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talesofadragon · 11 months

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𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐍𝐞𝐞𝐝

Synopsis: The Kingdom of Brooklyn needs a queen, and the Royal Council needs a noble princess. As for newly crowned King Steven Rogers, he needs a love that rebels against conformity, granting him the solace he yearns for. So what happens when all he needs is not what his kingdom wants?

Pairing: King!Steve Rogers x Chambermaid!Reader

Warnings: None.

Genre: Angst | Fluff

Word Count: 6.1K

Author’s Notes: Requested by the sweetest @crazyunsexycool. Thank you, Val, for this wholesome idea! To all Marvel fans out there, go check out her incredible work!🩵

All Masterlists | Steve Rogers Masterlist

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋 and deceiving word in history will evermore be art. At first glance, it’s enticing, delicate, and memorable. A barrage of emotional responses to the tragedies and the grievances of life. Whether in color or in monochrome, in words or emotions, art is a melodrama that lures you in, pulls you toward its undertow. Until there comes a time when you realize that all these stories were never quite this scintillating, they just were.

“Your Majesty.”

Steve shakes his head as the voice registers in his mind. It takes him a fleeting moment, about five seconds, to realize that he stands within the confines of his chambers. The vibrant rays of the morning sun cascade through the windows, casting an ardent glow. Another five minutes elapse as Steve blinks away his confusion, his gaze withdrawing from the withered pages of his sketchbook, evidence of the relentless assault of his charcoals and ink.

“Maiden Katherine,” he acknowledges the chambermaid in his room. Her eyes are downcast, evading his cerulean hues. “Pardon me, what was it that you said?”

The young woman gasps, though covers it quickly with a cough. Her errant gaze lands briefly on Steve before it strays away once more. “Your Majesty, I was merely asking if you needed anything more.”

A fleeting furrow emerges between Steve's eyebrows, and he casts a swift glance around the room. To his surprise, he finds it immaculate, untouched by the tumultuous night he had spent, forming dents in his rugs and battling wars within the confines of his sheets.

As Steve turns his gaze toward Maiden Katherine, a gentle smile graces his lips. Unable to discern the woman's face due to her position, he finds himself succumbing to a glimmer of hope, however fleeting and insubstantial. Within the recesses of his imagination, he relishes the liberty to conjure an image of someone entirely different, a figure who embodies the yearnings of his heart.

“No,” he says, somewhat resentfully. Because his needs are conditional, and what he truly desires cannot be attained beyond the realm of his mind. “That will be all. Thank you.”

Maiden Katherine dutifully bows to her king, leaving him to his own devices. As soon as the door closes, Steve reaches back to trace the somber outlines of his sketchbook. Once more, his mind veers away from the confines of his chambers, transporting him to a realm far brighter.

SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO

King Joseph and Prince Steven are a juxtaposition.

The King is the valiant moon. The Prince is the selfless sun. The former breathes preservation and prowess, while the latter longs for equilibrium and benevolence. And no matter their dualism, King Joseph sees otherwise, constantly building bridges upon bridges to force his son to concede and meet him. Not in the middle, but where he stands—light years away.

Steve, though ten years old, has a keen sense of understanding. His mother, Sarah, never misses a chance to remind him that he’s a whirlwind for this world, and he couldn’t possibly disagree.

When, like today, the pressures of the crown seem too hard to grapple with, Steve decides to step away. Not forever. Just a little while, until he’s able to face them all again.

He’s at the Royal Gardens, a place he hasn’t visited since last spring after his allergies restricted him to his room. Now, almost a year later, he comes back, disappointed to see that his favorite tree has grown faster than he has.

Steve approaches it, hands on hips and lips pursed in thought. How am I supposed to climb it now? he asks himself. He wishes Bucky was here, but he knows his best friend has sparring lessons, so he tries his very best to follow his own lead and climb it.

He tries to climb, and he manages to pull himself up, but three branches and a half are more than enough to steal his breath. He sighs, seeing that he can’t climb higher. His hands ache from the effort.

Just as Steve contemplates his next move, a small voice calls out, “What are you doing up there, silly?” Startled, he turns his gaze downward, meeting a pair of eyes that feel both familiar and unknown.

“Who are you?” he asks the young girl in the blue dress. He knows she’s not a princess from the fabric’s quality, though her charming face suggests otherwise.

“I asked you first.”

Steve laughs at the girl’s spirited nature. “I am sitting.” She narrows her eyes, unsatisfied with his response. “I like sitting up here. The tree overlooks the castle grounds. It’s nice.”

The girl hums, accepting his answer. She looks up and then around before meeting his eyes again. “Do you care for some company?”

Steve would normally say no. Aside from Bucky, he doesn’t like to spend time with anyone. But the little girl seems nice and curious, something he decides that he likes about her. So he nods his head.

He watches the faint smile on her lips as she holds tightly to the nearest branch and places her weight on it. Within a couple of seconds, she perches herself on the branch facing him.

“Hi.”

“Hi!” she giggles, kicking her feet in the air. Now that she’s closer, he can see that she’s much smaller than him. A few years younger too. He watches her lean against the tree’s trunk, gazing around with pure wonder. “You’re right. It is quite nice here.”

Steve shares a laugh with her before speaking again. “Who are you?”

“I’m Y/N,” she announces confidently. He likes it. Both her name and her attitude. “And you?”

He bites the inside of his cheek. Steve has been conditioned to answer this question in one way only: Crown Prince Steven Grant Rogers of Brooklyn. But he’s scared that if Y/N hears this, she might jump down and leave him alone.

He thinks she’s adorable and kind. Definitely someone Bucky is going to like. So, instead, he says something else. Something he’s never said to anyone. “I’m Steve.”

“Nice to meet you, Steve! How old are you?”

“I’m ten,” he replies apprehensively. He knows that he looks much younger because of his height and weight.

Y/N seems to disagree, marveling at his answer. She beams, kicking her legs higher. “I’m six. Is it nice to be ten? My momma says the number ten is a two-digit number, so it’s bigger than six.”

Steve barely blinks before a soft chuckle escapes his lips. He leans forward a little bit, making sure not to fall. Y/N is sitting there with anticipation governing her features, eagerly waiting for an answer.

“It’s nice. I can retire to bed a bit later than usual.” That seems to satisfy Y/N, who claps excitedly in response. “I have never seen you before,” Steve then remarks.

Y/N hums. “My momma is Queen Sarah’s new chambermaid. I came to the castle with her.”

“Oh.”

Y/N nods. “And you? Does your momma work here, too?”

“Somewhat, yes,” Steve replies. A comfortable silence stretches for a while, both kids hidden amongst the tree branches, listening to the humming of the birds and the voices of the wind.

The birds fly around, some even landing atop the tree and catching Y/N’s attention. She marvels at them, then she suddenly stands up, looking at Steve.

“It must be nicer up there for the birds to sit. Shall we go see?”

Steve hesitates. His blue eyes fill with apprehension as they count the number of branches left. There are six in total, two more than there were last spring. The tree is not too far from the ground, yet high enough for Steve to break his bones if he decides to venture up.

“I can’t climb that high,” he sighs dejectedly.

Y/N cranes her head to study Steve’s face. “Do you want to?” she asks to which he nods. “Then of course you can. You simply need a little help.”

She says it so lightheartedly and surely, it makes Steve’s heart soar. Y/N braces herself and climbs one more branch. She extends her hand, palm open for Steve to take. He hesitates, knowing he shouldn’t and that his father will surely scold him for his actions.

Y/N shakes her hand once, silently asking him to take it. Without thinking much, Steve does. Two minutes later, he finds himself atop the tree with two birds and a new friend.

PRESENT DAY

Steve exhales loudly, his gaze fixed upon the tree etched within the pages of his sketchbook. He traces the delicate curves with his eyes, although he knows them by heart. Every intricate detail is etched into his memory from the countless days spent perched upon the tree’s branches alongside Y/N.

With a wistful glance, he closes the sketchbook and casts it aside, a reminder that before this artful piece and the memories it holds existed, there only ever was an unadorned tree.

“Your Majesty, I can say with absolute certainty that if you continue to wear that expression, it won't be long before the entire court assumes the Robe Bearers have skillfully concealed a stick within your regal attire.”

“Bucky,” Steve grumbles. Though when he catches his reflection in the mirror, he relents, knowing his best friend, and Lord High Constable, isn’t all too wrong. He raises his hand to dismiss his attendants. They bow and exit, leaving the two men alone. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be anywhere else?”

Dramatically as always, Bucky covers his heart with his palm. He looks down, seemingly wounded, before his cobalt blue eyes lift. “I am deeply wounded by your implicit dismissal and your forthright irritation, My King.”

Steve rubs a hand down his face. He has endured twenty-seven years with this man, and sometimes, he wonders if befriending Lord James Buchanan Barnes was a good idea. He knows him all too well now. And if those remarks are any indication, Bucky is, without a doubt, mere seconds away from asking him what’s wrong.

So Steve speaks his mind before the questions begin. “Must I attend this ball?”

“You are the King,” Bucky replies. “And tonight you shall not only be celebrated but you shall also—”

“Subdue to the Royal Council’s wishes and secure the future of the throne.”

Steve’s words have a bite to them. They’re sharp and terse, accentuating the resentment he feels toward this ordeal. He walks away from Bucky, attempting to gather his wits before saying anything else. He sits down on his large bed, one hand on his knee and the other holding his chin.

“Do not think of it this way.”

“How else must I think of this when I have no say?”

“Perhaps you don’t have the freedom of choice when it comes to the matter, but you still have a choice, Steve,” Bucky reminds him. He joins his side, sitting next to him on the edge of the bed. He taps him on the shoulder, letting his hand linger there. “The Council has dictated that you shall marry, but only you shall choose who.”

You couldn’t be more wrong, Steve says to himself. He looks away, the words a sharp slap to his face. He’s never been one for conformity, and Bucky knows this. He’s aware of Steve’s rebellious tendencies and audacious disregard for the Crown's decisions.

Steve knows what this kingdom needs—what queen it longs to have. So why should it be one of noble descent when it could be one of noble spirit? What significance holds the nature of her blood, when in truth, we are all blood in nature?

“If the choice was truly mine, I would choose no one but her.”

His eyes are still errant, following a pathway of their own. Though he can’t see it, he feels Bucky’s heavy gaze on him.

“I should have known you were thinking of Y/N back then,” Bucky comments. He nudges Steve’s shoulder with his until the King concedes and gives the Lord his full attention. He remains quiet, though his eyes say it all. “When are you never thinking about her?”

“How is she faring?” Steve asks. Each letter is spelled with a plethora of emotions. Carved with longing and desire. It has been a considerable length of time since Steve last laid eyes upon Y/N. Ever since his father banished her to a distant corner of the castle, accompanied by strict instructions to avoid any form of interaction with Steve.

“Well. Though it is beyond evident that she misses you terribly. The mention of you is the only thing that seems to brighten her day.”

The answer draws a small smile on Steve’s face. He nods, his mind already taking a trek on its own accord, reminiscing the days Steve had spent with Y/N growing up, picturing her dulcet smile and the light that inhabited her eyes.

Steve has forever been a captive of duty. The blood coursing through his veins tethers him to the crown while unwavering loyalty anchors him to his kingdom. His spirit, alas, was never truly his own, and his heart had long been barricaded by the Council. However, within his mind, a sanctuary exists where his thoughts could roam, untamed and unrestrained, as they collide and soar amidst the vivid memories of Y/N and the alluring freedom she perpetually bestows.

He is on the cusp of replying. With what, he isn't quite sure yet. The mere thought of Y/N has left him momentarily speechless, his mind struggling to find the right words. But the insistent knock on his door reverberates louder than any words he could muster.

“Enter,” Steve says as Bucky straightens and stands up.

The door opens and in walks Peter, one of the new guards in Brooklyn. “Your Majesty.” Peter bows. “Lord Barnes.”

“What is it, Peter?” Steve asks.

“His Majesty, King Father Joseph, is requesting your presence.”

Something within Steve throbs, an ache that resonates through his being. His father possesses an innate knack for impeccable timing, a seemingly supernatural ability to intrude upon Steve's most cherished moments.

Reluctantly, Steve pushes himself up and follows Peter to his father's quarters. He treads the well-worn path, the bitterness seeping through every step. The portraits lining the walls and the chandeliers adorning the taupe ceilings are all too familiar, etched into his memory from countless prior journeys.

His footsteps weigh heavily upon the carpet, each one echoing his disdain for the impending encounter. He takes in a deep breath, steeling himself before the guards deliver a resounding knock, heralding his arrival. With a measured breath, he crosses the threshold and enters the room.

Upon doing so, the pain within him heightens, intensifying to a raw and poignant state. It feels as if every fiber of his being wants to claw its way out from within. His gaze fixates on his father, who lies weak and feeble on the bed, attended to by hovering nurses. Yet, within Steve's mind, contrasting images begin to form.

He envisions himself from years past, confined to his own bed, accompanied by illness and fragility as constant companions. But gradually, the image takes on a bitter-sweet memory.

SEVEN YEARS AGO

Steve shakes, uncertain whether it's the cold air or his nightmares that make him tremble. His room feels empty and lonely since his mother's departure, and his father is too busy to give him a second thought. Bucky is off with the troops, stuck in endless meetings. The looming war hangs heavy in the air, and Steve's father has made his choice of soldier, and it's not him.

Steve hates it. Hates being so useless. He cannot even fight for his kingdom, so how is he supposed to rule it one day? He huffs an exasperated sigh, turning around in his sheets. He shuts his eyes, partially because he wants to sleep and purely because he’s trying to force himself not to cry.

It’s not working, though, as he feels the world closing in. The ceiling’s shadows are suddenly creeping closer, and the walls are wailing as they speed ahead. The door to his chambers squeaks, and he thinks it’s flying off its hinges. But in an unexpected shift, the world around him takes on a different hue, one that brings a soothing and calming sensation he didn't anticipate.

“Stevie.” His eyes snap open, and in that instant, he becomes aware of the rapid pounding of his heart.

“Y/N?”

“I heard you weren’t feeling your best.” Y/N smiles sheepishly. She moves a strand of her long wavy hair away, taking a tentative step closer. “I thought, perhaps, you needed some company.”

Steve wants to say a lot of things. But seeing her in her long blue-green dress made him fall quiet. He’s always loved that color on her. It’s his favorite.

You look beautiful, he tries to say. I have missed you. How are you faring? But nothing of the sort comes out.

“You will be in trouble if you get caught,” he hears himself say. Instantly he regrets it. But Y/N doesn’t seem to mind.

She shakes her head and moves closer. “Being with you is no trouble at all, my prince," she murmurs, settling down beside him and clasping his hand in her own. Steve occasionally wishes his hands were larger, more powerful. He feels a pang of shame for the thoughts that have crossed his mind, imagining the different ways his hands would hold her and explore every inch of her being.

His temperature rises at the thought, and even Y/N feels it. She hovers over him, pressing her lips sweetly to his forehead. His eyes close involuntarily. One of his hands weekly clutch Y/N’s own while the other fists her dress. Steve moans under his breath. “You are burning up,” she says with concern lacing her tone. She moves away, and Steve instinctively reaches for her. She sees the worry in his eyes, deciding to brush it away by running her fingers through his hair. “I will not leave, Your Highness.”

“Y/N,” he grumbles weakly.

Y/N smiles, reaching for the bowl of water and the wet rag left behind. “I will not leave you, Steve. I promise.”

PRESENT DAY

“Steve,” King Joseph calls.

Steve is engulfed in a whirlwind of internal battles, ignited by his father's actions that have shattered everything. Promises that were never his to break have been torn apart, and as a result, Steve decides that he's unable to forgive him. He feels no trace of mercy toward him. No trace of love.

The coronation ball is a spectacle of extravagance, opulence, and sheer absurdity. The entire Brooklyn Court has gathered along with monarchs from neighboring kingdoms.

King Stark graces the event with his Queen and their young Princess, joined by King Thor, Queen Sif, and Prince Loki. Steve's gaze catches sight of his trusted Lord Chancellor, Samuel “Sam” Wilson, engaged in conversation with his father and the King of Wakanda.

And though he cannot see him, he knows Bucky must be lurking in the shadows, sharing a hidden moment with Princess Romanoff.

Steve lingers for a few moments before revealing his presence. He stands atop the banister, peering down at the chaos he is about to face. His gaze sweeps across the room, longing for a glimpse of someone familiar, although deep down he knows it's merely a futile hope.

With a heavy sigh, he descends the stairs, fully aware that his destiny lies in wait.

"Announcing His Royal Majesty, King Steven Grant Rogers."

The music begins, and the doors swing open. Steve steps forward, discomforted by the weight of all the attention upon him. He offers nods as others bow and curtsy, attempting to keep a smile on his face. Reaching the throne, he settles into it with more haste than necessary. As soon as he is seated, his subjects rise from their positions.

"Thank you all for joining us tonight," he declares, projecting his voice with a hint of implicit hesitation. “We’re honored to welcome you to Brooklyn Palace. Please, do enjoy yourself. May this merry occasion pave the way ahead for our kingdom.”

The crowd cheers enthusiastically, chanting Steve’s name and singing his praises. They raise their hands in the air and clap without restraint, though Steve doesn’t hear them. He’s out of tune with his senses, his consciousness hauntingly distant. Suddenly and prematurely, he’s thrust back into the moment. He doesn’t know how to react when Princess Sharon enters his line of sight.

“Your Majesty,” she curtseys. Steve has always noticed that she overdoes it, lowering herself far more than necessary. Sam once remarked she did it to appear meek and subdued—traits many men apparently seek in a woman—Bucky, on the other hand, remarked that she was desperate for attention.

“Princess Carter.”

“Sharon, Your Majesty,” she rectifies while meeting his eyes. “You may call me Sharon. If you please, Your Majesty.”

To his ears, it’s more of a plea than anything else. Which is why he doesn’t recede. Engaging in idle conversation with her isn't what he desires, for he can already discern the thoughts swirling within her mind, mirroring the thoughts of many other women in the palace. His father had made it unequivocally clear that Steve cannot rule without a queen by his side.

“Your Majesty,” Sharon’s voice beckons. Steve gazes at her, failing to mimic her enthusiasm. “Are you not going to ask me to dance?”

No, he feels the need to say. I do not wish to dance with anyone. But the musicians are getting ready and his father is pinning him down with a glare.

Reluctantly, he extends his hand and picks Sharon’s. “Of course.” Steve kisses the back of her hand. Carefully, he leads her to the dance floor, front and center, waiting for everyone to join.

Bucky stands to his right and Sam to his left. Facing them are Princess Natasha and Duchess Wanda, respectively. Kings Tony, Thor, and T'Challa join next, accompanied by their Queens.

Gradually, the room transforms into a parade of eager guests, lining up in anticipation of the forthcoming dance. A cacophony of music erupts, and the rhythm permeates the air, setting the stage for a whirlwind of movement.

The men bow with a flourish, while the ladies curtsy in graceful synchronization. In the timeless tradition of the dance, they take a bold step forward, closing the distance between them. Steve's hands, steady yet tinged with anticipation, find their place upon the small of Sharon’s back, guiding her with gentle precision.

He sweeps across the dance floor, leading Sharon in elaborate and pristine circles. Her gaze on him is imperturbable, features soft under the lights of the chandelier. Steve cannot understand how her eyes can be so alight—they’re looking at him as if he was the present and the future when he is, in fact, counting the musical notes, anticipating the next switch in partners.

The dance is Steve’s “seven minutes in heaven,” as Sam so eloquently worded it. Though, in reality, it’s a vicious torment. This dance offers Steve the chance to dance with four women—three for two minutes and one for no more than a fleeting sixty seconds. And luckily for him, Sharon’s two minutes are now up.

He spins her to the right, fueled by a sense of anticipation at the thought of stealing a precious moment of respite. She leaves his arms, and he breathes deeply for a moment before Princess Shuri joins him.

"Your Majesty, do me a favor and grace us with a smile. I would hate for my brother to be proven right. He is constantly rambling about how my mere presence seems to unsettle everyone around."

Steve offers Shuri beyond what she has asked for. A heartfelt laugh tumbles from his lips, and he’s elated to know that the music is far louder than his unrestrained chortle.

“Your presence is welcome and cherished, Princess Shuri.” Steve dips the princess, ensuring she doesn’t fall. He brings her back on her feet and continues with the rest of the choreography. “Tell T’Challa you are the single spark of joy and delight this evening has brought.”

“Oh, I will most certainly tell him that.”

With a final smile, Steve releases his grip on Shuri, allowing her to navigate her way toward Loki's outstretched arms. Though her departure may lack grace, it’s far more captivating to watch than the arrival of yet another noble lady, who is now nestled in his arms.

Princess Carol’s face is stoic, and her movements feel robotic, pre-programmed. The silence between her and Steve is tumultuous as the prince leads her through the dance. He’s grateful for her aloofness, granting him the chance to focus on something else other than an unnecessary conversation, or worse yet, a proposal.

His blue eyes meander, traversing the room with a wandering gaze. In the midst of his observation, he catches sight of Princess Natasha and Marquess Barton engaged in a dance. Their movements may lack the refinement of the other nobles, but they appear unperturbed, swaying to a rhythm that is uniquely theirs. Steve notices Natasha intermittently locking eyes with Bucky, exchanging playful winks and smirks that stir a bitter sensation within him.

He thinks he will never experience this. Never be given the chance to love with all his heart and not his mind. To love for love and not the kingdom. To live for his love to rule and not to rule for his love to die.

Princess Carol slips from his grasp with unexpected swiftness, leaving Steve momentarily stunned. His attention lingers on her abrupt departure, forgetting the need to steady himself.

As Steve's palm rests open, a hand slips into his, catching him off guard. His arm instinctively reaches out, hastening to steady the woman who has joined him. The sudden touch electrifies his senses, igniting a rush of anticipation within him.

Blue orbs lock onto a wistful masterpiece, refusing to blink and allowing the moisture to gather, lending a subtle glassy sheen. Steve's steps falter, his footing shaken. Only now does he realize that he has been granted six minutes to breathe and a single dance partner that has stolen his every breath.

At this moment, Steve grasps the true might of the human mind as the dance fades into the background though his feet glide effortlessly across the floor. His heart races with joyous abandon, his thoughts sprint in a frenzy, and his eyes struggle to keep pace, captivated by the dazzling radiance emanating from the figure in front of him.

Steve's eyes fixate on the familiar turquoise dress adorning the woman’s figure, a sight he has imagined countless times in his most indulgent thoughts. Yet, reality surpasses any fantasy he could conjure. With fervent intensity, he absorbs every detail of the woman before him, noting the familiarities that stir his heart and the subtle differences that ignite a sense of curiosity.

He towers over her now, his height surpassing hers by more than an inch. His presence is imposing, a protective and ardent force. They stand close, near enough for her to catch glimpses of green in his eyes and for him to feel the softness of her bodice against his chest.

Time passes, maybe a minute, or perhaps more. He doesn’t know. Because with her, time is a paradox, too complex to comprehend. Or perhaps, plain unnecessary.

He notes that no one is dancing, noble men and women retreating to the ballroom's margins. They're entranced by Steve and his partner. Their glances multifaceted, both welcoming and unnerving. But he doesn't pay attention to them. Not when the musicians are still playing, granting him an infinity of respite.

He clutches the woman tighter, lifting her up in the air. The light catches the tiara on her head, the one he had specifically requested for her as a gift on her sixteenth birthday. She had once refused to wear it, claiming she wasn't a princess. And she was right. She's not just a princess; she's a queen.

There is so much to say. Too many questions to ask. And yet, Steve can only whisper one thing as he sets her down on her feet, his lips lingering close to her ear.

“You are divinity in human nature, and I have evermore longed to confess to you this.”

Y/N says nothing, but the gasp that tumbles out and the fingers that trace Steve’s elbow speak of it all. “You haven’t changed,” she notes. He shakes his head and gives her a disbelieving look as if to urge her to look at him again. “You are just as warm and just as kind. Just as beautiful,” she enunciates, whispering the last part.

The words reach his ears, carrying with them a genuine sincerity that resonates deep within him. He releases a soft exhale, a breath that caresses her face. Her delicate lashes gracefully meet, pulling his attention away from her magnetic eyes to her angelic smile.

Steve is captivated by every aspect of her presence, his senses entranced by the enchantment that surrounds them both. “I have longed for you,” he admits. Immediately, Y/N's eyes burst open, revealing a clash of waves within her irises—a turbulent ocean of swirling emotions.

“I’ve heard, and I’m here to satiate your longing, My King.”

"Prince," Steve corrects briskly. As he holds her waist, Y/N places both hands on his chest. He tenderly caresses her bottom lip. "Don't cease to see me in a different light now, princess."

“I am not a princess,” Y/N refutes. “As for the last half of your sentence, no matter who you become to the world, you will always be my prince, Stevie.”

In that brief moment, her eyes reveal a vulnerability that tugs at Steve's heartstrings. “Y/N, tell me you are truly here. Tell me this is not yet another deceiving portrait my mind has conjured.”

“I am real.”

“How?”

“Queen Mother Sarah,” she admits. Her voice carries a tinge of sadness at the memory of the late queen. “Before her demise, she called for me. You were away at the time, fighting the war against Hydra’s army. She made me swear to attend your coronation ball. To be by your side once more.”

Oh, mother. Steve stands in disbelief. Though his mother passed seven years ago, her presence lingers within him. A constant source of comfort and guidance. He can't help but compare the stark contrast between his mother's love and his father's hostility, fueling a mix of emotions within him. The dominance and aggression of his father's actions only serve to heighten his appreciation for his mother's enduring tenderness and thoughtfulness, even in the realm of the afterlife.

“I needed to be by your side, even though I know I will be in trouble.” Y/N’s voice shakes him out of his stupor. She’s biting on her lower lip, her long hair hiding half her face. “Your father will surely order me farther away.”

“Let him try,” Steve challenges with determination, causing Y/N to wear a wearied expression of disbelief. With tenderness, he adds, "I'd like to witness anyone daring to separate the future Queen of Brooklyn from my embrace."

King Joseph seethes with a fiery intensity, teetering on the edge of explosion. Anger courses through his veins, overwhelming his senses in the wake of what he has just witnessed. With resolute determination, he guides his son towards the Council chamber, his mind already brimming with scathing words, poised to unleash his fury upon him.

“Of all of the women in this court and beyond, you have decided to entertain a chambermaid for the better half of the evening!”

“She is not a mere chambermaid, father. You know well who Y/N is!”

"A mere distraction," the King counters vehemently, his fist slamming down on the dark oak table with a resounding thud. "A disgrace," he continues, his voice filled with simmering indignation.

“A queen.”

"Never! Over my dead body, you imbecile!" King Joseph retorts, his voice laced with venomous defiance, unwilling to yield to his son's audacious declaration.

"So be it then, father!" Steve roars with fiery determination. "All you have ever cared for is for Brooklyn to be the nexus of the Grand American Dynasty, no matter the cost, no matter the price! Your vision is so narrow that you fail to see the alternative paths, the possibilities beyond the ones you have carved for yourself."

“The avenues you traverse in your thoughts are nothing but insignificant alleyways leading to nowhere, boy!”

"They are mine. All of them belong to me alone," Steve asserts with unwavering conviction. "They are the boulevards of my childhood and the thoroughfares of my future. They are paths carved by a woman who has treated me far better than my own father ever has!"

“She is insignificant!”

"How dare you! You have waged wars and battles, leaving me to mend the relationships you have severed. You have sowed fear and wielded despair in your son and your kingdom, and I will not allow you to condemn me or my future any longer."

“Steven!”

“No! You will listen, and I will lend my ears no longer. I am the only heir to the throne. You and the Council be damned if you do not willingly allow me to marry the woman who will rule Brooklyn with far more grace and vigor than you ever had. Mark my words, I will take matters into my own hands and fight for love and justice, even if it means defying the entire kingdom.”

“You would never," King Joseph says, his voice seething with anger and contempt, his eyes blazing with fiery defiance.

Steve smirk. It’s dark and vindictive, sending shivers down the spine of his father. “Watch me,” he whispers, his voice laced with a chilling determination.

He marches out of the chamber and onto the grand ballroom. His heart thumps in his chest, louder than the mellifluous sounds of the musician's instruments.

He moves through the crowd like a lion king walking through his kingdom. His gaze locks on Y/N, standing beside Bucky and Sam. As their eyes meet, a mixture of surprise and anticipation reflects in the depths of her gaze, mirroring the emotions pulsating within him.

As the world around them fades into a blur, leaving only the two of them standing in the spotlight, Steve's years of etiquette training and courtship knowledge seem insignificant. Despite his mastery of courting rituals and the art of conversation, Y/N possesses the uncanny ability to shatter his carefully crafted facade. With a mere glance, she erases the learned scripts from his mind, leaving it a blank canvas, ready to be painted by her presence alone.

He doesn’t count his steps though he suspects they’re brisk. He reaches out and tugs at her hand, drawing her closer. Steve lets go of his thoughts and his constraints, deciding to focus on her. His lips are fierce as they suddenly clash with hers, and the sound of their lips moving together seems to echo louder than the

The kiss becomes a clarion call, a declaration of war and surrender in a single act. It symbolizes the culmination of suppressed emotions and unspoken promises, a deluge of feelings too long restrained. It ignites a storm of passionate responses, an uproar of joy and relief that reverberates through the room.

In that fleeting moment, it embodies Y/N's tenderness and longing, intertwining with Steve's defiance and resolve. The kiss bridges the fractures of their past and ushers in the promise of a shared future.

Like an art piece, it's crafted with meticulous detail and profound meaning. Its evocative power lingers in the air, leaving a trace of its essence. The kiss is not just a mere gesture. It's an effervescent expression of their love, unique and incomparable.

At this moment, Steve and Y/N claim their own narrative, painting their own masterpiece of connection and desire. It's an art piece that captivates all who witness it, leaving an indelible mark on their hearts and memories.

“I need a queen,” Steve breathes in haste. I need you, he’s trying to say. I breathe you.

And Y/N laughs, delicately and boldly. She presses her palms against his cheeks, the warmth of her touch fanning the flames of Steve’s love.

“Let me be everything you need and more.”

Steve Rogers has my whole heart, and I was unbelievably happy when Val overflooded my inbox with requests!! Still got one Mob!Steve and Professor!Steve one shots to write, which I'm super excited to start with. Btw, how the hell does Val know all my favorite tropes?

Anyhow, I was so excited, so I powered through this one. The others? Might take anywhere between 3 to 5 business months to release them. But Sab will try her best to release them sooner.

Don’t forget to send in your Marvel/Harry Potter requests!

Can’t wait to share more!!

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #captain america #captain america x reader #captain america x female reader #marvel fanfiction #avengers fanfiction #marvel mcu #avengers #the avengers #king!steve rogers x reader #steve rogers royal au #king!steve rogers

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triple-asstro · 11 months

Text

That Heartbreak Prince, Kíli

summary: kili and his lover bicker over who should stay warm with the help of kili's jacket.

word count: 1.5k

saw @mikathemonster's post about there not being enough kili fics and i agree, so i wrote this! hope you all like it <3

(yes that was a taylor swift reference, love her and her music <3)

Curse Mirkwood, and curse those elves.

Traversing through the Mirkwood forest wasn’t going to be a difficult task, and you weren’t expecting anything more. It still bitterly stung when they ordered you to drop your weapons and pulled both you (and the future Queen of Erebor, but that’s a tale for another day) from your hiding spot, riddled with cobwebs. Not even the heart-eyed expression on Kíli could sweeten your sour mood, no matter how adorable it was.

Those cobwebs still rested on your head, being swiftly removed by Kíli and tossed into the right corner. The stone walls of the prison stinged your eyes, spotting multiple dried bloodstains scattered on the floor; potentially years old based on the maroon colouring.

“Even with these cobwebs, they never seem to hinder your charm amrâlimê,” Kíli remarked, a cheeky smile appeared on his face. A grin plastered on your face, eyes forgetting from the stain. It seemed Kíli spotted your observation, as if your minds were linked into one. “Hm, already observing our prison?”

“Of course. Sadly, there’s not much to observe,” you wistfully stated.

Kíli’s eyes squinted, deep in thought. His eyes crinkled around the corners, and his eyebrows did the most unique thing when he’s in this state of mind. They would furrow together, one slightly higher than the other, creating a brief unibrow, which was always an amusing sight to witness. He viewed the landscape you were analysing before, spotting the dried blood.

“What about that? Quite the decoration, isn’t it?”

“Not particularly,” you began, Kíli’s eyes softening at what was coming next. “That kind of bloodstain because of its dark maroon colouring means that it’s been a while since anyone inhabited this place. Blood has a more vibrant colouring if it’s only been a few weeks or less, darkening over time. I could potentially see how the Elvenking would have that stain appear since it’s been quite some time since there haven’t been travellers in Mirkwood for capturing, or any that didn’t escape.”

Kíli widely grinned, his puppy eyes more enchanting than ever.

“I’m rambling again, I assume?”

“No, just talking. Talking in that alluring voice I love dearly.” he responded, inching closer on the stone chair, grabbing your hand. Your heart ignited, as if a string was interlinked between us, only conjoining once you and Kíli’s hands were reunited. An odd phenomenon, but one you weren’t complaining about.

A giggle echoed from outside, one that called both you and Kíli to peer from the emerald-green bars. Just down one level from you, was that future Queen of Erebor, draping Thorin’s fur coat over his sleeping figure. The coat flew through the air, waving almost majestically before slowly faltering down. Even his coat had a regality added to it.

You could feel Kíli’s giggles graze your cheek, his head lazed on your shoulder. “Cannot believe this is happening to my mother’s brother. He’s probably going to grumble like usual.”

“Probably. It’ll be worth every second, however.” you mentioned, jolting back like children once you saw her wide-eyed gaze dart towards you both. The laughs shared between you both were the only laughs shared that night, the rest of the Company were too busy grumbling and attempting to escape. Granted, you were trying that too but it was more whittling away the gates with spare rock and rubble.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook you, as it did with everyone, some more slowly than others. It was hardest with Kíli, his mind refused him any rest, much to your displeasure. The journey had proven its toll on you and you wished to find any solace that sleep could offer you. It proved to be difficult with this repetitive ticking sound. It was an itching sound that burrowed deep and refused to budge, like glass clinking on stone. With one more tick, you jostled up, darting your head right.

You saw Kíli, his bored downturned eyes following a round object he had in his palm. He tossed in the air, the object floating before missing his hand and clattering to the ground, being caught by your outreached hand. You also took a slight note at his sudden lack of his jacket, which you quickly found draped around your body. His jacket, your body, interlinked as one.

You examined the stone he’d dropped, the object shining a blue iridescence with intricate runes etched onto the surface. It had to be a labradorite mineral from the looks of it. “What is this?”

“It is a token,” he stated, picking it up from your hand, fingers tracing over the engraved runes.

“If any but a dwarf reads the runes, they will be forever cursed.”

He swiftly showed you the stone, as if it was to unleash a horrible curse on you, causing you to jerk back. He paused, tucking the stone away behind his back, causing you to rest back into your previous position. You’d had enough foolishness for one night.

“Or not.”

You rose back up, now in a mix of confusion and intrigue. But you weren’t going to admit that, for if you did, you’d just be playing into his game and you didn’t want to enlarge his ego anymore than it already had.

“Is it a token, then?”

“Hm? Oh, yes,” he said, sitting down next to you. “It was a token gifted to me by my mother. I remember her shoving it in my hand before me and Fí set off. ‘Promise me, Kíli. You better come back in one piece, with your brother if you can.’ She practically made me memorise it.”

“I can help with that,” you said. “Getting back home in one piece, I mean. I’ll protect you.”

“Nonsense, who will protect you then? You could get hurt.”

“You could too, you dolt.” you reminded, watching in slight hilarity as his expression blinked, as if his mind was completely empty. You shoved his shoulder, sending him stumbling back to his seat opposite of the room. “Now, get rest.”

With a pout, Kíli obliged, curling up into a ball. Sounds echoed from above, sounds of cheering and music. Guards occasionally passed by, even one with auburn hair watching your cage with close precision. You’d never heard of an auburn haired elf, but she quickly left before you could speak.

Kíli’s small shivers drew your attention away, however. The way his face contorted in unease and frigidity made guilt tug at the jacket wrapped around you. Eventually, it was strong enough for you to take off the jacket and drape it over him, the coat flying in a similar way to Thorin’s. When it fully rested over his body, you returned to your bed, resting with ease.

Unfortunately, when you acted in your decision, you unknowingly started a little game. A few minutes passed as you felt a familiar texture cover you. As you slightly cracked your eyes open, you saw him return to his bed as well, a content smile stuck on his face. When you awoke, you found his jacket back on your body, along with the stone he had mentioned earlier, tucked into your palm.

This ‘game’ had continued for quite a while, with you whispering for him to ‘stay still’, but of course Kíli being Kíli, he defied. Finally, you decided to go through with the usual routine, except wait for him to awake, catching him in his act. ‘An excellent plan,’ you thought. You got up, resorting to shoving the jacket onto him and placing the stone in his hand. Instead of turning around, you simply took a few steps back, gaze completely fixated on him.

As predicated, his eyes flung open, clutching the jacket and ready to dash to you before being pinned back by your arm. Eyes wide with shock and mouth slightly agape, he could only stammer at your words.

“Keep it, son of Durin. You need it more than I do.”

His mouth clamped shut, solemnly nodding as you walked back to your place, eager to get some true rest. The game was fun, not to be mistaken otherwise, but rest was a rarity and you weren’t missing it.

When you awoke, it was hard to tell how much time had passed. Whether it’d been minutes or days, your mind was groggy and scrambled. It took a considerable amount of time to process what Kíli was saying, or more excitedly rambling to you. The sight of Bilbo unlocking the lower cage doors, keys jingling filled in all the gaps you needed. You pressed your head through the bars, spotting Bilbo working faster than ever. You clutched your shoulder, feeling a soft leather wrap around you.

A soft leather.

A jacket.

Kíli’s jacket.

“Kíli…”

“You were shivering!” he sheepishly answered. His earnest expression made it hard to stay mad at him for long. You sighed, mumbling something about giving his jacket back as soon as you both got out of Mirkwood and to safety.

That didn’t stop Kíli from having a smug expression until then.

#kili x reader #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit #kili durin #hobbit fic

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sxfterhearts · 26 days

Text

cafe crush

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ jiung x reader (+ side co-worker!theo) ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

♡ genre/warnings: just fluff!!

♡ word count: 2,371 words

♡ summary: 88. “I'll see you later.”

♡ author’s note: i have not written in literal YEARS. but this is a quick one that i whipped up due to a) my ongoing obsession with p1harmony, b) that cursed gif of jiung in the purple hoodie asdfghjhkld, c) my own experience (aka this is heavily based on my cafe crush HAHA) and d) a sudden itch to write?! i'm so rusty, so expect nothing. enjoy!!!! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

“Just ask for his number!”

“Oh my goodness, stop it!” You hissed at your co-worker, Theo, elbowing him in the ribs. “You’re being so obvious.”

“Oh, shut it.” He retorted, trying to defend himself. Mere seconds ago, Theo was teasing you and laughing boisterously, attracting the attention of some other café patrons. “Not nearly as obvious as when you ogle at him as if he’s your prince charming or something.”

“Not true!”

“So true!”

“Who’s next?” The barista called out from behind the counter. You nudged Theo forwards in response, hoping to linger at the end of the line for a bit longer to catch a glimpse of your prince charming.

Well, okay, you were being dramatic.

He’s not technically your prince charming. He’s not your anyone, really. But he is the super-hot-waiter-who-works-at-the-café-you-frequent-with-your-colleagues-everyday (you figured prince charming was a shorter and more convenient name).

It all started out as an innocent crush – someone who piqued your interest, really. You noticed a month or two ago that there was a new face at your regular café. He was probably around your age, perhaps slightly older, with strikingly silver hair. The first time you laid eyes on him, you nearly choked on your iced latte. He had the kindest eyes that turned into little crescents and a bright smile on his perfect face as he spoke calmly to the café’s never-ending patrons and urged them to write their names down on the waiting list. You even saw him put out a bowl of water for a cute corgi like a true angel, all while taking pictures of it using his phone.

The café you frequented nearly every single workday (and sometimes, even on non-workdays) was super popular. On most days, there was a long line of people waiting for a table at the entrance, and a small group of customers huddled around the takeaway station. You weren’t surprised. After all, the café was in a popular suburb, and they brewed coffee using well-sourced beans they freshly roasted in-house. The coffee always hit the spot for you, whether it was an early Monday morning, or a midday pick-me-up.

Throughout the weeks, though, you found yourself making the short ten-minute trip to the café more often than usual. You used to go to other cafes in the area. Granted, this suburb was filled with many high-quality coffee houses. However, you would be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t go to the café just to catch a glimpse of your favourite barista.

Slowly, you started to find solace in your little café trips. What used to be an obligation to get a shot of your daily caffeine, transformed into a little bit of me-time when you had the luxury of making the trip on your own. It gave you an opportunity to walk around the neighbourhood, or even walk the office dog when she was in (which got lots of attention from the locals along the way). You couldn’t explain it, but the anticipation of looking for something (or rather, someone) and finding them exactly where you expect them to be, brought you a sense of pure satisfaction.

Seeing him there, standing at the entrance greeting customers, or balancing three plates of brunch on his long arms, or even taking orders with a big smile, brought you a sense of calm and familiarity.

Your mind flashed back to one particular Friday, where the weather was ominous outside the office, and you were periodically nodding off at your desk. Something about the gloomy weather made you want to go home, crawl under your covers and take a nap. Just as you were re-reading the same sentence for the nth time, you decided to make a trip to the café. After briefly checking the time (you were lucky – it was only 1:30pm), you headed out with your umbrella in hands.

The moment you stepped outside, you momentarily regretted your decision. The skies had just opened up, and rain started to fall. You hesitated but decided that there was still four hours left of the workday, and there was no way you could get through it without a proper hit of caffeine from your favourite café. So, you braved the wind and the cold and made the trip down, clutching your tiny umbrella tightly in your fists the entire time. When you arrived there however, the rain reduced to a tiny drizzle, and the wind appeared to calm down as well. Just as you rounded the corner, you caught a glimpse of the familiar purple hoodie. With your heart thumping in your chest and a bright smiled plastered on your face, you took a quick glance towards the owner of said hoodie (who was busying himself with introducing the signature brunch menu to a table of first-time customers) and headed towards the takeaway counter.

“How can I help you today?” The barista at the counter broke you out of your trance as you reached the start of the queue.

“Hello! Can I get a cold brew please?”

“Of course! Our cold brew is self-serve. Do you know how to work the taps?”

The cold brew and batch brews were served in coffee taps in this café. It was a favourite amongst your colleagues in the office. When it was sunny, everyone flocked to the café to get a cup of their cold brew.

“Yes, I do.” You chirped in reply and proceeded to pay and thank the barista, wishing them a good day.

As you made your way to the coffee taps, you caught a glimpse of your favourite waiter in the corner of your eye, filling up a bottle of water on the sparkling water taps behind you. You held your breath as you scooped a bit of ice into your takeaway cup and placed it under the tap. He was only five steps away from you, and you struggled immensely to keep your gaze fixed on the coffee instead of him.

While it was certainly fun to self-serve your own coffee, the lids always proved to be a challenge for you and everyone else. Theo himself spilled one too many cups of coffee at this exact spot, just because he couldn’t get the lid on the right way.

When the coffee finished pouring, you grabbed the cup with clammy hands and took a lid off the pile. “Here goes,” you breathed, feeling the eyes of not only the waiter but also the other baristas on you as you attempted to put the lid on.

Your tongue stuck out in concentration, fingers pressing around the rim of the cup. Your breath hitched when you felt the cup bend slightly under your touch. This was probably not going to end well.

“Do you need some help?” A voice spoke from in front of you.

You paused, heart nearly beating right out of your chest from the nervousness. This was the first time you’ve ever had any sort of interaction with the waiter, and for some reason, his velvety voice made your knees a bit weak. It was smooth and deep, like a cup of perfectly blended and roasted coffee.

“Ah…” You laughed, slightly embarrassed. Looking up, you flashed an unsteady smile. You were close enough for once to read off his nametag – Jiung. So that was his name. “I’ve got it, Jiung.” You said, determined.

You looked down before a shy smile appeared on his face at the sound of his name rolling off your lips. You took a breath, and tried again, this time with a slightly different approach. You got half of the lid to catch on the cup, finally, and just a little bit more until you got it secured, and you were so close, just a little bit –

“Ah!” You gasped in shock. Turns out, you pressed a little too hard and the cup folded in on itself, spilling half of the drink on the countertop.

“I saw this coming; you should’ve let me help.” Jiung teased in a light-hearted manner, hands already armed with a cloth to clean up the mess you made. He handed you a paper towel. “Here, did you get any on your clothes? Clean up and I’ll get you another one.”

“Ah, no.” You did a quick check and thanked the heavens that your grey sweater was safe from the coffee damage. “I’m sorry…” You said sheepishly, cheeks turning pink. “I swear I did it properly last time.”

“What’s taking so long? Ah, Y/N, you did it again.” Theo peered over your shoulder and shook his head in disapproval.

“Again?” Jiung questioned, trying to bite back a smile.

“Shut up, Theo!” You whipped your head around and shot daggers at him with your eyes. “It’s fine, I’ll meet you back at the office.” You squinted and stared at him, trying to communicate with him non-verbally to leave you alone with your café crush.

Thankfully, Theo was smart enough to get the message. “Alright, I’ll tell Keeho you’ll be late to the meeting because of your little accident.”

“Go!” You hissed, threatening to throw your used paper towel at him. His arms shot up in surrender as he backed away and walked back to the office.

“Your coffee.” Jiung said, presenting you with a perfectly covered cup of cold brew. “Next time, don’t be afraid to ask for help. You’d be amazed just how many people have done that.”

“But you guys make it look so easy, I thought I could do it too.” You pouted, accepting the drink and slightly brushing over his fingers as you did so. Your body tingled at the short-lived moment of skin-to-skin contact.

Jiung laughed at that. “You’re forgetting that we do hundreds of these a day. Let the experts handle it, okay?”

“Jiung, lunch!” One of the chefs yelled out from the kitchen.

“In a sec!” He yelled back. Turning back to you, he said, “I’m gonna go on my lunch break soon. Anything else I can help with?”

You gnawed at your bottom lip for a few seconds and played with your fingers which were interlaced around your cup coffee. Jiung couldn’t help but to watch and stare at your lips as you did so, hypnotised. “Actually, there is…”

“Oh, were you waiting on takeaway food? If you’re in a hurry I can check with the back if you – ”

“No, actually,” you interjected softly. “I was wondering if… I could get your number?” You asked, uncertain. “Only if you’re single, of course.” You took a sip of your coffee to calm yourself down. Clearly it didn’t work because you started to ramble. “But who am I kidding, you obviously have a girlfriend. Anyways, I’m late for a meeting so I should just go…”

Just as you were about to turn around and walk away and hide at your office desk, Jiung waved his hands out to stop you. “Wait!” He said belatedly, after opening and closing his mouth for a minute too long. “I- I- I don’t.” The two of you locked eyes, remaining silent for a few seconds to let his words sink in. “Hold on, you just- I just- I -” He shook his head and heaved a sigh. “Sorry, just give me a sec okay? I’m on my lunch break, I’ll walk you back.”

You couldn’t do anything but nod at his words as he turned around and raced back to the kitchen to grab his lunch. The minutes felt like hours as you waited for him, sipping on your coffee, and allowing the cherry and chocolatey notes to invade your tastebuds. You felt a bit numb after your confession that wasn’t really a confession, yet your heartbeat refused to stop thudding against your ears in anticipation. You really couldn’t tell how this would end.

“Hey, sorry I took so long.” Jiung said, breathless, as he came around the other side of the counter, dressed in a black cap to match his black hoodie. Now that he was standing in front of you, you realised just how tall he was. “Do you work around here, Y/N?”

You shivered at the way his voice wrapped around the syllables of your name. You could only look up at him and nod and point in the general direction of your office.

“I thought so, I see you here all the time.” Jiung continued, slowing his footsteps to walk at the same pace as you as you lead the way.

“You noticed me?”

“Of course, how could I not?” He replied, hands coming up to rub the back of his neck as an embarrassed grin paints itself on his features. “I’m always waiting around to catch a glimpse… of you…” His voice got softer and softer and trailed off towards the end of the sentence.

“You do?” Your eyes turned as wide as saucers.

“Yeah, seeing you is the best part of my shift.” He says, as plain as day, as if he was stating a well-known fact, or reading out the weather forecast, or answering a math question.

“Seeing you is the best part of my day.” You countered.

“Are you sure it’s not just the caffeine?” He teased, bumping your shoulders as you walked with matching steps.

“That too,” You admitted, lips pulling into a small smile. “But seeing your smile in the middle of a boring workday makes things a lot more bearable.”

“That’s…” Jiung trailed off again. “So cute.” He burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter in combined fascination and disbelief, and you thought that nothing, not even the sounds of angels singing at the gates of heaven could be better than this. “Oh, here.” He stopped and pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. He reached out for your hand, and dropped it into your palms.

“What’s this?”

“My number, silly. What are you doing tonight? If you’re free, let’s grab dinner?”

You couldn’t hide the pure excitement and joy seeping out of your body. It took everything in your power to not jump up and down on the spot. “Yeah,” you breathed out, still unable to believe that shooting your shot actually worked for once. “Yeah, I’ll see you later at 6.”

#jiung #choi jiung #p1h jiung #p1harmony x reader #p1harmony fanfic #p1harmony imagines #jiung x reader #jiung fanfic #jiung imagines #jiung fluff #p1harmony fluff #piwon x reader #piwon fluff #piwon imagines #piwon fanfic #piwon jiung

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beansidhebumbling · 6 months

Note

Wait I have another one:

Ship of your choice but Person A accidentally seals the mate bond with Person B after doing body shots and sucking a lime out of their mouth. 🙂

The Chemistry of Regret

Okay I had to do college AU Rhysta for this. Hope you like!! This got out of control.

Also the first hands then voice structure is inspired by a line in the fabulous @bittermuire's The Cape which you can read here. Read it!!

Nesta knows of Rhysand Velaris long before she ever has the dubious pleasure of making his acquaintance.

He haunts the Biochemistry department like a spectre.

His overly styled hair gleaming even in the faded newspaper clipping framed outside Professor Wysten's lab.

His black eyes sparkling in picture after picture on the college's socials. Medals and grants and awards the only weight that anchors the Prince of Oíchad College.

The golden boy of the hallowed halls, gone but not forgotten.

And Nesta, living the cruel life of a fresh PhD student grows to hate that curving smirk of a stranger, his sloping signature on the near-empty bottle of Trypan Blue that Wysten refuses to bin, his crisp embroidered lab coat that lies draped over a chair in the dry lab awaiting the return of its owner.

***

Imitator, the dye taunts each time she stains her cells watching blue seep into their crevices, a damning marker of death.

Imposter, the message Wysten imparts in every gushing compliment he in his absence is bestowed that she in her unfailing presence is never good enough to earn.

Lesser, a voice, that must be his, whispers in her ear as she lies awake and wonders if life should feel easier than this.

***

His return from his year in Paris is anticipated like a public holiday. Outfits planned between centrifuge spins, tables booked at his favourite club.

The days are counted down in blood red Xs on the calendar in the study room and when D-day arrives the entire department leaves in a flurry into the cool chill of a January night.

The building is empty, only she and security remains.

Nesta is eager to take advantage of the free slots on the flow cytometer, normally booked until the wee hours. As the sequins on her dress dance like stars and the machine whirs quietly in the background, she runs her cells and finds solace in solitude.

But her cells are soon studied, peace is temporary and then she's queuing on Court Street to enter the Night Palace.

She can feel the bass in her bones as she enters, the dim lighting making the whirling mass of bodies on the dance floor look like art.

***

She has a plan, stay for a drink, long enough to be seen by the tenured professors, long enough to look like she belongs, long enough that she'll be able to nod and smile at the lunch-time conversation.

Not so long that the loneliness erodes her from the inside out, corroding through tissue and bone.

That is the plan.

But then Gwyn, the pretty lab assistant has Sambuca and Emerie has rum and the strobe lights start looking closer to shooting stars.

With alcohol loosed limbs she remembers how much she likes to dance, how the pain of being seen has never stung when there is a rhythm to movement.

So between shots she moves until she gets lost in the art of writhing bodies.

***

She is on the dance floor, hair loose and glitter trailing from her eyes like tears when she meets him.

First, he is large veined hands tentatively touching her waist, awaiting further permission.

She is Nesta Archeron, made of Sambuca and starlight, so she grinds back onto the stranger, the tall stranger she amends as his body presses against her back.

Then he is voice, rich and smooth, as his lips touch her ear lobe, his clipped accent conjuring schooldays at Eton and summers on yachts.

'You're very beautiful.'

The words hit her like sleet in summer.

How...boring.

She is unimpressed and turns to tell him as such.

She is shocked when finally he is no longer solely hands nor voice but Rhysand Velaris in all his tangible glory.

'You!'

She shouts, struggling to be heard over the pounding music, attempting to create a cavern between them even as the crowd presses in from all sides.

'Me.'

His cocky smile turns into a grimace as he reads the disappointment in her expression.

She does not stay long enough to introduce herself.

Sobriety looms too close for that.

She disappears in the grinding groping bodies until his voice melds with the rising melody.

***

He finds her at the bar.

Of course he does. His ghost has been haunting her for the better part of a year why wouldn't his corporeal form do the same.

'Rhysand Velaris.'

His hand, previously branding its heat on the soft wide curve of her waist, is now outstretched and open.

She extends hers, grasping firmly.

'Nesta Archeron.'

Her smile is a tight thin mimicry of what it should be.

His strong brow raises and his eyes widen.

'You're Nesta Archeron, the new PhD?'

She dips her head ignoring the question, too focused now on arranging her cleavage to attract the bartender.

Rhysand's eyes stay fixed to her face, as she successfully obtains her Tequila shots.

'I've been looking forward to meeting my new lab buddy who has booked every afternoon slot in the wet lab for the next month.'

She feels a grin tug at her lips at his pointed tone.

'You snooze you lose, Velaris.'

And in an impulse she wished she could blame on the undrunk shots before her she snipes,

'If it's a problem get Daddy to build us a new lab.'

His laugh is unexpected and far too enchanting for a handsome face. Because he is handsome, Mother damn him.

'Would you like me then? Because I'm very motivated for you to like me Nesta Archeron.'

He caresses the syllables of her name, his teeth clicking on the t and lingering like he wants to hold the letters a beat too long.

'Why? Because I'm beautiful.'

She scoffs.

His posture stiffens.

'No. Because you're brilliant. From what I've read, from what I've heard.'

A pause.

'Of course, you being beautiful is a welcome addition. Not as beautiful as me though.'

A giggle escapes her because he is ridiculous. This is ridiculous. He isn't allowed to be charming, not when she has decided to hate him.

***

'Let's do shots.'

She gestures clumsily to the glasses almost knocking them in the process.

And because she's lost her mind, for that must be the only reason, she grasps his inner forearm licking the tanned skin, letting her tongue drag lightly along, following a vein towards his elbow, ignoring the electricity that sparks through her body as she does.

He is tense, eyes pools of darkness she could drown in, the leather and chocolate of his cologne muddling her brain.

She salts his arm pushing the slice of lime his way. He obediently inserts it into his mouth, moving like a man dazed, eyes transfixed on her lips.

Like a film reel she sees the next three years play in her head if she carries on with this insanity, awkwardness and avoidance abound.

So why is she compelled to continue this mistake?

***

You'll regret this.

Her brain screams as the Tequila slides a burning fire down her throat.

You'll regret this.

It pleads as she kisses the white crystals from soft skin of his arm, nipping slightly so he moans her name in a way she definitely cannot linger on.

You'll regret this.

It begs as their lips meet in a citrus clash that sets fireworks off behind her eyes. He breaks momentarily to spit out the wedge of lime before returning to capture her lips, kissing her like lonely women dream of, hot and expert and claiming.

***

When she opens her eyes to meet a panting Rhysand, those hands still clutching her like she might mean salvation from an unknown damnation, dark hair tousled from her fingers grasping and tugging mere seconds before.

When he touches his ribs before looking in awe at her, like she is more than her frame can contain.

When he says her name like a prayer, like a curse, and she feels the golden links tying them together in a way science can only vaguely explain, she finds their damnation.

And she knows.

She'll regret this.

#rhysta #nesta #rhysand #college au #acotar #gemwrites #so glad im not in the labs anymore

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ikeprinces-stuff · 2 months

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Finally

𝗠𝗲𝗲𝘁 𝗺𝘆 𝗺𝗮𝗹𝗲 𝗶𝗸𝗲𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗼𝗰 :

"𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 ... 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬."

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘌𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤, 𝘖𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘎𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘯

✨𝖵𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝖬ü𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗁(?)✨

✼ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴʀᴀɴᴋᴇᴅ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ ᴏғ ʀʜᴏᴅᴏʟɪᴛᴇ✼

Name : Vernard, Verny, Vern, White, Dear Vernard, stick-in-the-mud and so much more...

Age : Same as Leon

Hair colour : Snow-white

Eye colour : Jadean green

Height : 182 cm

Blood type : O

Crest : Lynx (White Eurasian)

“Without my status as a chess piece in someone's scheme, I would not have evolved into the person that I am at present.”

Upon your arrival at the palace, he took on the role of a guardian, and prioritizing your safety, well-being and your progress to choose the next king became one of his most important duties. A complex and multi-dimensional personality, you constantly discover new aspects of him, making him more intriguing and sparking your desire to delve deeper. His self-sufficiency, refusal to be associated with any particular faction, and commitment to fulfilling his duties to the best of his abilities mask a dark and painful past that haunts him like a ghost. The shadow of his birth, the darkness that has always controlled him, rears its head, representing him as a mere pawn, and only...one decision from you will set him free.

❥ 𝗕𝗮𝗰𝗸𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 :

One could say that Vernard's existence was the result of a mistake made by not only his mother, but also Rhodolite's previous king. His mother, driven by the need to survive, worked as a prostitute, while the former king (The Fallen Beast) sought solace and validation in the arms of various women. It was their intersection that ultimately brought Vernard into this world.

Attempts were made to make Vernard's mother abandon her unborn child, but her inexplicable connection to the fetus led her to resist this decision. Rather than kill her unborn child and live with the guilt, she decided to take her own life by slitting her veins with a broken glass shard.

Desperate to save both her life and her unborn child by orders of a certain someone, the physicians worked to deliver the baby prematurely. However, the toll on her already fragile body was too great, and she sadly passed away shortly after giving birth, due to complications from the premature delivery and the attempt at suicide.

❥ 𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗱 :

Due to a forbidden interaction, Vernard faced harsh criticism, disapproval, and shame from the royal court. However, his status as a pawn helped shield him from complete rejection, allowing him to be recognized as a prince, if only in the minds of some. He's the only prince who wasn't granted a rank, as the court deemed him unworthy due to his mother's disgraceful past. Even from the outset, giving Vernard the title of prince was a difficult pill for the court to swallow.

Whenever Vernard makes a small error or oversight, he's judged and his actions are linked to his mother's past as a prostitute, causing him to isolate himself and fear making mistakes again, and closeness to one of the princes used to keep him in check, preventing criticism or judgment, but something happened, widening the distance between them.

Because of his mother's shameful past, it was believed that Vernard lacked a proper lineage and was unworthy of one, so his "fake" caretaker intervened and the "Mürrisch" name was given to him, from that day on, the prince stuck to this name even after he reached puberty.

❥ 𝗣𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 :

The princes were confused by Vernard's varied and strange behaviors. They used the word "eccentric" to describe his mysterious personality, which can be open and active or closed and dull, depending on the situation. He can be obedient at times and rebellious at others, but all of this is connected to the circumstances he's in.

Vernard adamantly refused to affiliate with a faction, but he handled faction business smoothly as if he was a recognized member, because he believed that joining a faction would limit his duties and restrictions would go against his belief that he could maintain multiple ventures.

✦"𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑡, 𝑎𝑠 𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝑖𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑐𝑦𝑐𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑠. 𝐵𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑒, 𝐼 𝑎𝑠𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟... 𝐶𝑎𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑚𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑖𝑠?"✦

#finally had the courage to post after the stupid mistake I did several days before 🙈🙈🙈#ikepri oc #hope you like him...#ikeprince #ikemen prince #ikepri #ikemen oc #ikeprince oc #ikemen prince Vernard #ikemen series oc #Vernard Mürrisch

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delfinoluma101 · 1 year

Text

In the Kingdom of Bouquets, there lived a beautiful prince known for his compassion and sympathy.

#Da ARTZ #My Prince’s Flower #Delfinoluma101 #OC #Art #Original Character #Solace Grant #Prince Solace Grant #MPF #My Princes Flower #DL101

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humanpurposes · 10 months

Text

Karma is a God

Chapter 12: Harrenhal

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Warnings for this chapter: spoilers for F&B and future seasons of HotD, canon divergence, descriptions of violence, death

Words: 4400

A/n: The truth comes out. Also available to read on AO3.

It is said Harrenhal is cursed.

Harren the Black’s rule over the Riverlands was marked by tyranny and brutality, ruling from a seat built to fuel his own pride. Generations of Rivermen were taken as slaves and forced to construct the very symbol of their subjugation, a castle the size of a city, five towers of black stone looming over the God’s Eye.

It is said blood was mixed into the mortar; Death lives within the castle’s very walls. Aemond feels its presence as he felt it back in the Red Keep, the Stranger breathing down his neck as his father decayed, as his grandfather ordered the executions of those who were loyal to the false Queen, as he spent restless night in his chambers staring at the red cloak hanging over a chair by the fireplace.

He feels it now. It has been over a century since the flames of Balerion roasted Harren Hoare and his men alive and melted the castle into the ruins it lies in today, but everywhere he goes air is thick and tastes faintly of smoke. The silence is heavy here, especially in the tower. There are no sounds of people like there are in the city, no birds or rustling trees, just the soldiers and nervous servants. No one ever raises their voice here, and if there is a short burst of laughter it is snatched back, out of fear of disturbing the ghostly quiet.

Harwin Strong died here, less than a decade ago. He understood the loss as a boy, the sadness in Jace and Luke’s faces on the day of Laena Velaryon’s funeral, mourning an aunt they never knew and a father they could not speak of.

He has never thought to find the room. In a place scorched by fire, every room looks the same.

It is said that every family and castellan who has held Harrenhal will meet a gruesome end. Aemond dismisses this as superstition. A gruesome end comes to most, regardless of the castles they do or don’t hold.

But then again…

“Retribution will come with fire and fury,” Alys still whispers in his ear.

Since he has had news of King’s Landing he cannot bring himself to lie with the witch. She sleeps in his bed, and he does not sleep at all. Granting himself rest would be an insult to his mother, to Helaena, to Aegon and Maelor. The only solace he has is that Daeron will be with the Hightower host. He has written to his youngest brother, instructing him to wait at Tumbleton until they can formulate a plan to retake the capital.

For now he waits.

The wind howls against the walls of the tower. His mind tells him it is the Stranger, taunting him, or the castle’s ghosts impatient to see what his gruesome demise will be.

He watches the flames in the hearth dwindle and die. By dawn it is cold, not so much as an ember left glowing, just charred firewood.

Alys groans from the bed, telling him it is time to begin dressing. She wraps herself in a black robe and moves to the window, while he removes his shirt from the previous day and reaches for clean clothes.

A sliver of early morning light pierces the room as Alys draws the curtain back. Aemond has his back to her as he fastens the final buckle on his jerkin.

“A dragon, my Prince.”

He feels his eye widen.

“Which dragon?” he says, though the possibilities are small. If it were one of Rhaenyra’s, they would be dead by now.

Alys says nothing.

He huffs and walks towards the window, ushering her out of his way as he drags the curtain back fully. The cobalt blue scales and bronze belly of Tessarion gleam in pale sunlight, gliding over the God’s Eye, towards the courtyard.

He hurries down the endless spiral of steps to meet them. Alys’ footsteps echo a few paces behind him. He reaches the courtyard as Tessarion’s rider dismounts, a young man with silver curls, dressed in black and gold armour.

He hasn’t seen Daeron since he was a thin and clumsy child, before their grandsire sent him to Oldtown. That was before Aemond himself had claimed Vhagar, while he still thrived on stubbornness rather than pride, while he still had both of his eyes.

But any sense of hope his brother has brought with him fades when he spots the gashes in Tessarion’s hide, the marks left behind by the teeth and claws of another dragon. Daeron fares a little better. His mouth is bloodied, his skin and hair dusted with ash, his eyes red and heavy with exhaustion. He clutches his chest as he takes staggered steps towards Aemond, wincing at the effort.

Aemond finds himself rushing forwards, holding Daeron at his elbows and brings him to stand straight. “You’re hurt,” he says.

Daeron shakes his head. “I’ll be alright. We made the flight at least.”

Until now Daeron has only been a memory to Aemond, an infant he can barely recollect, a name always spoken like a question, half a lifetime of neatly written letters. And yet he is so familiar. His eyes are shaped like their mother’s, his face lean like their grandfather’s and his mouth quirks like Aegon’s does when he’s nervous.

“What happened to you?” Aemond asks.

Daeron’s eyes trace over the scar and his sapphire eye. “Mother tried to describe what happened to you that night, in her letters,” he says, “but I could never quite picture it.”

The courtyard is starting to fill now, but the men linger as close to the walls as they can, away from the injured dragon and the Princes. Criston Cole is the only man who dares to take a few steps closer. Daeron looks around them, his gaze lingering on the woman in a black robe, beyond Aemond’s shoulder.

“Daeron,” Aemond says, tightening his grip a little more.

His brother looks up. The colour violet shines brightly through the redness in his eyes and the spots of black and grey on his face. “We were ambushed,” he breathes, “near Cider Hall. Four dragons.”

Cole is beside them now. “What of the Hightower army–”

“Which dragons?” Aemond asks sharply.

Daeron looks to Cole, then back to his brother. He swallows thickly. “Moondancer, Seasmoke and two of the wild dragons. Sheepstealer. Grey Ghost.”

Aemond sneers in anger and disgust. “Rhaenyra sent her heathen dragonseeds to slaughter you and the Hightower host?”

Something about Daeron’s expression is unsettling. He won’t stop looking at Aemond’s scar, gazing at it in terror like a child, as though he hasn’t fought off four dragons and watched them burn an army of thousands.

“Aemond…”

He is just tired and frightened, he must be. He is more of a child than a man. Their mother had warned against involving Daeron in this war.

“Did you kill any of the dragonriders?” Aemond asks.

Daeron stares at him in bewilderment, like there’s something Aemond is missing and it irritates him.

“She let me go,” Daeron says.

Aemond’s fingers feel numb. “Who did?”

“She… there was a strange moment, Tessarion resisted me, I felt it. She threw me from her back and caught me as I fell. I thought I was going to die. But she let me go.”

In the corner of his eye he sees Cole turn his head to him, a look of confusion or curiosity, Aemond doesn’t spare him a glance.

“It’s been so long,” Daeron says, “but I know it was her.”

Not Baela. If it were, Daeron would say her name. Instead his eyes are darting around, between Aemond’s violet and sapphire eyes, trying to summon the courage to speak.

The numb feeling begins to spread, through his arms, coursing through his blood and creeping towards his chest like venom. “Who?”

Daeron’s mouth hangs open slightly but no sound releases.

Aemond’s throat rasps at the strain of his sudden shout. “WHO?”

Daeron winces, hunching his shoulders and attempting to retreat into himself, but Aemond will not relent.

“TELL ME!”

The wind stings his skin and creeps under his leathers at the neck, but he does not hear it. All he hears is his own heartbeat, drumming in his head, pulsing in his chest and veins.

Daeron’s answer plunges him into coldness, like his body has been thrown into the sea before he has a chance to take a breath.

“Lucerra.”

His scar burns as it had done when the wound was fresh, while Luke still held the knife in her hand, her face covered in blood— her blood, his blood— the two were indistinguishable.

His throat closes. His heart feels as though it might burst under the strain.

“Aemond,” Daeron says, trying to shuffle away from him, “let go of me.”

Then he looks at Cole. He has never seen his old swordmaster to seem afraid. What would Criston Cole have to fear while he lived within the Red Keep? Instructed to guard the Queen and her children, to guide them and recount stories of the days when he was a true soldier, the horrors he saw, the men cut down in the name of glory. His response to danger is anger, always. Now he looks up at Aemond like a child.

Some feeling finally starts to come back in his fingertips as they squeeze around Daeron’s arms, hard enough to bruise. “How…”

He searched Shipbreaker Bay for hours, and flew her further out, his vision blurred by the rain pelting down against him. He had seen a torn wing tossing about on the waves and followed it as it washed up on a beach below Storm’s End. Vhagar had grumbled at the other pieces of Arrax’s flesh, but there was nothing of Luke.

And then he saw it, a flash of red riffling in the water where the waves met the shore. The cloak was the only trace of her that remained.

She couldn’t have survived the fall. She couldn’t have.

“How…”

“I don’t know,” Daeron says. He struggles against Aemond’s grip but not to escape it, to place his hands on his brother’s arms in return. “But it was her. I know it was.”

He cannot think past the noise in his head, but he clutches at words, memories, two little headless bodies and his sister’s screams.

“Jaehaerys and Jaehaera…”

Fire and the dying cries of a dragon, the armour melting into Aegon’s skin, the stench of burning flesh and a body charred beyond recognition.

“Rook’s Rest…”

The Gullet. Jacaerys and young Viserys. King’s Landing. His grandfather. His family left scattered. A throne fought for, paid for with so many lives.

“We should have known,” Aemond utters into the deathly silence of the courtyard. “We had spies at Dragonstone. Larys has spies in every corner of the Kingdom…”

The icy feeling under his skin starts to burn.

Larys.

With a thrust of his arms he sends Daeron stumbling backwards. His sword sings as he draws it and marches to the ruins of the Wailing Tower, down the steps to the crypt, where two guards stand by an iron gate.

The crypt lies deep underground to accommodate the needless height of its ceiling. It was built to match the rest of the castle, a vast hall held up by pillars and arches. Like the rest of Harrenhal it is impractical, impossible to light or keep warm.

The entirety of House Strong is huddled together on the floor.

“Open the cell,” Aemond says quietly.

The guards do not hesitate to obey. Aemond snatches a torch from its place by the stairs. Behind him he hears footsteps and murmurs of confusion. The gate clatters in its frame when he slams it shut.

Slowly, he turns to the Strongs, the flame of the torch scolding the scarred side of his face and catching in the polished edge of his blade.

The men rush forwards and the women push the children behind them, quietly begging for them to stop whimpering, stop crying. Do not fuel the simmerring rage or prompt a reaction from a Targaryen Prince.

Simon Strong fronts their group, and another man, tall with broad shoulders stands beside him. “My Prince,” he says in a defiant voice, but he falters. In all the weeks they have been prisoners, Aemond has not stepped a foot in the crypt that serves as their cell. “To what do we owe the… privilege?”

The tall man clenches his fists and widens his stance. In any other moment, Aemond might have smirked at their presumption, but he has no room for pride now, no anticipation for joy or satisfaction as he stalks towards them.

Some of the others follow his lead, and some glance down at the ground, but there are only waterskins, slabs of stone sealed into the floor and dust— nothing that might be used as a weapon.

He can feel his right hand shaking and grips his sword tighter. Fear is a feeling Aemond is unaccustomed to and it fills him with a searing rage. The more he withholds it the more it burns. “You said you were loyal to our King,” he says.

Ser Simon cowers at the sound of his voice. “Yes, we are–”

“You said Lord Larys was loyal to our cause.”

He looks to the men standing by his sides, his sons, nephews, cousins, then back to the Prince. “I believe him to be so, yes.”

Aemond tuts. Cole used to tell him to be selective with his mercy. Some men deserve death, while others deserve a chance to redeem themselves. “We pass judgement by the guidance of the Gods,” he had told Aemond on a quiet morning in the yard in the Red Keep, “but mercy is a gamble. Leave the root of a threat and it will come back.”

He had given House Strong his mercy, and how had his kindness been repaid? With lies and deceptions…

He can hardly bear to think. A pain pulses in his head and there is so much noise.

The girl he murdered is not dead.

She has another dragon.

She has decimated armies.

She spared Daeron.

Daemon and Rhaenyra had no mercy for Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. They had no mercy for Otto Hightower. If Aegon and Maelor are still alive, they will have no mercy for them.

But if she is alive then the bloodshed has all been for nothing. If Lucerra Velaryon is alive then this war began on a lie.

He breathes deeply through his nose, focusing on the hum of the torch in his hand and the pain searing through his head and the scar.

And suddenly his mind seems clear.

He lifts his gaze to the Strongs, his blood boiling with anger, fear and disgust. “Your family are traitors to the crown,” he says, coldly.

The tall man clenches his jaw and lunges forwards, only to be yanked back by Ser Simon.

“No,” the old man hisses before he turns back to Aemond.

Perhaps the tall one is Ser Simon’s son. They have the same glare, evident even in the low light.

“We have done as you have asked. We did not resist you when you came to our home. We have sat in silence and in darkness, with no way to count the days but the delivery of food and water. Our house has committed no offence to you, to argue otherwise is to argue against reason.”

Aemond feels his mouth break into a sneer. “No offence?” he utters.

His scar stings at the heat of the torch and that same pain throbs deep inside his head. The pain that has haunted him for eight years, pain that came at the hands of a Strong bastard and was dismissed by his own father for her sake. A girl of their blood.

“NO OFFENCE?” he roars. “Lord Larys has lied to me! Who knows what other secrets he has been hiding? What part could he have played in the downfall of King’s Landing? In the disappearance of the King and my nephew?”

“So punish Lord Larys!” the tall man shouts, brushing off Ser Simon’s protests as he takes a step forward. “We have done nothing!”

“Ah,” Aemond breathes, “but if only it were that simple.”

He tests the weight of his sword one final time.

“No… I see now the scourge of House Strong must be rooted out in its entirety.”

He hears the collective intake of breath. They seem to understand now.

The tall man moves first and in one swing of Aemond’s sword, his head slices from his neck and thuds against the floor.

It doesn’t satiate his anger, it only feeds it.

The rest is a blur. He hears screaming and spurts of blood through the darkness. He feels the impact of his blade through flesh and one by one, he purges himself of House Strong.

None are spared. The ones who try to fight him die first. The others run to the iron gate but they have nowhere to go. Finally he picks off the children, attempting to hide in the shadows and far corners of the crypt.

And when it is done, as the cloud of anger begins to fade and he catches his breath, there is no relief. His hand releases his sword and his knees fall against the damp stone beneath him.

Blood floods the floor and the air is thick with the stench of death and dust. He chokes on it, gasping for air that seeks to poison him. He cradles his head in his hands and even still he cannot escape it. He hates himself for the hot tears that spill into his palms and recoils at their bitter taste.

He returns to his rooms. He can feel the bursts of blood lingering on his face and in his hair, it feels thick and heavy. Through the gusts of wind howling against the tower’s walls, he hears their screams ringing in the back of his mind.

Alys is standing by the foot of the bed, waiting for him, her hands clasped before her. Those once hauntingly bright eyes seem duller than they did before, the lines around her mouth and forehead set deeper.

He stalks towards her, each step he takes a challenge, a test to see what she will do.

She is unphased, stepping into him to undo the buckles on his jerkin. “Allow me to help you bathe,” she says.

He snatches her wrists in his hands, staining her pale skin and the cuffs of her sleeve red. “And wash me of the blood of your own kin?” he hisses.

She drags her hands away from him but he grabs her again, by her neck, firm enough that he can feel her heartbeat under his hold.

“Perhaps I should have you join them,” he says, numb to the feeling of her fingernails clawing at his hands. “She is alive. Lucerra is alive.”

“Not by my doing,” Alys seethes through the constriction on her throat.

Aemond leans into her with a snarl. “You knew.”

The harder she struggles and digs in her nails, the tighter his grip becomes, his thumb ghosting over the spot they both know could end her life in minutes.

“You lied to me.”

“I have told you no lies,” she says.

“But she is to be my retribution, yes? Luke will come to me, with fire and fury.”

A cruel, knowing smile spreads across her lips.

The ghost of a dragon. It was damaged, and is rebuilding its strength through anguish.

“Answer me!” he cries.

Alys shakes her head as much as she can underneath his hold. “I believe you already know what awaits you.”

He releases her with a grunt and shouts for a guard. “Get her out of my sight,” he orders, “throw her in the crypt with the rest of her house. Leave the witch to rot.”

A servant draws him a bath and he dismisses him soon after. He scrubs the darkening blood from his skin, and keeps scrubbing until his flesh is red again.

By some mockery of the Gods, it is the first night in days he has been able to find sleep.

He dreams of a gloomy chamber, a stone floor below him, fingers gently threading through his hair.

He tips his head back to look at her, the soft and unassuming face of his sister in her youth. Her pale blue eyes beam at him– blue, not the grey they were when he left her. She was gentle and solitary back then, and she had less to mourn.

She drags her fingers through his hair, twisting strands into braids, just as she did to him when they were children, and as she used to do with the twins.

There is so much he would say to her, regrets, apologies and the sheer noise that clouds his mind. But he says none of it.

Her hands drop from his hair but he doesn’t want her to go.

Instead her hand cups the left side of his face, her thumb brushing over the edges of his scar while her eyes are fixed on his sapphire.

She whispers to him, words he’s heard before. “Bonds of blood are so easily forgotten...”

He remembers the way she held Maelor when he returned from Storm’s End, how she turned her son away from him.

Because he was dangerous. Because she thought him a monster.

He told her he would protect them, but everything he touches turns to blood or ash.

What would Helaena make of the bloody mass of bodies in the crypt below Harrenhal?

He whispers back to her “...never forgiven.”

He stands by the lakeshore, looking up at the castle as their army marches through the gates, each man dressed for battle. Cole leads atop a white horse at the front of the company.

A growl rumbles through the air like thunder and every man turns his head to the sky.

The rising sun goes black when Vhagar flies before it, circling the ruined towers of Harrenhal before she lands by the lake, the ground trembling under her.

Tessarion rises from the courtyard and lands further along the shore. She rears her head when Vhagar growls curiously, and Daeron tries to calm her, keeping a tight grip on her reins and smoothing his hand over her snout. The sheer size of Vhagar would not allow for such delicate gestures.

Daeron dismounts and walks slowly to Aemond, his spine straight and his hands behind his back. He has recovered quickly from his injuries, as has his dragon; keen, young fighters, the pair of them. He cannot look Aemond in the eye for more than a few moments before his gaze falls to the ground.

“Will she be safe to ride?” Aemond asks. His voice has felt different these last few days, rough and visceral.

“I am sure we will be,” Daeron mutters back. “She held firm when we were attacked.”

“You are not to engage should you encounter another dragon,” Aemond warns him.

“I know. We will be swift and stay hidden, you have my word, brother.”

Daeron’s route south has been planned meticulously by Cole’s order. He is to avoid flying over castles and towns, especially as he flies over the Riverlands. The ageing Lord Tully has kept his banners at Riverrun, but once word of the Strongs starts to spread, he doubts they will find much support in the Riverlands.

He is to fly to the Reach and find whatever remains of the Hightowers, and Cole and his men will follow. Ravens have been sent to Borros Baratheon and Jason Lannister. The Baratheon banners are amassing in the Stormlands, while the Lannisters will march north to the Twins, to hold off the Starks, should Lord Cregan ever make the journey south. The rest of the war will be a waiting game.

He watches his brother mount his dragon. Tessarion leaps into the air with a flourish of her blue and bronze wings, disappearing into the clouds.

When the sound of the marching fades too, all he is left with are the waves in the water, the pulsing in his head and the hum of Vhagar behind him.

Even so far removed from the castle his stomach churns at the lingering stench of blood in his nose. He can still feel its weight on his skin and in his hair.

What place would he have with his brother, who cannot even bear to look at him. What place will he have with the Hightower host, restlessly waiting?

He has spent half of his life training for the inevitable war, he rides the largest dragon in the world, as Regent he wore the Conqueror’s ruby crown, and it means nothing. Cole was right, they should never have left King’s Landing. The stubborn and irritable blood of the dragon will not allow him to follow Daeron and Cole as they move south.

No, fate has another path for him.

The noise in his head keeps rising. The screams of his sister, his brother, the men he kills at Rook’s Rest, the Strongs as he cut them down one by one. The cries of dragons in pain and anguish. Flashes of thunder and lightning, the rain pelting down against his leathers, the sound of the sea as he stood on the shore below Storm’s End.

It rises and rises until it splits his skull.

He unleashes it, bathing fields, forests and towns of the Riverlands in dragon fire.

He finds no solace in the lands he leaves charred, in the lives he takes, but what difference does it make? His mother never looked at him the same after Storm’s End, nor did Helaena. If they could not forgive him, what should it matter what the rest of the world will make of him?

He is Aemond Targaryen, the Kinslayer, the one-eyed Prince; death, destruction and cruelty are written into his blood, burning through his veins like fire.

If the Tullys will not make their loyalties known, then their people will die the deaths of traitors. Rhaenyra will either watch the Riverlands burn or send her dragonriders. Perhaps she will send her bastard dragonseeds, or perhaps he’ll hear the piercing whistle of Caraxes when Daemon comes for him.

But he thinks one dragonrider will leap at the chance to kill him.

Not a day goes by when he does not feel her or see the marks she has left on him. Perhaps they have always been fated, born to differing sides of family doomed to tear itself apart, bound by childish affections, but finally welded together with their blood on each other’s hands and faces.

Everything he is comes back to Luke, perhaps it is only right they should be each other’s demise.

Tags (comment to be added to either)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya

Series taglist: @boundlessfantasy @toodlesxcuddles @starwarsslut @skikikikiikhhjuuh @arcielee

#aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond x oc #aemond x ofc #aemond x fem!lucerys #hotd #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #aemond x original female character #aemond x reader #my fics #karma is a god

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blackhairedjjun · 11 months

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flowers of every color | bad ending: white lilies

overall summary: when your father is assigned as the new head gardener to the royal family, you are also tasked with helping him maintain the castle's many gardens and extensive floral arrangements. by chance you find yourself crossing paths with the "ice-cold" crown prince, choi yeonjun... who turns out to be not as ice-cold as everyone says he is.

chapter summary: it's too late for you and yeonjun -- his arranged marriage will continue despite your protests. you spend your last day at the castle and figure out a way to hold your life together despite the heartbreak.

word count: 3.3k

warnings: angst and heartbreak 💔

author's note: this is an alternate ending to the story and is not consistent with the good ending. like the good ending, this takes place after a timeskip of a few months.

prev | masterlist good ending

you look absolutely disheveled.

granted, the work of planting dozens of white lilies around the castle perimeter is hardly glamorous; your gloves are caked in soil while sweat beads on your forehead from an entire afternoon of hauling flowers from the greenhouse. but these days you can’t even expend the extra energy to try and keep yourself neat, not when it takes a mountain of effort to even care about planting all these lilies. if you had a choice you wouldn’t bother growing them at all, and would instead climb over the castle gates and hide away forever. but duty is duty, even when it gives you so much heartache that you can barely breathe.

the only solace you take from this is that it will be your last task as royal gardener. tomorrow you leave the castle for good, and though you may never fully leave behind its shadow or the memories you made here, perhaps you’ll be free enough to breathe a little bit more deeply.

for now you focus on the routine of planting flowers, step by step, methodical, mechanical. you lose yourself in the scent of the earth and the sound of the shovel coming up against soil and the velvety feel of the lily petals tickling your gloved fingertips. once you’ve planted one you do so again and again, tricking yourself into thinking that you’re just planting for planting’s sake. you need to trick yourself, because the moment you become fully aware of the lilies’ true purpose, you lose all your senses and the pain in your heart takes over you again.

you will yourself to forget that white lilies are the flowers of marriage.

you lose yourself in the details of planting so that you dare not see the big picture. by the time you and yeonjun confessed your feelings to each other, it was too late — all the wedding plans have already fallen into place. you don’t want to remember the announcement that the council of advisors unanimously approved yeonjun’s marriage to princess ajin, nor do you want to think about the hastened preparations over the last few months. you’ve seen queen hwayoung and her advisors drop by in and out of the castle so frequently that her figure is familiar to you, but a part of you still treats her like a stranger, an intruder into the world you and yeonjun have built. even now you pretend that the trails of white silk being delivered to the castle are nothing more than extra orders of cloth.

“it’s just how politics works” — that’s the mantra you’ve heard over and over again from the bride’s declarations, from the court officials passing by the gardens, and from yeonjun himself when he broke the bad news to you. but even if that’s true for almost everyone else in the castle, it isn’t for you. this wedding isn’t just politics; it’s your worst nightmare. it’s why you can never be with the man you love no matter how much you yearn for him. it’s why you’ve only been able to love him in secret: brief touches when you pass him by in the hallway, quiet conversation in your quarters while a lively dinner outside drowns out the sounds of your voices, stolen kisses in empty rooms in the castle’s farthest corners.

it’s why you’ve thrown yourself into your gardening to the point where you’ve numbed yourself to almost everything else. the chamberlain and the servants praise your work ethic, but your father — the only other person who knows of your relationship with yeonjun — aches at the sight of you running yourself ragged.

so when you suggested to him that you want to leave the castle and work independently, he did not oppose the idea. you don’t want him to go with you, not when the position of head gardener can provide him with enough to last until his old age. you, on the other hand, are still young, and have the advantage of your experience as a royal gardener in your own right. you’re going to leave, save yourself from the pain of watching yeonjun build his married life with someone else, and hopefully find a new place to work and mend your heart.

that is what keeps you going as you plant one white lily after another until your hands ache and you can barely hold your shovel properly. the flowers may mock you, but only until tomorrow. when you leave, they too will be just another memory.

—

by the time you return to your quarters and change into clean clothes, you’re exhausted. you want nothing more than to collapse onto your bed and sleep your problems away, but you see your half-packed suitcase on the floor and remember that you still have work to do. you’re going to finish packing, sneak out to see yeonjun one last time, and then go straight to bed. you want to be well-rested enough to leave, so that you’re gone by the time the wedding celebrations reach their height.

you sit and fill the suitcase with your clothes, your personal gardening tools, and the money that you’ve saved over the last few months. you’re so busy trying to fold a coat to get it to fit properly that you almost don’t hear the knock on your door.

you recognize the distinct knocking pattern that only the two of you know.

you open the door and yeonjun scoops you up into his arms, and the emotions you’ve been holding back for days, even weeks, finally wash over you. he holds you close as you cry into his chest and are filled with relief that he’s with you again. the perfume he’s wearing is different, a special scent concocted especially for the wedding — earthy and floral, sweet yet strong — but it suits him and you breathe it in all the same.

you lift your head up to look at him and you see tears forming in his eyes.

“thank goodness i got to see you again,” he says.

he cups your cheek and you crane your neck up to kiss him. he kisses you back slowly, savoring the feeling of your lips on his, and you sense the wetness of his own tears running down his cheeks. you take in every sensation of him while you still can; you want to remember how he holds you, how his lips fit against yours, how soft his palm feels holding your face. when he wraps an arm around you to pull you closer, you let him just so that you can take him in even more.

yeonjun clings to you after he breaks apart from the kiss. he holds you close and listens to the sound of your breathing, while your arms wrap around him and you rest your head on his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat. even when you sit on the floor again the two of you remain locked in an embrace. his hand comes up to your head and he runs his fingers through your hair, occasionally pressing soft kisses on your forehead.

“so you’re really leaving, huh...”

“...yeah.”

he pulls away to look at you and though he’s smiling, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. you’ve talked about your departure with him plenty of times and you know that he wants you to stay. but you’ve reasoned with him and he’s reasoned with himself; as much as it hurts him to see you leave, it would hurt him even more to make you watch from afar as he spends his life married to someone else. yeonjun refuses to put you in such agony like that.

he’s willing to let you go and you love him all the more for it.

you bury your face in the crook of his neck, leaving a soft kiss there. “i’ll miss you,” you murmur.

“i’ll miss you too,” he says, wrapping both arms around you. “i love you, y/n.”

“i love you too, jjunie.”

“i love you more...”

the two of you spend a few more moments basking in each other’s presence. every second of it is precious to you: every shift in his arms holding you to make you more comfortable, every soft whisper he leaves in your ear. you commit even the smallest pieces of this to your memory.

yeonjun lets go of you, kissing your forehead one last time, then picks up the half-folded coat on your suitcase. “if you’re really leaving, i’ll help.”

he starts folding the coat, but the way he folds it makes it seems even thicker than it actually is. you realize that he’s probably never had to pack his own things himself and you let out a giggle.

“hey! i’m serious, y/n. i want to help you!”

you haven’t gotten over how adorable his pout is, and you commit this to memory too. “no, it’s not that,” you say, still grinning. “you’re folding it wrong, it won’t fit that way!”

“hey, i’m trying...” his expression changes and he glances at you with a smirk on his face, handing the coat over to you. “will you show me, then?”

you place your hands over his. you see the tips of his ears turn pink and you smile. together you fold the coat, his warm hands holding yours, until it’s compact enough to fit in your suitcase.

“there. do you think you could do that with the rest?”

“i dunno...” his voice is playful. “i don’t think i remembered. show me again, please?”

you humor him, taking out a light summer jacket and holding it out for him. with his hands on top of yours you fold it together and place it neatly in your suitcase. you do the same for another piece of clothing, then another, and though it takes longer this way you don’t mind when your hands feel so warm in his.

“i was supposed to come visit you after packing, actually,” you say.

“well, i was worried that i wouldn’t be able to see you again, so i came here.”

“you’re really sweet, jjunie.” you can’t help but smile at his words. “but i just thought... we could do something more romantic? i feel a little bad, honestly, making you pack my things with me.”

yeonjun pauses mid-fold and leans closer to you. his hand cups your face and he gently pecks your lips, his forehead resting against yours. “what do you mean? i like doing this with you. i’ll do anything with you, even if it’s folding clothes.”

you feel a familiar warmth blooming in your chest and you hold on to the feeling.

“then i’d love it if you helped me.”

一

the afternoon of the next day is bright as you make your way through the gardens, past the rows of the white lilies that you planted, and out to the southern exit. you drag one suitcase with you and your father carries the other, and the only sounds you hear are your own breaths. neither guard nor servant intercepts you; everyone is too busy preparing for the wedding reception to linger outside.

in the distance you hear the bells of the cathedral. they are meant to be the bells of celebration, but to you they are death knells.

the sound of the bells make every step feel like agony. the scent of lilies, though not strong, feels overwhelming to your senses. your chest feels tight, more than it should from the light exertion of walking and carrying your suitcase, but you press on anyway. you see the southern exit in the distance 一 a small gate, modest yet elegantly designed, and a small carriage waiting for you 一 and you pick up your pace, your father following behind.

you exhale in relief as the coachman greets you and confirms your destination: your father’s old cottage in the outskirts of the city, where the two of you lived before the royal family invited you. part of you misses the place and you’re glad to make it your home again.

your father pulls you into a long embrace before you leave. you squeeze him tightly and you feel like a child again, remembering how you would always hug him before he left for a trip to the countryside to pick up more seeds and bulbs. those goodbyes always hurt you, and you would cry as he reassured you that he would come back again, and even now tears start to prick at your eyes. this time, you don’t know when you’ll be coming back.

when he pulls away he gives you his best smile, sunken lines forming around his eyes. despite this you can see the tears starting to form too. “if you need me, you can always write or visit.”

“i’ll write every day, i promise.”

“be safe,” he says, squeezing your shoulders. “you grew up to be so strong... i know that you’ll do well. but if you need to come home to me, i’ll always be here.”

“i’ll miss you...”

“i’ll miss you too.”

you hug your father one last time and he ruffles your hair.

he and the coachman help you load your suitcases into the back. your father chatters on with him about his job as a gardener and what he taught you; he talks about anything and everything but the royal wedding, and you feel a bit lighter at his idle talk. the wedding is all everyone has been able to talk about for the past few weeks, but your father knows better than to pick at your wounds.

neither he nor the coachman notices the envelope that falls out from one of the suitcases as it’s hauled in, but you spot it from the corner of your eye and tuck it into your pocket. you don’t remember packing any loose envelopes or paper, but maybe you were so overwhelmed by everything that you forgot.

soon you’re inside the carriage yourself, passing through the southern entrance gates, trying not to listen to the sound of the cathedral bells. you close your eyes for the first few minutes of the journey, not wanting to see the ribbons and banners strewn all over the streets to celebrate the wedding, nor the citizens outside dressed in their finest clothes hoping to get a glimpse of the newlyweds. instead you imagine the castle gardens as you want to remember them: lilies of the valley swaying in the wind, your hand in yeonjun’s as he takes you to a secluded area in the open meadow, your head resting on his shoulder while the two of you sit under a tree for shade.

at some point in the journey you fall asleep. when you open your eyes the sky has turned pink, and the carriage has parked in front of rickety gate in front of your old home.

once you’ve hauled your luggage in through the door, you take a moment to sit in the back garden, where all the flowerbeds are bare and the soil awaits new seeds. the air feels clearer and you let out a long exhale. it’s quiet out here in the outskirts of the city; there are no more bells and no sounds of citizens cheering, and it gives you space to just think and feel. part of you wants to get up and get to work, move on from the heartbreak before it gets too painful, but another part of you wants to mourn, to dwell on what you and yeonjun could have been.

you smooth down your clothing and hear the sound of paper wrinkling in one of your pockets.

oh right 一 the envelope. you take it out of your pocket and the moment you see the wax seal of the house of choi on it, you hands tremble. carefully you break it and pull out a folded letter and a piece of card with flowers pressed onto it: the red roses you gave yeonjun on the night you confessed your feelings for him. the bright red has since faded into a muted wine color, but they look beautiful too this way.

your chest swells with a bittersweet feeling. you swore that you were done crying and yet you feel the tears stinging at the corners of your eyes again. you open the letter attached to the card, the tears nearly blurring your vision enough to keep you from reading the first few sentences:

dear y/n, i kept your promise. you asked to me always keep these flowers, right? i did and i learned how to press them so that i could always keep them. i saved some of them for you so you could keep them too. i shouldn’t be writing this and i should be preparing for the wedding but all i can think about is how much i’m going to miss you. i won’t be able to see you leave but i wish i was there, holding you and telling you that it will be okay. if i could i’d go with you, i’d go anywhere with you. i still love you so much and nothing’s going to change that.

he spends every paragraph telling you what he loves about you: how beautiful you are to him, how well you take care of him, how your smile and your laughter make his day brighter. he tells you how much he believes in you, how he knows every garden you touch will turn into a paradise. he writes down the words “i love you” and “i miss you” so many times and yet he didn’t need to; every word, every letter, and every curve in his handwriting echoes the same sentiment.

i wish i could be the one to make you happy, y/n, but more than anything i want you to be happy again. i want you to smile that same smile that always makes me feel loved. i wish that everyone could see just what a precious person you are.

you barely make it to his closing of your love, jjunie before the tears completely overwhelm you. you sit there sobbing, remembering everything you love about him, from the moment he called your voice pretty when you first met him to the way he clumsily folded your clothes on your last night together. the ache in your heart fills your chest and this time you let it. you yearn for him, you wish he were here to hold you and make you smile himself, yet you know that all you can do is imagine it.

by the time your sobs die down, both his letter and the card are stained with tear marks. you sniffle as you return them in the envelope, telling yourself to take good care of it and keep it always. the sky has turned from pink to dark blue and you can barely read its contents anyway.

you lift your head and gaze up in the direction where the castle is. the wedding celebrations must still be ongoing now, you think. how is yeonjun doing? is he happy? does he yearn for you as much as you do for him 一 and does it ache as much as it does for you?

your heart knows the answers to these questions, but it doesn’t matter anymore. what matters now, you think, is putting the pieces of your heart back together and salvaging the rest of your life.

maybe you won’t get your happy ending with yeonjun, but you can try to live a life that he can watch from afar and feel proud of. you’ll work on other people’s gardens, fill them with flowers and herbs, make them even more beautiful than what you did with the castle. maybe he’ll see them and think of you.

and as you plant every seed, bulb, and shoot, you’ll think of him.

notes: fic complete :) thank you thank you THANK YOU so much for sticking around and reading this story! this is the first multichapter i've ever written and it was definitely a labor of love. i did not expect this to turn into such a big passion project (really this fic started bc i saw one [1] pic of yeonjun in the prince outfit for act: sweet mirage and got really bad brainrot lmao) but i'm so happy that so many people have read it, enjoyed it, and taken the time to leave sweet comments about it. i'm proud of myself for finishing this fic, and i'm grateful to every single reader who gave this fic a chance ❤

taglist (CLOSED) @seosalad @lilplilplilp @yeonboy @pyuae @hyuneyeon @strawbrinkofdeath @yushiu @mazeinthemoon @banggyu0308 @shytubatu @kyaneosprincess @agustdiv1ne @whippedforbeomgyu @justineasian @skywithf1 @wrongbathroom @choizzn @bangchansbae @huskyhunny @catsyoon @flowerbe0m

#txt x reader #yeonjun x reader #txt x you #yeonjun x you #choi yeonjun x reader #kpop x reader #txt imagines #kpop imagines #yeonjun imagines #txt angst #txt fluff #yeonjun angst #yeonjun fluff #tomorrow x together imagines #txt fic #txt fanfic #fic:flowers of every color #bhj: violet's works

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disquietiswhatitis · 4 months

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Kara Danvers

52% Lena Luthor (Supercorp.) By now, if you know, you know... *I apparently had A LOT of thoughts about the rest of Kara's ships so read under the cut at your own risk*

16% Diana Prince (an inferior ship claimed Superwonder long ago so I don't know what their ship name is.) This works for me in Dark Knights of Steel or primarily in a world where Kara is as old or older than she was on the Supergirl series. They compliment each other very well. Diana is more graceful, whereas Kara is more nerdy. Diana is more knowledgeable about art and history whereas Kara is better with math and science. They both have frustrations with the way humans are on Earth compared to the homes they came from but still believe in them and believe in protecting them. They both have pains associated with them leaving their homes and are fiercely loyal to their new homes and loved ones. They both believe in hope, help and compassion. They're two people who could be immortal and find solace with one another as time goes on. They're also both beautiful and could crush a sequoia between their thighs. If you're not sold on Kara/Diana, please give them a shot and read this...it's so lovely.

12% Sam Arias (Superreign.) For starters, let me address what I believe to be a misconception among Supergirl fans. When Lena stayed with Sam during 3x05 and was seen wearing a National City University sweatshirt, I believe that sweatshirt was Sam's and not Kara's. Lena went to MIT and even though Kara visited Lena at Sam's place, it made more sense to me that Sam provided Lena with one of her sweatshirts than Kara bringing one of Kara's sweatshirts from her own apartment for Lena. Thus the natural conclusion would be that Sam ALSO went to National City University. Do I think this lore implication brought about the sweater was an unintentional byproduct of the production crew having to be conservative with their budget (or maybe just lazy)? Perhaps, but it's what I believe nonetheless. Thus, we could've had Kara and Sam as college classmates, possibly even college girlfriends. I like that idea, especially since Kara and Sam would both go on to have a relationship with Lena, respectively, which would make for that messy, "queer women in a friend group all dating each other/a lot of the same women" rep that was missing from the show. I don't care for it when DC emphasizes Kryptonians having to be with other strong beings as if that hasn't been an issue for Clark and Lois in their many decades together...but if they're gonna do it, why not do it with a "friends to lovers to enemies but only when your evil alter ego takes control of your body?" The CW really rushed the development of their friendship (the way they rushed a lot of things) but the chemistry was there and I think it could've been enhanced later on with them bonding over them both being from Krypton. I think the Reign storyline could've been better and more impactful had Kara dated Sam and was actively trying to save her in a way that the Kara-Rhea-M*n El storyline fell flat. I also really like the two of them together in AU's where Lena is with Alex, it just fits. But most importantly and to put it very simply: they're both very pretty, super strong women that should've boned and maybe leveled a mountain in the process. If you want to give them a chance, admittedly I have some bias in recommending this but I think this is an excellent Kara/Sam fic (warning: contents are spicy), and this short follow up is just neat.

10% Andrea (Superrojas.) Andrea was the perfect amount of snide and bossy towards Kara yet thirsty for her and Supergirl. Kara was the right amount of wanting to believe the best in Andrea even when she challenged and irritated her while also looking at her like she wanted to do unspeakable things to Andrea in her office. It's what I imagine Superc*ts felt about Cat Grant except Andrea was actually hot and they had actual, spicy chemistry. 2% Imra Adreen (Supersaturn.) Listen...I hate the Legion of Superheroes. A few of its members are cool, but I've never liked the Legion as a whole. If DC is going to keep insisting on pairing Kara with one of its members in various media, I'd rather they give Kara a Legionnaire girlfriend. My hatred for M*n El I've made abundantly clear over the years so I'm not going to delve into that again right now. As for Brainy, I have absolutely nothing against the character. However, twice now I've had to watch Kara abandon Clark and the present to go live in the future with a boy she just met and in both instances, it never sat well with me and the episode/movie was terrible overall. More importantly, if we're going to be doing the whole "Kara's cousin falls in love with a family member of a big Superman villain who's nothing like them" trope, Supercorp is far and away the superior option. I love Brainy on the Supergirl show but he and Kara only ever gave off bro vibes on that and he's so much better with Nia than any Brainiac ever was with Kara that I never want to see him paired with anyone else. Back to why I like Imra though. In the comics universe, she's a cool character that I feel isn't used well or enough. I don't think a relationship with Kara would solve all of Imra's underutilization issues but it wouldn't hurt either. I don't have a problem with Kara going to the future; it's her staying there that bothers me. It wouldn't be an endgame but Imra would be one of the better matches for a first relationship for Kara. On the show, she's a cool character, she's very pretty and like most pretty women on the show, she looked at Kara like she wanted to be eaten up by her had good chemistry with Kara. The idea of Kara allowing a telepathic character into her mind during an intimate moment also appeals to me (while some DC media puts an unnecessary, weird amount of emphasis on Kryptonians having to be careful with their sex lives, a telepath being able to reassure Kara's anxieties and tell her "it's okay, you can let go" is a spicy good moment I'd like to read more of. Bonus: M*n El getting Mako-ed in a Korrasami situation (he dates two women who end up dating each other) would've been less than a quarter of what he deserved (no disrespect to Mako.)

2% Kate Kane (Kanvers I believe it's called.) Look...I've never been a fan of Ruby Rose. However, Kara was so freaking gay every time she interacted with Kate. Similar to how Lena should've gotten to bang the hot bartender Peggy in Ireland Newfoundland, Kara should've hooked up with the lesbian superhero she was totally flirting with, whether it was a one night stand during Elseworlds or them seeking a moment of relief among all the grief that was Crisis. If they'd let Kara be bisexual, then maybe she wouldn't have gone the last four seasons of the show without so much as a single kiss. Regardless, I just mentally picture Wallis Day instead of the other actress and it's a fun little ship.

2% Nia Nal (Superdreamer.) This one isn't necessarily about the show, though I do I think they could've been cute on the show IF Nia hadn't started out as Kara's protégé. Mentor-mentee relationships are so not my jam. However, a pairing between two variants of them where they weren't mentor-mentee could've been cool. Their comic book versions both having zipper jackets as part of their outfits also once struck me as an idea for a spicy fic that I'll never write.

2% Sara Lance (Supercanary.) The Danvers/Lance hook up that should've been. 1% Jimmy Olsen (Karolsen.) I do vastly prefer Kara with women but they still deserved better. They weren't my OTP in the first season but they were cute and I had hoped that with more time and development, they would get better the way Barry & Iris did on The Flash. (Important to note: I NEVER shipped Snowbarry (ew), I always liked Iris, I just don't think they had worked out what to do with her and her chemistry with Barry in that first season...it improved so much as time went on.) Unfortunately for Karolsen, that never happened and the show was so much worse for it.

1% Siobahn Smythe (Superbanshee.) Fun for some frenemies with benefits in Season 1 or "they were roommates" in the comics. Honorable mention: Lucy Lane. "Hell, I want to date her" was a biconic moment for Kara but I really liked Kara's other ships more and I prefer Lucy with Alex.

Send me ANY character and I'll tell you who I ship them with!

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mellyssageverse · 24 days

Text

Noble Hearts - Prologue

ZoSan Royal AU

I’m still working on the title, but I wanted to start sharing some of what I have written before I post anything on AO3.

Summary: The threat of famine looms over the Kuraigana Kingdom as resources dwindle. Suspicion grips the royal Mihawk family when the prosperous Germa Kingdom offers aid by means of a transactional alliance. As tensions rise, the unforeseen connection between two princes may decide the fate of their kingdoms.

Warning: Violence and Angst

The midday sun bathed the tranquil gardens of the Vinsmoke Castle in a warm glow. Sanji, disheveled and bruised, was held in the familiar arms of his mother, Queen Sora. Tears streamed down his cheeks, dripping off his chin like soft raindrops.

"I'm so sick and tired of training," Sanji sobbed, his voice muffled against his mother's shoulder. "Dad is always comparing me to the others."

Sanji closed his eyes as his mother's gentle fingers combed the tangles from his hair. Moments like these soothed the sadness within him. In her embrace, there were no harsh demands to push his body to its breaking point and there was no relentless torment inflicted by his brothers.

"He just wants you to be the best you can be." Sora's words offered a feeble attempt at comfort, even Sanji could detect the hint of doubt in her voice.

“Why can’t I be like them?!” Sanji grit his teeth. His shoulders tensed and he curled into himself. “Not just the training. I hate that I have to care so much, and dad hates that I’m always crying.”

“Don’t dwell too deeply on such matters,” she urged, her hand cradling his tear-stained cheek. “Embracing your emotions can never be a flaw.”

“But mom…”

“Listen to me,” Sora insisted, her voice firm yet gentle. “Retaining your kind and empathetic nature is a strength, not a weakness. Though emotions may cause pain, they also grant you strength. You may not see it now, but our people will come to admire you for your sincerity and compassion.”

Sanji averted his gaze, unable to meet his mother's eyes. Despite her earnest plea for him to embrace his emotions, he found little solace in her words. He understood that her attempt to comfort him stemmed from her own need for reassurance. He couldn't shake the memories of his parents' frequent arguments, his father's harsh words directed at Sora for her gentle spirit and her inclination to help others. Those heated exchanges often ended with his father blaming her for what he perceived as Sanji's 'defective' personality.

Sora fell silent, as if searching for more words of solace to offer Sanji.

"How about we skip the rest of your training for the day?"

Sanji blinked away his tears, his gaze meeting hers shyly.

"Won't I get in trouble?" he questioned softly.

"Don’t worry about that. I’ll deal with your father." Sora said, firmly placing her hands on his shoulders. Sanji smiled, surprised by how much his mother’s reassurance temporarily eased the knot of anxiety in his chest. "Now, what would you like to do? We can spend some time in the kitchens if you like. Zeff tells me you are quite the little chef."

Sora playfully pulled at his cheek and Sanji couldn't help but swat her hand away with a giggle.

"I want to walk to the beach!" Sanji exclaimed eagerly.

"That’s a pretty far walk. Are you sure you wouldn’t want to take the carriage there?" Sora questioned with a raised brow, her concern tinged with a hint of amusement.

"I want to spend as much time with you as possible." Sanji replied with unwavering resolve. Although he longed for quality time with his mother, a deeper desire lingered within him; the long walk to the beach would provide more time away from his father’s overbearing nature, granting him a precious moment of freedom he desperately craved.

"My Sanji, you are too sweet," Sora reached for Sanji’s hand, offering it a gentle squeeze. Her smile radiating warmth. "If we leave now then we can be back in time for dinner."

The two left the garden to embark on their short journey. The sky stretched bright and blue above them, adorned with wisps of delicate clouds. The sun cast its warm rays upon them, a gentle breeze danced through the air, caressing their faces with its comforting touch. Tall grass swayed rhythmically, brushing against Sanji's knees as they strolled hand in hand toward the beach, Sanji's eyes sparkled with excitement as he shared his newfound interest with his mother.

"What nonsense is he filling in your head now?" Sora chuckled fondly.

"It’s not nonsense. It’s called the All Blue, and Zeff said that fish from all four seas reside there." Sanji insisted with a pout.

Sora’s eyes crinkled with amusement. Another bell-like laugh escaped her lips, the sound music to Sanji's ears.

“Sanji dear, I’m sure he meant it as a fairytale,” his mother attempted to reason gently. “Fish from one Sea can’t swim in another.”

“They can!” Sanji persisted, his determination unwavering. “Zeff said there is a current near Germa that pushes the fish from the East Sea into our Northern one. That’s how he is able to prepare us fish from the East! If fish from other seas can mix then that means it’s possible for the All Blue to be real.”

Sora looked thoughtful over this, actually considering if Sanji’s fantastical ramblings were possible. Then a small smile spread across her face, her eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief.

“Maybe we should sail on the course of the current together. See if it leads us to your All Blue.” Sora suggested, her voice filled with playful curiosity.

Sanji’s heart leapt gleefully in his chest at the prospect of embarking on such an adventure with his mother by his side.

“Really?!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement. Before his mother could answer, her smile suddenly dropped.

Sora stilled, her grip on Sanji’s hand tightening painfully, causing her knuckles to turn white. Her eyes widened with fear, and Sanji's heart skipped a beat, a sense of apprehension prickling at the edges of his consciousness as he followed his mother's gaze. Then, he saw it; a dark shape lurking amidst the tall grass that was unmistakably predatory in nature. A faint glint of its coppery scales caught the light.

A wave of fear washed over Sanji, threatening to paralyze him where he stood, his breath caught in his throat as he watched the creature feasting upon its prey of deer meat. With bated breath, they watched as the creature continued its grisly meal, each rip and tear echoing through the stillness of the field, oblivious to their presence for the moment. Sanji's mind raced, scrambling for a plan of action, but his thoughts were a chaotic whirlwind of fear and uncertainty.

"We must go," Sora whispered urgently, her voice barely audible above the rustling of the wind through the grass. "Slowly, and without drawing its attention."

Sanji nodded, his heart pounding in his chest as they began to edge backward, step by agonizing step, their eyes never leaving the creature's form. Every movement was measured, every breath a silent prayer for escape as they retreated from the scene of impending danger.

They finally broke free from the oppressive grip of the tall grass, when Sanji’s heel inadvertently stepped down on a twig from a fallen tree branch, the sharp SNAP slicing through the tense silence like a knife.

The creature’s gaze flickered in their direction, its bloodshot eyes locking onto Sora and Sanji with an unsettling intensity. Crimson blood dripped from its mouth, curling into a predatory grin. Sanji’s eyes widened as he beheld the creature’s face, a grotesque fusion of man and beast, its eyes gleaming with feral intelligence, its long horns arcing like gnarled branches.

With a feral roar, the creature lunged at them, its claws slashing through the air with deadly precision as it sought to claim its next prey.

Queen Sora grabbed hold of the fallen branch, wielding it like a makeshift weapon as she desperately sought to fend off the relentless assault. With a cry of defiance, she swung the branch with a might Sanji had never witnessed his mother wield before. The branch connected with the creature’s snarling face, momentarily driving it back with a fierce blow.

The Queen then stumbled and cried out in agony. Blood welled from a deep gash on her leg left by the creature’s razor-sharp claws, staining the floor crimson.

“Run, Sanji!” she gasped, her voice strained with pain. Sora pushed her son away, her gaze, which remained on the creature, was filled with fierce determination.

“I won’t leave you!” Sanji cried, his heart wrenching at the sight of his mother’s suffering.

“You have to! You’re faster than me. You have to run ahead for help!” Sora’s voice cracked with urgency, her grip on the branch faltering as the creature rose once more, its menacing presence looming over them like a dark shadow.

Sanji’s mind raced with conflicting emotions. If only he were stronger, he wouldn’t have to flee. He could stand his ground and fight alongside his mother, face the creature head-on. But as the creature turned its gaze towards him, its eyes gleaming with malice, his mother’s voice pierced through the chaos.

“SANJI! Do as I say and get help!” Sora’s voice desperately demanded obedience, commanding him to act.

With a heavy heart, Sanji nodded, swallowing his fear and steeling himself for what lay ahead. Sanji took one last look at his mother the turned and ran, his feet carrying him away from the danger and towards the hope of rescue.

Choking back tears, Sanji ran faster than he had in his entire life. His lungs felt as if they had caught fire, and his heart was thrumming at the base of his throat. Each step felt like a struggle against the weight of his fear, but he pushed himself onward, driven by the desperate need to save his mother.

Finally reaching the castle grounds, Sanji’s frantic pace did not falter. He continued to sprint, feeling the jolt in his knees, the wind dragging through his hair. He could see guards in the distance.

“HELP!” Sanji’s scream ripped through his throat. The distance began to wane between them, and he pushed herself to run faster, faster, until it felt like his bones might melt from the exertion. He could see their faces clearly now. Their brows furrowed in confusion. Sanji collided into them, his hands desperately clawing at their clothes to keep from falling to his knees. His voice strained as he tried to explain through his panting breaths, “The Queen… by the beach… something is chasing her!”

Several guards began running toward the direction Sanji had fled while one stayed with him, attempting to provide comfort. The wait was agony, each passing second stretching out into an eternity of uncertainty and fear.

After what felt like ages, Sanji's heart leaped with hope when he finally caught sight of the guards returning in the distance. His eyes scanned the group frantically, searching for any sign of his mother's presence among them. Then, his gaze landed on a sight that turned his veins to ice.

Sanji felt the world around him begin to tilt, his breath catching in his throat as he beheld the remnants of his mother's cloak being carried back by the guards. The fabric was smeared with grime and blood, a haunting testament to the horrors that had unfolded in his absence.

In that moment, a weight of despair settled heavily upon Sanji's shoulders, engulfing him in a sea of grief and anguish. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as he struggled to come to terms with the devastating truth of his mother's fate, his heart breaking into a million shattered pieces at the loss of the one person who had always been his guiding light in the darkness. Sanji knew that his life would never be the same again.

Chapter 1 can be found here.

#zosan #zosan fic #zosan au

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