses, slow-burn romance, mild sexual tension, emotional vulnerability, shifting dynamics, internal conflict, psychological tension

Summary: You and Han Jisung were raised to hate each other—rival heirs of kingdoms scarred by war and betrayal. You’ve never officially met, but the tension has always simmered beneath the surface. The summit will change that. Do you really hate him? Does he really hate you? Or are those just the lies your parents taught you to wear—chains, hidden in velvet?

Master list

It began with a dance.

Of all things, it started not with a fight, not with a scream, not with broken glass or spilled wine. But with a gentle touch to your hand as he extended it across the polished ballroom floor.

You were paired together—of course. The royals of Serene thought it fitting, poetic even. The heirs of the kingdoms most drenched in blood should be the ones to lead the first rehearsal of the coronation waltz. Perhaps it was meant to be symbolic. Healing. Hopeful.

To you, it felt like a joke.

But you didn’t protest. Not when your name was read next to his. Not when he stepped toward you, gaze steady but strangely quiet. Not when he offered you his hand, open palm and trembling fingers.

You placed yours in his.

It was warm. Warmer than you expected.

He didn’t speak at first. Neither did you. The music began—soft strings floating like clouds around your feet—and you moved in rhythm, stiffly at first, like dolls forced into position. His palm rested against your waist, cautious, as if any firmer and you’d break. Your own hand rested in his, your other brushing his shoulder.

His jaw twitched.

Then, softly, he said, “You look… pretty.”

The compliment was strange coming from his mouth—foreign and a little hesitant, like it surprised him, too.

You blinked. “Thanks,” you replied after a beat. “You don’t look like you’re dying anymore.”

A breath of something sharp—a laugh—escaped him.

“That’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ll get from you, isn’t it?”

You shrugged. “For now.”

The music swelled. You turned, pivoting under his hand. For a moment, it felt like you were floating—like the heaviness of the weeks past had lifted, if only slightly.

“You stopped glaring at me every time we’re in the same room,” you said after a pause.

His eyes flicked to yours. “You stopped trying to eviscerate me with your words.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Another laugh. Softer this time.

Then came the quiet. A silence that felt different. Not sharp. Not bitter. But something suspended. Like the moment before the drop of a feather.

The music slowed to its close. And still, he didn’t let go.

“You’re not what I thought you’d be,” he murmured.

You tilted your head smirking playfully. “And what’s that?”

“Cruel,” he said. “Cold. Unfeeling.”

You blinked again. “You poured wine on me twice.”

He winced. “I know.”

You should’ve pulled your hand back. You should’ve sneered or said something vicious. But instead, you just stood there, your palm still pressed to his chest, feeling his heartbeat pick up.

“I hated you,” you said.

“I still might,” he replied.

The next breath between you was strange.

But neither of you moved.

The shift was slow. Like the soft peeling back of winter.

You started seeing each other more—not by design, but by… accident. Or maybe fate. Or maybe just the way people orbit when the air between them has changed.

He sat beside you during strategy meetings. Not always. Just often enough to notice.

And you stopped snapping when he asked questions.

He started walking with you in the gardens. At first it was because the others irritated you both. But eventually… you kept pace together without speaking much at all. Just silence and breath and rustling leaves.

You laughed at something he said during dinner one evening. You hated how easy it came out of your throat. How his eyes flicked to yours like it startled him.

You caught him watching you one morning as you spoke with Ellara. Not with judgment. Not even with intensity.

Just watching. Quiet. Attentive.

One night, you couldn’t sleep. You found him already in the library, curled against the window seat with a book in his hand.

He didn’t ask why you were there.

He just slid the other half of the blanket toward you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You became his comfort.

He became yours.

Neither of you said it. Neither of you needed to.

But it was there in the way he spoke your name now—less like a curse, more like a memory.

In the way you touched his arm without realizing when passing him in the hallway.

In the way you didn’t flinch anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the days dwindled down—twelve left, then eight, then five—you found yourself… afraid. Not of him. But of what might come after.

What would this mean when you went home?

Would he forget the way your laughter made him smile?

Would you forget the way he had held you while you wept over your parents’ wrath?

It terrified you.

Because you knew what was coming.

On the very last morning, after breakfast and too many silent stares across the table, you were both summoned.

To write your speeches.

The heirs of Evaris and Virellia were to give statements—live, before the full high council—confirming the successful nature of the peace talks. Symbolic unity. A public pledge of harmony.

You both knew it was bullshit.

But as you sat side by side in the empty hall, hands curled around quills, shoulders barely brushing… something strange passed between you.

Not hatred.

Not even longing.

Just… understanding.

Something unspoken but alive.

Something like: What happens to us now?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The applause still rang faintly in your ears.

You had both delivered your speeches—eloquent, diplomatic, polished. A perfect duet of forced smiles and careful phrasing. You said all the right things. That the tensions were easing. That the heirs of Evaris and Virellia had found common ground. That the future was hopeful.

The council looked pleased.

The cameras caught your expressions—calm, professional, maybe even sincere.

But none of it felt real.

Not compared to this.

Now, you sat beside him in a quiet drawing room down the hall, tucked behind heavy velvet curtains and shadowed by the golden hush of a setting sun. It was the last room before goodbye. Before departure. Before reality came tearing the fragile threads between you into ribbons.

Neither of you spoke at first.

The silence between you was a soft thing now, not sharp—like a blanket pulled up over old bruises. You’d grown used to the rhythm of his breath. To the steadiness of his presence. You could feel him beside you even when he didn’t move. Even when he didn’t speak.

Your hands were folded in your lap, thumbs pressing against one another, unsure of what to do. The room smelled faintly of citrus and old pages, and your heart felt too loud in your chest.

Then, without a word, your head drifted sideways—slow, almost involuntary—until it found the curve of his shoulder.

He didn’t flinch.

In fact, he leaned slightly into it. Like he’d been waiting for that small gravity all day.

You closed your eyes.

It was quiet for a while. Just the birds outside. The wind brushing the windowpanes.

Then, his voice. Low and close.

“They’d lose their minds, wouldn’t they?”

You blinked up at him, lips twitching with something too sad to be called a smile. “Who?”

“Your parents.” His tone was dry, but not cruel. Just honest. “If they knew… if they even suspected that the boy they always told you to hate was the only one who ever—” He stopped, swallowed. “—who ever saw you.”

Your chest tightened. You shifted, curling slightly into the line of his body. “Yours too,” you whispered. “If they knew the Virellian girl they raised you to despise was the one person who ever made you feel something.”

His breath caught.

You didn’t look at him.

You didn’t need to.

“I’ll miss this,” he murmured.

Your throat burned.

“So will I.”

He turned then, just slightly, and you felt the weight of his gaze on you. There was something soft in it now. Something real. No fire. No hate. No bite.

Just truth.

“This doesn’t have to be the end,” he said. “Not unless we let it be.”

You looked up.

His eyes were darker in the light—molten and steady. Not demanding. Not desperate. Just open.

And you nodded.

“It shouldn’t be.”

Something shifted then.

It was quiet, and slow, and warm.

Not hunger.

Not ache.

Just the soft gravity of two people who had been broken apart by duty and expectation—and somehow, found safety in each other anyway.

He reached for you.

And this time, you reached back.

He slowly, gently pressed his hand against your face, as if afraid you might shatter beneath his touch. His thumb brushed your cheek with an intimacy so delicate it made your breath hitch.

You leaned into it.

Neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t empty—it was full, electric, reverent. Like the space between lightning and thunder. Like the pause before music.

He moved closer, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips, searching for something—permission, perhaps. You leaned in too, your heart climbing into your throat.

And then, your lips met.

Soft. Careful. A whisper of a kiss. As though even now, neither of you were entirely convinced this was allowed. It wasn’t hunger that moved between you—it was gravity. Slow and inevitable.

It felt like all the stars had aligned. Like the oceans had calmed. Like time itself had held its breath.

For a moment, there was no war, no titles, no bruises or expectations—just this. Just him. Just you.

You pulled away first—of course you did.

Your lips parted with a quiet reluctance, and the space between you returned like a closing wound.

Because you always pulled away. Always ruined anything good that came your way before someone else could ruin it first.

You didn’t open your eyes right away.

And when you did, he was still looking at you like you were made of something holy.

After the speeches, the room emptied almost as quickly as it had filled, the heavy weight of formalities finally lifting from your shoulders. The council and the other heirs offered curt nods and polite thanks before dismissing everyone to prepare for departure. You felt the sharp edge of finality in the air — the three weeks had passed in a blur, and tomorrow you would leave this fragile world behind.

Back in your room, you finished folding the last of your clothes with trembling hands. The quiet was suffocating, pressing against your chest like a stone. Your thoughts spiraled, tugged between the fragile hope you felt after sharing those quiet moments with Jisung, and the cold dread gnawing at the edges of your mind.

A soft knock interrupted the silence. The door swung open just enough for a servant to slip inside with a folded envelope, sealed with your family’s crest — an unmistakable and unwelcome reminder. The servant left without a word, leaving the letter on your polished desk.

You sat, heart hammering, staring at the envelope. Your hands shook as you broke the seal, unfolding the note inside. The ink was sharp and cruel, the words biting into your skin as if written with knives:

“We hope you enjoyed your stay with the Council of Selene because you will wish you were dead once you return home.”

The paper trembled in your grasp, your breath caught in your throat. The walls of the room seemed to close in, the shadows growing darker, swallowing the light you had clung to. Your fingers trembled so violently you almost dropped the letter.

You stayed frozen, the cold rush of panic settling deep in your chest.

And yet, after moments you couldn’t count, you found yourself standing, walking with hesitant steps down the hall—drawn toward the only person who had ever truly seen you. The only one who had witnessed the truth beneath the royal facade.

Your heart pounded as you approached Jisung’s door, hesitating only for a heartbeat before knocking softly. When it swung open, he was already there, as if waiting for you.

Without a word, he stepped aside, and the door closed behind you. The warmth of his presence wrapped around you like a fragile shield.

Before you could say anything, he pulled you close, hands gentle yet insistent. His lips found yours again—this time deeper, more certain. The kiss was a promise, an anchor in a sea of uncertainty.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes searched your face, but the fear in your expression didn’t go unnoticed.

You reached into your pocket, trembling, and pulled out the letter. Your voice was barely above a whisper, cracked with desperation. “I don’t know what to do, Jisung.”

He took the paper from you with a solemn nod, his eyes darkening as he read.

For a long moment, silence stretched between you like a fragile thread.

Then, he folded the letter carefully and looked up. His voice was steady, but beneath it lay a fierce determination. “They can threaten you all they want. But you’re not alone in this.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of those words settling inside you.

He stepped closer, his hand finding yours, fingers curling protectively around yours. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”

Your chest tightened, and for the first time in a long time, a flicker of something like hope sparked in your soul.

He smiled softly, that rare, genuine smile that reached his eyes and softened the harsh lines of his face. “I don’t think I’ll be able to leave now. Not after this.”

You met his gaze, a complicated mixture of gratitude and fear swirling between you. “Neither will I.”

And in that quiet, shared moment, surrounded by the shadows of the night and the looming unknown, the two of you found a fragile, flickering strength in each other—a bond forged from pain, defiance, and something tender, tentative, and fiercely real.

You stood there, fingers still entwined with his, the letter crumpled slightly in your grasp. The words—so sharp, so cold—echoed in your mind louder than anything else. You will wish you were dead.

Jisung’s presence was the only thing anchoring you, a steady warmth against the storm of dread that threatened to swallow you whole.

He stepped back just enough to study your face, searching for the cracks beneath your carefully maintained composure. “They don’t get to decide what happens to you,” he said quietly, voice low but firm. “Not anymore.”

You wanted to believe him. You needed to. But the fear still clung to your bones—the kind of fear that doesn’t leave, no matter how loud you tell yourself to be strong.

“I don’t know how to fight them,” you whispered, voice barely steady. “Not when they have all the power. When they don’t care who they hurt.”

Jisung’s jaw clenched. “Then we’ll find a way. I’m not going to let them hurt you—not like this.”

You swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. “But how? I’m not strong like you.”

He shook his head, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Strength isn’t about never breaking. It’s about who stays when you do.”

His hand slid from yours to cup your cheek, warm and steady. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

The quiet between you deepened, filled with all the things neither of you said—the pain, the exhaustion, the tiny, stubborn spark of hope.

You let out a shaky breath, letting your head rest against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. It was a lifeline.

Minutes passed, then hours, the world outside fading away until there was only this—two souls clinging to each other in a fragile moment of peace.

Jisung’s fingers tangled in your hair, soft and soothing, as he whispered, “We’ll get through this. One step at a time.”

You closed your eyes, leaning into the comfort of his voice, the strength you never expected to find in him.

A tear slipped down your cheek, and he gently wiped it away. “You’re not alone.”

You nodded against him, the weight of your fears still heavy, but somehow more bearable.

“Thank you,” you murmured, voice raw but sincere.

For the first time since you arrived at Selene, you felt—if only for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, there was a future beyond the pain.

A future where you didn’t have to face the darkness alone.

Jisung pulled you tighter, his whisper a vow between you. “We’ll face whatever comes next. Together.”

And in the quiet of that room, with the night wrapping around you like a protective cloak, you believed him.

Because for the first time in a long time, you weren’t afraid.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He leaned in for another kiss—and this time, it wasn’t just a kiss. It was a confession. A vow. A desperate, quiet plea to be understood.

His hand cupped your face, fingers threading softly into your hair. When his lips met yours again, they moved with more purpose, deeper, slower. His other hand slid to the back of your head, tilting it just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth—and you let him. No—more than let. You welcomed him.

The world fell away as you stepped backward, blindly finding the edge of his bed. Your knees bent, sinking into the mattress, pulling him with you. He followed without hesitation, straddling you carefully like you might break if he wasn’t gentle. But his mouth never left yours. He kissed you like you were something rare—like he’d never get another chance.

He pulled back only to trail slow, reverent kisses down your neck, letting his lips rest there for a moment—right where your heartbeat was the loudest. His breath was warm, shaky. His voice, when it came, was a whisper made of wind and silk.

“You don’t know what you do to me.”

Your stomach flipped violently.

You reached for your dress, fingers fumbling with the hem. He understood without asking. Helping hands met yours—gentle, deliberate—guiding the fabric over your head and down your arms until it slipped away entirely. Your bra and panties still clung to your body, but everything else fell into soft shadows around your feet.

He didn’t leer. He didn’t gawk.

He stepped back.

He looked at you like you were made of something divine.

Then, as if possessed by reverence, he turned you around. And what he saw pulled the air from his lungs.

Your back.

The bruises on your legs and ribs were bad enough. But the marks on your back—faint, thin, faded and fresh—were worse. Burn scars. Thin lashes of welts that had only just begun to heal. He traced his fingertips along the worst of them, barely breathing. He didn’t see them last time you were undressed in front of him. Though he didn’t stare too long then out of respect for you.

His voice cracked when he spoke. “They did this to you…?”

You couldn’t answer.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “You’re so beautiful.”

He turned you back to face him. His eyes glistened.

And then—one by one—he kissed each bruise. Each scar. Each wound, visible and invisible. From your shoulder to your ribs, down your sides, to the places no one else had ever dared to look closely at. He kissed you like you were sacred.

By the time his lips returned to your mouth, your chest was rising too fast, too uneven. You didn’t know if it was grief, longing, or something else entirely.

He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a lean, sculpted body beneath. You stared, awed for a moment, until he kissed you again and helped you undo your bra. When it slipped off, he drew in a breath like he was seeing sunlight for the first time.

His mouth lowered again. He kissed your chest, his tongue flicking delicately over one nipple and then the other, suckling softly until your breath stuttered.

“You—mmh—you make such sweet sounds,” you whispered, biting your lip through the rush of sensation.

He pulled back slightly, eyes dark and warm all at once. “You have no idea what you do to me, Y/N.”

Then, he dropped to his knees.

And without a word, he tugged your panties down and off.

His lips descended on your center with reverence, tongue slipping through your folds, soft moans vibrating against you as he feasted like it was the first time he’d ever wanted something this badly. You arched against his mouth, hands clutching the sheets, and he moaned into you again—over and over—as if tasting you made him drunk.

When he rose again, your lips met in a sloppy, eager kiss, your body trembling in his arms. He reached into the drawer, retrieving a condom, and slid down his boxers.

You didn’t expect him to be so big.

He rolled the condom on, pausing only to cup your face again.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice a breath against your lips.

“Please…” you whimpered, “I need you.”

With a low, broken moan, he lined himself up and slowly—painstakingly slowly—began to press into you.

You whimpered, body stretching to accommodate him. Inch by inch, he sank into you, mouth open against your shoulder, whispering praise and sweet nothings into your skin.

It burned—but only for a moment.

And then it felt like heaven.

He moved gently, slowly at first, rocking into you with the softest rhythm. Every time he rolled his hips, he whispered something new.

You’re perfect. You’re safe. You’re mine. You’re so beautiful.

Your bodies found a rhythm made only for each other, breaths mingling, hands tangled in each other’s hair. He thrust a little harder, and your cries turned higher, sweeter—matching the way his breath hitched in his throat every time your walls clenched around him.

He was unraveling. You both were.

“I’m in love with you, Y/N,” he whimpered, voice cracking, hips stuttering as he clung to you.

You let go at the sound of it—tumbling over the edge with a soft, strangled moan. Your body trembled beneath his. He followed, a broken, high-pitched whimper spilling from his mouth, shuddering through his release like he’d waited a lifetime for it.

He stayed there.

Breathing you in. Pressing kisses to your cheeks, your nose, your collarbone. Running his fingers through your hair like you were something fragile he didn’t want to lose.

When he finally slid out of you, you let him rest in the crook of your neck, your fingers trailing along the curve of his spine.

You lay there in silence.

Hearts full. Bodies spent. The world forgotten.

“…Did you mean it?” you asked quietly. “About being in love with me?”

He shifted, looking up at you with the softest smile you’d ever seen.

“I meant every word, Y/N. Since we first spoke I haven't been able to get you out of my head.”

You reached up, brushing a curl from his forehead.

“I’m in love with you too, Han Jisung. I have been since you came to my room for the first time. I just didn’t know it at the time.”

He closed his eyes, tucking himself into your neck again, holding you like it was the only thing he ever wanted.

And for the first time in your life—

You felt safe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The silence after was different than any you’d ever known. Not empty. Not cold. It was the kind of silence that hummed with breath and heartbeat, with understanding and something close to peace.

Jisung pressed a final kiss to your temple, whispering something soft you didn’t fully catch, and slowly rose from the bed. You watched him walk to the washbasin, grab a damp cloth, and return—eyes never leaving yours.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmured, brushing your hair back.

The cloth was warm, gentle against your skin. He moved with reverence, carefully wiping away the traces of your time together. His hands were slow, respectful, like every part of you deserved to be held with tenderness. When he was done, he kissed your shoulder before stepping away to fetch one of his shirts.

“You’ll sleep in this,” he said, helping you slip it over your head. It smelled like him—cedarwood and something clean and faintly spiced. You loved it instantly.

You curled back into the bed, and he joined you without a word. His arms found their way around you, your legs tangling beneath the sheets. You rested your cheek against his bare chest, letting your fingers trail over the beat of his heart.

Time passed strangely after that.

You talked for hours—quietly, lazily. Whispering small things like secrets. You laughed at something stupid he said, and he laughed just because you were laughing. At one point, he fell silent, just watching you with that unreadable look he wore so often. But this time, there was no coldness in it. Only awe.

Eventually, he sighed. “It’s late.”

You looked toward the window—moonlight still spilling in, but the sky was beginning to hint at the faintest trace of dawn.

He sat up reluctantly. You did too.

He helped you redress, though part of you didn’t want to shed the comfort of his shirt. Still, your own clothes were folded neatly on the chair—he had done that, of course.

When you were both ready, he held your hand and walked you slowly back to your room. The corridor was still, silent, your footsteps soft against the marble.

At your door, he paused.

“This isn’t the end,” he said, voice low but firm.

You looked up at him.

“I mean it. This—” he cupped your cheek again, thumb brushing beneath your eye “—whatever this is between us, it doesn’t stop just because the summit’s over.”

You nodded, your throat tight.

“I’m going to write,” he said. “Every day, if I have to. And I’ll come to Virellia. Somehow, I will. I don’t care what your mother says. I don’t care what mine says. This isn’t ending.”

You leaned forward and kissed him—slowly, gently—like a promise.

“Goodnight, Han Jisung,” you whispered when you pulled away.

His smile was sad. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

Then, with one last glance—one last silent vow—he disappeared down the hallway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Morning came with a gray sky and a carriage waiting at the edge of the Serene palace. The final goodbyes were meant to be swift and formal—but the one that mattered took place where no one would see you.

Behind the stables, in the quiet mist of early dawn, Jisung found you.

You didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he crushed you to him, burying his face in your neck. You held him just as tightly, your fingers fisting in the back of his tunic, like maybe if you clung hard enough, this wouldn’t have to end.

He kissed you like it was the last time.

It lasted forever.

And still it wasn’t enough.

“I’m going to miss you so much it’ll kill me,” he murmured into your hair.

You swallowed. “Me too.”

He cupped your face again, leaning your foreheads together. “I’ll write. I swear. And I’ll come to your kingdom—I don’t care what it takes.”

“I’ll be waiting,” you whispered.

One more kiss—so soft, so achingly gentle you could’ve cried—and then he let you go.

You stepped into the carriage, heart beating too loud in your chest. The door closed behind you.

As the wheels began to turn, you turned to look back—

And there he stood, framed by the morning light. Watching you leave with something like heartbreak in his eyes.

And yet, deep beneath that grief, one thing remained:

Hope.

The beginning of something neither of you could name.

But you both knew it would matter.

It already did.

A/n: this was definitely my favorite part to write!! When I start writing my other series, the smut scenes aren’t gonna be as delicate, I just felt for this series it was important for their scenes to be very delicate and intimate given the situation. I hope you like it!!

[0leemoon0]

Velvet Chains-pt.4

Thorns Beneath Velvet.

Pairing: Han Jisung x reader

Word count:~4.5k

Genre:dark romance, angst, drama, enemies to lovers, slow burn, fantasy politics

Warnings:emotional abuse, physical abuse, alcohol use, sexual harassment (non-graphic), panic attack, trauma responses, non-sexual nudity, emotional intimacy, psychological tension

Summary: You and Han Jisung were raised to hate each other—rival heirs of kingdoms scarred by war and betrayal. You’ve never officially met, but the tension has always simmered beneath the surface. The summit will change that. Do you really hate him? Does he really hate you? Or are those just the lies your parents taught you to wear—chains, hidden in velvet?

Master list

He didn’t come to breakfast.

Nor lunch.

Nor the evening gathering in the sun-warmed halls where the remaining heirs sat in forced civility, sipping wine and pretending centuries of hate could be softened by sweet fruit and polite nods.

Han Jisung was nowhere.

At first, you didn’t notice—didn’t want to notice. You pretended it was a gift, a mercy, not having to see his face. You drank your tea a little slower, walked through the corridors without bracing for his voice like a slap to the back of your skull.

But by the second day, something gnawed at the edge of your thoughts.

The table looked too long without him. His chair stayed empty, silver untouched, wine glass drying slow with dust. No one spoke of it. Not directly. But the glances—the quiet—said enough.

By the third day, Ellara looked at you across the garden terrace and tilted her head.

“He’s not sick,” she said softly, lips barely moving behind her cup. “But he’s not… anything.”

You blinked at her. “What does that mean?”

She only shrugged, eyes drifting toward the west wing. “You’re the only one he’s spoken to in days. Maybe you know.”

You didn’t.

You didn’t know why his absence made the air feel heavier.

You didn’t know why your fingers tapped against your skirts at night, restless.

You didn’t know why, when the sun fell behind the hills and quiet crept into the halls like smoke, your feet carried you down the west corridor without your permission.

His door was closed.

You stood there for a long time.

The corridor was empty. Shadows stretched across the tiled floor, flickering with the light of the sconces. You told yourself to leave. To go back. He didn’t deserve your concern. Not after what he’d done. Not after what he’d cost you.

But your hand lifted anyway.

Not to knock.

Just to rest your palm against the cool wood.

You didn’t even know what you were hoping for. A sound? A voice? A breath?

You pressed your ear to the door.

Nothing.

The silence was suffocating.

Just as you pulled away, the door cracked open an inch.

You froze.

The room inside was dark.

Too dark.

And then a voice—quiet, hoarse, flat.

“Go away.”

It was him.

But he sounded… broken.

You hesitated. “You haven’t come out in days.”

The door opened a little wider, but he still didn’t look at you.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt wrinkled, sleeves half-pushed up. His hair was a mess. There was a plate on the desk—untouched—and a shattered glass near the foot of the dresser, red wine dried into the grain of the floor like blood.

“I said go away.”

You almost did.

But your feet didn’t move.

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t come here to—”

“To what?” he cut in, finally looking at you.

His eyes were sunken. Rimmed red. His voice cracked like it hadn’t been used in hours. “Gloat? Pity me? Spit another insult and remind me what a heartless monster I am?”

“I don’t need to remind you,” you said quietly. “You already know.”

That shut him up.

You stepped closer, only a little. Enough to see the bruising under his eyes. The tremble in his hands. The hollow behind his ribs.

“You look like shit,” you added. Flat. Not cruel. Just honest.

Jisung gave a laugh—but it was a dead sound. No humor. No heat. “That’s generous of you.”

Silence again.

This time, heavier.

You looked around the room once, then back to him.

“…Are you eating?”

He didn’t answer.

You sighed. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”

“Maybe I deserve that.”

You flinched.

Not because of what he said.

But because for the first time since you met him, it didn’t sound like manipulation. It didn’t sound sharp or venomous or theatrical.

It sounded real.

Ugly, honest, self-inflicted.

You hated the way it tugged something in your chest.

“I don’t care what you think you deserve,” you said. “But we’re stuck here. And I’m not dragging your half-conscious corpse to council if you collapse.”

Still no response.

You stared at him.

He looked like a paper version of the boy you hated. Folded in on himself. Fragile in ways that terrified you.

You turned to leave.

But before your hand found the door, you paused.

“I didn’t come to check on you,” you said, without turning back. “I just… I wanted to make sure you weren’t dead.”

A beat.

Then another.

“…Would it matter if I was?”

You didn’t answer.

The door clicked shut behind you.

And down the corridor, your steps echoed harder than they should have.

Because you didn’t have an answer to that question.

Not one you were willing to say aloud.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You didn’t remember deciding to sneak out.

You only remembered the silence.

It had wrapped itself around the walls of your guest quarters like a noose, suffocating and endless. For three nights, it had echoed—Jisung’s absence, the weight of your guilt, the bruise-shaped silence your parents left behind. And when it grew too thick, you cracked.

The black dress you chose wasn’t royal. It was short—scandalously so—cut to fit a version of yourself that didn’t exist anymore. Its satin clung to your skin like an apology. It was too dark to see the bruises so it would be fine to wear something that revealed them. You didn’t tell anyone where you were going. Didn’t even glance back.

The streets of Serene were quiet at night. The peace summit had ended, the heirs were cloistered behind manor walls, and no one expected you to wander alone. But you craved it—the dark, the risk, the recklessness. You wanted to feel something other than dread.

You found a bar tucked into a corner off the merchant square. It wasn’t glamorous. Dim lights, scuffed tables, low music. But it served cheap wine and didn’t ask for your name. That was enough.

You drank. A lot.

Not delicately. Not like a noblewoman. You downed your glass like it was a blade and you wanted it to cut.

The burn was a comfort.

You barely registered the way people stared. The eyes lingering too long on your bare legs, the slope of your shoulders, the flush creeping into your chest as the alcohol kicked in.

Somewhere, in the haze, you laughed at something that wasn’t funny. Slammed another glass back. Danced for a second with someone whose name you forgot. You wanted to forget. That was the point.

But forgetting made you careless.

You left alone.

The cold air slapped you the moment you stepped into the street. Your heels clicked awkwardly across the cobblestone as you tried to remember which way led home. You didn’t notice the three men until they were already behind you.

“You’re a long way from the palace, sweetheart.”

You stopped walking.

The wine in your veins cooled.

“Leave me alone,” you slurred, turning slightly, spine stiff.

They smiled.

“Relax, Princess. Just trying to keep you company.”

One reached forward. You stepped back too quickly—your heel caught on a crack in the stone and you stumbled, hand bracing against a wall.

Another laugh.

You blinked, pulse racing now, heart crashing against your ribs like it wanted out.

“I said—leave me alone.”

They didn’t listen.

One moved closer.

Then someone’s voice cut through the air like thunder.

“I believe she told you to fuck off.”

You didn’t look.

You didn’t have to.

You knew that voice.

Han Jisung.

The men froze. Turned. And Jisung was already there—shoulders tense, jaw sharp with fury, every inch of him trembling with barely leashed violence.

He didn’t fight them. He didn’t have to.

Something in his eyes made them leave.

The silence after they fled was deafening.

You didn’t thank him. You didn’t even speak.

He looked at you—really looked at you—his eyes moving slowly down your figure. Not with desire. With disbelief. Disappointment. Pain.

Your makeup had smudged. Your dress strap had slipped off one shoulder. You looked like a stranger.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked finally, voice low, hoarse.

You almost laughed.

“I don’t need a lecture from you.”

“You’re drunk.”

“No shit.”

He stepped closer. You didn’t back away.

“I could’ve handled them,” you muttered.

He raised an eyebrow. “Sure. By falling into a wall?”

You scowled. “Why are you even here?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I couldn’t sleep. I was walking. I didn’t expect to find you stumbling out of a bar like you were looking to die.”

The words struck harder than they should have. Maybe because they were true.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” he cut in. “I know what that looks like. I’ve seen it before.”

You didn’t ask who. You just shook your head.

“I don’t need you saving me, Jisung.”

“Too late.”

He flagged down a cab without asking. When it arrived, he opened the door and didn’t wait for you to argue.

You got in.

The ride back was silent. He didn’t look at you. You didn’t look at him.

You only realized how badly your hands were shaking when the cab stopped.

You stepped out too fast. The world tilted.

Jisung caught you before you could fall. Again.

Your heart twisted.

When you got inside, a steward from the summit council was already waiting in the entry hall.

“Young Princess,” she said quietly, carefully. “The council was notified of your whereabouts by locals. We regret to inform you… your parents have been contacted.”

Your breath stopped.

The blood drained from your face.

Not again.

You didn’t hear anything else the steward said. Just nodded, face pale, head spinning. Jisung took your arm before you collapsed.

“Come on.”

You wanted to pull away, but your legs weren’t working. Neither was your mind. The wine, the fear, the embarrassment—it all hit at once. Jisung got tired of you stumbling and carried you up the stairs.

When you reached your door, your fingers couldn’t manage the key.

He took it from you gently.

Pushed the door open.

Guided you inside.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to claw at your skin until the memory of those men was gone, until the fear of your parents disappeared.

But you couldn’t do anything. You just stood in the middle of the room, shaking.

Jisung sighed softly and walked toward your wardrobe.

“What are you doing?”

“You can’t sleep in that,” he said, eyes narrowed. “Do you want help or not?”

You didn’t answer. Just nodded.

He returned with a long sleep shirt—soft cotton, simple. He laid it on the bed.

“Do you need—?”

“No,” you said quickly. “I can change.”

But when your fingers touched the zipper, they fumbled.

Your hands were trembling too hard. You turned your back to him.

“I—can’t—” you whispered.

He said nothing. Just stepped forward.

Carefully—without a word—he unzipped the dress.

You didn’t stop him.

The fabric slid off your shoulders.

And he saw.

The bruises weren’t small anymore. The light reached them perfectly.

They were dark and violent—smeared across your ribs, down your spine, across your shoulders, splattered on your legs, like brushstrokes of pain. You heard his breath catch.

Still, he said nothing.

Not even when you turned slightly and the marks across your stomach came into view.

You grabbed the shirt and pulled it over your head as fast as you could, but it didn’t matter.

He’d seen.

And you hated it.

Your knees gave out.

You sat hard on the edge of the bed, hands gripping the sheets.

Your breathing was too fast. Too sharp. You couldn’t control it.

“I can’t—I can’t—” your voice cracked.

The panic attack hit like a storm.

Jisung knelt in front of you, his hands hovering like he didn’t know what to do. Then—carefully—he placed one over yours.

“I’m here,” he said quietly. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

“No—I’m not—”

“You are,” he insisted. “No one’s going to hurt you right now.”

His voice was lower than you’d ever heard it. Not gentle. Just real. Like he meant it.

Tears slipped down your cheeks. You didn’t stop them.

You didn’t even wipe them away.

His other hand reached for your shoulder—but when you flinched, he stopped.

“Okay,” he whispered. “No touching. That’s okay.”

You gasped for breath, eyes squeezed shut.

“Just breathe with me,” he said softly. “One breath. Then another.”

You did.

Slowly. Painfully.

You weren’t sure how long it lasted—minutes, maybe longer—but eventually the storm began to slow.

Your hands stopped shaking. Your chest stopped caving in.

And when you opened your eyes again… he was still there.

Kneeling on the floor in front of you like he didn’t know what else to be.

You looked at him for a long time.

He looked back.

Neither of you spoke.

But something had changed.

You didn’t know what to call it.

But it was real.

And terrifying.

And it would never go away.

He didn’t leave.

After your breathing evened and your chest stopped heaving, you thought maybe he would. That he’d quietly rise, step back into the shadows, and disappear like the storm had never happened.

But he didn’t.

Jisung stayed.

He sat beside you on the bed without a word, careful not to touch you unless you moved first. The silence between you wasn’t heavy this time—it was soft, like the hush after thunder. You stared at the floor, heart still pounding, sleep shirt wrinkled in your fists.

“I should go,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

He didn’t move.

“But you’re not okay,” he said.

You gave a bitter, broken laugh. “No shit.”

Minutes passed.

Neither of you looked at the other. But you could feel him—his presence like a quiet warmth at your side, steady and still.

You tried to hold it together.

You really did.

But then the weight of everything hit you again. Not just the bar. Not just the council’s report. Not just the bruises still blooming under your skin like violets gone wrong.

It was the future.

The clock ticking down.

The fact that you’d have to go home.

And they knew.

Your parents knew.

Your mother had always been cruel. Your father, worse. But this—this would be different. This was public. Shameful. It had embarrassed them.

And for that… you would pay.

Your chest clenched so tightly it hurt.

“I’m going to die when I get back,” you said suddenly.

Jisung turned his head toward you.

You didn’t look at him.

“I’m not being dramatic,” you muttered, voice slurring slightly from the wine still in your system. “They’re going to beat me to pieces. My mother—she’s going to break something. And my father…”

Your throat closed.

Your shoulders began to shake.

“I can’t go back,” you choked. “I can’t. I can’t—I can’t—”

Jisung reached for you, slow and careful.

But you flinched.

Hard.

Like the movement itself was a whip crack in the dark.

He froze.

Your eyes darted to his hand, wide and panicked. You curled into yourself on instinct.

And that’s when something in him seemed to split.

Jisung lowered his hand.

Then, slowly—like trying not to spook a wild animal—he shifted closer. No sudden moves. No pressure.

Just warmth.

Just presence.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly.

You didn’t answer.

He waited.

And then, like a thread unraveling one tug at a time, you leaned toward him. Barely. Almost imperceptibly.

But it was enough.

He moved gently, wrapping one arm around your shoulders with such a fragile kind of care it made your chest ache. The other came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

And for the first time in longer than you could remember, you let yourself fall into someone’s arms.

You sobbed.

Full-bodied, unrestrained sobs that tore through your ribs like broken glass. Your fists clung to his shirt. You shook with every breath.

He didn’t tell you to be quiet.

He didn’t tell you to stop.

He just held you.

His hand stroked your hair, over and over again, a steady rhythm like ocean waves against rock.

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispered, more than once. “You’re gonna be ok.”

Your fingers dug into him harder. Like maybe if you held on tight enough, the pain would stay away.

But you couldn’t hold on forever.

Eventually, the storm inside you dulled into rain. Your sobs quieted. Your breathing slowed.

He stayed.

Not because he had to.

But because, somehow, he couldn’t leave.

When you finally pulled away, your eyes were puffy and red. Your lips trembled. Your body was exhausted—drained of fight.

You looked at him.

Really looked at him.

His eyes weren’t full of pity. Or shame. Or guilt.

They were full of something else.

Something nameless.

But real.

He didn’t speak. He just reached forward and brushed a piece of hair from your cheek, gentle as moonlight.

You didn’t flinch.

You just… let him.

For the first time.

He moved to stand.

“I’ll let you sleep,” he murmured.

But before he reached the door, your voice stopped him.

“Will you stay?”

He turned back.

Surprised.

Not smug.

Just… surprised.

He nodded once.

Then sat in the chair by your bed, hands folded, eyes soft.

You turned toward the wall, body curled under the blanket.

You didn’t speak again.

But you didn’t cry, either.

And in the silence that followed, something began to change.

Not in the air.

Not in the room.

But between your heart and his.

It didn’t have a name.

Not yet.

But it was real.

And it was only just beginning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You woke the next morning to the soft creak of a chair.

The light leaking in through the curtains was pale—early, muted by clouds. For a moment, you didn’t remember where you were. Your head hurt, your body ached, and your throat felt scraped raw.

And then you saw him.

Jisung.

Still in the same chair.

Still in the same clothes.

Awake.

His elbows rested on his knees, his hands knit together like he was trying to hold himself in place. His eyes flicked to yours when he noticed you stirring.

Neither of you spoke.

The silence wasn’t tense now. Just fragile.

Like the hush in a church before the first note of a funeral hymn.

You sat up slowly, the sheets slipping down your arms. Your limbs were heavy. Your skin felt too tight. But it wasn’t the wine anymore. It was memory.

Everything from last night washed back over you—loud and sharp.

The bar.

The alley.

The panic.

Your dress on the floor.

His hands in your hair.

And now… this.

You cleared your throat.

“I must’ve fallen asleep.”

His voice was quiet. “You did.”

You nodded.

Silence again.

He looked like hell.

Worse than the days before, if that were even possible.

His shirt was wrinkled, the collar twisted like he’d been pulling at it. His hair was tousled, not in the perfect, styled way it usually was, but in the way of someone who kept running his fingers through it like he couldn’t stop thinking.

His eyes were bloodshot.

Not from drink.

From everything else.

“You didn’t have to stay,” you said eventually.

“I know.”

You glanced at him.

He wasn’t looking at you. He was staring at the carpet, jaw clenched, as if every word he’d said came out against his own will.

“But I wanted to.”

Your chest tightened.

It wasn’t what he said.

It was how he said it.

Like the words had been building inside him for days and only now found space to breathe.

You swung your legs over the bed and stood, wincing as your bruises pulled beneath your nightdress. You didn’t try to hide the pain this time.

He noticed.

But he didn’t look away.

He didn’t wince, or pity you, or say some broken apology again.

He just… looked.

And that was somehow worse.

Because there was understanding in his eyes now.

The kind that only comes after guilt has cracked you open and made you see.

You crossed the room slowly, heading for the basin to splash cold water on your face.

Behind you, he finally spoke again.

“Your parents—when they come back…”

You froze.

Your grip on the porcelain edge tightened until your knuckles went white.

“They won’t come back,” you said. “Not until the summit ends. Another week.”

He was silent.

You turned to face him.

“But when they do,” you added, voice quiet, “I’ll pay for it. Everything. The bar. The council’s letter. You seeing me like that.”

He looked up at you.

His jaw flexed.

His eyes weren’t cold. Not anymore.

They were devastated.

And that was the worst part.

Not because you wanted his cruelty back.

But because the tenderness felt like an unfamiliar bruise.

“I won’t let them hurt you again,” he said.

You stared.

A bitter laugh slipped from your mouth before you could stop it.

“You? You can’t even look me in the eye without flinching.”

“I’m not flinching,” he said, low.

You narrowed your gaze.

“Yes, you are.”

His jaw ticked.

“I’m trying,” he muttered. “And I’m failing. I know that.”

You paused.

That wasn’t what you expected.

Not defiance.

Not arrogance.

But a kind of shattered honesty.

You swallowed.

Something twisted in your chest, but you buried it. You weren’t ready to give it shape yet.

“You can’t fix this,” you said, softer now. “It’s not about you anymore.”

“I know,” he said again.

Another pause.

And then: “But I still want to try.”

You looked at him.

Really looked.

And for the first time, you saw it—the cracks. Not in his composure. But in the armor he wore around his soul.

Whatever this was between you—it was no longer hatred.

Not fully.

But it wasn’t anything softer, either.

It was a warzone with no name.

Still burning, but no longer fueled by fire.

Now it was something else.

Ash, maybe.

Or something that came after the ash.

You turned away, suddenly too tired to stand in his gaze.

“I need to get dressed.”

He stood too, backing toward the door.

“I’ll—go.”

You didn’t stop him.

But just before he slipped into the hallway, you said quietly, “Thank you.”

He froze.

You didn’t say it again.

You didn’t have to.

Because when he left, the air didn’t feel empty.

It felt full.

Like something had begun.

And this time, neither of you knew how to end it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You buttoned the last loop of your gown and caught your reflection in the mirror.

For once, you didn’t look like a war waiting to happen.

The deep violet fabric fell clean along your figure, regal and poised. Your bruises were hidden. Your hair was pinned just right. You looked like a future queen.

You just didn’t feel like one.

Another meeting today. Another performance. Another game of masks, though the masquerade was long gone.

This one was with the heirs alone—a strategy session, they’d called it. To prepare for your inheritance. To begin, as Lady Maelynn had put it, “shaping yourselves into rulers.”

You almost laughed when she said it.

Because if this was what power looked like—beaten bodies and swallowed words—then maybe you didn’t want it at all.

But you showed up anyway.

The great chamber had been rearranged into a long oval, chairs fanned out in a circle to strip away the idea of hierarchy. No throne, no center—just young men and women who would one day rule.

You entered last.

And, of course, your seat was beside him.

You paused only for a second before taking it.

Jisung didn’t look at you right away. He just nodded once—small, almost imperceptible.

You said nothing.

The meeting began.

Heirs from kingdom after kingdom gave updates—plans for trade reform, ideas about infrastructure, treaties they were beginning to draft.

You listened. Took notes. Spoke when you were asked.

Jisung did the same.

But the space between you felt… different.

No sparks. No venom.

Just weight.

When the subject of the Virellian-Evarian tensions arose, you both stiffened. All eyes slid to your side of the table. The silence held for a beat too long.

Then Jisung spoke.

“The summit helped,” he said calmly. “But tensions remain. There’s still… work to be done.”

That was it.

Measured. Neutral.

But it left your throat dry.

You added, “Neither side can rewrite history. But maybe we can write the future better.”

There was a pause. And then nods.

Agreement.

The conversation moved on.

But Jisung glanced at you.

Not coldly. Not smugly.

Just… glanced.

Later, when the meeting adjourned for a short recess, the others filed out toward the veranda. You stayed seated, flipping aimlessly through your notes.

He stayed too.

A long pause settled between you before either of you broke it.

“So,” he said quietly. “What now?”

You glanced at him. “You mean between us?”

He didn’t answer.

But his gaze lingered on yours.

You exhaled.

“I don’t know.”

Silence.

“But we can’t go back to the way it was,” you added. “Not after… everything.”

“I wouldn’t want to,” he said.

That surprised you more than it should have.

You looked down at your hands. Your knuckles were pale from gripping your pen.

“I still don’t trust you,” you said.

“I don’t expect you to.”

You looked at him again.

His eyes weren’t burning like they used to. There was no challenge in them. Just exhaustion. And something quieter underneath.

Regret, maybe.

You looked away.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted.

“Me either.”

Another silence.

But it didn’t hurt this time.

It just… was.

“I hated you,” you said suddenly.

He nodded once. “I deserved it.”

You hadn’t expected him to agree.

You swallowed the tight knot rising in your throat.

“And now I don’t know what I feel,” you said, quieter.

“I think that’s okay,” he murmured.

Your eyes met his.

And for a moment, the world outside the chamber dissolved.

No kingdoms. No expectations. No bloodlines.

Just two people. Wounded. Wrong. Trying.

The door opened behind you. Ellara poked her head in, signaling the recess was over.

You stood.

So did he.

But just before you turned to go, his voice stopped you.

“Y/N.”

You looked back.

He hesitated, then said, “You looked strong today.”

Your brow arched. “That sounds like a compliment.”

He managed the ghost of a smile.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

You rolled your eyes. But your lips curled despite yourself.

Then you turned and walked away.

And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel like you were walking into a battlefield.

Just… into the unknown.

Whatever it was now between you and Jisung—it didn’t have a name.

But it had a shape.

A new one.

And maybe that was enough for now.

A/n: There was a lot of emotion put into this one, I hope you guys feel it.

[0leemoon0]

Velvet Chains-pt.3

Where Hate Lingers.

Pairing: Han Jisung x reader

Word count:~4.5k

Genre:angst, political intrigue, enemies to lovers, slow burn, royal AU, emotional drama

Warnings: emotional and physical abuse, toxic parent/child relationship, verbal degradation, implied past trauma, public embarrassment, cruelty, heavy angst, mutual hatred, psychological distress

Summary: You and Han Jisung were raised to hate each other—rival heirs of kingdoms scarred by war and betrayal. You’ve never officially met, but the tension has always simmered beneath the surface. The summit will change that. Do you really hate him? Does he really hate you? Or are those just the lies your parents taught you to wear—chains, hidden in velvet?

Master list

The morning after the banquet dawned cold, even within the marble halls of Serene Palace. The sun pressed pale gold against your windows, soft and silent, but it couldn’t thaw the tightness that had taken root beneath your skin.

You sat in front of the vanity, unmoving. Your dress hadn’t been fastened yet. The side of your shoulder, just beneath the neckline, was darkening to an ugly bluish-purple—the mark from where your mother had grabbed you too tightly the night before.

You didn’t hide it.

A knock came. But the door opened before you could respond.

Your father stepped inside.

He was already dressed in formal courtwear: black layered with crimson, his family crest sewn into the shoulder with silver thread. His posture, as always, was impeccable. He closed the door behind him slowly.

You sat up straighter without meaning to.

He didn’t greet you.

“You brought shame to your mother,” he said, voice low and precise. “And to me.”

Your jaw tightened. “He did it first.”

“I don’t care what he did.” His tone didn’t rise, but the chill in it deepened. “You lost control. You let the entire court see it.”

You didn’t speak. You knew better.

He walked toward you, slow and deliberate, until he stood just behind your chair. His gaze met yours in the mirror.

“You are not here to defend your pride,” he said. “You are here to serve the crown of Virellia. That means smiling when you’re insulted, kneeling when you’d rather stand, and knowing when to keep your damn mouth shut.”

He reached forward, his hand settling on your bare shoulder, squeezing. You flinched—barely—but he noticed.

He didn’t move his hand.

“Do you understand me?”

You nodded stiffly.

His grip tightened just slightly—not enough to leave a new bruise, but enough to remind you who had the power.

“I asked you a question.”

“Yes, Father,” you said through clenched teeth.

“Good.”

He let go, straightened his coat, and turned to leave.

“You’ll keep your mouth shut at court today. Not a single outburst. Not a flicker of attitude. Do you understand?”

You didn’t answer.

He turned back. “Say it.”

“Yes, Father.”

He stared at you for a beat, then left without another word.

The door clicked closed behind him, quiet as a blade slipping back into its sheath.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You stood in the throne hall an hour later, flanked by your mother and two Virellian advisors, your chin high and shoulders back like you’d been taught since childhood. The court of Serene was assembled again—dozens of representatives from nearly every kingdom gathered to listen to Queen Celessa’s second day of peace talks.

You were barely listening. Your eyes kept drifting across the room.

To him.

Han Jisung stood near the opposite column, dressed in Evarian navy edged in gold. He looked clean-cut today, formal and alert, but even from a distance you could see it: the sharp edge in his posture, the curl of disdain at the corner of his mouth.

He hadn’t forgotten last night.

Neither had you.

He caught you staring. And, slowly, raised one eyebrow like it was a dare.

You turned away before he could see the heat rising in your chest.

Not from embarrassment.

From rage.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that day, the royal families were instructed to attend a cultural demonstration hosted by Serene—some hollow attempt to “build bridges” through shared traditions. You were escorted down a polished marble corridor into one of the open-air garden halls, your mother’s hand clamped around your wrist the entire way.

To your horror, when you arrived, Jisung was already there.

And the seating arrangements—of course—had placed you beside him.

You said nothing as you took your seat.

But neither did he.

Not at first.

“You clean up well,” he muttered after a few minutes, just loud enough for you to hear. “Shame your personality ruins it.”

You stared straight ahead. “You’re one to talk. The only thing sharp about you is your tongue.”

“Thank you,” he said dryly.

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

He glanced sideways. “And yet, it’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me.”

You scoffed. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The event started, but neither of you paid attention. Not really. Every time his shoulder brushed yours—accidentally or otherwise—you could feel your muscles tighten. You didn’t want him near you. You didn’t want to see the smugness on his face. And you didn’t want to hear the way he almost whispered when he leaned in again.

“You’ve got a bruise,” he murmured.

You froze.

He was looking at your shoulder. Just briefly.

You tugged your shawl higher over it. “Mind your business.”

He leaned back. “I wasn’t going to ask who gave it to you.”

“Good. Because it’s not your concern.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he said, voice quieter now, “She always that gentle?”

You looked at him sharply.

“Careful,” you said, biting off each word. “If I wanted your pity, I’d ask for it.”

“It’s not pity.”

“Then what is it?”

He didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know either.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night, after dinner, you returned to your temporary quarters in silence. You’d barely said more than a sentence at court. Your mother had only offered one cold comment about your posture. Your father hadn’t looked at you once.

As you went to undress for bed, something thin and pale caught your eye on the floor beneath the door.

A letter.

You unfolded it carefully. The handwriting was neat, slanted slightly to the right.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen. With the wine. With your mother. You didn’t deserve the trouble it caused. Or the bruise. I’m not apologizing for the things I meant to do. But I didn’t mean for that.

— H.J”

You read it twice.

Then again.

And then folded it neatly, placed it into the drawer of your vanity, and didn’t respond.

You wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

Not yet.

Not when you weren’t sure whether that flicker in your chest was warmth…

Or warning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, the tension in the air was different.

Sharper.

It wasn’t just the stifling quiet between you and your parents as you stood side by side in the long corridor outside the royal audience chamber—it was the entire palace. The guards stood straighter. The noblemen whispered softer. Something was shifting beneath Serene’s polished surface.

Inside, the final day of summit negotiations was beginning. Tensions between Virellia and Evaris remained the central focus, and you were expected to be there. Present. Silent. Perfect.

As always.

You adjusted your gloves, head held high, and stepped through the doors with your family. Dozens of eyes turned. You were used to that.

What you weren’t used to was seeing Han Jisung already seated near the center of the room—his elbow draped lazily over the back of his chair, posture like he owned the space. As if none of this mattered to him. As if the whole court was some kind of game.

Your stomach twisted.

He looked at you. One glance.

And smiled.

It was the exact opposite of kind.

You ignored him.

You took your seat, every movement stiff with restraint. The queen of Serene spoke again—some speech about moving forward, about how peace was not built overnight, about how future generations depended on the unity forged here.

You barely heard a word of it.

Because Jisung leaned toward you and murmured, “You always look so serious. It’s exhausting.”

You didn’t turn your head. “Maybe if you spent less time talking, and more time listening, you’d understand why.”

“Oh, I understand. You’re just another puppet. Dressed up, painted nice, dragged around on a leash by your lovely little parents.”

Your jaw clenched. “And you’re what? A spoiled brute pretending to be a politician?”

“At least I don’t pretend.”

You turned sharply toward him, voice low but furious. “You’re not real. You’re just rage and pride sewn into silk. Do you think you intimidate me?”

“I don’t care if I do.”

“Then stop trying so hard.”

His smile returned, sharper now. “If I wanted to try, I’d do more than just talk.”

You stared at him, pulse thudding against your ribs. “Is that a threat?”

“Would it matter if it was?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because the truth was: it would. But not for the reason you wanted to admit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You managed to avoid him for the rest of the morning, which was a small miracle considering the endless press of formalities, the political theater staged for an audience that already hated each other.

But you weren’t safe for long.

By midday, Queen Celessa had arranged a shared luncheon for the younger royals—“to foster future understanding,” she’d said.

What she meant was: to trap you all in a room with no audience and no exits.

You were seated at a long table in one of the palace’s side courtyards, vines climbing the trellises overhead, sunlight casting thin shadows across the tablecloth. The seating was fixed. Names already placed.

You saw his name beside yours before you even sat down.

You almost turned to leave.

But then your mother’s voice, sharp and quiet in your ear: “Do not cause another scene.”

So you sat.

The table was filled with the heirs and heiresses of a dozen kingdoms—Evaris, Virellia, Darsienne, Almire, Ferros—but all you could feel was the heat radiating from the person beside you.

“You’re not very subtle, you know,” Jisung said as he poured himself a glass of wine.

“I’m not trying to be.”

“Ah. So this is your charming approach to diplomacy. Cold silence, thinly veiled hatred, and bruises you refuse to cover.”

You froze.

He sipped his wine.

You turned to him slowly. “Mention it again,” you said under your breath, “and I’ll make sure your kingdom bleeds for it.”

He laughed softly. “There she is.”

“Go to hell.”

“I live there.” He chuckled dryly.

The servants arrived, setting down silver trays of food, refilling glasses. You ignored it all.

And then—just as the conversation around the table began to swell with polite voices and polite lies—Jisung tipped his wine glass over.

Right into your lap.

A full, deliberate spill.

Scarlet across silk.

The table went silent.

Your hands shot back from the spill, too late. Your dress was soaked. Your skin stung.

And he was already leaning back in his chair, wearing that smug, careless look like he’d done nothing wrong.

You stood slowly.

The entire table stared.

You picked up your glass.

And poured it over his shoulder.

It wasn’t just a splash—it was a declaration.

“Oops,” you said, sweet as rot.

He froze.

His jaw flexed.

And then—just barely—he smiled again. This time without warmth.

Queen Celessa stood at the head of the table, clearly attempting to keep the peace. But she looked furious. Several nobles were whispering. Your mother—across the courtyard—was already on her feet.

You were dead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back in your room that night, your dress hung ruined across the back of a chair. The dried wine had stained the hem dark, sticky to the touch. You stared at it blankly.

Your mother hadn’t said much after dragging you out of the courtyard. Not at first.

But then the scolding came. Cruel words. Cold judgment. Your father said nothing during it—he only watched. Like a wolf watches a rabbit cornered. Like he was waiting for an excuse.

He didn’t need one tonight.

He would save it for later.

You were curled on the window seat now, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, trying not to tremble.

A knock came.

You didn’t answer.

A second knock. Slower.

You stood.

Opened the door.

And stared.

Han Jisung stood in the hallway, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

You said nothing.

He exhaled once through his nose. “It was supposed to be a joke.”

“Get out.”

“I didn’t think they’d—look, I know your mother’s unhinged, I didn’t think she’d—”

“Get out.”

He took a step forward. “I sent you the letter because I meant it. About the bruise. About the trouble. I know I make things worse, but I didn’t want—”

You slammed the door in his face.

Your hand stayed on the knob for a second.

Just one.

Then you locked it.

And backed away.

Because for the first time in your life, the only thing scarier than someone hating you…

Was someone not knowing why they didn’t anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning sun filtered through silk curtains like it didn’t know what had happened the night before.

As if the palace hadn’t echoed with her mother’s fury. As if her father’s hand hadn’t struck so hard it split the air like a whip. As if her ribs didn’t still ache with every breath.

You blinked awake slowly, arm curled beneath you, neck stiff from where you’d curled against the corner of your bed. You’d barely slept. You hadn’t even changed after everything.

Now the bruises were spreading.

Deeper. Sharper.

Across your ribs, your back, your arms, your shoulder. Even your chest, though no one would see there. No one was supposed to see any of it.

You sat up, wincing.

The soft knock at the door startled you.

It was early—just after sunrise. You assumed it was your maid, come to help you prepare. The summit was over, but the court remained. There would still be appearances to maintain, gossip to avoid, alliances to nurture.

You stood, rubbing your eyes, and slipped off the heavy sleeping robe you’d thrown over your dress the night before. You hadn’t changed out of the gown from the luncheon—wrinkled, soaked, stained. You tugged it down to your hips, unfastening the last hooks.

“One second Mary I’m coming” you yelled loud enough for whoever was on the other side of the door to hear.

Then you crossed to the door, bare-shouldered, the upper half of your dress folded down to your waist. You didn’t think. You just opened it.

And froze.

Han Jisung stood in the doorway.

Not your maid.

Not a servant.

Him.

His expression shifted the moment he saw you—eyes widening, mouth parting slightly. Not from desire. Not even shock.

From something quieter.

Something closer to horror.

Because what he saw wasn’t skin.

It was pain.

You tried to move—tried to pull the fabric up, to slam the door shut—but you weren’t fast enough.

The bruises were everywhere.

Dark, splotched purples blooming across your ribs, yellows and sickly greens down the sides of your torso, over your collarbones. Some shaped like fingertips. Some like strikes.

Jisung said nothing.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

You yanked the dress up violently, fists white at the seams.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you hissed, voice sharp with panic, with rage, with shame.

He still didn’t answer.

“Say something.”

His gaze finally lifted from your skin to your eyes.

“I thought—I thought I’d speak to you. After… everything.”

You stared at him, chest heaving. “You should go.”

“I—”

“Go.”

You shut the door.

Not slammed this time.

You closed it softly.

Locked it.

Then backed away slowly until you reached the edge of the bed and sank down, dress bunched in your fists, teeth gritted against the tremble in your chin. Sobs you didn’t even know you were capable of doing left your lips.

No one had ever seen.

Not even Ellara.

You didn’t care about Jisung. You didn’t. But he saw. And somehow, that was worse than anything your mother and father had ever done.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later, the palace felt different.

Lighter.

Your parents were gone.

The delegation from Virellia had packed and left early, your mother sweeping through the marble halls without so much as a glance in your direction. Your father had said nothing—not to you, not to anyone. His silence was heavier than her fury.

They left you behind as planned. Three weeks. That had been the agreement.

You were staying in Serene under the excuse of “continuing diplomatic development.” But you knew the truth. You were bait. A symbol. A breathing, bruised chess piece left behind to play nice with the monsters they hated.

Your ribs throbbed as you walked down the hallway toward the solarium, a scroll of court duties clutched in your hand.

Of course he was there.

Jisung stood at the tall window, arms crossed over his chest, watching the sunlight spill onto the mosaic floors like he could find answers in it.

You almost turned and walked the other way.

But he heard your footsteps.

“You’re welcome,” he said, without turning.

“For what?”

“For not saying anything.”

You stopped a few paces away from him.

“You think I owe you gratitude?”

“I think you’d rather pretend I didn’t see.”

You crossed your arms, keeping your face cold. “You’re right.”

He turned to look at you then. His gaze wasn’t cruel this time. It wasn’t mocking.

But it wasn’t kind either.

“You can hate me all you want,” he said, voice low, “but I’m not the one who did that to you.”

You flinched before you could stop it.

He saw.

“I don’t want your pity,” you spat.

“Good. I’m not offering it.”

You stared at each other.

And for once, there were no insults.

Just silence.

He stepped closer—not much. Just enough that the space between you felt heavy.

You didn’t move.

“There are things I should’ve said,” he murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like sorry.”

You lifted your chin. “Is that supposed to fix something?”

“No,” he said, honestly. “But I wanted to say it anyway.”

The silence returned.

You couldn’t read him.

Didn’t want to.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about that moment in the doorway. His face. His silence. His eyes locked not on your body, but the places you tried to hide.

You turned your back to him.

Walked away.

Because the most terrifying thing in the world wasn’t your father’s fists, or your mother’s tongue.

It was someone seeing you and not looking away.

It had been three days since the door opened.

Three days since he saw what had been hidden beneath silks and diplomacy. Three days since your bruises shattered the tension between you into something heavier—something that lingered.

And Jisung hadn’t spoken to you since.

Not out of anger.

Not anymore.

It was something quieter now. A guilt he couldn’t quite name. He’d seen bruises before—war-born, training-earned, rebellion-stamped. But never like that. Never that color. Never on someone standing so straight, so proud, like their spine was the only thing holding them together.

He stopped provoking you.

And that was the first sign.

The breakfast hall on the second morning was quiet. Courtiers from various kingdoms filtered in late, many of the younger royals staying behind in Serene now that the summit had ended. You sat alone at the long end of the table, flipping through a report from some lesser house trying to trade weapons for grain.

Jisung passed behind you and said nothing.

No muttered jab about your posture. No smug insult disguised as a greeting. Not even a glance.

It unnerved you more than his usual barbs.

By lunch, he’d done it again. This time you saw him from across the courtyard. You were discussing estate tax reforms with Ellara—half-listening, half-hoping he wouldn’t come close.

He looked at you.

Just for a moment.

And walked away.

No wine. No remarks about how grain tariffs were your only personality trait. No cruel smile.

You hated the way it made your heart ache. Not because he was being kind—he wasn’t. He was being nothing. And somehow that felt worse than everything else.

The bruises were healing slowly. You covered them as always, but your movements were still stiff. You’d stopped looking at yourself in the mirror altogether.

And yet—his face that night still haunted you. That flicker of something that wasn’t disgust or amusement, but quiet devastation. He hadn’t meant to see. And he hadn’t looked away.

That evening, you found yourself sitting in the garden just before dusk, where the lilies bloomed near the fountain. You didn’t know why you were there. Maybe you hoped the cold air would numb your ribs. Maybe you wanted to be anywhere your mother’s voice hadn’t touched.

The gravel crunched behind you.

You turned.

Jisung again.

But he didn’t speak. Didn’t move closer.

Just stood there, a few paces back, arms crossed tightly like he had something to say but hated himself for even thinking it.

“What?” you asked flatly.

His eyes flicked to the bench beside you, then back to yours. “I’m not here to bother you.”

“You always say that before bothering me.”

“I’m serious.”

You let the silence drag, staring at the dying light on the water. “Then why are you here?”

He shifted. “I… don’t know.”

You scoffed under your breath. “Brilliant.”

Still, he didn’t leave.

You could feel the heat of his gaze like it was brushing across your skin.

“I shouldn’t have done what I did,” he said finally, voice low. “The wine. That whole… thing.”

You didn’t turn to look at him. “Because it made you look bad?”

“No,” he said. Too quickly. Then, quieter: “Because it got you hurt.”

You inhaled sharply, throat tightening.

He noticed.

He was watching too closely now. Always watching.

“I didn’t know,” he added, almost like he hated the words. “I didn’t think—”

“You never do,” you snapped, standing too quickly. Pain stabbed through your ribs, a yelp threatened to come out, but you swallowed it.

“I didn’t think your mother would—”

“My mother?” You turned then, fire burning beneath your skin. “Do you think this is new? You think this just started because you spilled a glass of wine?”

He flinched like you’d slapped him.

You stepped closer. “This is years, Han Jisung. This is years of never being enough. Of sitting still and smiling while they decide whether or not you’re worth being alive today. And you—” You stopped, breath ragged, tears filled your eyes but you choked them back. “You just made it worse.”

His jaw clenched. “I didn’t mean to.”

“No one ever does.”

You stepped back. Looked away.

“I’m not looking for your sympathy,” you said after a moment. “Just leave me alone.”

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

And that was somehow worse.

You started to turn away, but his voice stopped you.

“I didn’t know I could hurt someone like that.”

You froze.

“I’ve said things. Done things. But I didn’t know I could—” He stopped himself, exhaled sharply. “I didn’t know until I saw you.”

There it was again.

That voice. Too raw. Too real.

You couldn’t stand it.

“You did,” you whispered. “You just didn’t care.”

And then you walked away.

This time, he didn’t follow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night, sleep never came.

You lay awake beneath layers of silks and shadows, staring at the ornate ceiling above your bed, heart too loud in your chest.

You didn’t want Jisung to feel bad for you.

But part of you wanted him to keep hurting—if only to prove he had a heart at all.

You didn’t know what to do with the look he gave you.

Like he was starting to see you.

Not the crown. Not the daughter of his father’s enemy.

You.

And it terrified you more than anything your parents ever said.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days that followed passed like smoke—slow and heavy, choking the light from the air.

You noticed it before anyone else.

Jisung looked awful.

His usual sharp, clean poise had dulled, like someone had cut the string holding him up. The blood had drained from his face, leaving his skin too pale, his eyes dark-rimmed and sunken. Not like he hadn’t slept. Like sleep hadn’t helped.

He barely spoke during shared meals now. If he did, his voice was distant, as though every word had to claw its way out.

You didn’t speak to him either. You didn’t need to. The silence between you said enough.

Even the court noticed.

On the fifth morning after the end of the summit, a whisper had begun to curl through the halls like ivy: What’s happened to the Prince of Evaris? Is he ill?

You heard Lady Maelynn murmur something cruel about it behind her fan.

“If heartbreak looks like that, I hope he never falls in love again.”

You almost laughed.

Because heartbreak wasn’t the word.

You watched him across the room. He wasn’t eating. Just sitting, eyes glazed, fingers tapping the stem of his goblet as if trying to keep himself from crumbling entirely.

There was a dark flush under his eyes, but not from drink. His hands trembled when he thought no one was looking.

Once, he caught your gaze.

And he looked away faster than he ever had before.

Guilt dripped off of him like ink into water—subtle at first, then staining everything it touched.

It wasn’t just shame for what he’d done. Not anymore.

It was what he felt.

And he didn’t know how to live with it.

You caught him lingering outside the corridor leading to your wing one night—just for a second before he realized you’d seen him and turned away. He said nothing. Didn’t even try to explain.

The next day, you overheard a servant talking in the laundry courtyard.

“Saw the prince again this morning,” she whispered. “Looked like death. Like his soul had crawled halfway out.”

It struck you harder than you expected.

Because it was true.

You didn’t want to care.

You didn’t.

But it was impossible not to notice the way his shoulders slumped now when he walked. How he no longer snapped at the staff. How his eyes, once sharp with hatred, now looked lost—like the sharp edges had dulled into something unrecognizable.

He’d looked at you with fury once.

Now, he barely looked at all.

And yet, somehow, you felt him more than ever.

Like his silence was louder than his cruelty had ever been.

You saw it during council too. When he was asked a direct question, he answered with less venom, more weight. His words still carried power, but it was quieter now—measured. Like he was afraid of what might happen if he wasn’t careful.

Like he was afraid of becoming the version of himself who had once made you bleed without lifting a hand.

Three days passed like this.

Then four.

Then five.

By the sixth morning, he didn’t even show up for the morning meeting.

Ellara whispered that he was sick.

But you knew better.

He wasn’t sick.

He was drowning.

And no one else knew how deep it went.

A/n: poor Jisung :( don’t worry though this has a happy ending!!

[0leemoon0]

Velvet Chains-pt.2

A Toast To Enemies.

Pairing: Han Jisung x reader

Word count:~3k

Genre:angst, political intrigue, enemies to lovers, slow burn, royal AU, emotional drama

Warnings:emotional and physical abuse, toxic parent/child relationship, verbal degradation, implied past trauma, public embarrassment, cruelty, heavy angst, mutual hatred, psychological distress

Summary: You and Han Jisung were raised to hate each other—rival heirs of kingdoms scarred by war and betrayal. You’ve never officially met, but the tension has always simmered beneath the surface. The summit will change that. Do you really hate him? Does he really hate you? Or are those just the lies your parents taught you to wear—chains, hidden in velvet?

Master list

The morning of the summit rose with a fragile stillness, as if even the wind held its breath.

Serene, the neutral kingdom nestled between warring borders, had dressed itself in illusions of peace. Banners fluttered from marble towers, woven with the sigils of fifteen kingdoms. Flowers spilled from stone planters in a display of false unity. Servants moved like shadows, polishing silver and adjusting drapery. And nobles, lacquered in silk and secrets, filled the palace halls with their clipped laughter and calculated glances.

You stood on the balcony of your guest chamber, dressed in midnight blue. The sleeves of your gown hung long and loose, concealing the lingering bruises your mother had left two nights prior. They pulsed faintly beneath your skin, but the ache wasn’t enough to distract you from the bile in your throat.

This was it. The summit. The performance.

Inside, Ellara adjusted the folds of her lavender dress, her fingers shaking slightly.

“Today decides everything,” she murmured, eyes flicking to yours in the mirror. “Not just for Virellia and Evaris—for all of us.”

You didn’t answer. The silence between you carried too much weight.

The masquerade had been a mere curtain-raiser. Tonight, the world would watch the heirs of fifteen nations step into a room and pretend not to hate each other. Pretend centuries of war could be softened with wine and protocol.

You were not in the mood to pretend.

The summit was held in the Grand Concordium, a vast chamber lined with arched windows and fluted columns, the ceiling painted with a mural of the ancient gods who had, supposedly, once united the realms.

Your mother walked ahead of you, her spine perfectly straight, her voice sharp as cut glass when she murmured, “You will speak only when spoken to. You will smile when necessary. And you will not, under any circumstance, embarrass this family again.”

Your jaw tightened. You followed her into the hall, your father next to her.

Nobles from Darsienne, Caeloras, Belruhn, Araveth, and a dozen others took their seats in the circular layout. Crystal goblets gleamed on every table. Laughter buzzed like flies over a corpse.

Then you saw him.

Han Jisung.

Crown Prince of Evaris.

His presence split the room like a thunderclap, even though no one acknowledged it out loud. He wore black embroidered in dark silver, his raven hair pushed back messily, like he hadn’t bothered with the performance of polish everyone else was so obsessed with.

His eyes, sharp and unreadable, found yours.

The room didn’t fall silent. But your mind did.

There he was. In the flesh. Not behind rumors or veils. Not hidden behind the masquerade’s magic. There was no mask this time—only skin and bone and blood.

And something coiled, low in your gut. Not desire. Not fear. Something uglier.

Recognition. And rage.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Introductions were formal. Boring. Too slow.

You waited for your name to be announced. The hall hushed slightly. A few heads turned. Not toward your mother—the queen of Virellia always made herself known. But toward you.

“And her royal highness, Y/N of Virellia.”

You descended the short staircase with practiced elegance. You didn’t scan the room. You didn’t need to.

His gaze was already burning into your skin.

You made your way to your designated table. And of course, fate had placed the Evarians directly opposite you. Jisung sat with his father, King Halric, looking utterly unimpressed.

You refused to look away first.

“So,” he said, loud enough for your table to hear. “The infamous daughter of the Virellian queen. Tell me how does it feel to live in your mother’s shadow, or is that the only way she lets you survive?”

Ellara sucked in a breath beside you. Someone laughed softly, nervously.

Your lips curled into a slow, icy smile. “I imagine it feels better than living in the gutter of your father’s disappointment. But then again, you’d know more about that than I would.”

The tension was instant. Thick enough to choke on.

Across the room, several ambassadors shifted uncomfortably. The King of Araveth cleared his throat.

Jisung’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Cute,” he said, lifting his goblet. “I suppose even stray dogs learn to bark.”

You clinked your glass against his with a smirk. “And some mutts just never stop whining.”

He raised his brows, clearly amused. Not flustered. Not angry. Just… sharp. Like you were a puzzle he intended to break apart piece by piece.

You hated him. Instantly. Deeply. It sank into your bones like poison.

You tried to say something else but your father cut you off.

“Enough Y/n.” He said firmly, you immediately turned back around. Pissing off your father would be the greatest mistake you made, so you stayed silent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lunch was served on gilded plates, but the tension between you and the Evarian prince was far sharper than any silverware at the table.

The discussion turned to trade routes—neutral territories, grain levies, taxation. All mind-numbing. All posturing. You tried to focus on the emissaries from Darsienne and Belruhn, but you could feel Jisung across the room, lounging like a predator that had already eaten, waiting to get bored again.

You dared a glance.

He was watching you. One elbow perched on the arm of his chair, the other hand loosely holding his wine.

And then—he rose.

So casually, so fluidly, as though the entire gesture had no motive. But you knew better. You saw it coming.

Jisung stepped around the table, his movements slow, unbothered, charmingly theatrical for anyone who might be watching—but his eyes stayed locked on you.

The red wine in his glass gleamed like spilled rubies.

He came to your side. Lifted his glass.

“Forgive me,” he said, all polite venom, “but I simply couldn’t resist making a personal toast to Virellia’s golden jewel.”

And without another word

He tipped the glass.

You gasped as the cold wine soaked your gown, bleeding dark across your bodice and down your front like a wound.

The entire summit hall went still.

Ellara choked on her drink. A Darsiennese duke dropped his fork. Somewhere across the room, your mother stiffened but didn’t rise.

The prince merely smiled. “Sorry I tripped. How clumsy of me,” he said, his voice a perfect mask of mock-concern. “I hope that wasn’t silk.”

Your breath came fast. You could taste iron behind your teeth.

The Evarian delegates chuckled behind their goblets, soft and low.

You stood slowly, the wet fabric clinging to your skin. “Actually,” you said, voice calm—too calm, “I believe it was silk.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but he was too slow.

You grabbed your own glass of wine and hurled it into his face.

The splash rang through the room.

Gasps. Laughter. Scandal. Someone said your name—sharp, warning.

You didn’t care.

The deep burgundy dripped from Jisung’s jawline and ruined his perfect black attire. He blinked once. Then smiled. Slowly. Like this was exactly what he wanted.

“A matched set,” he murmured. “Now we both look the part.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The summit did not recover.

You were escorted out by a Virellian steward. Your mother didn’t follow immediately. She didn’t need to. The promise of her wrath waited for you like a blade.

You barely heard Ellara’s whispers of “Y/N, what were you thinking?” as she tried to keep up.

Back in your guest quarters, the dress was peeled from your skin and dumped in a heap on the floor. The wine stained not just the fabric but the flesh beneath—like shame, like fury, like defeat.

The knock came twenty minutes later.

And then she was inside.

Your mother.

Queen Alinor.

The door shut like a verdict behind her.

You didn’t bow. You didn’t speak.

She didn’t slap you this time. That would’ve been merciful.

“Do you know,” she said quietly, “how much diplomacy costs? How many lives teeter on this summit? Do you understand the risk your existence already brings to my crown, and still, you go out of your way to humiliate this family in front of every sovereign on the continent?”

You swallowed. “He poured it on me first.”

“Oh, don’t be stupid,” she hissed, eyes flashing. “Of course he did. That’s what they do. They push. They prod. They provoke. You were supposed to smile and make him look childish, not lower yourself to his level like a tavern brat in a bar fight.”

Your fingers clenched at your sides.

“And do you think the summit leaders will see a cunning Virellian heir?” she snapped, stepping closer. “No. They’ll see a hysterical girl who can’t manage her temper. They’ll see me, incapable of raising someone fit for court.”

And then she shoved you.

Not hard. Not violent. But enough.

You stumbled against the dresser, one hip slamming painfully into the corner. The pain jolted through your side—right where a bruise already bloomed.

You didn’t cry, but a yelp left your lips as you bit down on the inside of your cheek until you tasted blood.

“Get dressed,” she said coldly, turning on her heel. “We return to the summit for the evening council. Try not to make a spectacle of yourself again.”

The door closed behind her.

You exhaled shakily.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jisung hadn’t meant to linger.

But he’d wandered the upper halls, away from the buzz of nobles scrambling to re-balance themselves after the lunchtime debacle. He’d followed the murmur of a voice—yours—and the ice in your mother’s tone that didn’t belong in any maternal mouth.

He hadn’t meant to listen.

But he did.

Every word.

He heard the cruelty. The guilt-twisting phrasing. The anger not born of discipline but of humiliation. The need to control, to break.

And he heard the sound—that soft, dull thud—and the pain that left your lips.

Something cracked inside him. Quietly. Imperceptibly. But it cracked.

He didn’t move until your mother was gone. He didn’t let himself think about what it meant.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The evening council resumed. The summit dragged forward.

Jisung entered late, hair slightly damp from a change of clothes, a fresh goblet in hand. Your eyes didn’t lift to meet him. Not at first.

But when they did—you saw it.

Not pity. Never that. But… something.

A flicker of something foreign in the sea of disdain.

Your gaze hardened instantly. Whatever softness he might’ve thought he saw—gone.

And yet…

When you turned away, your dress shifted slightly, and he saw it.

The dark bloom just beneath your shoulder blade, where the fabric didn’t quite hide the damage.

He said nothing.

Just took a long sip of wine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The summit stretched on long after the sun dipped below the marble spires of Serene.

By evening, the Grand Concordium was lit with a thousand flickering lanterns, their golden glow trying to mimic warmth that didn’t exist between nations—or between people like you and Han Jisung.

You sat through reports, debates, policy negotiations. Your mother answered most questions for your house. You spoke only when required, voice level, eyes empty.

But Jisung?

He didn’t stop watching you.

Not like before—no smugness, no gloating. Just quiet calculation. Like he couldn’t decide whether you were worth pushing again… or worth leaving the hell alone.

And then came the closing reception.

Less formal, more dangerous.

The final hour of the summit was meant to be a social wind-down—delegates and heirs mingling over drinks, trying to sew some fragile sense of camaraderie. You stood near a balcony alcove with Ellara and a few other royals from lesser kingdoms, doing your best to disappear.

It didn’t work.

Because of course—he came to you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You felt him approach before you saw him. That chill across your spine again.

“You change quickly,” Jisung said idly, eyes trailing the new dress—still dark, but sleeveless now. “Or did your mother rip the last one off you after scolding you like a child?”

You turned slowly. Your eyes widened before you turned towards him. He must have heard. You went back to being unstartled. Not even angry this time. Just… tired.

“You always talk like you’re clever,” you said evenly, “but it’s exhausting, really. All that mouth, and nothing worth saying.”

He smirked. “Now that’s rich, coming from someone who plays pretend better than half the court jesters in this place.”

Your lip curled. “Keep pushing, Evarian. Eventually, you’ll find the edge you fall off.”

“I’m hoping you’re that edge.”

Your breath caught—and not because it was flirtation. It wasn’t. There was nothing sweet in the way he said it. It sounded more like a threat than a compliment. Like he wanted to shove you past your limits just to see what broke.

You took a step forward.

“You have no idea what I’ve had to survive just to stand in this room.”

He tilted his head. “And yet here you are, wasting breath like a pampered brat playing martyr.”

And that was it.

The last nerve frayed.

You didn’t yell. You didn’t curse. You just looked at him like you wished him dead.

And maybe you did.

He was the first to break the eye contact. Just for a second. His gaze flicked down your arm—where the faintest hint of a hand-shaped bruise, no longer hidden by sleeves, had crept into view beneath your shoulder.

You saw it hit him. That flash of something he didn’t want you to see.

And so you twisted the knife.

“What?” you whispered, voice low. “Didn’t think a spoiled heir could bruise so nicely?”

His jaw tightened. But he didn’t speak.

Didn’t apologize.

Didn’t offer comfort.

Because he hated you. Just like you hated him.

And neither of you were ready for anything else.

You left before he could say anything more.

But your mother was waiting in your chambers.

This time, no words. Just a letter.

Sealed with the gold crest of Virellia.

“From the council,” she said. “You’ve been invited to stay for the peace talks over the next three weeks. As a political representative of the Virellian line.”

You stared. “Three weeks?”

She nodded, calm. “You’ll play your part. Dress well. Speak sparingly. No more theatrics.”

Your stomach twisted. “You’re keeping me here… with him?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’ve embarrassed me enough. If I must drag dignity from your performance, I’ll do it here, where I can control it.”

There was no room for refusal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jisung sat by the balcony railing alone, wine in hand. He didn’t look up when he heard your footsteps echo in the corridor beyond.

But when your silhouette passed in the reflection of the tall windows—he saw the mark again.

Fainter this time. But there.

And still, he said nothing.

Not yet.

Because whatever this was between you—this war—you were both still soldiers in it.

And mercy had no place in the opening battles.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning came cold.

The sky over Serene was thick with grey clouds, as though the kingdom itself braced for what the summit would become now—dragged out, fraying at the seams.

You weren’t summoned to court that morning.

You were summoned to your mother.

Her chambers were colder than yours, despite the roaring fire.

She didn’t look up when you entered. She sat at her writing desk, quill in hand, brushing ink onto parchment with precise elegance. She didn’t speak until the silence felt unbearable.

“You’ll attend the northern banquet this evening,” she said, voice calm as always. “The king of Aeroth has a son your age. You’ll make conversation.”

You swallowed. “You mean I’ll pretend to be interested in him so you can fish for an alliance.”

Her quill stopped. She turned slowly.

“What I mean,” she said, “is that you will serve your country, for once in your miserable, selfish life.”

You said nothing. You could hear your own breath—tight, shallow, controlled.

Her eyes swept over you. And she smiled.

Not kindly.

“I suggest you apply more powder tonight,” she murmured. “Your bruises are starting to show again.”

Your throat tightened.

“You know,” she added, “Han Jisung may be an arrogant, insufferable little wretch, but at least he understands how to wield shame. He humiliated you in front of every ruler on the continent, and you—what did you do? You cried.”

“I didn’t cry,” you whispered.

“No. But you looked like you wanted to.” She stood. Crossed the room slowly. “There is nothing more pathetic than a woman who bleeds openly.”

Her fingers brushed your cheek—not lovingly, not even cruelly. Just cold. Measured.

“Fix it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The banquet hall that evening pulsed with light and laughter and something just short of sincerity. The prince of Aeroth—Joren—was charming in a way that felt safe, harmless. But you couldn’t focus. Not on him. Not on wine. Not on anything but the pressure simmering beneath your ribs.

And Jisung?

He watched again.

From across the room. From behind a crowd. From the shadows near the carved marble columns.

He watched when your smile cracked.

When you brushed your shoulder and winced.

When Queen Alinor leaned down at one point to whisper something in your ear that made your spine stiffen like snapped steel.

He saw it all.

And for a moment—just one—he moved.

He walked toward her.

Not toward you.

Toward her.

But someone—a noble from Caldrien—intercepted him halfway. Pulled him into a conversation.

You watched it happen.

Watched the moment where he nearly did something insane, and the second where he blinked it away.

Your mother left the hall before dessert.

Jisung didn’t look at you again that night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You didn’t cry when you got back to your room.

You sat down in front of the mirror, removed your earrings, wiped the powder from your shoulder, and stared.

The bruise had darkened into deep plum. A gift from your mother’s fury after the spilled wine incident. A mark she hadn’t tried to hide. A warning pressed into skin.

You didn’t cry. But your hand shook when you tried to unlace your dress. And when it caught, twisted, and bit into your ribs, you flinched so violently you knocked the stool over behind you.

You knelt there on the rug in silence. Dress half-open. Eyes dry. Chest heaving.

Not from panic. Not from pain.

From fury.

Everything inside you was screaming. But there was no room left in the world to scream back. You looked at yourself in the mirror. You looked closely at the bruises left. Your ribs, shoulders, hips, thighs, all covered with dark large splotches of hate. You sighed.

A knock came at the door.

You froze.

Another knock. Firmer.

You quickly slipped your dress back on and stepped toward the door. You didn’t ask who it was before pulling it open.

You should have.

Han Jisung stood in the corridor. Alone.

You didn’t move.

He didn’t either.

His eyes swept over you—your tangled hair, the laces of your dress still half-undone, the smudge of powder you’d missed over your shoulder.

The bruise wasn’t visible from where he stood.

But his gaze lingered on that spot anyway.

“What do you want?” you said, voice brittle.

He didn’t answer immediately.

“You dropped this.” He spoke softly.

He held out a small brooch. A Virellian pin. One that had fallen from your sleeve earlier at the banquet. You hadn’t even noticed.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

“…Thanks,” you muttered.

He didn’t hand it to you.

He set it on the table just inside your room, stepped back into the hall, and met your eyes again.

Something passed between you. Not kindness. Not pity.

Recognition.

You were both drowning. Just in different rivers.

And then—he left.

No parting words. No lingering glances.

Just silence.

A/n: I hope you guys like it!! These next ones took a lot longer to write than the first few.

[0leemoon0]

Velvet Chains-pt.1

The Masquerade

Pairing: Han Jisung x reader

Word count: ~3k

Genre: angst, political drama, enemies to lovers, slow burn, royal AU, forbidden romance

Warnings: emotional abuse, physical abuse (non-graphic but intense), toxic family dynamics, misogyny, internalized trauma, public humiliation, mentions of manipulation, class/power imbalance, heavy themes

Summary: You and Han Jisung were raised to hate each other—rival heirs of kingdoms scarred by war and betrayal. You’ve never officially met, but the tension has always simmered beneath the surface. The summit will change that. Do you really hate him? Does he really hate you? Or are those just the lies your parents taught you to wear—chains, hidden in velvet?

Master list

The air in Serene tastes like rosewater and diplomacy.

Everything about the masquerade is polished to perfection: polished marble floors that reflect chandeliers like mirrors; polished nobles with champagne laughter and secrets stitched into their gowns. Music drips from the ceilings like honey, soft and sweet enough to drown in.

You hate it here.

Not because it’s ugly—Serene is breathtaking—but because it’s fake. The kingdom of peace, they call it, as if gold fountains and peace treaties can rinse the blood from history. As if their smug little masquerade can erase the hatred carved into your bones.

Virellia did not come to play nice.

Your mother made that abundantly clear during the carriage ride.

“Stand tall,” she hissed, eyes raking over your reflection like she wanted to shatter it. “Stomach in. Shoulders back. No slouching. And for god’s sake, do not let the Evarians think they’ve rattled you.”

You didn’t reply. You never do.

Not when her nails dig into your wrist beneath the silks. Not when she calls you “plump” in the same breath she tells you to smile for the cameras. Not when she whispers, “Maybe if you spent less time brooding and more time running, your gowns would fit better.”

You swallowed it all.

Like poison.

Like training.

Now, as you descend the ballroom stairs in a storm-colored gown and a delicate black mask, your chin is high. Your spine is steel. You are every inch the perfect daughter of Virellia.

And you are ready to burn this ballroom to ash.

You make the rounds. Smile at the nobles. Curtsy to the lords. Trade hollow pleasantries with ambassadors whose eyes flicker too long over your figure.

But your mind is elsewhere.

Scanning. Waiting.

Because you know he’s here.

Han Jisung.

The golden devil of Evaris.

You haven’t seen him yet, but the tension in your chest tightens with every step. You feel it thrumming beneath your skin like static. Like lightning waiting to strike.

And then you see him.

Across the ballroom.

Leaning against a marble pillar like he owns the entire kingdom, dressed in obsidian silk, mask perched lazily over his smug, smirking face. He’s surrounded by diplomats and debutantes, all laughing too loudly at whatever clever venom drips from his tongue.

You don’t recognize the sound that leaves your throat.

Disgust. Fury. Maybe something else.

Your fingers tighten around your wine glass until your knuckles blanch, the stem of it trembling like it wants to snap. Your eyes don’t leave him—not even when someone bumps your shoulder in passing, murmuring an apology you don’t bother to acknowledge.

He’s laughing.

God, he’s laughing like this isn’t war dressed in velvet. Like he doesn’t have blood on his hands, like his people didn’t torch villages and leave children motherless in the snow.

Like soldiers didn’t come back in coffins draped in silk instead of shrouds.

He tips his head back mid-laugh, eyes flashing silver beneath the mask. The way his mouth moves—casual, arrogant—makes something tighten in your chest, sharp and sudden.

He’s beautiful.

In the way lightning is beautiful. In the way a predator’s teeth are beautiful right before they tear through flesh.

You hate that.

You hate him.

And yet—your feet don’t move.

You stand frozen at the edge of the crowd, watching him with all the subtlety of a dagger drawn behind your back.

Your mask hides your expression, but it doesn’t matter. You know your eyes betray you. You know the tension in your posture—the lift of your chin, the coiled disgust in your jaw—is louder than any spoken curse.

He hasn’t seen you yet.

Good.

Let him enjoy his charade.

You scan the room like a strategist on the battlefield. His allies are easy to spot—glittering Evarian lapels and smug expressions, all flanked by Serene officials trying too hard to pretend this is diplomacy and not a performance. He’s surrounded, but not guarded. Confident in a way that makes your skin crawl.

You take a slow sip of wine and shift your gaze, trying to focus on anything else.

But your eyes betray you again.

They flick back—once, twice—always to him.

You imagine what it would be like to walk up, shatter his glass against the marble, and ask what it feels like to sleep in a kingdom built on graves. But you don’t. Of course you don’t.

Not tonight.

Tonight, you’re the perfect Virellian heir: restrained, graceful, sharp enough to draw blood without lifting a blade.

You let yourself glare. Just once. A quiet, violent thing.

And that’s when he turns.

Like he felt it.

Like your gaze singed something beneath his skin.

Han Jisung looks straight at you.

And the whole room falls away.

No words. No movement. Just locked eyes across a sea of silk and song.

He doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t blink.

Just lifts one dark brow like a question. Or a dare.

His mouth curves—not into a full smile, but something worse.

A smirk.

Small. Self-assured. Calculated.

Like he knows he’s under your skin. Like he enjoys it.

Your grip tightens again. The glass creaks.

You wonder, absurdly, if he remembers the last time you locked eyes. That charity gala two years ago. Different city. Same tension. He looked through you then like he could see every weakness you’ve ever hidden.

Now, he looks at you.

And you hate it.

You tilt your head, slowly, deliberately, then turn your back.

Let him stew in it. Let him wonder if that look in your eyes was loathing or strategy.

You move through the crowd like a shadow. Gown trailing smoke. Mask catching flickers of candlelight.

You smile at a noble from Darsienne—your best friend Ellara’s older cousin, and make polite conversation while the orchestra swells. You even manage to laugh when he tells a joke about trade tariffs, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

Nothing does.

You can still feel Jisung’s gaze like a thorn in your side.

It doesn’t leave.

Even as you circle the room, greeting foreign royals with frost in your voice and fire in your spine, you feel his eyes tracking you. Not constantly. Not overtly.

But enough.

Enough to make your blood sing.

You pass diplomats from Sondros and Mayrenna—smaller kingdoms, desperate to stay relevant in the summit’s shadow. Their words are careful. Their praise cloying. Their gazes never meet yours for long.

Because you’re not just another noblewoman in a gown.

You’re the daughter of the Virellian Queen.

The symbol of everything they fear. Everything they want silenced.

And tonight, you’re wrapped in steel silk and spite, playing your mother’s game to perfection.

Until you spot Ellara across the ballroom.

Her mask is crystalline blue, a delicate match for the winter tones of her kingdom. She stands near a cluster of Serene officials, her posture regal—but her eyes widen slightly when she sees you.

She excuses herself from the conversation and slips through the crowd with practiced ease, stopping just short of you.

“You look like you’re about to bite someone,” she murmurs, low enough for only you to hear.

You tilt your head. “Maybe I am.”

Ellara grins, but there’s an edge to it. “I assume he’s the reason.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Her eyes flick past your shoulder, and her lips twist with something too knowing.

“I saw him earlier. Looking this way.”

“I know.”

“Do you think he knows who you are?”

You consider it. Shake your head once.

“Not through the mask.”

“But he’s watching you.”

You shrug, feigning indifference. “Let him.”

Ellara gives you a long look.

“You’re playing a dangerous game.”

You smile—sharp, cold, flawless.

“I was raised on danger.”

She doesn’t argue. Just slides her arm through yours and steers you toward a quieter alcove tucked beneath a staircase. You’re grateful for it. The ballroom’s perfume-choked air is starting to curdle in your lungs.

You lean against the stone wall, hidden in shadow. From here, you can see the entire ballroom. The music swells again—something orchestral and sweet—and masked nobles twirl like spinning coins across the polished floor.

You don’t look for him.

But your eyes find him anyway.

Still against the pillar. Still surrounded. Still infuriatingly beautiful in that arrogant, war-born way.

He’s not looking at you now.

He’s whispering something to a red-haired diplomat, and her laugh is too loud. Too fake.

It makes your skin crawl.

You wonder if he notices. If he sees the falseness in their eyes the way you do. If he’s just as tired of the show. If he’s just as good at pretending.

Ellara’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“Is your mother behaving herself?”

You huff. “Define ‘behaving.’”

She winces. “Sorry.”

You shrug. “She only called me fat twice before we got here. That counts as mercy, I think.”

Ellara frowns, her hand tightening slightly on your arm. “You know none of that’s true, right?”

You flash her a brittle smile. “I know.”

You don’t.

Not really.

Because her voice lives in your bones. In the way you study your reflection. In the way you straighten your shoulders before every step. In the way you rehearse your expressions in the mirror like a soldier sharpening blades.

You never feel more like your mother’s daughter than when you’re pretending not to be.

And tonight, your performance is flawless.

You leave the alcove shortly after, offering Ellara a small nod before drifting back toward the main floor. Your steps are deliberate, controlled.

And when you pass him again—closer this time, close enough to see the gleam of the mask on his skin—you don’t flinch.

But you do glance sideways.

And so does he.

For a moment—just one—the air between you stretches thin as wire. His lips part slightly, as if he might say something. But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

You both keep walking.

Like strangers.

Like enemies.

Like people who might tear each other apart with nothing more than a look.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The orchestra shifts tempo.

A waltz, darker now—strings trembling like something about to snap.

You pace yourself with the rhythm, calculating your every turn as if the marble floor were a battlefield. Maybe it is. After all, Serene is just a prettier name for neutral ground. A stage built for backroom deals and velvet-covered threats.

And tonight, you are on display.

Not just for Jisung.

For everyone.

You feel the eyes. Hungry ones. Political ones. Kingdoms sizing you up like a prize horse or a ticking bomb. You’re used to it by now. You’ve been trained to be seen, but never truly known.

The mask helps. It always has.

It hides the sharpness in your gaze. The tremble in your jaw. The tight pull in your chest every time someone says your name like it’s a brand instead of a person.

You spot your mother across the room, standing beside the Queen of Serene. A vision of poise and poison, cloaked in royal violet, her mask shaped like butterfly wings—delicate, deceptive.

Her eyes find yours instantly.

You stiffen.

She tilts her head, barely perceptible, a silent command disguised as elegance.

Join me.

You don’t hesitate. You don’t roll your eyes. You don’t do anything that would earn her ire. You glide across the floor like smoke, posture perfect, footsteps soft.

“Your Majesty,” you say, dipping your chin toward the Queen of Serene.

She smiles with calculated warmth. “My dear. A pleasure. I was just telling your mother how radiant you look tonight.”

You feel your mother’s hand on your back. Not affection—pressure. A warning. Stay in line.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “It’s an honor to represent Virellia.”

Your mother hums approvingly. “She’s taken her responsibilities quite seriously. A future queen in every sense.”

There it is.

The performance.

You feel like an actor in a scene written for someone else. Someone quieter. Thinner. More obedient.

“You’ll have your hands full tomorrow,” the Queen of Serene says. “The summit will be… tense.”

A soft, diplomatic way to say brutal.

“Yes,” your mother answers before you can speak. “But necessary. Virellia is ready to secure peace. Assuming Evaris shows the same commitment.”

The words are wrapped in silk, but the blade beneath is sharp.

You catch a flicker of movement in the distance.

Jisung.

Still watching.

Still silent.

Still amused.

You glance away before the heat rises in your throat.

“We mustn’t talk politics during a celebration,” the Queen of Serene says with a laugh, but it’s tight. “Tonight is for dancing, not declarations.”

“Of course,” your mother purrs. “But in Virellia, we believe strength is most beautiful when it’s visible.”

You want to scream.

Instead, you smile.

Just enough.

“Would you excuse me?” you say. “I promised a dance to a lord from Lareth.”

Your mother waves you off, pleased. The Queen nods, distracted by a waiter offering wine.

You slip into the crowd and breathe again.

Just barely.

You don’t find the lord from Lareth. You just needed to escape.

Instead, you head toward the balcony.

Outside, the air is crisp—moonlight silvering the edges of the palace gardens. Fountains gurgle quietly, and roses bloom in every direction like little lies unfolding in velvet.

You lean against the stone railing and let yourself feel it.

The exhaustion.

The weight.

The knowing that nothing you do—not even perfection—will ever be enough for your mother.

Not if your body doesn’t shrink fast enough.

Not if your smile falters.

Not if you so much as look like you’re thinking about someone like him.

Your fingers tighten around the railing until your knuckles pale.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

The voice startles you—not because it’s him. It isn’t.

It’s Lord Marcenth of Norros. Young, noble, harmless. But he’s wearing a fox mask, and he leans too close.

“I’m fine,” you say flatly.

He chuckles. “You look fine. That dress—stars above. They’ll be writing poems about you after tonight.”

You blink slowly. “Then they’d be wasting ink.”

“Don’t be modest.” He sidles closer. “I bet even that arrogant Evarian princeling noticed.”

You freeze.

Marcenth doesn’t. His hands find their way to your waist.

“Bet he’s wondering what you taste like beneath all that venom.” He whispers in your ear.

Your blood turns to ice.

You smile anyway.

“Funny,” you murmur. “I was just wondering what Norrosian blood smells like when it’s spilled on stone.”

His grin falters.

“W-what do you mean?” He stutters.

You step away from the railing, voice still silken.

“Touch me again without consent, and you’ll find out.”

He stammers something—an apology, maybe—but you’re already gone, gliding back toward the warmth of the ballroom.

The rage keeps you warm.

The rage, and something else.

Because when you re-enter the light, You see him again.

This time, his head turns just slightly.

He saw.

You don’t know how much. But the curl of his lip says enough.

It’s not sympathy.

It’s not amusement.

It’s interest.

And you hate him for it.

Hate that he’s the only one in the room who sees straight through the walls you built.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of looking again.

You return to the center of the ballroom like nothing happened.

Like your hands aren’t still trembling.

Like the storm inside your chest isn’t turning into something darker than hatred.

You almost make it to the end of the night without incident.

Almost.

The final waltz is beginning to swell, soft and dreamy—designed to leave nobles humming as they return to their beds, convinced the world is fixable with wine and well-cut silk.

You’re just about to retreat for good when he intercepts you.

Lord Marcenth.

Again.

This time, in full view of the crowd.

And worse—of your mother.

“Princess,” he says, extending a hand as the music begins. “May I have this dance?”

Every muscle in your body locks.

You feel it before you even turn—the burn of your mother’s stare, like frostbite down your spine.

Marcenth knows exactly what he’s doing.

He’s not after a dance. He’s after power. Position. Favor.

And he thinks your silence can be bought.

You look him dead in the eyes and smile like a knife.

“No,” you say sweetly. “You may not.”

A few heads turn.

Someone coughs.

He stiffens, trying to laugh it off. “Ah—Virellian humor. Cold but clever.”

You don’t blink.

“I wasn’t joking.”

The mask doesn’t hide his humiliation. Or his anger.

But it’s nothing compared to your mother’s.

When you finally steal one last glance toward the pillar, Han Jisung is gone.

Good.

You don’t want him to see what comes next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The carriage ride back is silent.

But not the kind of silence that brings peace.

It’s the kind that crackles.

The kind that stalks.

Your mother doesn’t look at you once.

Not when the driver opens the golden carriage door.

Not when you step inside the Virellian guest manor.

Not when your heels echo down the marble hallway like gunshots.

The moment the doors to your suite close behind you, you think—maybe—she’ll wait until morning.

She doesn’t.

The slap comes before you can take off your mask.

“You humiliated me,” she breathes.

You don’t flinch.

You don’t give her the reaction she wants.

You just peel the mask off and drop it onto the vanity like it weighs nothing.

“He’s a leech,” you say. “Everyone knows it.”

“Everyone saw it.”

She circles you, slow and graceful like a vulture in silk. “Do you know how many strings I pulled to make tonight run smoothly? Do you have any idea what it cost me to get Serene’s queen to host that ball?”

“Oh, forgive me,” you bite, turning to face her. “I didn’t realize being auctioned off was part of our diplomatic strategy.”

Her eyes flash.

Wrong move.

The backhand this time knocks the breath from your lungs.

You stumble, hand flying to your cheek.

But it’s not over.

“Ungrateful,” she hisses. “Selfish. Useless. I should have had another daughter.”

You don’t speak.

You can’t.

She grabs your arm and yanks you toward the bed, tossing a fur-lined cloak to the floor.

“Strip.”

You don’t move.

Her nails dig into your shoulder. “Now.”

You’ve done this before.

You know the drill.

You undo the delicate clasps of your gown, trembling fingers betraying you. The fabric falls to your waist. You leave your underlayers on—barely enough to preserve modesty, but not protection.

She doesn’t use belts or cords or sticks. That would leave evidence.

No, your mother prefers precision.

A shove against the edge of the bedframe. Sharp knees to the back of your thighs. Nails like talons down the slope of your spine.

Her words are worse than the blows.

“Maybe if you stopped stuffing your face, your gowns wouldn’t cling like sausage skin—”

A blow to your ribs.

“Maybe if you weren’t so loud, the nobles wouldn’t look at you like a disobedient dog—”

Another to your hip.

“Maybe if you acted like a real princess, I wouldn’t have to raise my hand at all.”

You bite your lip so hard you taste blood.

You don’t scream.

You won’t give her that.

When it’s finally over, she adjusts her gloves like nothing happened.

“Fix your face before the summit,” she says coldly. “You’ll wear blue. It hides swelling better.”

And then she leaves.

Like you’re not still crumpled on the floor, dress pooled around your legs, skin already bruising where the moonlight touches.

You don’t move for a long time.

Eventually, your maid knocks, too afraid to open the door.

“My lady?” she calls gently. “Do you need anything?”

Your voice comes out hoarse.

“A bath.”

Silence.

“Right away.” She says

You force yourself upright, dragging your gown back over your shoulders like armor.

In the mirror, you don’t look like a princess.

You look like a ghost in silk.

A girl with fire behind her eyes and blood on her teeth.

But not broken.

Not yet.

Because tomorrow is the summit.

And you’ll see him again.

For real this time.

And if there’s one thing you know with every aching, burning inch of your body—

Han Jisung will not see you weak.

He’ll see a queen.

Or he’ll see flames.

Whichever comes first.

A/n: went ahead and posted the first part!! This obviously didn’t take me that long to release, but nonetheless I hope you like it because it has taken me so long to come up with.

[0leemoon0]

Velvet Chains-Intro

Born To Hate You.

Pairing: Han Jisung x reader

Word count: ~1k

Genre: Enemies to lovers, Royal AU, Forbidden romance, slow burn, angst, eventual smut

Warnings: emotional and physical abuse, PTSD, alcohol usage, cursing, panic attacks.

Summary: You and Han Jisung were raised to hate each other—rival heirs of kingdoms scarred by war and betrayal. You’ve never officially met, but the tension has always simmered beneath the surface. The summit will change that. Do you really hate him? Does he really hate you? Or are those just the lies your parents taught you to wear—chains, hidden in velvet?

Master list

Before you ever met Han Jisung, you were taught to hate him.

It wasn’t a lesson with words. It was in the way your mother’s lip curled when the news played footage of the Evarian royal family. The way your father switched the channel without a word, as if their very faces were offensive. The way the palace guards referred to them as liars, warmongers, arrogant cowards in pretty suits.

You were eight the first time you heard Jisung’s name.

He was fourteen. Already training to command Evaris’s military council. Already giving smug little speeches at trade summits like he’d earned the right to breathe your air.

You saw him on the television—sharp-featured and sharp-tongued, dressed in black velvet, with that slight smirk that said he’d never once been told no.

You hated him instantly.

Because you were told to.

And because he looked like he enjoyed being hated.

The history between your families isn’t written in fairy tales or school textbooks. It’s written in fire. Blood. Broken promises.

Your kingdom—Virellia—and his—Evaris—share a jagged border, carved by decades of war and too many failed peace talks. Once allies, now enemies. The story changes depending on which side you’re on.

The Virellian version goes like this: Evaris betrayed your ancestors by forging secret trade deals, stabbing the Crown in the back to gain leverage. A Virellian general was assassinated. Trust shattered. An alliance fell apart overnight.

The Evarian version? Your people were power-hungry tyrants who exploited their allies and struck the first blow when they didn’t get their way.

The truth?

No one knows anymore.

But hatred runs deeper than memory.

And so do crowns.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You grew up in a palace with glass windows and iron rules. Your mother—the Queen—is obsessed with image, with discipline, with silence. To her, your title isn’t a birthright. It’s a leash. A perfect chain she wraps around your neck every time you speak out of turn or blink too slowly for the cameras.

Your father rarely speaks. But when he does, it’s to remind you what you are not.

“You’re not here to be loved,” he once told you. “You’re here to lead. Keep your tears and your morals for your diary.”

There is no softness in the royal halls. Only expectations.

You learned quickly that the world outside the gates thought you were a spoiled, untouchable brat. And your parents were fine with that. Better to be feared than misunderstood. Better to be cold than exposed.

So you gave them what they wanted.

A flawless performance.

A polished lie.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Han Jisung’s childhood wasn’t much different.

The public sees him as the reckless heir of Evaris: cocky, spoiled, addicted to attention. There are entire video compilations of him smirking at press conferences, flipping off reporters, being dragged out of parties at 3 a.m. by tight-lipped security teams.

But if you pay attention—really pay attention—you notice things the headlines miss.

The moments between moments.

Like how he always positions himself between his little sister and the cameras when she’s too nervous to speak. Or how he once pulled an injured protester out of a riot zone when everyone else just stood watching. That one went viral. Only after someone leaked the footage.

He never commented on it. Never looked for credit.

You watched that clip more than you should’ve.

Not because you liked him. You didn’t.

But because you recognized something in him.

A quiet defiance.

A kind of loneliness you knew too well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’ve never officially met. Not until the events of this story.

But you’ve seen each other. From across banquet halls and televised summits. Always at a distance. Always surrounded by a sea of gold and velvet and lies.

Your eyes have locked maybe twice.

Brief. Electric.

Once, when you were seventeen and he was twenty-one, you stood in the same ballroom at a charity gala. You were on opposite ends of the red carpet. The moment was brief—ten seconds, maybe—but you remember it clearly.

He was laughing at something a duchess said. Head thrown back, smile easy.

And then he looked at you.

Straight at you.

And something in his face changed.

Not admiration.

Not interest.

But recognition.

Like he saw something behind your eyes that matched the emptiness behind his own.

You looked away first.

Of course you did.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You told yourself he didn’t matter. He was your enemy. A distraction. A spoiled snake wrapped in royal silk.

And yet… you watched.

Not obsessively.

Just… quietly.

When your tutors weren’t hovering, when your mother wasn’t breathing down your neck, you’d scroll past headlines. Skim clips. Watch his interviews—not for what he said, but what he didn’t. The way his smile never reached his eyes. The way his shoulders tensed whenever someone mentioned his father.

Once, you saw a video—private footage leaked to the press.

Jisung crouched outside an Evarian hospital, comforting a little boy who’d been orphaned in a fire. The boy clung to his arm. Jisung didn’t flinch. Just sat there in his silk blazer, whispering something that made the boy laugh through his tears.

You watched that one more than once.

Something about it wouldn’t leave you alone.

Because you’ve done things like that, too.

Slipped coins to street performers when your guards weren’t looking. Delivered blankets to a homeless shelter on a midnight drive. Sat beside a grieving widow after a storm wrecked her town, holding her hand while the cameras waited outside.

None of it ever made the news.

Your mother made sure of that.

“Don’t waste your energy on the poor,” she once snapped. “Their gratitude doesn’t feed the throne.”

But you did it anyway.

In secret.

Because someone had to care.

Even if the crown didn’t.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’ve spent your whole life pretending not to care what Jisung does. Pretending the tension doesn’t claw at your throat every time you hear his name.

But deep down—beneath the duty, beneath the rules, beneath the fury—

There’s a question that won’t stop echoing.

Does he feel the same way?

Does he see you in the crowd, eyes flashing with practiced hatred, and wonder if you’re just as tired of pretending?

Does he remember the look you gave him the first time your gazes locked?

Does he wonder what you’d be like—who you’d be—if you weren’t wearing a crown?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You don’t know when curiosity turned into something more dangerous.

Maybe it was the charity footage.

Maybe it was the time he corrected a minister mid-speech, defending a small country your own parents mocked in private.

Maybe it was just loneliness.

Maybe it was you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All you know is this:

The summit is approaching.

The one where everything will change.

The one where you’ll finally meet.

Really meet.

And the moment it happens…

Every rule you’ve ever followed will start to fall apart.

Because this isn’t just war.

It’s not just politics.

It’s not just hatred.

It’s him.

And he’s the only person in the world who might understand what it feels like to wear a crown and still feel like you’re in chains.

A/n: hope you guys like it enough to want to read the next part. This took me so long, I was kinda lazy with the intro but the rest will be better put together. I will probably release the next part tonight or tomorrow.

[0leemoon0]

Masterlist & about me

I’m Cherry!! I’m 22 and live in the U.S. I’ve been writing for a while but I broke my laptop and had to start fresh after loosing my account.

I really love Stray Kids, Lee know and Han are my bias. I will only be writing about Skz for right now but once my account picks up I will write about Ateez, Enhypen, and Txt.

Smut-🌶️

Angst-🌧️

Fluff-🐰

Crack-🌝

Request are currently open!!

Stray Kids

Bang Chan: …….. coming soon

Lee know: …….. coming soon

Changbin: …….. coming soon

Hyunjin: …….. coming soon

Han:

🌶️🌧️ Velvet chains- Intro, pt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4, pt.5, pt.6, pt.7, Finale.

Felix: …….. coming soon

Seungmin: …….. coming soon

I.n: …….. coming soon