#YES HE WILL TOPPLE KINGDOMS FOR THOSE HE LOVES

[shaiyasstuff]

the marriage contract | rafayel

synopsis : When your mom said, “Come out for dinner.” You expected just a normal meal, filled with laughter and your mom’s usual sarcasm. Not her dropping an atomic bomb on you—she already signed your marriage to the playboy of the century, the Lemurian Heir. content : comedy, fluff, implied smut, arranged marriage!au, model!reader, rich heiress!reader, wealthyaf!rafayel, and just, rafayel being rafayel

“You’re getting married to the Lemurian heir.”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Surely, you misheard. It’s the only reasonable explanation.

Maybe it’s the soft clink of silverware, the low hum of jazz from the restaurant speakers, or the fact that your mother said it like she was commenting on the weather.

She flips the menu with one manicured hand, as if she just told you the risotto was good tonight.

A beat passes.

Then another.

“What??” you blurt, half-standing in your seat so suddenly that your thigh bumps the table and nearly sends your water glass toppling.

Your mother doesn’t even flinch. “Sit down. You’re drawing attention.”

“I am attention,” you hiss through gritted teeth, hastily steadying the glass and sinking back into your chair. “What do you mean, I’m getting married? To who?”

“I literally just said—to Rafayel. The Lemurian heir. Don’t make me repeat myself, darling. It’s exhausting.”

You stare at her, your mind screeching to a halt like stilettos on marble. Rafayel.

You know that name. Everyone knows that name.

Playboy. Arrogant. Insufferable.

That Rafayel.

You’ve seen his face plastered across magazine spreads—smirking, shirtless, probably whispering lies into someone’s ear.

He’s the definition of a tabloid headline.

A scandal waiting to happen.

The man has an entire section on social media dedicated to his worst quotes, and a separate one for his abs.

You, a model with a rising career and a deep love for routine, green tea, and sanity, are apparently now contractually obligated to marry the human embodiment of chaos.

“No,” you say flatly.

Your mother finally glances up, her brow lifting with polite disbelief. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, more firmly this time. “I’m not marrying a man who once got banned from a yacht party on his own yacht.”

“That was blown out of proportion,” she replies, waving a dismissive hand. “He was merely expressing himself artistically.”

“By setting fire to the dessert table?”

“Flambé is fashionable now.”

You gape.

“This is a joke,” you say, reaching for your phone. “Is this one of those weird publicity stunts? Did he put you up to this? Is there a hidden camera—?”

“It’s real,” she cuts in, her voice cool and clipped. “And finalized. Our lawyers signed the agreement yesterday. The ceremony is in a month. Try not to look so surprised; this sort of thing used to be standard practice among noble houses. We’re just… reviving tradition.”

You press your fingers to your temples. “We own resorts, Mom. Not kingdoms.”

“Same thing these days,” she murmurs, glancing at the wine list.

You pause. “Wait. Is he even okay with this?”

Your mother’s lips twitch. “He said—and I quote—‘She’s pretty. I can work with that.’”

You nearly fall out of your chair.

“He can work with that?!”

“That’s what he said, yes. I found it charming. Shows he’s open-minded.”

“Mom,” you say, through what you’re sure is a burgeoning aneurysm, “he’s been photographed with a different woman on his arm every week.”

“And now he’ll have just one,” she replies, taking a sip of her water. “Progress.”

You stare at her, chest rising and falling like a storm tide. “I don’t even know him.”

“Perfect,” she says. “No baggage. A clean slate.”

You inhale sharply, about to launch into a very eloquent monologue about autonomy and personal choice when your phone buzzes. You glance down at the notification—and freeze.

Unknown Number.

You free tomorrow at 4? Let’s get this doomed romance started. I’ll bring flowers. Or bribe you with dessert. Whatever works.

You don’t even have to ask who it is.

Your mother looks immensely pleased with herself. “He got your number from his assistant. Isn’t that romantic?”

You turn your phone over and look at her, horrified. “This is blackmail.”

“No,” she says. “This is high society.”

She flags the waiter with a perfectly timed smile.

Meanwhile, you lean back, mind spinning with visions of silver-haired smirking heirs and one very unwanted bouquet.

So this is how it starts.

An arranged marriage.

With him.

You’d rather fight a swarm of seagulls in six-inch heels.

But still…

You glance at the text again, at the cheeky way he signed it off.

—R.

Trouble.

Wrapped in silk and flames and smirking punctuation.

And somehow, despite yourself, the corners of your lips twitch.

Just a little.

—•

Rafayel is attractive, no doubt.

But it’s his insufferable playboy attitude that really irks you.

The door swings open, and there he is—leaning against the frame like this is a cologne commercial, not your new apartment.

One hand in his pocket. Shirt slightly unbuttoned.

Expression set to come hither, like he didn’t just waltz in fifteen minutes late to your very first meeting as an almost-married couple.

“Didn’t know models kept such tidy homes,” he says, gaze trailing over your minimalistic living room. “Where’s the chaos? The broken champagne glasses? The disgruntled photographers?”

“Where’s the punctuality?” you shoot back, arms crossed.

He grins, sharp and unapologetic. “You’ll learn I like to make an entrance.”

“Maybe next time make it through the door on time.”

He steps in, unbothered, and takes a casual look around like he owns the place.

He probably does.

His family has enough wealth to casually purchase countries, let alone condos. He flops onto your sofa, long legs stretched out, hands behind his head.

“So,” he says, eyes flicking to yours, “how do you want to do this?”

You blink. “Do what?”

“This whole marriage thing.” His voice is smooth like honey left too long in the sun—sweet, but dangerous.

“We pretending to be in love for the cameras? Sneaking off with secret lovers behind closed doors? Scheduling monthly dinners so our families don’t throw a fit?”

Your nostrils flare. “That’s your idea of marriage?”

“It’s the practical one. Less risk of broken hearts. Or broken dishes.”

“Thanks, but I’m not interested in being one of your PR arrangements.”

“Ouch,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest. “And here I thought you were the soft-spoken one.”

“Not when I’m being married off like a parcel.”

There’s a beat of silence, and for the first time, something flickers across his face. Not mockery. Not amusement.

Something quieter. Maybe even guilt.

“I didn’t ask for this either, you know,” he says, eyes drifting to the window. “My family’s been trying to clean up my image ever since I lit that cake on fire.”

You raise a brow. “So the rumors were true.”

He smirks. “Technically, the flambéed cherries caught the tablecloth.”

“Very dignified.”

He chuckles. “You should’ve seen the flames. It was glorious.”

Despite yourself, a laugh nearly escapes.

You clamp it down. Hard.

“We’re not doing this,” you say, shaking your head. “I need rules. If we’re stuck with each other, there needs to be rules.”

“Rules?” he echoes, as if the word is foreign.

“Yes. Boundaries. Expectations. Terms and conditions.”

“Like a contract?” he asks, amused. “How very unromantic of you.”

“Call it self-preservation.”

He sits up, intrigued. “Alright then. Lay them on me.”

You grab a pen and your planner from the table—because yes, you’re that person—and start scribbling. He watches, bemused.

You hold it up.

Rules of Engagement

1. No touching.

2. No flirting.

3. No overnight guests.

4. Shared public appearances only when necessary.

5. No falling in love.

Rafayel whistles low. “Number five. That one hurts.”

“It’s for both our sakes,” you say firmly. “We don’t do feelings.”

He leans forward, taking the paper from your hands. His fingers graze yours. You pretend not to notice.

“Fine,” he says, folding it neatly and slipping it into his coat pocket. “But if you break a rule first, I get to choose the honeymoon destination.”

“We’re not having a honeymoon.”

“We are now.”

You open your mouth to argue—but stop. Because somehow, he’s already standing, heading for the door like he didn’t just derail your entire week.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“To buy toothpaste. If we’re living together, I’m not sharing yours. I draw the line at dental hygiene.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

Leaving you standing in your spotless living room, rules in hand, reality crashing down around you.

You’re engaged to Rafayel. Heir of the Lemurian dynasty.

Public menace.

Serial heartbreaker.

And now, your flatmate.

You sigh and flop onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.

Rule Number Five echoes in your mind.

No falling in love.

Easy enough.

Right?

—•

You’d like to clarify—this is not a date.

You were tricked. Lured.

Bribed with lunch and the vague promise of an stress-free afternoon.

Also, he said dessert was on him, and you, tragically, are only human.

So now you’re walking beside Rafayel, trying very hard not to look like someone who willingly spends time with a lilac-haired demon in designer sunglasses and a smug attitude.

Which is difficult, since he keeps flashing that perfectly calculated I-don’t-care-but-I-look-good smile.

“People are staring,” you mutter.

“They’re always staring,” he replies breezily. “The key is to give them something worth photographing.”

As if summoned by his own ego, a girl in oversized glasses practically skids to a stop in front of you.

She clutches her phone like it’s a sacred relic and looks between you and Rafayel like she’s about to faint.

“Are—oh my god—you’re—can I—?”

“Of course,” Rafayel says, already tilting his head for optimal lighting.

The girl shoves her phone toward you. “Would you mind taking a picture of us?”

You blink. Smile. Take the phone. Absolutely do not roll your eyes.

He drapes an arm over the girl’s shoulder, leans in with that practiced grin, and you snap the picture—twice, because she begs for one ‘candid’ and Rafayel, never one to waste an opportunity, dips his chin like he’s starring in a fragrance ad called Sins and Champagne.

“Thank you!” she squeals, bouncing away.

You hand his sunglasses back wordlessly.

“What?” he says as you start walking again. “It’s good PR. Plus, she’ll post that with some ridiculous caption like ‘he’s even hotter in person’ and we’ll both benefit.”

“From your cheekbones?”

“From my brand,” he corrects, slipping the glasses back on. “You should try being nicer to my fans. Builds character.”

“I have character,” you mutter. “I just choose not to market it on sidewalks.”

You arrive at a rooftop café—his pick, obviously.

Something about the natural lighting and imported oysters.

You’d been hoping for sandwiches. Maybe fries.

This place looks like it charges extra for butter.

The waiter seats you, and Rafayel slouches into his chair like he owns the skyline. “Order whatever you want,” he says, tossing the menu aside. “My empire can afford it.”

“Oh good,” you say sweetly. “I’ll take the most expensive dish and two of whatever you hate.”

He laughs—actually laughs.

Not the smug kind. Not the flirtatious chuckle.

A real, amused sound that makes you pause, just for a second.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says.

“Let me guess. You thought I’d be some breathless heiress desperate for your attention?”

“I was hoping for breathless,” he says, smirking. “The desperation was optional.”

You flick a sugar packet at him. He catches it.

The food arrives—too pretty to eat, but you dig in anyway because being around Rafayel burns calories in emotional energy. A few bites in, the conversation unexpectedly… shifts.

“I hated it growing up,” he says, sipping his wine. “The pressure. The expectations. Every move watched. They groomed me like I was some… polished statue to roll out at galas.”

You arch a brow. “So naturally, you set things on fire.”

He grins. “Exactly. They wanted a prince. I gave them a wildfire.”

You study him, fork paused mid-air.

For a moment, he’s not the Lemurian Heir. He’s just a guy raised in a glass cage, throwing stones for fun and freedom.

“What about you?” he asks. “You’re not exactly low-profile either.”

You shrug, suddenly more relaxed than you expected. “Modeling wasn’t supposed to be a career. I did a few gigs to annoy my parents. Then I actually liked it. Go figure.”

“Why did it annoy them?”

“They wanted me in finance,” you deadpan. “Crunching numbers. Marrying someone boring with a yacht and a title. Instead, I wore latex on magazine covers and dated a drummer who spoke exclusively in song lyrics.”

He chokes on his wine, laughing. “You’re full of surprises.”

“So are you,” you admit. “Unfortunately, most of yours are lawsuits waiting to happen.”

He leans back, watching you with an unreadable expression. “You know, you’re different when you’re not trying to strangle me with your eyes.”

“And you’re tolerable when you’re not being a narcissist.”

There’s a pause.

A comfortable one, oddly enough.

The sun’s lower now, painting his purple hair in warm light.

For a moment, the city noise fades and it’s just the two of you, seated between who you were and who you’re pretending to be.

You don’t swoon.

You just… notice.

Briefly.

He reaches for the dessert menu.

“Rule-breaker,” you say.

He smirks. “I promised you dessert, didn’t I?”

You raise a brow as Rafayel waves down the waiter like he owns the establishment—honestly, at this point, he probably does.

“You realize ordering dessert is a clear violation of Rule Number Five,” you say, watching him flip the dessert menu like he’s reading War and Peace.

“Rule Number Five was about feelings, not fudge,” he says, without looking up. “Unless you’re telling me a slice of tiramisu is going to make you fall in love with me.”

You level him with a look. “You’re not my type.”

He grins. “Not yet.”

The waiter returns, and Rafayel orders two desserts without consulting you.

You don’t even protest.

You’re too full and mildly annoyed and slightly curious what dessert a Lemurian heir thinks will ‘win’ a lunch date that was never a date to begin with.

“Why do I get the feeling you do this often?” you ask, drumming your fingers on the table. “Lunch with models. Public flirting. Slow seduction via sugar.”

“I don’t do public flirting,” he says, affronted. “It’s vulgar. My seduction strategy is much more refined.”

“Oh, forgive me.” You roll your eyes.

“You’re forgiven,” he says smoothly. “Though you should know—this is the first time I’ve taken someone to this place.”

You snort. “You expect me to believe that?”

He leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand, smile still present but softened around the edges. “Actually… yes.”

Something in his voice changes—just a shade quieter, a little more honest.

“I usually avoid these places,” he continues. “Too many cameras. Too many expectations. But I thought maybe… this time, it could be different.”

You pause.

Not because you’re swooning—obviously—but because you weren’t expecting him to say that.

And because it’s unnervingly close to something real.

“I didn’t think you were capable of sincerity,” you mutter.

He shrugs. “I fake a lot of things. But not everything.”

You look at him for a long moment, unsure what to do with the sudden shift in temperature.

He’s still smirking, still smug—but there’s something else underneath.

Something quieter. Like even he doesn’t know how to hold it properly.

The desserts arrive, thankfully breaking the moment.

Yours is a delicate slice of pistachio cake with honey drizzle.

His is a dramatic tower of chocolate and edible gold leaf because of course it is.

You pick up your fork.

He watches you. “What?”

“You ordered this just to show off.”

“I ordered it to see if you’d smile.”

You almost choke. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs again, biting into his mountain of sugar and ego. “You’re always so put together. All edges and clever comebacks. I wondered what you’d look like if you actually enjoyed something.”

You stare at him, stunned.

And, annoyingly… flattered.

Which is worse.

“You’re exhausting,” you say.

“And yet, here you are.”

You do not dignify that with a response.

Instead, you take a bite of the cake—and damn it, it is good. Soft, rich, and just the right amount of sweet.

You glance at him and catch him watching you like he’s won something.

“I’m not impressed,” you lie.

“Of course not,” he says, licking chocolate from his fork. “That’s why you’ve finished half your plate in two minutes.”

You narrow your eyes. “You are a menace.”

“I’ve been called worse. Usually by people who later invite me back.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

He laughs again—deep, genuine—and you hate how easily it fills the space between you. Hate that, for one stupid second, you don’t hate being here.

That the sun feels warmer, the silence feels easier, and the sarcasm feels more like a shared language than a wall.

And maybe you let yourself relax. Just a little. Maybe you let your smile slip out, crooked and fleeting.

Not because of him, of course. Because of the cake.

Definitely the cake.

—•

Three weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since your life turned into a weirdly expensive soap opera.

Three weeks of shared living arrangements, awkward press appearances, passive-aggressive coffee orders, and one increasingly complicated non-relationship with the Lemurian heir.

It’s not like you’re counting, of course.

You just happen to know how many times he’s left his socks in the hallway.

Or how many times he’s fallen asleep on the couch after some late-night meeting, suit jacket draped over the armrest like he’s auditioning for a melancholic perfume ad.

You’ve settled into a rhythm. Of sorts.

Which is exactly why the shift—when it happens—feels like slipping on a patch of black ice in heels.

It starts with a knock on your door. Not the loud, arrogant kind Rafayel usually delivers when he wants to borrow something—more like annoy you.

No, this one’s soft. Hesitant.

You’re already annoyed.

“Yes?” you call.

The door creaks open.

He steps in, a little more disheveled than usual.

His tie is gone, shirt half-buttoned, hair a wind-tousled mess.

You blink. “Did you get in a fight with a hurricane?”

“Dinner ran late,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Some board meeting with my uncle. Lemurian politics. Very thrilling stuff. Would’ve invited you, but I figured you’d rather stab yourself with a breadstick.”

“You’d be correct.”

He doesn’t leave.

You glance up. “Something else?”

He hesitates. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

Ah. So that’s what this is about.

You slide your phone out and wave it. “I was working.”

“You left me on read.”

“I didn’t realize I owed you a response to ‘Is the curry still in the fridge or did you emotionally eat it all?’”

“That was a serious question,” he mutters. “I had a long day.”

“And I’m not your personal food tracker.”

His brows knit, and for the first time, the familiar teasing spark isn’t there. Just quiet frustration.

“You’ve been shutting me out lately,” he says. “Every time we talk, it’s like I’m… irritating background noise.”

“Maybe because you are.”

He flinches—just barely. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

There’s a beat. You think maybe he’ll walk away. But instead, he does something worse.

He sits on the edge of your bed.

“I’m trying here,” he says, voice low. “I know I’m not… easy. Or conventional. Or whatever it is you want. But I show up. I stay. I’m not out there making headlines anymore, I’m here—with you. And sometimes it feels like you’re still waiting for me to screw up.”

You cross your arms, defenses rising on instinct. “Don’t act like you’re some martyr. You signed the same contract I did.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t expect to actually like you.”

That stops you cold.

The air goes still. Your heart trips over itself. You hate that it does.

You laugh—short, sharp, sarcastic. “Well, that’s your mistake.”

He stares at you. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This. Pushing me away. Acting like none of this matters.”

“Because it doesn’t,” you snap. “Because the second I start thinking maybe you’re not the egotistical headline I assumed—maybe you’re real, and messy, and sincere—you’ll remind me exactly why I should’ve kept my distance.”

He’s quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer.

“Has someone hurt you like that before?”

You look away.

“That’s not your business,” you say, but it sounds thinner than you meant it to.

He nods slowly, like he hears what you didn’t say.

“Well,” he says, standing, “I’m not here to be another person who lets you down. But I’m not going to spend the next six months proving I’m harmless just because you’ve decided I’m a walking red flag.”

“Don’t worry,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek. “I don’t expect anything from you.”

He exhales.

And for the first time, you see him really tired.

Not in the usual I partied too hard way.

In the I don’t know what else I can say way.

He turns to leave. Stops at the doorway.

“For what it’s worth,” he says without looking back, “I didn’t touch the curry. Even after the board meeting. Because I thought maybe… you’d want to share it.”

And then he’s gone.

The door clicks softly behind him.

You stare at the space he left behind.

Empty plate. Empty room.

And for the first time, your chest feels just a little too full.

You don’t move for a while.

The room feels quieter without him in it. Like his absence took something with it—heat, maybe. Or air.

You stare at your phone for a moment, then at the door.

Then at the fridge.

Dammit.

You find him where you always seem to, sprawled on the couch like he owns the universe, remote in one hand, eyes half-lidded.

The TV is on, muted. A documentary about space or fish—hard to tell.

He doesn’t look up when you step into the living room, barefoot, bowl of reheated curry in your hands.

“I didn’t come to apologize,” you say flatly.

“Didn’t think you did.”

You hold out the bowl. “You were right. I ate half. But I saved enough for two.”

He glances over.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

He takes it anyway, and for a while, you eat in silence.

Shoulder to shoulder on the couch, knees brushing. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Just shared proximity. Shared food. Shared silence.

And yet.

“You don’t really like curry, do you?” you ask after a moment.

“I like that you made it.”

You glance at him, only to find he’s already watching you. The light from the TV flickers across his face, casting shadows across the sharp line of his jaw. His silver hair is tousled, eyes softer than they have any right to be.

You look away first.

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“That.”

“Looking at you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it feels like you’re trying to see me.”

“I am trying to see you.”

You set your bowl down on the coffee table, suddenly tense. “Don’t.”

He leans back, mirroring your posture. Still close. Still too close.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he says softly.

You laugh—dry and a little bitter. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

“I think you’re afraid of what it might mean to actually trust me.”

The silence stretches like thread pulled taut.

And then—softly, so softly—you ask, “Why are you trying?”

It’s not sarcastic.

Not accusatory.

Just quietly, achingly sincere.

He pauses.

“I don’t know,” he says after a beat. “Maybe because this—you—is the first thing in my life I didn’t win by being charming or rich or reckless. Maybe because, for once, I want something that doesn’t come easy.”

Your chest twists. You hate how much you feel it.

You shift, meaning to stand. Or move. Or just get some space.

But then he catches your wrist.

Not hard. Not demanding. Just… there.

You freeze.

His fingers are warm against your skin. His touch gentle. Uncertain, even.

Your eyes meet.

The moment hangs.

And there it is—that unbearable closeness. That electric, breath-stealing almost.

You hate that your pulse stutters.

That your throat goes dry. That something unspoken curls beneath your ribs like smoke.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” he murmurs. “Not unless you want me to.”

You swallow.

Hard.

And then, deliberately, you pull your hand away.

His face doesn’t fall—but you see the flicker of something retreating. The door he cracked open quietly swinging shut again.

You stand.

Smooth your hands down your shirt like it matters.

Like it helps.

“I’m going to bed,” you say.

He nods. Says nothing.

You make it halfway to your room before you stop.

“Rafayel.”

He glances up.

“Thanks for saving me half the curry.”

His mouth twitches. “Anytime.”

You close your door gently behind you, back pressed against the wood, heart pounding a little too loudly in your chest.

You didn’t swoon.

You didn’t.

But god, you almost did.

—•

It starts with a harmless visit.

Or at least, that’s what Rafayel tells himself when he shows up at the studio, hands shoved in his coat pockets, sunglasses perched like armor, and a single iced coffee balanced in the other hand.

The assistant at the front desk gives him a look that says oh god, it’s him again—but hands him a visitor’s pass anyway.

He doesn’t know why he came.

He just… wanted to see you.

Maybe bring you coffee.

Maybe tease you about how serious you get during fittings.

Maybe catch another one of your rare, unguarded smiles when you’re not being ‘the model’ or ‘the reluctant fiancée’ or whatever it is you pretend to be when you’re not curled up beside him eating leftover curry.

But then he sees you.

And you’re not alone.

You’re smiling—laughing—with some guy who’s tall and objectively handsome in a ‘men’s fragrance ad’ kind of way.

Shirt unbuttoned just enough for it to be indecent.

He’s standing too close, helping adjust a clasp on your dress, his fingers brushing the back of your neck.

It’s innocent.

Of course it is.

Rafayel knows that.

But logic is no match for jealousy.

He turns around before you can see him, coffee forgotten on the edge of a table, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache.

When you get home that night, the first thing you notice is the silence.

The second is Rafayel.

He’s sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes dark.

And glaring.

No sign of the boyish, playboy grin that he usually dons.

You blink. “Hi?”

No answer.

“Okay,” you say slowly, dropping your bag by the door. “Did someone die or did you burn another diplomatic dinner?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move.

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“I came by your shoot today.”

That stops you cold. “You what?”

He uncrosses his arms, pushes off the counter. “I thought I’d surprise you. Bring you coffee. Be supportive, or whatever it is couples are supposed to do.”

Your heart stutters. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

He’s pacing now, hands raking through his hair.

You’ve never seen him like this—tense, clipped, frustrated in a way that’s not performative.

“I saw you,” he says. “With him.”

You blink. “Who—? Oh my god. Leo? The other model?”

“Is that his name?” Rafayel snaps. “Fantastic. Now I know what to engrave on the urn.”

You stare. “You’re jealous.”

“No,” he lies. Terribly.

You blink again, slowly. “You thought something was going on?”

He says nothing.

You fold your arms. “Seriously? You’ve been photographed half-naked with actresses for years, but the moment a guy helps me zip a dress—”

“It’s not the same,” he growls.

“Oh? Because I’m supposed to be the good one?”

“No,” he says, stepping closer now. “Because you matter.”

The words hit like a punch.

Your breath catches. “What?”

“You matter,” he says again, softer this time. “And I hate that I care. I hate that I see you smile at someone else and feel like I’m about to lose something I never even had.”

You can’t speak.

“I didn’t want to fall for you,” he says. “But here I am. Completely wrecked.”

Silence.

It stretches between you like a live wire.

And then you say the stupidest, bravest thing you’ve said since this whole arrangement started.

“Then kiss me.”

His eyes widen.

“Rafayel.”

You step closer. “If you mean it. If you’re not playing. Then kiss me.”

A second passes.

Then another.

And then he does.

He surges forward like a man starved for something he didn’t know he needed, hands cupping your face, mouth crashing into yours with enough heat to burn.

It’s not sweet.

It’s not careful.

It’s weeks of tension unraveling in one breathless, heated pull.

You gasp against him, fingers fisting in his shirt.

He presses you back against the wall, lips trailing down your jaw, your throat, before coming back up to kiss you again, slower this time.

Deeper.

Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours.

“No more rules,” he says.

You nod, dazed. “No more pretending.”

He laughs, breathless and shaky. “God, I’m in so much trouble.”

You kiss him again.

Because yes—so are you.

And you don’t care anymore.

Your back hits the bedroom door.

You don’t remember walking there.

Or maybe he carried you.

Or maybe time just folded in on itself the second you kissed him.

Either way, the world’s a blur and he’s the only thing in focus.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice husky, lips brushing your jaw.

You smirk, breathless. “Is this the part where you ask for written consent?”

“I like to be thorough.”

You curl your fingers in the front of his shirt and tug. Hard. “Consider this my signature.”

“Very professional,” he murmurs, leaning in again.

His kiss deepens—hotter now, lazier.

Like he’s savoring it.

Like he has all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth and exactly what makes your breath catch. His hands find your waist, thumbs sliding under your shirt like he’s tracing a map.

“You know,” he murmurs against your lips, “I expected you to resist a little longer.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, come on. I’m irresistible. It’s in my genetics.”

You laugh—actually laugh—while he fumbles with your top, cursing under his breath when it gets stuck halfway over your head.

“You undress like a man who’s never taken a bra off without summoning a priest,” you tease.

“It’s a complicated mechanism!”

“Is it though?”

You reach back, unhook it yourself, and toss it onto the lamp. He pauses, visibly impressed.

“Show-off.”

“Amateur.”

He grins—wolfish, cocky, entirely himself—and you hate that it only makes you want him more.

The bed hits your knees.

Then you’re down, tangled in sheets, heat blooming across your skin like wildfire. Rafayel moves like he’s memorizing you with his hands, like he’s collecting data for some unholy research project titled Ways to Ruin Her on a Tuesday Night.

And okay, fine, you’re definitely not not enjoying it.

“You’re staring,” you murmur as he hovers above you, breath uneven.

“I’m admiring.”

“Same thing.”

“Not when it’s you.”

For once, the sarcasm fades. Just a flicker.

Because the way he’s looking at you right now—like you’re something rare, something his—makes your chest ache.

You reach up, fingers tracing his jaw. “You’re so smug.”

“You like me smug.”

“I tolerate you smug.”

“Mm.” He kisses your collarbone. “Let’s see what else you tolerate.”

What follows is a blur of heat and friction and whispered curses—mostly yours.

He’s infuriatingly good at this. Predictably. And yet, somehow, every touch feels more like discovery than performance.

No games.

No roles.

Just him. Just you.

And the sharp, dizzying ache of something that might be real.

Later, when you’re tangled together under your ruined sheets, the room heavy with silence and post-storm warmth, he says, “You know I’m never letting you go now, right?”

You hum against his shoulder. “Good thing I’m contractually obligated to stay.”

He snorts. “Romance. Alive and well.”

You grin. “Just wait until I start stealing all the covers.”

He laughs quietly, arm tightening around you.

And for the first time since this whole mess began, you think, maybe this won’t end in flames.

Maybe, just maybe, you’re already home.

—•

You wake up to an empty bed.

For a second, it feels normal.

The way sunlight filters through the curtains, the warmth lingering on the sheets, the scent of something distinctly Rafayel—cologne, mischief, and sandalwood.

But then the silence registers.

And the fact that his side of the bed is cold.

You sit up, heart doing that annoying thing where it tightens even though nothing is technically wrong.

You find him in the kitchen.

Leaning against the counter, mug in hand, hair mussed, jaw tense. He’s staring out the window like he’s waiting for the apocalypse or a dramatic soundtrack to kick in.

“Hey,” you say, voice still rough with sleep.

He doesn’t look at you.

You pad in barefoot, wrapping one of his shirts tighter around your body.

“I checked the mirror,” you add. “Still stunning. You can stop brooding now.”

Nothing.

That’s when the dread creeps in.

“Okay. Are we pretending last night didn’t happen? Because I’ll need time to emotionally detach from the blanket fort we made with our bodies.”

His jaw clenches.

You stop teasing.

“What happened?”

He finally looks at you.

And it’s not the same look he gave you last night—hungry and tender and slightly awed. This one’s guarded. Cold around the edges.

“You got a call.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“From Leo.”

You frown. “The model?”

He nods once. Tight.

“Oh my god, are you still on this?”

“He called you babe.”

You stare. “He calls everyone babe. He calls his cat babe.”

“You smiled.”

“I smiled?”

“You were different with him.”

You set your mug down with a sharp clink. “Do you hear yourself right now?”

“I let myself believe it,” he says, voice low. “That this was real. That maybe we weren’t just playing house until our families got what they wanted. But maybe that’s all this is. A beautiful lie.”

You freeze.

It’s not what he’s saying—it’s what he’s not saying.

It’s the fear in his eyes. The old wound resurfacing in a prettier suit.

“You think I’d sleep with you, laugh with you, fall asleep in your arms—just for show?”

“I don’t know,” he says. And that’s worse than if he’d said yes.

The silence feels colder than his words.

You exhale shakily. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust myself,” he corrects. “I’ve ruined everything good I’ve ever touched. Why would this be any different?”

Your voice is quiet. “Because I’m not them.”

He looks at you like he wants to believe that.

But can’t.

Not yet.

“I need air,” he mutters.

You move aside as he brushes past.

The door closes behind him.

And for the first time since all of this started—since the first headline, the first sarcastic quip, the first rule scribbled in your planner—you feel completely and utterly alone.

Hours pass.

You don’t call.

You don’t text.

You want to.

God, do you want to.

But some stubborn part of you—some still-bruised fragment—refuses to be the one to chase him.

If he wants to walk away from this, from you, he can.

You’ve survived worse.

Right?

…Right?

—•

The door creaks open just past midnight.

You’re on the couch, pretending to read a magazine.

You don’t look up.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then.

“I’m an idiot.”

You flip a page. “We agree on something.”

“I panicked.”

You close the magazine.

He steps further into the room, looking wrecked. Hair windblown, shirt rumpled, regret in every inch of him.

“I saw something that scared me,” he says. “And instead of asking, instead of trusting you, I lashed out.”

You stand, arms folded. “You think that fixes it?”

“No,” he says. “But maybe this will.”

He pulls something from his pocket.

Your planner.

The one with the Rules of Engagement.

He opens it, flips to the page with your old list, and crosses out the last rule.

“No falling in love,” he reads aloud. Then draws a thick, dark line through it. “Too late.”

Your heart skips.

He looks up at you. “I’m in love with you.”

It’s not smooth. Not polished. Not smirking or smug.

It’s raw.

Vulnerable.

Terrified.

You cross the room slowly.

Take the pen from his hand.

And next to where he crossed it out, you write, “Me too.”

When you look up, he’s already pulling you into his arms.

This kiss isn’t fire—it’s gravity.

Like you were always meant to fall.

And finally, finally, you stop fighting it.

—•

The wedding is in three days.

The guest list is ridiculous.

The venue is twice as ridiculous.

There’s a seven-tier cake named after constellations and an entire chandelier that had to be flown in with a crane.

And you? You’re on the windowsill, veil forgotten, staring at your phone like it might offer clarity.

It doesn’t.

The door creaks open behind you.

You don’t look. “Nice of you to show up.”

“Thought I’d be mysterious,” Rafayel says. “You know. Add drama.”

“You’re late.”

He steps beside you. “I was going to call it off.”

That gets your attention.

“What?”

“The wedding,” he says. “I didn’t want you marrying me out of obligation.”

You stare. “I wasn’t.”

“I know. But I panicked. Because this is the first time I actually care what someone thinks of me.”

He pauses.

“I love you,” he says. “And it scares the hell out of me.”

You take a slow breath.“I choose you, Rafayel. Not for the headlines. Not because I have to. But because somehow, you’ve become the only place I feel like myself.”

He looks like you just handed him the stars.

The wedding was pure chaos.

Too many cameras. Too many roses.

Rafayel’s suit shimmers ever so slightly—he claims it’s subtle.

A drone nearly crashes into the flower arch during your vows.

But none of it matters when he squeezes your hand and says, loud enough for the world.

“I choose you. No matter how many rules we break.”

You can’t help smiling.

“Even when you leave your socks everywhere?”

There’s laughter. There’s confetti. There’s a signature cocktail named after your first public argument.

You slip away from the reception to breathe, heels dangling from your hand.

Of course she finds you.

Your mother, dressed immaculately, holding a champagne flute like it’s part of her anatomy.

“I told you so,” she says, smug as ever.

You groan. “Seriously, Mom?”

“I told you you’d like him,” she says. “Eventually. Once you got over your tragic taste in musicians.”

You stare. She sips. And walks off, victorious.

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself.

Then Rafayel appears—tie undone, hair a little messy, smile all soft edges.

He holds out his hand.

You take it.

And just like that, everything falls into place.

“Do you like curry now?”

“No.”

masterlist

[dreamdragonkadia]

Could you pleasee write something about Xaden Riorson cause I just love that men and I love your writing💕

I saw this and immediately said, “Okay—but what kind of drama can we stir up with it?” So here we are. Thank you so much for your support. I promise there’s plenty more Xaden where that came from. x.riorson x tauri!reader Part Two

Was it a secret that the Princess of Navarre was spoiled?

Gods, no. Everyone knew it. The kingdom whispered it like a warning and a prayer, that the youngest of the first-borns, the only current Crown Princess, had everything handed to her on a gilded plate. Silk gowns, jeweled hairpins, tutors flown in from the capital and beyond.

But Cam—Cam was the only one you really got along with. The only one who saw an older sister.

And he was the one who told you the news. Who—offhandedly, as if it was just some political footnote—mentioned that your father was trying to marry you off to the King of Deverelli. ‘In good faith’ apparently.

So yes, you ran. Slipped through the palace halls like a shadow, packed only what you could carry, cut your hair to your shoulders with the same blade that now rested on your thigh.

And no one stopped you. Because no one suspected a thing.

To the kingdom, the Crown Princess didn’t vanish into the night—she fell “gravely ill,” too weak to be seen. Bedridden. A tragic occurrence in the aftermath of Prince Alic’s death. Oh, the royal family was surely cursed. Poor Crown Prince Halden. First his twin slain, now his twin sister withering away behind silk-curtained windows. The gossip was delicious.

But the truth?

You had slipped into the Riders Quadrant under a false name, a year older than the rest of your year, blending in with a cohort of freshbloods too busy trying to survive to ask many questions.

The leathers chafed at first. The hair against your neck felt foreign without its silk ribbons. But the sword on your hip? The dagger tucked into your boot? Those felt right.

And when your Red Swordtail picked you—when she looked at you and chose you—you knew you’d never go back. Not willingly.

Especially not when Xaden Riorson started looking at you like he saw straight through every layer of disguise.

Not even when you started looking back.

Because if the kingdom ever found out that their precious Crown Princess wasn’t just alive and well but fraternizing with the great betrayer’s son?

It would be the kind of scandal that topples monarchies.

But no one knew. Not even Xaden. Not really.

You hadn’t told a soul your real name. Not the other riders. Not your squad. Not the boy whose shadows curled too close whenever you got too hurt.

Only your dragon knew. She’d seen it all—your grief, your fear, your fury. And she'd kept your secrets with a glint in her eye that promised she'd burn the whole kingdom down before she'd ever let them take you back.

And Xaden?

It really hadn’t been that hard to fall for him.

Not when he spent your first month pretending he didn’t care whether you lived or died—as long as you didn’t drag the rest of the squad down with you.

Not when he coldly pointed out your weaknesses in front of everyone like he was reading a report.

Not when he muttered corrections under his breath during sparring drills, like he couldn’t help himself.

Gods, he was infuriating. And he was right.

Because that’s the thing—Xaden Riorson never wasted time. Not on pleasantries, not on weakness.

So when he started pulling you aside after hours, correcting your stance, showing you how to angle your weight to drive a blade home—

When he didn’t stop you from collapsing on the training mats but crouched beside you afterward, voice low and shadow-laced, saying, “Get up. You’re not done yet.”

That was when you knew.

Because Xaden didn’t waste time on things he didn’t think would survive. And he sure as hell didn’t teach people how to win unless he wanted them alive.

Which meant he wanted you alive.

And for the longest time, you didn’t know why.

Not until you started catching his gaze every time you won a challenge. The way his eyes lingered just a second too long—not impressed, but watching, like he was cataloging every move you made. Like he was memorizing you. Every strength you tried to hide, every weakness you refused to let show.

He never said anything. Never praised you. But his silence wasn’t the kind that dismissed—it was the kind that noticed.

Not until you started seeking him out on purpose. Going out of your way to say good morning, even when he rarely answered. Just to see if you could make him crack the smallest smile. And maybe once or twice, when no one else was looking, you did.

Not until you stopped flinching at the marks inked across everyone’s skin. Stopped pretending you didn’t know what they meant.

Even though you never understood—never could understand—how killing their parents was supposed to prove anything.

Because somewhere in the middle of all that distance and danger, something shifted.

It was in the way his voice changed when he spoke to you—still pointed, but no longer cruel. In the way his shadows hovered just a little closer after you got tossed during sparring, flickering against your wrist like they were checking for broken bones.

It was in the quiet between drills, when he stood closer than necessary. When his gaze dropped—not to assess, but to see.

Not until you found yourself backed against the cold stone of a shadow-laced hallway, breath catching as the air thickened around you.

He wasn’t touching you. Not yet. But his eyes were molten and unreadable, like he was waging a war inside himself and losing fast.

Then his mouth was on yours—rough and desperate and so careful, like he wasn’t sure he deserved this, but needed it all the same.

He kissed you like he was trying to breathe. Like he’d been holding his breath for months. Like you were the first thing that ever felt real.

And you kissed him back like you’d been waiting your whole life to be chosen—not for your crown or your name, but for you. For the girl who’d carved herself out of ashes and made a new name fit like armor.

He didn’t know your secrets. Didn’t know your bloodline or your history.

But he saw you. All of you.

And wanted you all the same.

And for a while, it had been perfect.

Not easy. Not gentle. But real—raw in a way that left you breathless and aching and desperate for more.

It started small. Stolen glances across the sparring mats. A hand on your back that lingered half a second too long. Shadows curling like smoke around your ankles when you were too still, too silent, too far away.

But then came the other things. The quiet things.

Xaden Riorson loved chocolate.

Like—actually loved it. Not just tolerated it, but hoarded it. Would trade for it in secret. Smuggled pieces back to you like it was contraband. You’d caught him once, sitting on the edge of your bed with a napkin-wrapped square of dark chocolate and a completely unbothered expression.

“What?” he said, when you stared. “I’m a grown man with stress. Let me have this.”

You learned that he slept with one arm thrown over his face, like he hated being vulnerable even in dreams. That he wasn’t a fan of the cold but would always give you his jacket without comment. That he preferred old books with cracked spines and spent hours sketching things he never let anyone else see—battle formations, dragons in flight, once even you when he thought you weren’t looking.

And gods, the way he touched you—always with control, always with intent. As if he didn’t want to want you, but couldn’t help it anymore.

He never pushed. Never took. Always asked.

But once you gave—once you pulled him in and whispered yes—He was devastating.

All rough hands and low groans, reverent kisses pressed to the hollow of your throat, like he couldn’t believe you were his. Like he needed to prove it with every touch.

And afterward, when you curled beneath the sheets and felt his shadows wrap around the both of you like smoke and silk, he would rest his forehead against yours and whisper things he’d never admit in daylight. Things like you scare the shit out of me and you make me forget I’m supposed to be careful.

Your dragons adjusted without a word. Red and Blue falling into step like they’d always flown together. As if they understood something binding had tethered their riders together.

And it was binding. Because he let you in. Let you see the boy beneath the shadows, the one who still mourned his father, who still carried the weight of a rebellion like it was stitched into his bones. And you—gods, you let yourself be seen. Fully. For the first time.

You weren’t a crown. You weren’t a name. You were just a girl, and he was just a boy who kissed you like you were his last chance at peace.

You should’ve known it couldn’t last.

Should’ve known the world would come clawing for you eventually.

It nearly unraveled when General Lilith’s daughter entered the quadrant. You hadn’t seen her in years—not since she was shoving Halden at court functions when no one was watching. Not since she caught you sneaking pastries and promised to keep your secret if you shared.

Her eyes landed on you like she was trying to solve a riddle she didn’t remember writing. But she never said anything. Just blinked.

Told herself the Crown Princess of Navarre was still bedridden. Still fading.

And your secret stayed safe.

For one more year.

Until Cam crossed the bridge and stepped into your room like the ghost of your past had come to life.

You didn’t even have time to speak before he was pulling you into his arms—arms that had grown stronger, taller, older while you’d been gone—and sobbing into your shoulder.

“Oh my gods,” he whispered, over and over again. “You’re not dead. You’re not dead.”

Your throat burned. “I tried to write,” you said, your voice cracking. “I couldn’t risk it. I’m sorry—I had to disappear. They were going to sell me off like a treaty, Cam. I had to go.”

“I thought I lost you too,” he choked out. “I thought I was alone.”

You buried your face into his shoulder then, shaking. Because even after everything—after all the lies, all the nights you cried yourself to sleep trying to remember how your real name sounded—this still felt like home.

But peace never lasted long.

Not in your life.

When Xaden arrived that weekend—under the pretense of Sgaeyl and Tairn needing a mandatory reunification flight—there was something about a book. Something about needing Cam’s help getting part of it. Something that should’ve been normal.

But then Cam’s eyes flicked to where Xaden stood beside you—where his hand had casually settled on your back, familiar, comfortable, intimate.

And something in Cam snapped.

His whole body went still. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You blinked, confused. “What?”

Cam’s voice was low, rough. “That’s him?”

You turned, your stomach lurching.

“That’s your little lover?” he hissed. “He’s the reason Alic is dead.”

The words hit like a blade between the ribs.

You froze.

And then Xaden—calm, cold, and unaware of the landmine he’d just stepped on—said, “Your brother was a craven, murderous prick.”

The air left your lungs.

Even if a part of you knew it was true—even if you’d known, in the quiet places of your mind, what Alic had become in the end—he was still your brother. And the truth still hurt.

“You…” The word stuck in your throat. “You killed my brother?”

Xaden blinked.

And that was when everything broke.

Violet watching you both like she was watching puzzle pieces slot into place, suddenly inhaled like she’d been struck.

“Oh my gods,” she whispered, wide-eyed. “You’re the crown princess.”

It felt like the entire hallway tilted.

The silence that followed wasn’t silent at all—it rang.

You didn’t wait.

Didn’t think.

You just ran.

Stormed down the corridor, every step echoing like a scream, barely holding yourself together. Your vision blurred with tears you refused to let fall. Your breath hitched as you reached out with everything—

“Please, come get me,” you whispered through your bond. To your dragon. Your constant. The only one who could carry you far enough away from this moment. “Please, I need you.”

But before you could reach the doors, footsteps thundered behind you. And then his hand—familiar, warm, calloused—closed around your arm.

“Wait—” Xaden’s voice cracked.

You turned.

And gods, he looked as wrecked as you felt.

Like someone had carved him open. Like he didn’t know whether to pull you close or fall apart entirely.

“You never told me,” he said, like it physically hurt. “You—gods, you never told me.”

“I know,” you whispered, your throat burning. “I know.”

His grip loosened, like he couldn’t bear to hold you if you didn’t want him to—but couldn’t let go, either.

You shook your head, blinking fast. “I can’t. Not right now.”

His eyes searched yours, desperate. “Just—tell me why. Tell me it wasn’t all a lie.”

And you almost broke then. Almost told him everything—about your father, the arranged marriage, the masks and how hard it had been to breathe before you met him.

But your heart was already splintering.

“I can’t talk about this,” you said, voice raw. “About Alic. About you killing him, and why, or what your reasoning was. I can’t do this now.”

He flinched. But he nodded.

And you—gods, you swallowed the sob threatening to rise as you stepped back.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” you said, barely audible. “I just—I need to breathe.”

Because at the end of the day, even after all of it—

You still loved him.

Were in love with him.

And that made everything hurt so much worse.

[siravalondulac]

sapphire steel | chapter three - curiosity

j. snow x fem!oc

summary: jon has a conversation with his brother, and finds someone in the library

tags: smut (f/m, fingering, slight exhibitionism, choking (once)), dubious consent, canon divergence - rhaegar won the trident

word count: 3448

author's note: i need to get a bit of plot out of my system before we reach the smut

masterlist | additional works masterlist

previous | next

Aegon dragged him kicking and screaming out of bed and down to the practice yard. He was forced to destroy straw puppets until he collapsed against the wall, out of breath and with a worse headache than usual around this time of day.

His brother jumped nimble-footed across the carnage, spinning and jabbing his spear the way Oberyn Martell had taught him. He looked graceful in a way Jon could never be - constantly drunk and only willing to bend if it got his dick wet.

Aegon was the only one of the three siblings to inherit their father's white hair and purple eyes, yet that was where the similarities stopped. Everything else about his brother - his brown skin, his build, his face, even the softness with which he treated Jon - came from his mother.

The snow under his fingertips was cold, biting into his skin and seeping through his clothing. A storm had raged across King's Landing the previous night, bringing the otherwise buzzling castle to a standstill, leaving the training yard eerily empty.

Aegon sat down gently beside him, the perfect crown prince seeping into every move he made.

They stared out into the snow, a comforting silence settling around Jon.

“I heard you have a new friend,” his brother finally said.

Friend. What a strange word. Foreign. Poisoned.

“I don't know why father keeps sending them.” Jon picked up a fist full of snow and threw it across the yard. “It's like sending lambs into the wolf’s den, hoping for a different outcome every time.”

“Perhaps he hopes you marry one of them. Settle down, stop drinking, continue the family line.”

He laughed, the sound echoing off the high walls around them.

“Who is she?” his brother asked eventually.

Jon would rather do anything but talk about that woman, but knew he would never be able to deny his brother.

“Tywin Lannister's granddaughter.”

Aegon raised his brows. “The bastard no one's ever seen?”

Jon nodded.

“What was she called? Ceryse?”

“Cerelle.”

The name burned on his tongue.

Aegon nodded absentmindedly. Then he smiled. “What is she like?”

Annoying. Intriguing. Terrifying.

“She's a good fuck, even if she never makes a sound when I put my-”

“Not like that!”

Aegon laughed, pushing against his arm. It hadn't been all that hard, but Jon's head still turned, and so such a simple action caused him to topple over and fall into the snow. His brother laughed even harder now.

“How can one fall over while sitting?”

Jon shook the snow from his hair. Black, like those of the mother he killed. “Maybe by having the worst brother in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Don't lie, I know you love me.”

Aegon's words were true, but only because loving him was easy. Everything about Aegon came easily to him - charme, kindness, politics, martial matters. The like of him was an anomaly at their cutthroat court.

Yes, Jon loved his brother, but not in the way Targaryens did. None of them - besides their father and uncle - felt truly comfortable with their ancestors’ traditions, and they all agreed it would be better if that part of their family stayed buried with the Mad King. Even Daenerys, who lived on Dragonstone with her mother most of the time and barely interacted with them, had come to the same conclusion. One conversation during a visit to the capital, and she had sworn to oppose any notion of a marriage to Aegon. Perhaps Rhaella had influenced her in that regard.

“No, truly.” Aegon dragged him up from the ground. “What is Cerelle like?”

Jon pondered what to answer. “She… She isn't scared of me. Nor does she like me. She simply lies there, listens to my commands, and then leaves once it's over.”

“And that is bad… because?”

“Because I could just as well be fucking a puppet. She doesn't react to anything I do, simply repeats father's instructions when I ask her if she wants to continue.”

“Have you tried talking to her outside of sex? I hear women tend to like that.”

“Why would I? She's just a whore at the end of the day.”

Aegon groaned and shook his head. “You are hopeless, Jon.”

“What do you mean?”

“How do you expect to get to know her if you don't want to get to know her? She doesn't know you, why would she be willing to be vulnerable around you if you treat her like she is disposable? If at any moment, you could throw her out of the castle gates because you have grown tired of her? She probably doesn't want to get attached only to be broken later on.”

He had never thought of any of his whores and forced lovers that way. That they could be scared, not of him, but of the position they entered.

“Jon,” his brother said softly. “Cerelle is a bastard. Who knows what she has had to go through. What has happened to her to make her so closed-off.”

“I am a bastard, too,” he said quietly.

“Then show her. Tell her. If you want her to open up to you, prove to her it is safe to do so.”

Jon gnawed at his broken lips, his teeth ripping open old wounds and letting droplets of blood glide onto his tongue. The snow seeped into his clothes, wet cold biting his skin.

Then a snowball hit him in the head.

He let out a sound somewhere between confusion and anger, but Aegon just laughed.

“Stop being so gloomy all the time. I'm sure you'll figure out what to do with your little friend. And until then…” He picked out another fistful of snow. “I'll wreck your drunken ass.”

They chased each other across the practice yard, hurling snow and ice at each other until neither of them could properly aim anymore, too busy laughing.

(Not that Jon had been able to aim properly to begin with, the alcohol from the night before still too strong.)

“Oh, Ser Barristan, please save me from this wild beast hunting me,” Aegon begged the knight standing in the shadows, watching their every movement.

The man chuckled. “Some battles have to be won without outside interference, my prince.”

Aegon gasped offended, and Jon used that opportunity to finally let a snowball hit his neck. His brother squealed, quickly peeling the snow out of his tunica.

“Look what you have done, Ser Barristan. Because of you I now have to die.”

The knight likely smiled beneath his helmet, but made no sound.

Jon wrapped his arms around himself. “Let's go back inside, I'm freezing.”

Aegon cleared his throat and donned a grim face. "You are a Targaryen, the blood of the dragon, with fire flowing through your veins. You do not cower, you do not bend, and you do not freeze in the cold.”

They both burst out in laughter as they walked back into the castle.

Mocking their father was far too easy. And far too much fun, as well. Though they had to take care never to be overheard doing so, otherwise Jon would certainly bear the brunt of the ensuing punishment. King Rhaegar would never be caught standing against his beloved heir.

“Don't do anything stupid,” Aegon said as a goodbye before heading towards the council chamber.

Jon strolled aimlessly through the Keep, not quite knowing what to do with his day, when he heard voices. Two, to be exact, and he knew both of the men they belonged to.

“Is a journey to the Wall truly necessary?” Jon Connington, the king's Hand, asked. “There have been reports of skirmishes in the Marches, you must stay to-”

“This winter has lasted four years already, and is sure to be the longest in known history,” his father answered. “I must ensure our protection, or we will be helpless once the eternal darkness falls.”

Fuck.

He did not, under any circumstances, want to encounter his father without allies by his side. Otherwise it would only end like last time, with tears, screams, broken glass, and Jon hiding in brothels for an entire week.

Before the two men could walk around the corner and into his hallway, he quickly slipped through the closest door.

Jon had expected a storage room, or even the chambers of some minor lordling. What he was faced with instead were shelves upon shelves of books, scrolls haphazardly thrown into baskets in a corner, decades and even centuries old manuscripts piling up against the walls.

He had known about the existence of a library in the Red Keep, the way one knew of scorpions or lions. Accepting it even without ever needing or wanting to see it.

But what intrigued him far more than the dusty books was the quiet singing coming from much farther into the room.

He didn't understand a single word, but the voice still captivated him nonetheless. Grabbed his mind, his body, his soul, daring him to follow it into the abyss.

The stone floor muffled his steps, cloaking his approach as he neared the origin of the strange singing. He wanted- He needed to get closer, to find out more about its owner, see with his own eyes what could possibly enchant him so ardently.

Past yet another shelf of books, he finally found her.

Cerelle.

The name almost slipped out of his mouth, and he was barely able to restrain himself.

Ever since his pathetic outburst a fortnight ago, he had not seen her again. She had adhered to his command, even if it had been carried to her by a servant, without protest. He hated her for it - this blind obedience towards everything he told her.

It was her singing that had lured him here, those soft and gentle words wafting through the otherwise quiet library, drawing him in, keeping him close, commanding his every movement.

Love comes easy By the blossoms of spring Love grows easy From the leaves of summer Love lasts easy With the fruits of autumn

But your love shall prove itself In the dying of winter When creatures fall upon me And you wish to flee Let the gods bare witness to all As I beg you to, please Stay with me

She had not noticed him yet, too focused on her singing and sorting through the shelves. Next to her stood two half-empty baskets of even more books.

Her hair did not fall openly down her shoulders in its entirety, as it had done every other time he had seen her, but was braided in some parts, pinned up to keep it out of her face. And her dress wasn't the simple dark red one either. Instead, she wore an intricately embroidered gown of three different shades of blue. Not as grand as the ladies of the court wore them, but better than the one he had always seen her in.

His first words needed to sound smart. He wanted to outwit her at least once during their interactions, wanted to take her off-guard, wanted to finally see her lose control.

He should have drunk alcohol before coming here, it would have made this much, much easier.

Leaning against the shelf to his right, he said, “Pretty song. Didn't know your voice lasted this long.”

Cerelle whirled towards him, and for a single moment she looked genuinely shocked. Then she realised who he was and had her impassive face donned not a second later.

“My prince-”

“No.” He shook his head as he approached her. “I never want to hear these words from you again. You will talk to me, not as if you're forced to by my father, but because you want to.”

He stood before her, trying to gleam any emotion from her blue eyes, but she just watched him. Stared, unmovingly. He had to suppress the urge to avert his gaze, or shift on his feet.

Just when he thought she would never move, she cocked her head and said, “So is that what you are missing? A friend?”

Now he wished he had never forced her to talk. Because what in the seven hells was he meant to answer to that? How was he supposed to defend himself?

Cerelle turned around and walked away, leaving him to stand dumbfounded within a mess of books.

“Wait!”

He hurried after her, knocking over a stack of books and almost tumbling to the ground after them. Cerelle had disappeared around a corner, and he hastily followed her.

“Who gave you permission to talk to a prince like that?”

“You did, just now.”

She sorted one of the books she held in her hands back amongst its brethren, yet did not turn towards him.

“I did not. I only asked you to talk to me like you were a person.”

She continued to walk away from him. “You ordered me to talk to you like I wanted to. And I want to get to know you.”

“By insulting me?”

“You consider the question of your true intentions with me an insult?”

This time, she did turn towards him, yet seemingly only in order to raise a brow, challenging him to give her an honest answer.

She had apparently learned a thing or two from Tywin Lannister, and he hated her for it.

“What are you doing here?” He quickly switched the topic.

“Making myself useful.” She continued her walk along the shelves, occasionally putting a book upon them. “His grace, your father, quite enjoys reading, and so has amassed something of a collection over the years. One which no one has deemed to properly sort all this time. I need to justify my presence in the capital somehow, at least.”

Jon picked up the book she had just shelved and read the title: “Hardhome: An Account of Three Years Spent Beyond-the-Wall among Savages, Raiders, and Woods-witches”.

What a wonderful title.

“But why sorting books?” he asked. “Why not do some of the things you girls do? Embroidery, singing, or gossiping about handsome lords.”

“Things you girls do. Now it is you who is insulting me. You make it sound like there is something bad about being a girl and enjoying non-violent ways to spend one's time.”

He wanted to tell her of all the non-violent ways he spent his time, yet could not think of any. That his clothing was still wet from the snowball fight earlier did not help.

“And how do you spend your time?” He followed her around the library like a lost puppy. “Besides… this.”

“Why do you want to know? You've seemed quite content with not even looking at my face whenever I was with you.”

“Perhaps I want to get to know you now.”

She laughed. An actual, true, unapologetic laugh, swallowed up by the books and scrolls and tomes surrounding them. Jon knew he would never forget the sound.

And yet, despite how it pierced deep into his heart, he could not help feel angry. How dare she, a bastard, a whore, laugh at him the same way those pretentious courtiers did. So full of disdain and arrogance and… and… hatred.

Within a single moment, he had her pressed against the bookshelves, hand burying into the wood beside her head, the impact punching the breath out of her. Her books had tumbled to the ground, her gaze following them, yet he quickly took ahold of her chin to force her face to meet his again.

He cocked his head, trying to find any sense of repulsion in her face. Yet there was nothing.

His gaze darkened.

“Perhaps I want to get to know you-” He slowly let his hands glide down- “Because I know nothing about you. After all these weeks, the most I know is that you do not shiver when your juices gush all over me.” He caught the fabric of her skirt between his fingers. “Do you not want to know the men you fuck?” Slowly, he started pulling her dress up.

“What are you doing?” Her voice wavered just the tiniest bit, and he smiled.

“I think our relationship might have begun a bit… strained.” He let his hand glide up her silken stockings. “We should remedy that.”

“Here?” she whispered.

“Would you prefer the Iron Throne?”

The small spark of fear in her face was quickly replaced by… curiosity.

“You truly hate your father.”

His hand had sprung up and closed around her throat within a single blink of an eye. “If you ever mention him again I will ensure you pay for it dearly.”

The lack of any emotion in her eyes made him so terribly angry, he knew he could not continue his current pace. His free hand grabbed her undergarments, ripped them down, and then pressed against her pearl. Harshly.

She took in a surprised breath. That was enough, he decided, to remove his hand from her throat and grab the shelf beside her head instead.

(He hated that they were the same height. She should stand beneath him, ready to be dominated.)

Pressing his finger against her pleasure point this tightly might not be comfortable for her, but this was not about her. She was his and only his, and she needed to realise that. He would not let her leave like the others.

His thumb moved to her pearl as his forefinger glid further along her cunt and towards her hole, wet and warm and waiting only for him.

“Have you ever touched yourself here?” he asked with a lowered voice, face so terribly close to hers he saw a million shades of blue reflected in her eyes.

“No, my prince.”

He stepped closer and sheathed a finger into her heat up to the knuckle. “I told you not to call me that anymore.”

“Then what am I meant to call you, my prince?” she breathed out. The emphasis on his title could have been accidental, yet Cerelle did not seem like the kind of woman to allow simple accidents.

He curled the finger inside her, and slowly dragged it out before plunging it into her again. “Jon will be just fine.”

“As you command, Jon.”

The sound of his name on her lips made his cock twitch, and he yearned to pull down his pants and fuck her on top of his father's precious books. But he restrained himself (for now).

He quickly added another finger into her cunt, dragging them along her walls and searching for a way to make her lose control. A futile undertaking, he knew, for even though her chest was moving rapidly, her pupils were blown so wide he saw comfortingly little blue, and her nails were buried in the wooden shelves behind her, she simply stared at him. Silently.

Her breathing and the squishing of her cunt echoed in the large room, and if anyone entered they would immediately know what was happening. He wished for it. Let his father know what he thought about his books and plans and gifts.

A third finger entered her tight heat. His thumb continued to rub insistent circles on her pearl, trying desperately to make her peak.

No, not desperately. He could not care less about her pleasure, about how beautiful of an image it would make for her to gush all over his fingers, dropping her juices on the books and scrolls beneath. He simply wanted to torture her, show her what he could do to her body if he only wanted to.

Perhaps this way he could finally learn about her. Question her in the throws of passion, force her to reveal what she wanted from him, why she refused to leave him. And then he could throw her out. Send her back to that rock she called home, mayhaps even with a bastard growing in her belly.

She took in a sharp breath as her walls clenched around his fingers and her juices started flowing out of her. He fucked her through it, prolonging her release to, hopefully, painful levels. She almost closed her eyes, yet kept them open despite it all, and he almost commended her for it.

His hands were sticky when he finally freed them from her cunt, and if she had been anyone else he might have tasted the fluid, but he would not give her the satisfaction. Instead, he grabbed her skirt and wiped it off.

She did not say a thing.

“Tonight. Same time as always.” He turned to leave, yet stopped at the end of the row of shelves. “And make sure I never see that red dress again.”

He needed an entire flask of ale after this entire ordeal.

previous | next

author's note: i already have a vague idea how this fic will end... and i am on chapter three!

anyway hope you liked it :3

[francines-pages]

picnic on the hill

warnings: kissing, insecurity about becoming a ruler

a/n: i was on a roll last time with THREE fanfics. fortunately, i got reminded of how the pevensies had forgotten their lives at finchley and only remembered it at the end of their golden age. i present to you another (after disappearing for a while)…

EDMUND PEVENSIE X READER

GIF by beiasluv

The lush, rolling hills spread out before you, dotted with trees and animals alike. It was a perfect view, and having Edmund beside you made it even better.

You pull out a picnic blanket, laying it out, your eyes flitting to the carefully packed sandwiches in your boyfriend’s hands. He’d insisted to make the food himself, you supposed he was trying to impress you and went along with it, even though you were together for nearly a year now, so he didn’t necessarily have to.

“Are those well done?” you ask, flattening out a crease in the blanket, reaching for the glasses he packed along.

Swatting away your hand, he managed to balance the stuff in his hands precariously. “Love, trust me. My siblings would rely on me to provide them if there weren’t maids,” he says proudly, before a box nearly topples off his arm. You catch it and pretend to believe his fib.

“I’m surprised you’re better than Susan,” you say later after taking more than a few bites of a ham and lettuce sandwich.

“Yes, well, I am amazing.” He replies, wiping a smirch of mayonnaise of your lips. He sips a glass of wine, staring off towards the hills. “Though I may have bribed the cook to give me a recipe on sponge cake.”

You scoff. “Of course it’s not all you,” you lay beside him, gazing up at the sky, which was slowly dimming. Soon you two would catch the sunrise together. As soon as Edmund puts down his glass, you yank his arm. He tumbles down beside you, and laughs. His smile lights you with joy.

His hair becomes tousled, but he doesn’t bother to fix it, clasping your hand, rolling on his side to kiss you on the cheek. “Wish we could enjoy these days more,” he murmurs, so calm and regal and resilient. How did I win the heart of a king? you think, now staring wonderingly at the moving orange sky, clouds almost disappearing. “I know you work all week,” you speak inadvertently. Edmund shifts next to you and you know he’s listening, grasping your hand tightly.

Your tone becomes almost lecturing, but with a hint of caring in it. Edmund sits up and you do too, watching him. “I feel like I should be somewhere else,” he says. “Lu, Pete and Susan, they’re just…” He pauses, unable to find words, and resumes, “Like they’re a wrong piece of a puzzle. They don’t fit. We don’t fit. I love Narnia and all its splendor, but I find myself yearning for something else. I know it’s stupid, but…” He sighs. Something tugs at your mind, but it’s vague. You had noticed, at times, how Edmund and Edmund’s siblings sometimes were hesitant on their decisions. You’d met Edmund when he was 14, but the tingling on the back of your mind says otherwise, like he was hiding a large part of his life. Gently, you squeeze his wrist. “Take deep breaths. Close your eyes for a moment.” Edmund closes his eyes, and he relaxes slightly, inhaling and exhaling. Suddenly, he takes hold of your other arm and pulls you closer to him. You rest against him, nestled in his arms.

Both your eyes open to a beautiful sunset, the sun sinking slowly below the horizon, turning the sky to shades of pink and orange. Smiling at you, Edmund lifts your hand to his lips and kisses it. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, awash in love and sincerity.

You gaze at your king, leaning forward to kiss him. He doesn’t startle and places a hand on your waist, lips on yours, kissing you with fervor. Right there, you felt happy, overjoyed to be with him, basking in the sunset, sitting on a picnic blanket overlooking the lush sceneries of such a small kingdom, yet a magnificent one.

[biteofcherry]

Aaaahhhhh

Babe lottery...Bucky Barnes pls

🥳 -needlereads

✨✨✨

Longing was like a second heartbeat, echoing your normal one on a daily basis.

You woke up at dawn, went to the well for fresh water and brew your first herbal tea of the day while purposely not looking at the empty bed behind you.

All through the day, as you worked in the garden, fed the animals, helped other villagers out in their tasks, you never glanced down at your finger and the thin brass band with a small, turquoise river stone.

It's been nearly two years now, since Bucky kissed you fervently and went out with other men from the village into the depths of the dark woods and far beyond.

They were looking for a better life. Not for themselves, but for all of you. For work that would allow them to save some coin, for skills that would help them out against the growing tension along the border of the kingdom.

With a promise to always love you and to return, Bucky left you to build a better life for the two of you.

Time flew by and yet, it felt to stretch in impossible torment as you waited day by day. And longed.

You weren't the only maiden whose fiance went on that quest. It was decided to be best for those not yet having to care for kids to be the ones who left.

You consoled yourself with images of Bucky's proud return. Sometimes you even created bold fantasies of him owning a horse, riding it proudly into the village. With sacks filled with coin and fabrics. And tales to share with you by the fireplace.

Perhaps, he'd even bring you a new ring to put on your finger at the ceremony of your marriage.

You loved the one Bucky made for you himself and you would argue with him that you don't want any other one. But he'd insist and slide a glinting gold with precious gem onto your finger.

Dreams like that soothed your yearning heart. It was always hard to wake up from them and face your lonely reality anew.

It was even harder when you were ripped away from one of those dreams.

Your consciousness alerted you awake when screams and loud noises pierced the usually calm, quiet night at your village. You jumped out of bed, in your linen nightshirt only.

Through the small windows of your hut you saw the usual darkness of night lit up in orange and yellow glow. Fire.

You ran outside, knowing that if a rapid fire started for some reason, there was no time to dress yourself and think of your modesty. However, what you saw outside was a horror you never expected.

Swords and spears. Warriors dragging people out of their houses. Threats and violence. Screams and cries. And all of it swallowed with growing fire set to the few households.

One of the warriors was charging at you with a malicious grin on his face. His hand was reaching out for you when suddenly the beat of hoofs joined the cacophony of sounds and the man was yanked back.

"Hands off." A gruff voice ordered, tossing the warrior aside.

Your gaze shifted from the man who was about to snatch you, towards the massive black horse that rode into the heart of chaos. And onto the warrior seating atop it.

In black leathers, with unknown markings along his arms. It took you a long second to recognize his face and the blue eyes that haunted your dreams.

"Bucky." You whispered in disbelief.

Your whole body shuddered with emotion, nearly toppling you down to your knees.

He jumped down from the horse and approached you. But when he didn't embrace you in a warm, fierce hug, which you longed for so much, your heart clenched in fear.

Bucky led these men. Those who were burning down your village.

"Have you waited for me, my little marigold?" His voice was Bucky's; that soft, warming tone, though now harsher, lacking his usual tenderness.

"Yes, Bucky. I would wait forever, you know that." Your hands reached for his face, cupping it as you stepped forward to feel the heat of his body. To sense the beat of his heart.

He didn't lean into your touch, nor close his eyes like he used to do when you touched him this way. But he didn't swat your hands away, either.

He let you hold him, touching you in return as well.

"Have you saved yourself for me?" Bucky's arms wrapped around you, with more primal possessiveness than he ever displayed before.

You felt heat scorching your face from within.

"Of course." You admitted, bowing your head slightly.

Suddenly, he lifted you up. He placed you on the saddle and mounted the horse, seating himself right behind you. Tears stung your eyes as you saw the carnage around you.

As you felt that your Bucky wasn't the Bucky you remembered.

Was there even a trace of the man you loved?

Still, you clung onto him as he took you trough the woods and into the unknown. Into the future that was sure to look so much different from the one you imagined.

[penny00dreadful]

Part 3

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 4] [AO3] [Art]

“You could make a break for it?”

Steve looked up from his papers, glasses perched on the end of his nose, his writing desk balancing on his lap as they bounced along the forest floor in the Harrington carriage.

They’d been travelling for nearly a week and they were due to reach the border between the kingdoms tomorrow. Hopper had let them know that they were on the last stretch and as such, there would be no town or village able to accommodate them in between the one they had just left and when they hit the border, so they would be camping out tonight.

Steve didn’t mind much. It reminded him of his nights spent with Robin ‘camping out’ in the royal gardens inside the castle walls as a child.

And just like it had been when he was a child, Hopper would be there watching over them.

He wasn’t worried about bandits or wild animals. Steve had his personal household guard with him, along with Hopper and the sheer number of people travelling, it meant that a bandit party hoping to take them would need to be the size of a small army. 

An extremely unlikely circumstance.

Even more unlikely was Steve’s escape as proposed by Robin.

“Oh yes.” Steve huffed, turning his eyes back down to his papers, matters of state and finance that still needed to be answered, “I’ll just run off on my own into the woods, after creeping past Hopper who has eyes in the back of his head and then go… where?” He dipped his quill back into his inkwell. “Do you expect me to return home on foot, safe and sound and welcomed after running from an arranged marriage I agreed to?”

He finally looked back up at her, but Robin’s expression hadn’t changed.

“You wouldn’t be alone.” She said simply, as if that solved all of the issues he had laid out.

“So you’d be riding into battle with me when we inevitably go to war with Stoirmeach over this slight?”

She scoffed. “Obviously.”

“Robbie.” Steve sighed, pulling his glasses off. “It’s happening. I don’t know what else you want me to do.”

“But you could’ve asked for more time. Gone out to find your true love like in all the stories.”

“What time, Robin? We both know my fathers excess is going to put him into an early grave. The physicians told him to stop drinking and going to the brothel years ago. And he hasn’t. He’s either going to keel over on top of some poor woman at The Garden or he’s gonna topple off his horse and spear himself with his own sword because he still goes out on hunts steaming drunk like he has the constitution of an eighteen year old. And that's if he doesn't catch the Lovers Rot first. There’s no time for me to go on adventures to find my one true love.” Steve groused, his quill scratching on the paper. “Trying at this stage would put the kingdom in jeopardy and I won’t do that. It’s all I have to show for my life.”

“Not all.”

“Oh really?” Steve underlined a section hard. Probably harder than he needed to. “What else do I have?”

“You have me.” She replied, blinking across at him with those big eyes of hers. “You have the kids. You have your own self worth?”

Steve just scoffed and muttered, self worth.

“I’ll still have self worth married, Robin.”

“Or you could have refused.”

“No, I couldn’t have. You know that. I’m not jumping out of the carriage, or disguising myself as a barmaid or sneaking past Hopper in the dead of night or whatever else you’ve suggested to me in the past week. I’m marrying Christine and I need you with me in this.” He dropped his quill and reached over to take her hand in his, squeezing. “I need you. Okay?”

Her mouth was still set in a frown but she nodded, squeezing back.

“Okay.”

The carriage creaked to a stop in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by trees on all sides, blocking out the horizon.

Steve looked out of the window, spying soldiers in Stoirmeach colours, red capes over dark silvery armour, black tunics underneath. They nearly blended into the background of the large and imposing tent, carefully placed, straddling the border between their two kingdoms, draped in the Cunningham colours of black and red.

It was clear the design of their armour was intended to be intimidating and while Steve had the protections of being a crowned prince hanging over his head along with his own combat training and Hopper to back him up… the intimidation was working.

He was intimidated.

Etiquette would dictate a mix of the two colours. The Cunningham’s black and red and the Harrington’s green and white.

The lack of the Harrington colours was a message, a subtle dig and it left a bit of a sour taste in Steve’s mouth. 

Not off to the best start, if the Cunninghams didn’t even consider them worthy of equal representation.

But still, they were providing Steve and his company with all the amenities they could want while out in the middle of nowhere, so complaining would make him seem awfully petty.

And petty probably wasn’t a great way to start off their marriage.

The Stoirmeach soldiers and staff were already starting to subtly crane to look into the carriage, anticipation crackling through the atmosphere, everyone no doubt eager to see what this Torthúil Prince would look like.

Steve pushed himself back, hiding away from the window.

“It’s muddy out there.” He muttered.

“So?” Robin looked at him, bewildered. 

“So I’m going to get my boots muddy.”

“Oh, like you weren’t out making mud pies with Holly a few days before we left—”

“No, Rob.” Steve floundered, shaking his leg. “These were embroidered by the Hollands! They took a lot of time and effort—”

“You’re stalling.”

He swallowed, raising his eyes up from the intricate and colourful stitching along the top edge of his raised boot.

“Okay, yes. I’m stalling but I’m not wrong.”

“You’re not wrong but you can’t hide in here forever.” Robin jabbed him in the shoulder, messing up his perfectly seated embroidered doublet over his neatly placed and intricately designed crisp white blouse.

“You didn’t even want this!” Steve snapped back, adjusting himself and the gold circlet around his head.

Robin just cocked an eyebrow at him and all of his fussing.

“Okay, fine.” He huffed. “But I'm cleaning them afterwards!”

Robin just patted him on the head then turned to look out of the carriage window herself.

Steve could see her eyeing up the hosting tent. There were various smaller ones scattered around making it clear the Cunningham retinue had been here for a while already, getting things set up.

But the hosting tent, the one straddling the border, was the biggest. About as big as his bedroom back home and where he would meet his future queen for the first time. 

Robin’s face had pulled down into a small frown before she looked back to him and gave him a nod.

Whether he could be petty or not about the colour choices, it didn’t matter.

She’d handle the petty for him. 

She always did whenever he was chained down by expectations of politeness and etiquette.

“You ready?” She asked, adjusting the strap of her cape around her shoulders and watching with wary eyes as the Stoirmeach house guard began to mingle with the Torthúil soldiers in their bright polished silver armour, green capes and white tunics. 

The contrast between the two kingdoms was stark and Steve just hoped that wasn’t reflected between himself and Christine. 

The interactions were all polite but with an undercurrent of tension.

The future of two kingdoms was riding on this marriage after all.

Steve buttoned his own cape on, attached at the shoulders. This was a very important political meeting for all intents and purposes. They needed to look their best.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” He smoothed the hair around his circlet ensuring it fell just right, squared his shoulders and swung the carriage door open.

A short hush fell over the clearing as he stepped out into the mud, feeling it squelch up around his boot with an internal grimace, but he didn’t let it show on his face.

His whole body wanted to stiffen up, to curl back in on himself under the gaze of so many unfamiliar eyes. The entrance of the host tent seemed to stare at him too, opened wide, held back by decorative corded red rope.

Steve kept his back straight as some whispers started up around him.

Appraising him. 

He wasn’t blind to the looks of surprise and appreciation he received. These kinds of marriage arrangements usually took place between soon to be monarchs or nobility that either didn’t have other options or were a bit too old to be sought out at court, after all.

Meaning it was usually crotchety old men who were constantly either scowling or staring a little too intensely at young women.

Steve was an outlier.

He was a best case scenario.

He was young, he was handsome, he was fit and skilled and strong and he believed he was kind.

At least Christine was close in age to him.

The idea of being betrothed to anyone too young made his skin crawl.

The Stoirmeach retinue gestured him forward with polite smiles and sweeping hands. Towards the looming main tent, intimidating and life changing.

Steve found himself wishing for the bright forests, colourful Rainbow Sea and rolling hills of the Harrington kingdom all of a sudden, their colours chosen to represent the beautiful nature they boasted. 

Green hills and fluffy white clouds.

He wasn’t sure what the symbolism was behind the black and red but he suspected it was aggressive. 

Metal and blood, something in the back of his mind told him.

His father had always scoffed at their green and white.

He thought the choices made by the first of the Harrington monarchs, Virginia Harrington and her Queen Vita, were always too poetic.

But Steve liked them.

They felt… genuine.

He could feel Robin at his back as he squelched towards the tent, puffed up like a guard dog, ready to defend his honour at the quickest slight.

The darkness swallowed them, but as the stain of sunlight left his eyes he realised that there was light in here. Small lamps dotted on plinths and a large lantern hanging from a draped velvety ceiling.

It was all far more… opulent than Steve had been expecting for the middle of the forest.

He hoped Christine wasn’t as severe as her kingdom's colours suggested. He didn’t know how he would handle a marriage to someone like that. 

Someone serious and brooding and aggressive and… and… frowny.

The opened entrance to the tent was mirrored on the other side, revealing the Stoirmeach land, looking almost identical to the Torthúil side, the forest not caring about which kingdom it was growing on, just growing regardless.

There were sectioned off chambers to Steve’s right, what he had to assume were going to be their sleeping quarters for the night and to his left—

Oh.

In amongst sumptuous velvet couches and the rich dark wooden tables piled high with the Cunningham's local fruit and vegetables as well as a platter of the most meticulously preserved and presented seafood, was a bright spot shining in all the dark

His mouth nearly dropped open in surprise.

A petite, blonde, pretty thing with a bright but crooked smile that didn’t quite hide her nerves.

Steve was immediately endeared. 

Robin was behind him, supporting him, bolstering him, Hopper and Lucas were outside the tent, no doubt keeping a sharp eye out for anything that might be wrong, his kids were at home, waiting for him to return, his kingdom was depending on him.

He could do this.

Steve turned towards Christine, her hands folded delicately in front of her and he flashed her a smile, not quite his full, most charming smile, but instead something softer. A little gentler.

Christine responded in kind as he stepped closer, her own smile a touch more nervous but no less soft. 

He held a hand out to her, grasping gently when she delicately slipped her fingers to his palm.

“Lovely to meet you, Christine.” Steve said, bowing his head, placing a kiss across her knuckles.

“Chrissy, please.” She replied, her voice a light tinkle. “Lovely to meet you too, Steven.”

Her accent was light but lilting, soft and swooping around the vowels.

“Steve.” He replied in kind, straightening up, her hand still held softly in his.

Maybe this wouldn’t be such a lost cause.

“And I’m Eddie.” A deep voice rumbled from behind Chrissy’s shoulder, shrouded in the shadows, almost invisible.

Steve jumped back as a man leaned forward, face illuminated by the lanterns like a spectre, plump lips pulled wide over a sharp grin, dark curls spilling around his face and eyes so brown they were almost black, glittering with mirth, obviously enjoying Steve’s surprise.

Chrissy’s mouth turned down into a small frown and she whipped a hand back to smack him on the leg,a small movement that he had probably thought would be mostly hidden, but Steve caught it.

Eddie’s manic grin didn’t drop, he didn’t move from his lean, he didn’t take his eyes off Steve.

He didn’t react at all, barely paying her any attention.

He practically just ignored the eldest in the Cunningham line. Princess Christine. Chrissy. Who had smacked him across the leg. 

And Eddie ignored her. 

Eddie held his own hand out in much the same way Chrissy had, expectant, with a challenging glitter in his eyes. Chrissy grimaced next to him, glancing up apologetically at Steve, like she was waiting for him to snap about it.

“My advisor.” She muttered.

Was this guy trying to make Steve uncomfortable?

Was he assuming Steve would grab his hand for a firm shake or recoil at the idea of even touching someone who wasn’t nobility?

Well, the joke was on him.

Steve was an equal opportunist.

And he never backed down from a challenge like that.

Steve grasped Eddie’s black gloved hand in his and ducked to press his lips softly against his knuckles. He blinked up at him under his lashes before straightening up again.

“Steve.” He grinned, dropping Eddie’s hand and his grin widened when Eddie’s mouth dropped open ever so slightly in surprise.

“And this,” Steve gestured behind him, “is Robin. My-”

“Lovely colour scheme you’ve got here.” Robin cut over him. “Could use some green though.” She was glaring around at the blacks and the reds draped around them, a scowl painted over her face.

“My advisor.” Steve sighed out, letting his hand drop to his hip while he tried to shoot her a disapproving glare.

Robin didn’t even deign to look at him, paid him no attention at all, just kept glaring at Eddie.

“Well, speaking advisor to advisor,” Eddie tilted himself around Chrissy until he had stepped in front of Robin, matching her crossed arms and her scowl, “there’s nothing wrong with a little national pride.”

His accent was harsher, but more melodic, rhotic and rolling his r’s.  

“There’s nothing wrong with a little common courtesy either. A little etiquette maybe?” She snapped back, baring her teeth, ready to bite.

Eddie sighed at her, cocking a hip out, condescending. “We figured seeing as Chrissy is soon to be swept away from her homeland forever, as much familiarity as she could get wouldn’t kill you to accommodate.”

“Eddie.” Chrissy hissed at him, shooting wide panicked eyes between him and Steve.

“What are we? Barbarians?” Robin nearly screeched, throwing her arms out. “We’re not gonna ban her from seeing her family colours ever again! We’re not gonna lock her up in a tower until she’s needed for baby making purposes-”

“Robin, oh my god.” Steve hid his red face in his hands, peeking through his fingers to see Chrissy looking equally as embarrassed and he knew, he knew that Robin was on a roll now and nothing would be able to stop her any time soon.

And if his suspicions were correct, Eddie seemed like he would rival her energy.

He glanced back down at Chrissy who looked like she wanted to sink into a hole in the ground.

RIght. It seemed like they already had something in common.

Being lovingly defended by two extremely strong willed and extremely dedicated advisors.

Lowering his hands from his face, he waited for her to glance his way again and held his elbow out to her.

“I think we’d be better off leaving them to it. Do you want to take a walk with me, Chrissy?” He asked, nodding over to the opposite end of the tent, which was open out to the Stoirmeach forest. Guards from both sides would be there, so they wouldn’t be alone but they’d be away from the two hot heads, still arguing.

The look of relief that came over her face when she realised he wasn’t going to take Robin and Eddie’s attitudes out on her was almost enough to break his heart.

She curled her hand around his elbow and they both snuck away, sharing little secret smiles and a light giggle between them as both Robin and Eddie stayed completely wrapped up in each other, neither of them aware of their escape.

They didn’t speak for a few moments, strolling easily around the barrier of trees, Chrissy’s arm nestled comfortably in his, under the watchful eyes of guards from both sides. They glanced across at the tent when a particularly shrill cry rang out and then back at each other, sharing another short laugh and a smile.

“Is he going to be okay in there? With your… Robin?” Chrissy grinned up at him.

“Oh yeah,” Steve nodded, “He seems to be able to hold his own. I’d say she’s evenly matched. It’s not often she gets to argue with someone who gives as good as she does.”

Chrissy nodded, looking back to the forest ground with a smile.

“Eddie’s the same. People back home don’t really know how to handle him. He prefers to freak people out. Says you can see who people really are when you’ve taken them by surprise. With all of the politeness and etiquette stripped away, there’s only them left.”

“Robin’s similar.” Steve agreed. “Though she prefers to dig. She likes to force her way past politeness and etiquette until she gets to their centre.”

“She sounds like a good friend to have.”

“She is. The best friend I could have possibly asked for.”

“That’s nice.” Chrissy blushed. “I look forward to getting to know her better.”

Steve snorted, loud and brash and indelicate. Chrissy baulked in surprise momentarily but that surprise quickly melted away and she giggled along with him.

“Only if she and Eddie don’t bite each other's heads off. We might have to keep them at opposite sides of the castle back home.”

Steve’s arm was pulled back as Chrissy came to a sudden stop.

He looked down at her, a little worried that he’d said something wrong.

Her eyes were wide and disbelieving, stunned, even.

“What?”

Steve felt his brows pull together in confusion.

“When we’re married?” He hesitated. “When… you come back to live with me at my castle-”

“No, no,” despite her words, she nodded along, “no, I know that but I mean… he- he can come with me?”

Steve’s eyebrows flew up until he was sure they were hidden in his hair, his mouth opening a little in surprise.

“Of course he can come with you?” He replied, bewildered. “You can bring whoever you want. Chrissy, you’re being made to leave your home, I’m not going to make you leave your people behind too. Didn’t… didn’t they tell you that?”

Chrissy shook her head, blinking rapidly down at the ground again and oh god was she going to cry? 

Steve didn’t know how to handle people crying, he didn’t know how to handle it when he cried, how was he supposed to handle someone else?

“Hey, Chrissy I’m- I'm sorry.” He stuttered out, letting her grip slip from the crook of his elbow and fluttering his hands around, unsure if he was permitted to touch her. “I didn’t mean to upset you, I-”

“You didn’t.” She sniffled, shaking her head again. “You didn’t. This is- this is the best news I’ve heard all month.” She said, finally looking up at him with bright eyes and a blinding smile.

Steve opened his mouth to reassure her when an angry shout and stomping footsteps came from behind him.

“Hey!”

He turned to see Eddie storming towards them, Robin chasing after him, looking like she was ready to drag him back by the hair.

“What did you do?!” Eddie all but shouted at him.

He planted a hand on Steve’s chest and shoved, causing him to stumble back a step, only bolstered by Robin’s hand on his back.

Steve should be affronted, was affronted, really. People didn’t shove him.

But at the same time, it was clear to him that Eddie had a great affection for Chrissy. It was the softest he had seen him be in their short time together. Gentle touches and a concerned brow, softly cupping Chrissy’s face in his hands, brushing a tear away from her eye.

“What happened, Chris?” Eddie almost whispered to her amongst the sound of clanging armour coming closer. “What did he say to you?”

“No he-” she tried to shake her head again in his hands. “He said- Eddie, you can come with me. You can come with me and maybe we can take Max too and I won’t- Eddie, I won’t be alone!”

Eddie, who’s face had started to break into a disbelieving smile, dropped his hands, throwing his arms out as if he were about to catch her up in a great hug, but he was knocked off balance.

A hand clad in dark intimidating metal clamped around his forearm and dragged him violently away, twisting it forcefully and painfully behind Eddie’s back.

“My sincerest apologies, your highness.” The helmed Stoirmeach Captain inclined his head towards Steve. “Please don’t take this tree dwellers actions as representation of our people.”

He bent low, twisting Eddie’s arm again so he was forced to bow as well. 

Chrissy was standing just off to the side, hands clasped in horror over her mouth, forgotten and ignored as the Captain seemed more focused on Steve than his own royalty, hissing, “Show some respect, Outsider.”

Eddie turned his head up, hair spilling over his face and glared with such a fire it was a wonder the Captain’s helm didn’t start to melt.

“Why should I? I don't know him. He hasn't earned it. Why should I give him respect just because of who he was born—”

Eddie cried out again as his arm was wrenched further and Steve had enough. He would have loved to have jumped in and ripped the guard away but he had to be polite. Had to be respectable about it and had to try not to make things worse for everyone involved.

“I don’t think this manhandling is necessary–”

“Can’t let a weed grow too wild, Your Highness.”

“I am asking you to unhand him!” Steve snapped, his patience wearing thin.

The Captain raised his head and from what Steve could see through his helm, the surprise on his face was clear. Whether that was from Steve’s raised voice or from his defence of someone who so clearly had so little respect amongst them, he didn’t know.

The Captain took a quick glance around at the same time Steve did, noticing all the eyes upon them. The various Stoirmeach retinue, more interested in Steve’s reaction than what was happening in front of them, as though they’d seen it before, as well as Hopper and Lucas who had appeared at Steve’s back, Hopper’s hand inching towards his sword, the both of them stone-faced and serious, Robin looking thunderous by Steve’s side. 

Eddie’s arm was released and he stumbled forward, wincing as he brought his arm back around, clutching it to his chest.

He straightened up, his head held high and his shoulders rolled back, glaring at Steve like he expected more words to be spat at him.

When nothing came, he turned on his heel and stomped his way back to the hosting tent, everyone’s eyes still on him.

Chrissy had rivers of tears running down her face and she looked heartbroken, taking a step in Eddie’s direction before halting herself, looking back towards Steve as though asking him if she could go. 

Steve could not imagine a world where Robin or Erica or Claudia or his mother or any woman he knew waited for his permission to do something so simple as follow a friend in distress.

So it was with a feeling of being completely out of his depth he nodded to her and there was a distinct feeling of discomfort crawling up his back when she exhaled in relief, like he would have ever even thought of denying her and she turned, following Eddie at as fast a pace as she felt acceptable.

Steve’s eyes turned back to the Stoirmeach Captain.

“I apologise for the scene, Your Highness.” 

For the scene. Not for the brutality or the wanton cruelty they’d all born witness to.

“He’s too wild. But I suppose what else is to be expected from a man of his kind. I promise to keep a closer eye on him, so nothing of the sort will happen in your presence again.”

Steve pulled himself up to his full height, chin parallel with the floor.

“I’m not sure it’s him that needs keeping a closer eye, but thank you for your concern.”

The Captain seemed momentarily confused but took his dismissal for what it was, bowing again with a short nod and turning to shuffle the onlookers away.

Steve exhaled to himself, turning to Hopper, Lucas and Robin, all of whom looked just as uneasy as he was.

“What the hell was that all about?” Robin asked, her eyes on the tent Chrissy and Eddie had disappeared into.

“I don’t know.” Hopper answered, his mouth in a tense line. “But I don’t think it’s the last we’ll be seeing of it.”

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 4] [AO3] [Art]

As always, major thanks and much love to @hbyrde36 for the magnificent beta work, @arelliann for their beautiful artwork, dividers and header, and to all my cheerleaders helping to keep me motivated. 🥰

[wizardingworldlibrary]

Severus/Voldemort Masterlist

Beneath His Hand (ao3) - Yen M, 3k

Summary: After a failed mission, Severus Snape endures the Dark Lord’s wrath.

Comfort comes from an unlikely source.

Cunning Intelligence (ao3) - JaydenWhitehouse T, 183k

Summary: This is a rewrite of To Disguise A Disguise. Harry Potter is sick of it. Why should he be forced to play a role, to prostrate himself for the Light and be hailed their saviour when they have never done anything for him. Follow Harry Potter as he bargains with the Dark Lord, becomes Aldwyn Salazar Slytherin, and takes his rightful place as the Heir to the Dark Sect. How will the light react when they are faced with a new threat; the Dark Prince Cronus.

Judas Sextet (dreamwidth.org) - Eldritcher E, 26k

Summary: Severus falls in love with a Dark Lord, who treats him kindly. Decades later, Harry takes a portrait to the town of Mumbles by the sea.

last year i abstained this year i devour (ao3) - MxMcLemons E, 7k

Summary: Severus Snape has wars to win and appearances to keep.

-

“You please your lord so, Severus,” Voldemort croons imploringly, “Allow him to please you in turn. It is what you have earned.”

Loyalty Above All (ao3) - SNBHMSM E, 2k

Summary: "I need you to move, for me," he hisses, his eyes burning with hunger. "Take off those clothes and help your master relax." Severus gasps, his body aching and weak. He tries to hide the terror in his eyes, unable to believe that he had managed to survive only to be dominated and controlled like this by the now most powerful wizard in the wizarding world.

"Yes, my Lord," he chokes out the words, his voice barely audible. Voldemort releases him slowly and turns to lie on the bed, his robes billowing behind him. "Come quickly," he orders, his gaze cold, "you have a new task to perform while you are indisposed to carry out missions outside." Severus sits up in bed, his legs shaking. As his nimble hands remove his nightclothes, he can feel his heart pounding against his chest.

Padre Island (ao3) - yletylyf M, 18k

Summary: The world believes Severus Snape and Tom Riddle both perished during the Battle of Hogwarts. The world was wrong. Both deaths were faked, and both men subsequently fled Britain, seeking anonymity and a place to rethink life. By fate, or coincidence, they meet halfway across the world, on a beach in Padre Island, Texas.

Perks of Dating a Dark Lord (ao3) - memorywolf E, 2k

Summary: Voldemort fills Severus up before a meeting and watches him squirm through it with great delight.

Something. (ao3) - DictionaryWrites M, 1k

Summary: It is the Christmas holiday of Severus' seventh year, and he is visiting Malfoy Manor.

suffer for my sins (ao3) - inmyownlittlecorner M, 9k

Summary: The year is 1912. Tom Marvolo Riddle is the leader of the Death Eaters, London's most feared street gang. A self-made man, Tom takes what he wants, no matter how many lives he has to destroy to get it.

When Tom's desires demand Severus Snape, his stoic secretary, Tom has no compunctions about getting rid of Snape's irritating bride-to-be. But in bringing Miss Evans to her fate, Tom may topple his own shadowy kingdom in the process.

Tender in the Darkness (ao3) - Anonymous T, 2k

Summary: After a month of captivity under Dumbledore's sinister machinations, Severus is returned to his master broken and expecting death.

The Christmas Misadventures of Lord Voldemort (ao3) - yletylyf E, 4k

Summary: In which Voldemort is convinced to get drunk, play silly card games with Death Eaters, and face the fact that he is very attracted to one Severus Snape.

The Most Unkindest Cut of All (ao3) - Riddle_Master_101 M, 10k

Summary: Severus Snape betrays Voldemort, thus ensuring the Light Side's win. This, then, is what finally breaks the Inner Circle, when nothing else could.

The Secret of the Philosopher's Stone (ao3) - yletylyf E, 115k

Summary: Voldemort gets the Philosopher's Stone, but finds himself trapped at Hogwarts and in need of rescue. Loyal Death Eater Severus Snape is on the job, but even he is not quite prepared for Lord Voldemort to return as Tom Riddle with a patched-up soul and no interest in war.

And as for Tom? Well, it's not so easy to stop being a domestic terrorist.

Two Halves Are Not a Whole (ao3) - Phantomato E, 49k

Tom Riddle and Severus Snape are startlingly similar: half-blood heirs to noble houses, close friends of the Malfoy brothers, academically talented and intelligent, and despite all that, working as shop clerks after Hogwarts. When they keep meeting accidentally, Tom decides to pursue the intriguing man as a curiosity. The decision will force both to confront their difficult pasts and their understanding of friends and family.

Whiskey, Weed and Venom (ao3) - Hiruko_chan E, 4k

Summary: Voldemort grants Snape a reward. Snape just wants to forget.

[ultramagicalternate]

ULTRAMagic Interlude: Shadowland Chapter 5

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Master Post - Patreon

At the center of Shadowland was Castle Haugen, named for the current ruler. It was a mix of a stone keep and a concentric castle. Two sets of walls protected the giant tower that watched over the entire city. Approaching the fortress revealed it was a lot bigger than it initially appeared. This was intimidating, yet conveyed a sense of indestructibility. If anyone was going to try and topple it, it would take several armies at least. The original architect (hailing from the Epoch-to-modernity transition phase of the Cosmos) was lost to time, but it was clear that they went out of their way to make the castle as strong as possible.

Sten was not in a good mood, but this went without saying. Everything was a mess in the kingdom, as to be expected. He finally had control back in his hands, but every attempt to get things back in order was halted by Milosh and his obnoxious cult. The remaining Blades of Dunja were not helping either. Normally Sten would have sent his knights to execute the traitors, but he was hesitant to do so. The last thing he needed was making his people fearful of him again. That anomaly was what prompted him to seek outside help in the first place.

“FOR THE LOVE OF THE SOURCE! Take whatever you need, just get those supplies to the south-east quadrant… Again, as much as I would love to blow that loathsome church sky high, let’s hold off on the explosives… The Descendants are in Dead Man’s Pass? I see. Interesting… Has Torunn found Rumbler yet?” Sten inquired amongst his orders and instructions. That next piece of information sent him to orbit, however… “WHAT DO YOU MEAN MAXIMUS ENGAGED HIM!?” He roared at his stewards.

Allan came running into the throne room, with Folkvar still over his shoulder. “Phew! That was quite the sprint…” He admitted while trying to catch his breath.

“You can put me down now…” Folkvar pointed out.

“Oh, right… haha.”

Sten noticed the two and went right over to them, his footsteps thundering through the hall. “BOYS! What’s even going on right now!? Where’s Barna and the others?!”

“Let Folkvar explain it…” Allan answered. “I need some water…” A steward promptly brought him the drink he needed.

“Oh boy, where do I start… um…” Folkvar said to himself. “Barna had arrived with Dunja and we were getting ready to come here, but then we heard roaring in the distance. And then Barna spotted Gummi down the way…”

“Then what happened?” Sten was incredibly uneasy.

“...We’re not… sure” Allan continued, wiping his face. “Weaver went after him and Barna had me bring Folkvar here just in case.”

A guard approached the three. “Your majesty? Barna and Claudius are on their way to the castle. The Rumbling Beast is with them and only has minor injuries.”

Sten felt a wave of relief wash over him. He sat down on his throne and exhaled a deep breath. “Send Rumbler to the courtyard, have the doctors tend to his wounds, and tell him I will be there as soon as I’m done here.”

“Yes, your majesty!”

“Allan, head to the entrance and bring everyone here when they arrive” Sten instructed.

“Already on it, your majesty” he said as he started walking.

Folkvar knew what his father would say next and took a seat at his throne. There was also a third for the queen, but she was not present. “Where’s mother?”

“Her gardens, I believe. She’s been working day and night to get them restored. And I imagine she’ll get to Rumbler before I do.”

Not too far outside, Barna and the group were nearing the castle and were soon crossing the drawbridge. They were greeted by Allan and several guards. “I understand how this looks, but don’t worry everyone” Barna announced. “Everything’s good… for the most part” 

“Great to hear,” a guard replied, a little nervous. “And welcome back, Mr. Schindewolf.” He then gestured and called for The Rumbling Beast to follow him.

Torunn went over to Allan and gave him a big hug. “And how’s my boy doing?” This caused Dunja to avert her gaze ever so slightly.

“I’m fine, Ma. I take it Rumbler’s alright now?”

“Yeah, he’ll be okay. He’s definitely staying inside until all of this mess is cleaned up, however.” Torunn then turned to Maximus. “You might want to go tell Captain Ahlgren what’s up.”

“Right, see you guys later,” Maximus said as he walked off in the other direction.

“Shall we go see Sten then?” Dunja asked, a bit nervous.

Torunn nodded and turned to see Barna and Claudius introducing Aureolus to various guardsmen. “Hey guys, we need to go see the king, remember?”

“Right!” Barna replied. “Pardon us gentlemen, but we shouldn’t keep his majesty waiting.”

Aureolus was amazed by Castle Haugen. It was large on the inside, as if made for giants. This filled him with a sense of awe, like he was witnessing a work of art beyond his understanding. Much like The Singing Storm Tower, it was very busy with people moving to and about. The familiarity he felt was contrasted by the paintings and sculptures all over the place. They told the story of Shadowland and the fallen kingdom of Feuerland, which was quite different from that of The Iron City. Aureolus would occasionally get curious, with nearby stewards or guards explaining a particular piece in brief to him.

Outside the throne room, Aureolus glanced over to Dunja. “Still nervous, Aunt Dunja?”

She nodded. “Yeah…”

“Well you’ve gotten this far, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I have.”

“Then stop worrying. I’m sure it’ll be fine” Aureolus stated as the door opened. Of course he was a little nervous for Dunja himself.

Seeing Sten for the first time startled the boy. Everything Barna had told Aureolus seemed to be correct. He was a giant at nine feet tall, sported long black hair, and had an eerie face that was aged yet proud. His attire seemed dreary at first, but still retained a regal nature. Of note was his voice. It was somewhere between Welsh and Slavic, albeit a bit raspy and deep. Just like with the castle itself, Sten also had Aureolus in awe.

“Sten, It’s been a while,” Barna declared.

“Aye, that it has, Barna. I trust that you have been in good health and spirit?”

“Well definitely health… spirit has been here and there. Regardless, let me start off by introducing my newest son, Aureolus…”

“And still no wife I see?” Sten jabbed, to Barna’s chagrin. Everyone else quietly chuckled.

Aureolus did a proper bow. “It’s an honor to meet you, your high… royal highness! Royal highness. Sorry, sorry…” That was embarrassing as he mentally kicked himself for that gaffe…

Sten chuckled. “Don’t fret, my boy. It’s understandable given your origins. In that regard, you have my utmost condolences for what that heathen Milosh did to you. I trust that things haven’t been too bothersome for you?”

Well it was at first, but Blood-Wraith made it all worth it.”

“That’s good to hear. Speaking of Sir Raynot, I’m disappointed he’s not with you. I’d really like to meet him, given all that he’s done for both of our kingdoms.”

“Don’t worry, Sten,” Barna replied. “The lad just needs a bit of a break is all.”

Sten nodded and looked at Dunja. “Certainly… and I have a good idea as to why that is.”

The amount of anxiety his gaze put on Dunja made her want to scream surrender right then and there… despite having done that to a degree already. Still, she maintained her fortitude… barely. “Hehe, hey Sten, cousin. Long time no see…”

The king took a breath to make sure he spoke calmly. “Am I to understand you have renounced your past misdeeds and transgressions?”

Dunja went over to a table and emptied out a pouch of red gem shards. “I am beyond sorry at this point. I just want things to go back to normal and I fully intend to fix everything, even if I have to do it with my bare hands.”

Sten’s eyes lit up as a cathartic smile stretched across his face at the shattered remains of the Shadow Orb. Composing himself, he spoke. “Well well well then. Obviously you’ll need to speak with your actions, Dunja. This, however, is a very good start. Now what do you plan to do about Andelin and Gratiana?”

“I’m hoping to win them over to our side and recruit them into the new Blades of Dunja, in service to The Iron City. Torunn has already accepted this.”

Torunn gave a thumbs up. “Yup, it all sounds like a good time to me.”

“Very well then. Under normal circumstances I would have had them executed, but anyone who knows me knows that I hate wasted potential” Sten pointed out. “On top of that, I can tell that none of you actually swore loyalty to Milosh…” That last comment had a bit of snark to it.

Dunja shook her head in confirmation. “Despite all the going-behind-my-back nonsense that worm did, I was supposed to be in charge… and the less said about his god awful mother, the better.”

“... furthermore, Andelin and Gratiana are survivors of the fallen kingdom of Feuerland,” Sten continued. “Andelin is of particular interest, being a bearer of gold blood. You can understand my hesitance to execute such an individual.”

“Be careful, Sten,” a voice cautioned. A surge of bright fire erupted from the ground, with a gleaming figure emerging from it like it was a doorway. The man was an angel with a muscular build and long, blonde hair. “... such beings are quite the wild card. There’s a reason why Feuerland had so many problems, amongst others.”

“Achasiah, I was wondering when you would arrive,” Sten commented.

“Oh, hey, Achasiah,” Dunja welcomed. “What are you doing here?” she inquired.

“Dunja, perfect! Where’s Weaver and Gabriella? Weren’t they with you?”

“They went off to pursue Gummi while we were calming down Rumbler” Barna answered.

Achasiah nodded, as if looking like he was reformulating something in his head. “Ah, I see. Aureolus, how are you doing?”

Aureolus shook his hand. “Great. I still need to visit Fire World and I haven’t quite gotten used to being corporeal yet, but great.”

The angel then turned his attention to Dunja. “To answer your question, I’ve been helping Sten out for some time now. At the moment I’ve been asked to elucidate all of you.”

She looked puzzled. “Really now? Just what have you been up to?”

“A lot my dear, a lot,” he said with a chuckle. “Before we get into that, would you like to tell Allan the truth before we get into my story?” He glanced over to Sten, who nodded.

“Right, let’s get that out of the way…” she muttered.

Allan stepped over to Dunja. “Alright, let’s spill the beans then. Who are my parents?” Torunn put her hand on his shoulder.

Dunja was unbelievably nervous. “Well… to start off, both of your parents are alive and well. In fact, one of them is closer than you think…”

“Okay… how close? Like, within Shadowland or The Iron City?”

“Here close. And, you’ll have to bear with this parent in particular as… er, they’ve done some stupid things, but she’s trying to make up for them…”

Torunn audibly cleared her throat, trying to push her along. “Dunja…”

“I know, I hear you… so about this parent…”

“Ma, what is she getting at?” Allan was weirded out by Dunja’s hesitation.

Dunja was somewhat starting to wish she had died at the hands of Englehart at this point. “Don’t worry, I just need to… um… well, preface this parent I guess, because she’s pretty noteworthy here…”

Sten squeezed his temples and groaned. “By the gods! Out with it, Dunja!”

“RIGHT. Sorry… Allan, this will come as a shock, but I’m your mother. Your real name is Albrecht Schindewolf and you’re the rightful prince of The Iron City…”

The silence was deafening. Those who already knew were quiet while Allan was utterly stunned. If that was true, it changed a lot. Barna tugged on his collar as he could see his nephew getting visibly upset, felt bad for him, and had a good idea what was going to happen next. Allan was on the verge of having a breakdown. The ensuing tirade that occurred was possibly the most confused Allan had ever been in his life. Dunja wanted to hug him so badly, but she knew that would not help in this situation.

Next: Chapter 6

ULTRAMagic Alternate © 2022 William Ford II (ChaoticTempleKnight)

[silly-inky]

My princess Daisy headcanon's

(the first time I posted this, it was accidental and on private, it wouldn't let me edit it so I had to remake it in soerate parts for your ease) anyways..

༺Daisy༻🌅

So Daisy is the shortest out of all of them canonically (which I normally keep in mind) Daisy being 5’11, Peach being 6’0 and Rosalina coming in a giant 7’3. She doesn’t mind being the shortest one, she is often taller than most of the other people in her life anyways.

But when she’s at royal gatherings or meetings, she always wears shoes that make her even taller, so that she’s at least the same height as Peach, since they all wear heals anyways. It’s a bit annoying at times, so she always has a pair of slip ons hidden away just in case.

Daisy isn’t a dumb person, she is actually very intelligent when she wants to be, but her act first, think later attitude sometimes gets in the way of that. She is really interested in paleontology, history and cartography. Which means she travels a lot, this also gives her chances to build relationships with other kingdoms, and pick up some pretty awesome gifts for her friends.

Because of all this travelling she gets most of her royal duties out of the way so, she always finds herself with a lot of free time to enjoy other activities like sports, hanging out with her friends or her girlfriend Rosalina, or simply enjoying the sun.

Daisy’s Parents are still alive and ruling, she has a particularly close relationship with her father, he isn’t seen much outside of his own kingdom anymore so he loves that Daisy is able to not only travel for him, but enjoy herself while doing so. I imagine that he was always busy, so he didn’t get to spend much personal time with her when she was younger, which he deeply regrets, but she’s always been a strong determined person, he thinks she gets it from her mother, so it didn’t effect her too badly, but he still wishes he was more present while she was younger, he missed out on so much and he can never get those Years back. Because of that Daisy always takes pictures on her adventures and events she goes to, just so her dad can still experience her memories with her.

He try’s to spend more time with her now, as they have more time to, which she never turns down. In fact they’ve found that they both enjoy racing, so on a rare full day off, they will go on the dunes with buggy’s and see which one can drive faster.

This gives the Queen serious anxiety, so they have to at least wear helmets and crash gear, she’s all for having fun but watching her husband and daughter topple around a few times in their buggies like that? Yeah.. I don’t blame her.

She loves Rosalina to bits, so whenever she comes to visit, she clears her schedule so she can spend the most time with them as physically possible. When she first tried asking her out, Luigi was hyping her up, giving her tips and advice, so when he heard Rosalina said yes to a date, he ran up to Daisy and spun her around in hug!

He was so happy for them, and Daisy who was as equally excited, almost crushed the poor man in a massive squeeze/ Bear hug. She was still nervous that she would mess something up though on her date, so Luigi and Peach helped out with everything, from the location, to the outfit and the gift. In the end they enjoyed themselves, that’s all that matters.

When she told her father about the date she went on, he couldn’t help but feel a great big smile make its way onto his face, he was even happier to learn he and his daughter had the same taste in women. Tall. He being a generous 5’5, while his wife, Daisy’s mother, was 6’3.

When Daisy's father first met Rosalina, he could see the love in his daughters eyes, and how she smiled around Rosalin. He knew she must have truly been something to be able to win over his daughters heart like that.

Daisy had a bit of a hard time coming out as Bi, she wasn’t worried about her dad, he would actually be somewhat relieved he wouldn't have to worry about Boy troubles (he kind of mistook what Bi meant, he thought she was a full on Lesbian). It was her mother however she was worried about. So when she finally did, she got a less than pleasing reaction, the Queen wasn’t exactly thrilled at first, she didn’t talk to Daisy for 2 days. Which broke the King, he begged her to please say something to Daisy, he knew how much this hurt her. As strong as Daisy was, her parents opinions still mattered to her.

So when she did finally start taking to Daisy again, she came at it with a fresh pair of eyes, she has since warmed up to the idea, largely due to the help from her husband. But what finally did it for her was seeing how her daughter and Rosalina interacted, how.. happy she was.

She had never seen her daughter smile so genuinely like that, it wasn’t out of charisma, or her general cheeriness, it was out of her pure, unrivalled love she got from simply looking at Rosalina.

She turned to her husband and with a knowing look, and approached the two women, putting her hand on her daughters shoulder, she said 4 simple words, but that’s all that Daisy needed. “I like this one”.

Daisy broke down and couldn’t stop hugging her mother, she was just so happy that her mother approved. Afterwards the Queen took Rosalina’s hands in her own, looked into her eyes, simply nodded, and left, she is a women a few words after all.

Luigi and Daisy are best friends, they did date for a bit back In the earlier days, but found that they preferred to keep it a friendship. Luigi is Daisy’s favourite person in the whole world, they talk every day wether on the phone or in person, they partner up at as many events as possible, and just work very well together.

Daisy loves to work out and train, so she will always do it with Luigi, he is not a weak person but he always compares himself to others which isn’t the best habit to have. She will always be analysing new love interests of Luigi’s and will silently analyse them to see if they would be good for him or not, she never gets in the way unless necessary, as it is Luigi’s choice in the matter who would and wouldn’t be.

She will help them out though if she likes them, so like little hints on what he likes, or how to approach him, that sort of stuff. They will talk about anything and everything, they know almost everything about the other, it’s safe to say that they would trust the other with their life.

Her and Mario get along fine, altough they don't hang out as much as they would with some of their other friends, they don't hate each other's company. They have a similar sense of humour sow whenever they are together they are always cracking jokes.

They are also the support team for Luigi, Rosalina, Peach and whoever needs their charaisma and cheers. They are very competitive in sports so they will always make it their primary mission to see who gets closer to winning between the two. When one of them gets kicked out and sees the other is still in the game kicking ass they will cheer for the other.

Her and Peach have been the best of friends since childhood, and even now they are sisters-in-arms. Daisy always insists on helping out when Peach is kidnapped, she knows Mario and Luigi can handle it, but she wants to be their to help and comfort her friend at the very least, and may or may not wants to punch Bowser in the balls repeatedly.

She doesn’t hate Bowser but desperately wants to drag him too a good therapist, she does admit that she has a small soft spot for his gremlin kids, they remind her of herself when she was that age. She wouldn't admit it but she is especially close with Lemmy and Roy, she loves them to death.

__________________________________________

Princess Peach coming soon...

[jlalafics]

"Photograph"-a Royal!Everlark story

This was inspired by this prompt from @writing-prompt-s:

When you were seven, you held a fake wedding by the swings with a kid you met at the park. You never saw your childhood “spouse” again after that day. Today you received a letter summoning you to a foreign country… where your wedding to the heir to the throne twenty years ago is seen as valid.

This is totally unedited. Thank you to @sparklingdust4612 for bringing this prompt to my attention. Looking forward to everyone else's interpretations along with this one and the story by @jhsgf82!

I actually have more of this but I thought I'd show y'all a little bit of my interpretation of the above prompt.

****

We keep this love in a photograph

We made these memories for ourselves

Where our eyes are never closing

Hearts are never broken

And time's forever frozen, still…

-Ed Sheeran

Photograph

Katniss Everdeen loved building castles.

In the massive sandbox, she packed another bunch of sand into her bucket before placing it upside down to set. While waiting, Katniss imagined how she would decorate the inside of her palace, a delighted smile growing on her face as she thought of the possibilities.

First, the walls would all be yellow. Not the ugly yellow that looked like snot—but yellow like Prim’s, her baby sister, golden locks.

Yellow meant hope: that’s what Daddy always said.

Knocking on the sides of the bucket to loosen the sand like Mommy showed her, Katniss slowly lifted it revealing a perfect tower for her castle.

“Yes!” she hollered, jumping up in excitement.

Her eyes went to Mommy who was sitting on the bench across the way. She was talking to a pretty, yellow-haired woman with a big tummy. Prim was asleep in her stroller, her binky hanging from her mouth.

“Mommy!” Katniss rushed over, stopping just a scant from toppling over on the concrete. “Look! I’ve made the perfect tower!”

Her mother smiled proudly.

“That’s wonderful, Katniss.” She turned to the woman next to her. “My Katniss is always building and dreaming on how to make her perfect home. Her teachers tell me that she has such a creative mind for a seven-year-old.”

“How absolutely charming,” the woman responded kindly, a smile on her pink lips.

Katniss tilted her head at the sound of her voice. There was something different about the way the lady talked—the dips of it sounded strange—but still nice.

“Why do you sound like that?” she asked bluntly.

Her Mommy frowned. “Katniss Everdeen! Please apologize!” She looked to the woman once more. “I’m so sorry—”

“That’s perfectly alright,” the lady assured her. The pretty woman turned to Katniss. “I have a little bit of an accent because of where I’m from, that’s why my voice sounds different.”

Katniss nodded. “Okay, but it does sound nice…like a song!” She smiled. “What’s your name?”

The woman glowed like an angel. “My name is Marguerite.”

“Hello Miss Marguerite.” Katniss looked to where her sandcastle waited. “I better go before someone takes my stuff! Bye!”

Throwing a wave at the woman, she plopped back down onto her space in the sandbox ready to add some detailing to her newest tower—

The foot crushing her tower landed straight in the middle of it creating a space between each side.

Katniss fumed and her eyes went up to the blond-haired boy with the snooty face.

She stood, her hand slamming into his chest. “Hey! You destroyed my castle!”

The boy stared at her in shock. “No one ever touches me!”

“Until now—”

Katniss was suddenly blocked by another boy, tall and dark-skinned.

“No one touches his royal highness,” he declared, and the blond boy stuck his tongue at her.

Another boy, this one dark-haired and sharp-eyed, approached.

“Prince Peeta has decided that you will be his bride,” he stated with a scowl.

Katniss made a face, crossing her arms to show them how disgusting that sounded. “Gross.”

The so-called Prince Peeta walked over to her.

“As my bride, you can make as many sandcastles as you want,” he explained. “I’ll build a bigger sandbox than this for you!”

Something inside zinged at the thought. “Really?”

The boy shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

Katniss eyed him suspiciously. “Why would you want to marry me anyway?”

Peeta shifted in his stance, the confidence in his blue eyes suddenly wavering. “I like your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

A rise of pink colored his cheeks. “They’re soft…and pretty.”

That had been it for her.

On that warm afternoon, by the swings of District 12’s only playground, Katniss Everdeen married the so-called Prince Peeta.

“You may now kiss the bride,” Gale, the dark-haired boy, said. He looked at Peeta, a teasing smile on his face. “Go on—kiss her!”

“Close your eyes,” Peeta told her.

Katniss, wearing her paper towel veil courtesy of the park’s public bathroom, did what he said and closed her eyes.

SPLAT!

She barely registered being shoved down into the muddy puddle.

Katniss looked up at the sneering boy, feeling the rise of anger in her body.

“That’s what you get for pushing me.”

++++++

Twenty years later…

“Katniss.” She looked up from laptop to find Prim at her open doorway. Her sister held out a Fed-Ex envelope. “This just came for you.”

Without even glancing at it, Katniss tossed the envelope on her bed, going back to the open page on her screen.

“Don’t you want to open it?” Prim stepped into the room and plopped onto the bed, picking the post up to examine it. “It looks important.”

“Probably one of those things saying that I’m eligible for another credit card.” Katniss frowned, sitting back, and staring at the blinking cursor. “I’m so stuck on this blog post!”

“Is this the one about kitchen flowers?” her sister asked, and she nodded. “You got some great pictures from Madge’s shop.”

“I know but my writing inspiration is zilch,” Katniss explained. “I need to get this done if I want to post by Mother’s Day.”

“Speaking of Mother’s Day, mom is wondering if you’re bringing anyone to Sunday dinner,” Prim informed her.

“I love our mother but lately every conversation we’ve had is either about my lack of a dating life or my withering eggs,” Katniss said. “Right now, I need to focus on getting more attention on the blog. It’s just gaining momentum!” She rested back and turned to her sister. “This is important to me.”

“I know,” Prim replied. “And you are good at it. I mean, look at what you’ve done to our apartment! To this room!”

Her sister’s bright blue eyes looked around the buttercream room, beautifully decorated with white-washed furniture. The console that her television sat atop was bought at a nearby thrift shop and refurbished by her. Katniss had sanded it down before putting a whitewash over it and adding lacquer to give it a more modern look.

In fact, most of the furniture in her and Prim’s apartment was completely refurbished by her. She had always had an eye for decorating and instead of going to a four-year college, Katniss had opted to go to design school.

Creating something new from what people considered junk gave her a special kind of thrill—almost akin to being in love.

At least that’s what she thought it might feel like.

“Whoa!”

Katniss whipped over to her sister—who was holding an unfolded paper in her hands.

She stood from her seat and went to Prim. “What?”

Wordlessly, Prim handed the piece to her—it was a letter.

The letter was on marbled paper, an elegant insignia atop it, and she could see that the elegant calligraphy was done by hand:

Dear Miss Everdeen,

You are hereby summoned to the kingdom of Panem to present yourself to His Royal Highness, King Peeta.

Photo documentation has validified that you are the Queen Consort to His Royal Highness.

Attached is my business card, please contact me to arrange your travel to Panem.

Respectfully,

The Rt. Hon. Effie Trinket

Private Secretary to His Royal Highness

“This is a joke!” Katniss tossed the letter onto her desk and laughed. “Photo documentation? There is no such thing—”

The laugh fell from her lips as Prim turned the FedEx envelope upside down and a single photo fell onto her bedspread.

“There’s a business card in here, too,” Prim told her carefully.

Walking over, Katniss could see that the photo was facedown.

Trembling, she picked the print up and read the elegant cursive atop it:

‘Peeta and his new bride, Katniss Everdeen!’

Next to the caption was a happy face; it was obvious that this statement was made in jest.

Turning the photograph, a wave of nausea hit seeing the image of her seven-year-old self, a paper towel veil atop her head, joining hands with a blond boy—

Prince Peeta.

Or to be more precise, His Royal Highness King Peeta of Panem.

[tssidesfics]

TSSides Anti-Fairytale AU

I’m not coming for fairytales. They have their place, but as an aromantic person...I do not feel seen. And then I decided to re-watch Enchanted (pirated, of course, because fuck Disney). And then this idea happened. 

Patton was a child-king who married his best friend when forced to, and then she died in childbirth. He’s given Roman everything he could, but he’s lived his life dictated by the advisors who’ve used him as a puppet king his whole rule. He’s miserable because he doesn’t like how the system functions but he thinks he’s chained to tradition.

Roman copes with his complicated relationship with his father by questing and almost dying, like, every other week. Anxious attachment for days. Boy keeps trying very hard to find a princess and can’t seem to figure out why nothing will stick. To which Patton goes “oh. He got it from me. Oops.”

All I know is Remus is aromantic and aplatonic and exactly as chaotic as he should be.

Roman’s birthday. Ball. The classic. He greets all the noble families and he’s seen those losers a bunch before, but this time, he meets a new “girl” with a family he usually hates who intrigues him. He is not a girl and I will not be misgendering him because ew, but, gist: Virgil, transphobic rich parents forcing him to conform to gender roles, absolutely miserable, in Peak Bitch (gender-neutral) form. Roman mistakenly believes he’s cured and talks Virgil up a lot. Convinces himself he’s fallen madly in love.

Problem is, he tells Patton, who’s shocked he found a “girl” but absolutely is on-board, and then goes to the family to ask for Virgil’s hand and there’s no Virgil.

Thus begins the Mulan ripoff but openly trans where Virgil poses as a boy servant at the castle because his parents can’t get into the castle willy-nilly and it’s the safest place to be. Absolutely loathes Roman’s very existence because that dumb bitch flirted with him while he was a girl and therefore VIrgil thinks he is The WorstTM. Then Roman catches him grouching about and decides to solve this by teaching him sword-play, mostly to give him the excuse to beat on a dummy with a sword-shaped stick. 

Meanwhile Roman is just le sigh I did it again. I connected more with a boy than a girl. Why did she have to run away? Now I’m doomed to be weird.

Well then assassins break into the castle and Ever-Paranoid Virgil immediately susses them out as bad news and uses the remnants of the ball to absolutely wreck them when they try to kill Roman and his father while they’re taking a rare opportunity to chat and bond. Patton decides he is Adopting This Child, fuck you, advisors, he’s as thin as a stick, and Virgil now gets to eat with the royal family. 

It’s the first time Patton has ever actually told his advisors to go fuck themselves. It’s the first step toward a positive turnaround and it happened because Patton’s dad instincts took over and nothing in the world is more valid than that, fight me.

Enter genderqueer icon morally neutral witch, Janus, all pronouns, who’s trying to topple the monarchy to enact lasting change and didn’t want to dirty her hands right away, but honestly people are so unreliable. So he gets onto Patton’s crew as a handmaiden and excuse you who gave the king permission to be actually endearing?

Roman feels slightly weird because Patton’s calling Virgil “kiddo” and he’s not calling him his son but he also treats him very similarly as he does to Roman and Remus, which isn’t great but is significantly better than it could be, but Roman’s got a crush. 

Then Janus finds out Virgil’s trans and reveals this. Virgil thinks he’s about to get blackmailed into murdering the only people who have ever cared about him and then Janus just rolls their eyes like “excuse you I’m evil not psychopathic. I can give you a potion to make your body reflect your mind. You in?”

“Great, so my only cure to stop feeling like frozen trash reheated in a forest fire is to accept the highly dangerous bribe of a definitely evil witch! Thanks! I hate it!”

Yes Virgil memes even in a fantasy world where Tumblr doesn’t exist.

Also Virgil and Roman are bonding. A lot. They’re getting very close and Virgil even lets slip that he loves Roman and then tries to fling himself out a window. Roman gets touched, stops him, and tries to kiss him, but Virgil leans away. Roman expresses confusion.

“I...I love you, but I don’t want to kiss you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either. But I’ve...never wanted to kiss anyone. For any reason.”

“But...you still love me?”

“I do. I’m sorry.”

Roman...doesn’t feel as rejected as he thinks he maybe should? Honestly, it’s not totally a relief, but it’s just kinda...neutral. It’s not even a disappointment. 

Well, Janus is not evil and actually wants to run a kingdom (instating a committee mixed of educated rich fucks and working class receiving education) a whole lot more than Patton, who thinks she’s just...kinda awesome and very misunderstood. There’s a lot of hissing and grumbling that they’re not misunderstood, they’re evil, they don’t even have a tragic backstory, they just kill people to enact the change they want to see, just because they got ditched in a forest as a baby and was raised by a magic snake means nothing. The snake was a very loving and supportive parent.

Roman talks to Patton and Patton is like “fuck marriage rules. Fuck heteronormativity. Fuck my advisors. My kingdom is a haven for the gays. All the gays. Of every color. Come here and be merry and queer.”

Virgil’s just like “yo no reason but in this new world where it’s okay to love whatever gender is it maybe cool to be a boy when the world says you’re a girl?”

Janus draws a knife and glares at Patton and Patton’s just like “even if my partner wasn’t threatening to kill me I’d say it was fine why?”

“No reason.”

“Virgil.”

“What?”

“Is there something you want to share?”

“No.”

“Is there something you need to share?”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re being defensive again, Storm Grouch.”

Virgil sticks his tongue out. “Fine. People used to think I was a girl and I have a stupid body. Happy?”

And Patton learns from Janus the fine art of Validating The Fuck Out Of Gender.

The advisors stage a coop and lock Janus in an anti-magic cage, and then at the same time Virgil’s biological nightmares track him down and steal a spelled green apple from Janus’ shop they give Virgil. You know the drill. Deep sleep like death, yadda yadda.

Well, they immediately claim the body making a big dramatic deal about how they have to bury “her” and they’ll take “her” home to see her off and it’s so tragic, just as they were reunited, when the reality is they have the antidote back home, they’re just looking for control over his life again.

Except Roman goes off. “He is staying here where he--where he will be buried under the name Virgil dressed properly and if you came anywhere near his body I’ll kill you myself.”

Guess what constitutes a totally platonic, non-kiss related act of queerplatonic true love, bitch? Fighting your transphobic partner’s parents over their dead body.

Kingdom’s retaken, sweeping reform while Patton retires to be a stay at home dad to fix his relationship with his kids. Virgil gets formerly adopted. The stepparent is actually a morally neutral genderqueer witch who runs the kingdom fairly and justly, the central love story is trans and aromantic, and my queer ass is something resembling happy.

Logan is probably one of the advisors and the only one with sense who probably starts knocking off his coworkers after the coop because they’re all deeply, deeply stupid. Remus probably spends half the story making friends with a troll he brings in to save the day in the third act.

[wonlouvre]

Hiii can i ask for a mingyu x fem!reader royal au, where the reader is more to boyish personality?

Undefeatable

pairing: prince!mingyu x g.n. reader (but they’re also royal and vagina bearing) genre: royal au, fluff, angst warnings: violence, blood word count: 1.1k (oops)

💌: here is the last request from my very first round of opening requests! thank you so much for all who participated! hopefully i get to open requests soon because your requests and ideas really made me happy! i hope you, anon, and everyone else likes this anon! thank you everyone! <3

“Aren’t we the same Prince Mingyu?” You ask with a piercing glare. “Aren’t I as royal as you are?”

“Yes. I never—”

“Then stop telling me what to do.”

That particular heated argument Mingyu had with you remains vivid inside his mind. He had no intention of ordering you around or much less offending you by questioning your value and capability. He doesn’t even remember what led you to assume such. All he ever wanted to convey was for you to lessen your engagement with combat during the war. It’s getting more and more dangerous and the chances of you coming out of there unharmed is slim to none. 

You and Mingyu grew up with the knowledge that you’d marry each other someday. It was a perfect match. The two of you have both the intelligence and skills in ruling and protecting your respective kingdoms. But most importantly, the two of you have the same drive and ideals for the advancement of ending all armed conflict that’s harming thousands of innocent citizens.  

Your wedding was simple and instant due to the circumstances. The marriage symbolizes the union of both kingdoms that will work together to ultimately end all wars. Both your parents have entrusted the important duty to protect the future of your people to your enjoined hands. You and Mingyu have been on the same page from the very beginning. 

But for Mingyu, there is more to how he feels towards you than the ambitions at hand. He has admired you for the longest time. He fell in love with how graceful and kind you looked when you smiled at him at that one party. He fell in love with how selfless and compassionate you are in extending help to those who need them the most at one of the villages devastated by the war. And even during battles, where dirt, sweat and blood always blemishes your skin; he has never felt more in love. 

Mingyu loves you and watching you everyday go all out fearlessly to fight this never ending war is scaring him to the bones. He wishes that he could have said something during that day to make you stop. He wishes you were here beside him instead because he believes there has to be some way other than violence. He’s currently strategizing with the rest of the advisors. While you’re great in formulating strategies like him, Mingyu recognizes how your combat skills are undefeatable. Mingyu is the brain and you are the whole army yourself. 

He’s silent with arms crossed as he listens to the voices in the tent exchange ideas. His frown could make everyone around him think he’s in deep thought when he’s really not. The chorus of shouts and clanging sounds of metal outside sounds like there won’t be a ceasefire anytime soon. 

“Your Highness!” Not until a panicked and sweating guard barges inside screaming, almost toppling over the first aid boxes at the entrance. 

Mingyu can already sense that there is something wrong. He immediately unlocks his arms from his chest and walks towards the guard he’s awfully recognizing. He’s one of your guards assigned to always be right behind you. He’s about to ask what he is doing here when another group of men are shouting to move out of the way. 

When they finally enter, your unconscious body and forehead profusely bleeding greets him. 

Mingyu’s breath hitches and his legs give up on him that the only way he can hold you is by crawling to where your body is brought down. He takes you in his arms and wipes your blood with shaking hands to get a better look at the wound.

“They were fighting with an enemy when their neck got locked in a chokehold before getting striked with a shield,” one of the guards reports but Mingyu is deaf to the words.

He just cradles your head close to his chest as the medics rush to take care of your wound. He can see that you’re fighting the lightheadedness, definitely not backing down even at a time like this. 

“Hey,” he calls and it pains him to see you struggling to open your eyes because of the blood running down your face. “It’s okay.” 

“Your Highness, I’m sorry, but please let us move them to the bed.”

Mingyu nods and stands to his feet to carry your limp body on the medical bed. He moves aside when you’re completely settled and lets the medics attend to you. He exhales a shaky breath and closes his eyes, thinking and thinking. When he opens them again, he offers one last glance at you before grabbing his sword and telling your guards to follow him. 

All he can see is red. 

“We’re ending this war before sunrise.”

The Prince kept his word and when he returned to the tent as the sun started to rise above the horizon, you had gained your consciousness back. He meets your eyes and flashes you the smile you’re afraid you have fallen in love with. You sat up from the bed when he started taking slow steps to be near you. Your eyes follow him as he drops his sword, helmet and shield. The shirt under his armor was drenched in sweat but he could care less. All he wants is to fall on his knees and shrink small under your arms. 

And as if you have read his mind, you allow his face to rest against your stomach and his arms to snake around your hips. You’re still quite dizzy but you can see him clearly. You can feel his warmth and that’s enough to make you believe that you’re alive, he’s alive.

“It’s over,” he whispers when he raises his head and sits up. 

Tears are brimming on your eyes as you nod. You touch his bruised lip tentatively and he gives your fingers a kiss. He leans close to your face, nose grazing yours. A shiver runs down your spine when you feel his lips lightly touch yours. You don’t grow weak to others but when it’s Kim Mingyu, it’s a whole different story. 

You take it upon yourself to fully capture his lips with yours and Mingyu is glad enough to let you. You both remain careful to not get carried away because you’re both badly wounded. But this kiss you’re sharing is passionate enough regardless of that. 

When you retreat to take a closer look at the wounds on his face, Mingyu’s love for you can be seen through his gaze. Although he has avenged your forehead, he can’t help but still get bothered by the blood stained gauze wrapped around it. You notice that which is why you squish his cheeks with your hands and make his eyes come back to yours. 

“I love you,” you bravely confess before apologizing, “and I’m sorry.”

Mingyu’s smile is wide and bright unlike the sinister one earlier during the battle. His canine can be seen making you smile back. He pulls your chin up and kisses you again and the words he mutters against your lips lets you breathe a breath of relief. 

“I love you too.”

[dizzydancingdreamer]

You're My Home Too | Loki Laufeyson

Hey lovelies happy Saturday! I hope you all have had a lovely day! Here is the first Loki "drabble" of the event, please do enjoy and make sure to take care of yourselves today!

Appetizers (Tags): Angst, Fluff

Entres (Pairing): Loki x F!Reader (third person)

Sides (Prompts): 6: “You’re all I have.” “You’re all I have too, you know?”

Notes: None, Requested by Anon

Word Count: 2.2k

Dinner at Dizzy’s Master List

She watches as the black haired god tilts his head, eyes locked on his brother. It looks like he’s nodding along, agreeing to something Thor has said, but she can see it— the way his pupils dart across the blonde’s face, flitting over his shoulder before returning, latching on a different spot. It’s unnerving to watch him be so docile. So passive— not at all like the usual, fiery tempered, grinning god of mischief. She’s never seen him look so blank. Something’s definitely wrong.

She has a feeling she knows what it is, too. If she’s right then it’s the same reason she laid awake all night, curled on her side of Loki’s bed, listening to the sound of his steady breathing until the sun came up. She can practically hear the conversation— Thor’s been itching to go home for weeks now. Somehow they’ve always managed to get held up each time— saving the world and what not. Now, though, there’s nothing keeping them. No androids or aliens or wizards. Just her— the best friend— and that’s not going to cut it.

Loki’s eyes flick to hers, blue irises somehow vibrant even from across the room, and she forces the corners of her lips to turn up, an attempt at flaking off the frown that she’s sure has been plastered on her face all morning. If his frown is anything to go by, however, then she would say that it doesn’t work out. Oh well— she didn’t really expect it would.

He can sense lies and even if he couldn’t he would still be able to read her like a book. Half the time it feels like he’s more in her head then she is, always figuring out what she wants before she can think it let alone say it aloud. Usually that’s followed by him dropping whatever he’s doing to get it for her. Unless, of course, it’s a hug— then he’s dropping whatever he’s doing and pulling her into his arms.

Who’s going to hug her if he’s a galaxy away?

Is it even a galaxy? Surely it’s more. A dimension away. Her stomach tosses, the sting in her chest mixing with a wave of the nausea she’s been fighting all morning. A combination of not eating— not being hungry enough to eat— and sadness. No not sadness— grief. Sadness feels easier. It’s waving your best friend off to college— not to another fucking world. This isn’t sadness— this is losing everything she has come to need for an entire year. Warmth and protection and his sea-salt skin and elegant voice. Who else is going to speak so gently to her when he’s gone?

“Dove—” she blinks and he’s suddenly there, kneeling on the floor in front of the couch where she's been sitting for the past hour, legs curled under her and all the way numb— “what’s wrong?”

His dark brows crease together, his hand snaking from his side and reaching for hers. She offers him another pathetic half-smile, tangling her fingers with his long ones and shaking her head slightly. “Nothing, Loki. How’d your talk go?”

She doesn’t miss the way he winces. He tries to hide it, replicating her tilted lips with his own, but, like her, his eyes don’t follow suit. Instead they flash with something that looks too much like dread for her to keep her act up. When her mouth creases into a frown, so does his. It’s all she needs to know— he really is leaving her.

“My brother misses home.” The god reaches out his other hand and— like everything they seem to do— she copies him, meeting him halfway and lacing those fingers together as well. He runs his thumb over hers, his blue eyes intense— worried. “There are a few things we have to sort out. They’re getting impatient.”

They’re. That could mean so many things. It could mean his people— the asgardians. It could mean his family— it definitely means Thor, the god who she can hear pacing from the kitchen. Her eyes pool over the features of the man in front of her, landing on the circles under his eyes. Does it mean him too? Has she been keeping him from going home? The thought makes her throat sting— of course she has. She’s been so stupid, clinging to a literal god. Of course he would have to go home at some point. She was only fooling herself thinking he would stay with her. What’s upstate New York when you have a celestial castle or whatever the hell it is he has?

“Dove?”

She blinks again, zoning back into his even more concerned stare— shit.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, squeezing his hands if only to ground herself against slipping away again. “That sounds important. Your, uh, your kingdom needs you.”

I need you too, though.

It feels like her heart is lodged in her throat and that she’s speaking around it. When she swallows it doesn’t go away— if anything it grows, tears stinging at her eyes, threatening to fall. She hates how selfish she feels. He doesn’t belong to her— he doesn’t belong with her— and she should feel lucky to have called him her friend for this long. Still she can’t help but wonder what her days will look like without him. Empty. Boring. Terrifying. She has friends here but it isn’t the same. The connection isn’t the same— the warmth and smiles and laughter aren’t the same.

She isn’t just losing her best friend, she’s losing her home.

And she breaks.

And he notices.

God, he always notices.

She supposes with the tears now streaming down her face, though, that she can’t exactly blame him for that one. It’s a little noticeable. What she will blame him for is how he releases her hands, instead rising to his full height and settling on the couch, angling his lithe body towards her and wrapping his arms around her stomach. He waits— one beat, two beats— for her to turn as well, pushing up on her knees and throwing her arms around his shoulders. She holds him tight— tighter than she can confidently say she has ever held him before. She has to— it’ll very likely be the last chance she gets. She has to memorize it— him.

“I’m sorry,” she laughs bitterly. It’s more of a sob— the kind that catches in her throat, getting stuck between silent and booming. “I’m being silly.”

Loki shakes his head— she can’t see it but she can feel his jaw brushing her hair, his hands pushing her closer to his chest. She digs her fingers into his jumper, scrunching the green wool like somehow it’ll make this all okay. His hand runs up her back, curling it around the nape of her neck, hand cool and soft.

“No you aren’t.” He murmurs, face still pressed against her hair, and she fights back more tears— he’s too gentle with her.

She doesn’t say anything right away, she just sinks against him, biting her lip and forcing herself to just be in the moment. He smells like rain today. It’s always different— always changing— but today he smells like the summer pavement before a three day thunderstorm hits and it feels fitting.

After a few moments she finally pulls away, tugging against his hold and running the heel of her hand under her eyes. He doesn’t give her much leave, only a few inches to be able to look up at him, blinking away the blurriness of her glassy eyes and sniffling. His lips are pressed together, his head tilted again. Unlike with his brother, though, his eyes never stray from hers. As always, it makes her breath catch in her throat, her heart racing in the way only he can seem to do.

She finally brings herself to ask the hard question— the one that’s been hanging around them for weeks. “When are you leaving?”

His fingers on her spine tense— that can’t mean anything good.

“Today, dove.”

“Oh.”

She doesn’t know what else to say— that and if she says anything more she’s afraid she might start sobbing again. Sobbing or just stop breathing altogether. Today? She couldn’t have had one more night with him? You’ve already had ‘one more night’ for four weeks, the little voice in her head reminds her. It’s time to let him go. She slips her hands around his arms— easier said than done. She knows that once he leaves her life will change— and it might never go back to normal.

Loki’s eyes flash, the blue darkening, a crease forming between his brows. He opens his mouth but no words come out and soon he’s pressing his lips together again, the dejection in his eyes and aura tangible. She has to say something— she can’t leave it on this note. She just has no idea what to say. No idea how to say goodbye.

So she doesn’t.

“You should probably start packing then, yeah?” She pushes her lips into the tortured smile again, muttering the words.

She’s sure he would have forced himself to laugh—

“I want you to come with me.”

— were it not for him speaking at the same time.

Her heart stops when his words flit past her eardrums. “What?”

She must be dreaming— there’s no way he just said what she thinks he said. It has to be her imagination playing a cruel trick on her. Trying to protect her from the pain until the last second. But no, that’s not right, now when his cool hands move from her back to her cheeks, his thumbs running over her cheekbones and drawing her back to him. He leans down, pressing his forehead against hers and she gasps— she can’t help it. His skin is so soft that her eyes flutter close.

“I said I want you to come home with me, dove.” His nose brushes against hers, his words entirely soft.

She’s speechless— completely and utterly floored. “To Asgard?”

He chuckles, minty breath fanning her lips. “Yes, to Asgard.”

She pulls back, head so fuzzy she almost topples over from the motion, hands curling tighter to keep from falling. He really wants her to go home with him? Just like that her heart starts beating again, kicking starting her pulse which begins hammering as the notion of staying with him starts to become clear. He’s not leaving?

“But—” she stammers, blinking rapidly as she tries to form a coherent thought— “why me?”

For a moment he just looks at her, his brows knitting together once more, his eyes filling with something she can’t decipher. He kind of looks confused. Only she could confuse a god. She almost slaps herself, her pulse thrumming in her ears. Why the heck would you ask him that you idiot? Now he’s not gonna’ want to take you with—

“Because you’re all I have.”

He says it so nonchalantly— like it’s a fact and not a confession that makes her very essence roar. She supposes that to him it is just a fact. That when you’re all powerful speaking your mind is normal. It is just a fact and she is just a girl and he is just a god. Fact, fact, facts. Her head spins. This— he— cannot be real.

“I—” That’s as far as she gets before her sentence drops, mouth gaping but empty.

Thankfully he picks it up, continuing his unconcerned profession.

“It’s not home if you’re not with me, my little midgardian. Not anymore.” He shrugs and she almost chokes— how is he saying this so calmly when she feels like she’s going to combust? “I really think you’d like it, actually. It’s very pretty— lots of gardens. Oh, and the library! You would enjoy the library.” He tilts his head, his eyes fading out slightly as he thinks about his home. “I’m sure there will be a ball of some sort when we arrive home. I know, I know— you don’t like big events but—”

This time she’s the one who places her hands on his cheeks, shaking her head, letting the first euphoric giggle out. “Of course I’ll go, Loki.”

A grin spreads across his lips, his eyes widening like he just won the lottery as he leans forward, connecting them once again. It makes her heart jump in her chest. What did he think she was going to say? No? She giggles when his lips press against her cheek, her nose scrunching. He must notice because his mouth curves even more against her skin. Soon his lips aren’t just on her cheek but on her forehead and chin and nose as well.

“Even if we have to go to a ball?” He teases, his voice lighter than she’s heard it in weeks.

“Even then.” She confirms, fingers gliding into his hair and tangling them in the silky strands. She takes a deep breath, nerves thrumming as she adds softly. “You’re all I have too, you know? You’re my home too.”

Loki hums happily against her skin, taking her own confession the same way he had made his own— easily. It’s the best outcome she could have hoped for. She can’t wipe the wide smile from her lips as he wraps his arms properly around her once more. It’s not long before his lips find her ear, soft words echoing against her skin.

“You should probably start packing then, yeah?”

[m-art-i]

I’m the royal advisor but I might as well be a royal babysitter because holy shit you are such a handful… Wake up ALREADY!

thanks to @toxixpumpkin again for the prompt! (if you get annoyed by me tagging you everyday for the next ten days just tell me pls lol)

sunaosa, royal au, 1.2k words

(this one started out funny in my head and ended up angsty on paper, but it will probably have a continuation in the next few days using another prompt of the list bcs i can't just leave them like this, i need a happy ending dsfhksj)

Rintarou loved his job. Really, he did. It wasn’t just because he’d been basically born in it, or because of all the benefits it granted him, allowing him to live comfortably, and right in the royal palace of all places. But no, his favorite thing was the power. Sure,  the King had all the decisional, legal, and executive power. But who did he ask for advice to, before taking any decision? Despite still being young, barely over twenty, Rintarou was basically holding the whole kingdom in the palm of his hand, and he loved it. 

Another not too bad perk of being so close to the royals was that he’d got to grow up alongside the princes. For how much he made fun of and chastised them, he cared for them deeply, and enjoyed their company and their little idiosyncrasies. 

Except, of course, when the king sent him first thing in the morning to call on them because they were wanted in a meeting. He was the one who had to go, on account of him being so close to them, and also being the person with most leverage. He knew how to handle them. That didn't mean he enjoyed it, especially when he had to do it so early in the morning. Those were the only times when he really questioned his life choices, hated his job with a passion and wished he could just quit and flee the island never to be heard from again. 

“Osamu, please,” he repeated for maybe the tenth time (he didn't know for sure, he'd lost count after the fourth), completely letting go of all the honorifics he’d used up to now, deciding he didn't have time for proper etiquette. Emergencies called for desperate measures. 

He hoped the guard he had sent to wake Atsumu up was having more success, but knowing the princes he was probably in the same situation as him, if not worse off, not having the same familiarity Rintarou shared with the twins.  

He eyed Osamu's relaxed face, the ghost of a smile on his lips, the way his hair was standing up on his head, a stark contrast against the white cotton of the pillow, and he knew for a fact that he was just pretending to sleep. Rintarou wanted to rip out all of his pretty hair and punch his teeth in, but he just sighed. He couldn't do all that, but he could still be harsher than he'd been up to now, pretending that keeping his distance from the prince was what he wanted, not just what was expected of him. It wasn't like anyone was watching him now, though, so he gave up on every semblance of control, stepped up to the side of Osamu’s bed and started to violently shake him by the shoulders. 

“I swear to all that is holy,” he rumbled, “if you don’t wake up right now I will—” 

He never got to finish his threat, though, because Osamu raised both arms and circled his back, pulling him down and turning on his side, making him topple over on the bed and caging him in a tight hug. 

“Osamu…” Rintarou complained, wincing at how half-heartedly it came out. 

Osamu just squeezed him harder. “Shh, let’s sleep,” he whispered against his hair. 

“We have to go,” Rintarou said, voice muffled against Osamu's sleep shirt. “Your father—”

“—will wait,” Osamu finished the sentence for him. “Just five minutes. I barely see you, lately.” 

“Yes well, I have a job to do and your father—”

“Oh shut up about my dad, please,” Osamu said, leaning back slightly so that he could look at him in the eyes. “He's not the one you pledged undying love and loyalty to.”

“Actually yes, i did. He's my king—”

“And I'm your lover.” 

“Osamu…”

“Rin. Five minutes. Let me pretend for five minutes.”

Rintarou stared into those wide, honest, warm eyes and he dropped his head forward, pressing his forehead against Osamu's. “Nothing to pretend. I do love you,” he whispered. “But you know we can't do this forever, we agreed that—”

“Shh,” Osamu said, cutting him off once again, angling his head so he could rub the tip of his nose against Rintarou's. 

Rintarou sighed, closing his eyes and giving in. “My clothes are gonna get wrinkled,” he said, shuffling slightly to make himself more comfortable. 

“You can say you had to wrestle me out of bed.” 

Rintarou chuckled, opening his eyes again to regard the other man's face, so close to his and yet always so far away. He raised a hand between them and gently carried a knuckle over Osamu's forehead, passing over his eyelids, fallen closed, then down along his cheek, wrinkled from the pillow, and up again, fingers threading through his hair, messing it up even further. Osamu smiled through the administration, then his face relaxed into a light slumber, lips still carrying the shadow of a small smile. Rintarou leaned in and kissed him softly, just once, just because he could, just because he didn't know when he would be able to again. Osamu was right. Just five minutes. Five minutes to pretend this was normal, that every day they woke up together and could share lazy mornings, bad breath kisses, and gentle caresses. Pretend that they could get out of this room and still look at each other like they hung up the moon, still talk freely, still touch and hold each other, still kiss.  

But they could not. Osamu was the prince. He wouldn’t inherit the crown, thanks to Atsumu’s seven minute seniority, but he would most likely have to marry off to some princess in neighboring kingdoms for political reasons. And Rintarou was just an advisor. He was no royal, not even noble. He’d just been lucky enough to be born with half a brain in the right place, at the right time. He could have all the power in the kingdom, he could start wars and he could prevent them, he could make laws and he could erase them. But he still couldn’t have this. 

He’d tried, he’d searched. 

All the power in the world still couldn’t erase the fact that they were not meant to be. They shouldn’t even have met. They shouldn’t have become friends. They belonged to different spheres, two circles who seemed to be tangential, but if you looked more closely you’d see a growing gap between them. Their lives could never intersect. 

Osamu was going to get married and leave, and Rintarou would stay back, helping the king, who eventually would be Atsumu. If only they were switched, Rintarou thought, not for the first time. If only Osamu was the oldest, if only he were to be king. Then at least they could stay together, if only by proximity. 

He could stay at his side, guiding his hand and his watching his steps. Standing to the side as he found an appropriate queen, married, gave the crown an heir. 

Maybe it was better this way, after all. At least he wouldn’t have to witness all that. 

He would just let him go, like they agreed on, and he would never think of him again. But for now… for five more minutes, no one had to go. Osamu could hold him, Rintarou could play with his hair, and the future didn’t exist. For five minutes, they were just two inconsequential people, sharing warmth and breath, and nothing else mattered.  

And, really, Rintarou wouldn't give up these five minutes for the whole kingdom. For the whole world.

[awintersrose]

I’m late but for kinkoctober but ur writing is so flawless, this suggestion will be an odd pair, little to no fanbase but Kabuto x Sasori. 🥺

Pairing: Kabuto/Sasori

Prompt: Anal Play/Coercion (originally Day 18 from this list of prompts) AND Dirty Little Secret for @naruto-smut-monday

Obvious warnings are obvious with the prompts above, also includes D/s play, biting/scratching, and rimming.

All Kinktober fills should be considered explicit unless stated otherwise!

AO3 LINK

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Waiting for an assignation is never a simple matter. Punctual to the point of arriving early at everything, Kabuto looks at his watch for perhaps the fifth time, and he counts down the minutes. His date was very specific in their instructions, and he prefers to make a good impression. Kabuto can respect a desire for punctuality, for exacting details intended to ensure obedience.

He knows himself to be just as exacting in his preferences when exerting control, and based on this similarity alone, he has high hopes for this meeting. The contact came highly recommended by his own current favorite - precisely because said favorite was known to turn Kabuto’s own reality on its very head and make him question which end was up and which was down.

If only it weren't so painfully obvious to his partner when such a feat was possible - but Obito had the uncanny ability to read him as quickly as a cheap novel, and just as easily. Obito, his switch of a partner who was meant to be and still mostly acts as Kabuto’s own submissive.

Secret needs will out, however, and these roles are now flipped with surprising regularity, which is what led him here in the first place. The fact still remains that Kabuto doesn't bend for just anyone, and he still gets tetchy about the prospect and process of exploring the depths of his own submission with a new Dominant. Obito, however, seems certain that this match will be the right fit.

And so Kabuto waits.

His new contact’s profile is sparse, with photographs that only display a slight figure masked in black, with brilliantly crimson hair that drew the eye at once. An artist by trade, 'Exploring', their status said, which leaves even more to the imagination.

It often only takes one strikingly unique feature to catch Kabuto's visual interest, to make him wonder; to call to his analytical side, which loves to break down each solitary detail of a play partner until the origin of its nature is revealed. Until their true nature is revealed right along with it.

Whether it is skin like a bleach-splashed canvas, or cat-like golden eyes, his long-term partners have always been unique. Both of the latter possessed features that were the result of rare conditions, or genetic mutations that made said partners even more captivating, whether under the lash... or wielding it.

With the prospect of a new connection, all Kabuto knows for sure is that his date has hair like spun garnets, a certain cruel twist to a delicate mouth, and eyes like a fine umeshu. Not exactly unique, but there is still something there that captures his imagination.

Perhaps the artist is merely very good at their trade, taking a skilled hand to the composition of their photographs. Looks can certainly be deceiving—he should have predicted that his expectations would be turned on their head.

Which is how Kabuto finds himself trussed and stripped and poised on his knees before said artist once their negotiations are dispensed with.

Finely manicured fingertips caress the line of his spine before nails scratch, three at once, raising lines of glowing sensation across his shoulder blades. And they don’t stop their downward trek, marking Kabuto, making him gasp. The air makes a sharp sound passing through his teeth.

“You’ll do, but for more reasons than you think. Reasons you may not expect.” Sasori says, “And for exactly those reasons, you’ll give me everything I want.”

“Will I?”

That hand takes hold of a generous handful of his hair and steadily pulls him back, forcing him to arch his spine. Those cruel lips brush Kabuto’s ear as Sasori speaks, his soft voice bright with amusement, “You will, or this little kingdom you’ve built for yourself will be winnowed away into dust and thrust into the wind for anyone to take. Admit it… you want me anyway.”

The words are smug even in their gentle tone, accented by soft puffs of humid breath against Kabuto’s neck, his loosened hair. He cannot see Sasori’s eyes, and a small, creeping desperation begins in the pit of his belly. Sasori pulls harder, making him twist, rubied lips nipping Kabuto’s own briefly, roughly.

“You should have known better than to seek me out when you’re entirely that snake’s creature… he did have rather delightful tastes though. Did you kneel for him too? Recount all your dirty little secrets for him?”

“You know I did,” Kabuto grits his teeth as Sasori’s dainty fist tightens harder in his hair.

“I know you did, which is why I’ll make sure he sees every lurid moment of this if you don’t do exactly as I like. And then you know he’ll cast you away for dallying with me, faithless boy...”

The threat feels real, so damn real that goosebumps chase the lengths of his limbs, and Kabuto shivers, allowing fear to catapult him closer to compliance. His pulse notches higher and his mouth runs dry. Sasori releases him as if throwing him back down again, but it’s only the effective toppling of his own weight. Every new touch is feather light, even as the artist’s hands explore his body, shoving him onto all fours, undignified, yet perfectly on display.

Sasori’s breath ripples down his spine, the wet heat of his tongue drifting along the lines his own nails followed in the moments prior. Blood rushes in Kabuto’s ears, and his pale hair falls forward, obscuring his burning cheeks as he sinks lower on his elbows, allowing Sasori full access to his body.

“Shameless and pretty all at once, just look at you, ready for anything,” Sasori muses, “I’d hate to keep you waiting.”

Sasori’s questing, tormenting hands begin to part him wide, exposing him further, nails digging into the softer flesh of his buttocks. Kabuto grits his teeth as Sasori’s wicked tongue plies at his hole, two deft fingers moving to spread wetness around the orifice before one of them dips inside him with ease.

“Ready for anything, indeed.”

A bottle clicks and cool slick drips over his skin, making Sasori’s next movements nearly effortless. He dips in and out with shallow strokes, toying at the edges of Kabuto’s passage, As Sasori bends to bite the curve of his hip, sharp and hot like a brand. He knows without knowing that the artist has marked him, and Kabuto gasps, placing a fist beneath his lips to muffle any noises which might come unbidden.

He fails, of course, when Sasori laughs against his skin, finding his prostate with near expert precision.

The pressure inside him shifts wider, deeper as digits spread and curl, scraping against nerves suddenly sensitized beyond compare. Kabuto’s sight wavers as if plunged underwater, his cock hard and already dripping, too much, too soon. Sasori’s methodical exploration only continues, with another finger wedging in place beside the others.

“You’re so needy that I’m almost thinking you could take my whole hand. You would if I wanted you too, wouldn’t you, greedy boy?” Sasori’s fingers drag and exploit every new bit of knowledge he’s gained until Kabuto is unable to stem the pleading noises that are not quite muffled by his fist.

“Use your words.”

“I--I can but it’s-it’s-too-much!” He blurts, his voice arching higher on the last few words. Kabuto’s face burns and his head swims, and he squeezes his eyes shut, fighting the urge to shove back anyway and chase the high that is just outside of his capability.

Sasori gives a chuffing little laugh, teasing his pinky finger just along the rim of him until Kabuto whines, and with a twist of his hand, all four enter to press and tease.

“Oh, good boy… you’re going to come just like this, only accepting what I give you for as long as it takes…”

It doesn’t take long at all for his voice to break the silence, for sticky heat to spatter his belly and the floor beneath him. For oblivion to cloud his mind and numb his awareness.

But it’s only the first part of their night.

Later, after Kabuto has been wrung out in every way he might have imagined, he is treated to a massage and a short rest wrapped in a warm blanket. His pretty new play partner fetches his things and offers him a drink. White tea, hot and perfect.

“So tell me, did we explore everything you wanted to?” Sasori appraises him from head to toe, searching for unease. The artist is more attentive than Kabuto had imagined, leaving no detail unexamined. It’s no wonder that he has connections with individuals that Kabuto respects among their circles.

“Ahh… yes, thank you for following the plan.”

"Any Dominant worth their salt would do no less. Your illustrious mentor failed you if he didn't set that expectation." Sasori sniffs, still maintaining physical contact.

Kabuto hazards a wry smile. "He did. I'd have stopped everything in its tracks if you'd been lacking. But as it stands I'd like to see you again."

Sasori gives a curt nod, but the softening of his mouth gives away his satisfaction. "So long as you never leave me waiting, we’ll have much to explore."

Perhaps it's a good thing that Kabuto's punctuality is a personal guarantee.

[passable-talent]

Is this even necessary? Yes please part 6!!!

and so we return, one whole month later

| part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 |

After Azula’s attack, and the forced flee from the Western Air Temple, you spent a few days being pissed at Zuko. Like, really pissed. You didn’t speak to him at all. This was something that concerned and confused the prince, because it had seemed like the two of you were making real progress only a few nights before.

What had happened?

He didn’t try to fix it before he left with Katara. Partially, he thought, to give you space, and because he assumed that your issue would be easier to fix than Katara’s. So for a day or so you simmered, just like you had back at the Western Air Temple, rage as always masking your hurt.

When he returned, and things with Katara settled down, he found you perched among the jagged stones that lined the pathway up to his family’s old vacation home. You were still hidden here, but felt even excluded from the team, which let you think, and sulk.

“Y/N,” he said, announcing his presence as he climbed up the rock. You had your back to him, and your shoulders tensed up. You didn’t face him.

“What do you want,” you asked, giving him a shoulder so cold he’d lose his firebending.

“I want to know why you’re angry with me,” he said, and you looked up at the sky, frustrated, as though he should clearly know without you needing to tell him.

“That so?” You spat, and as you weren’t wearing shoes, you sensed as he walked closer to you, arms at his sides. It seemed he was attempting to be non-threatening.

“Yes. I realized I’ve done a lot of explaining, and not much listening. Whatever is keeping you so angry at me, I’ll listen.” You fixed your gaze to the stone in front of you, glaring, before you shut your eyes tightly. Your fists tightened up, and you brought your arms to your chest, and it was like your body was contracting to prepare for an explosion.

It was.

“You want to know why I’m angry with you?” You shouted, turning around while throwing your hands down to your sides, “it’s because you’re so stupid!” Your gaze avoided his, but not purposefully, instead because your anger manifested in rapid movements while you spoke. “You get ambushed by your psychopathic sister, who has been known to manipulate you, and you- you go after her anyway?” You held up your hand, four fingers shown to him, just in case he’d forgotten how to count.

“She had four airships. And you had nothing. No backup. You didn’t let Aang or I follow you, and you charge off into battle.” You leaned forward, a snarl on your lips.

“I watched you fall. I thought you died!” With the final exclamation of your anger, you stepped forward and shoved him backwards, but with a twist of your planted front foot you moved out of the way some of the jagged rocks he might’ve stumbled or fallen onto. Anger finally released, your expression turned to one of pain, of fear, of sadness.

“You told me you’d make it up to me. You can’t do that if you’re dead.” You turned to the side, now avoiding his gaze as he collected himself from the ground, and felt tears begin to fall.

“For so long I mourned Lee, right? Thought that the guy I loved was gone, because who you are isn’t who he was. And I finally figure out that that’s not true, that you are almost as good as I thought you were, and then I think you’ve died...” you trailed off, wiping the wetness of your face with a roll of your shoulder.

“I’ve already mourned Lee, I cant mourn Zuko, too, okay? I don’t want you to die, especially not by something stupid, like charging into a battle you couldn’t win.” You turned your eyes back to him, and found him staring at you, an expression you’d never quite seen on his face. It wasn’t a clear expression that you could pin, other than that he looked so... young. Surprised, almost.

“What?” You asked, voice still a bit jumpy from being choked up.

“You said you loved me.” It took a mental backtrack through your words to realize that you had, indeed.

“Zuko...” you breathed, and you turned toward the horizon, where the sun had long ago dunked into the ocean but still it reddened the sky. You brought your hands to the other’s bicep, as though it could help you protect your heart, and you forced some of your own hesitation away as you breathed out.

“Zuko, I loved you,” you admitted, finally, and that rush of it almost made tears re-emerge. “I did. You were sweet and funny and we got on so well.” You heard him step toward you, and you looked away from where he was near to being. “But the reality I thought I was living in... the floor fell out from under me. The Dai Li were secretive, and they weren’t what I thought they were. Iroh wasn’t just a kind old man, but was a fire nation general. The new leader of the Dai Li wasn’t a brilliant young soldier, but was a fire nation princess. A manipulative and snakish warrior who wanted to topple the earth kingdom. There was a war going on I’d never even heard of!” After the volume of your statement drained away, you hung your head, closing your eyes before your gaze could find the ground.

“And I wouldn’t have minded finding out you were the prince of the fire nation. Some part of me says I should’ve figured it out myself. What hurt me was that... you had so much more anger than I thought you did. Sure, you could be moody, but when we found you in those catacombs, the way you looked at Aang...” You let out a breath, and opened your eyes to look out over the ocean.

“I didn’t know you could be so... malicious. It was something I’d never seen from you before.” You turned your gaze to him, and let your mind wander to the moment when you stood between him and Katara, when Aang was dying. You remembered that predatory look in his eye.

“Did you even see me, that day? Or could you only think about getting to Aang?”

He didn’t answer, and you spared him from needing to. You didn’t think you wanted to know his answer.

“I think that I’ve blamed you for everything that went wrong that day. Aang’s death, your betrayal, the Dai Li’s betrayal. And I guess that isn’t fair. But I can’t seem to let it go.” You felt tears well up again, and Zuko slowly slipped his hand into yours.

“I want to forgive you,” you said, squeezing your palm around his fingers, “I want to let go of all this anger, and grief, a-and confusion, but I look at you and I... I see this boy who made the wrong choice. And that’s so frustrating, because you’ve made the right choice, again and again, you’ve defended us and helped us and fought alongside us. It’s not fair of me to focus on your mistakes when you’ve been making up for them.” You took a deep breath, and with its shaky exhale, let go of some of the sadness still clawing at you.

“I just want to let it go, so I can love you again.” There was an instant’s pause, when the prince took in your words, an instant’s pause in which the waves crashed on the shoreline and a bird cawed overhead. An instant’s pause, and then Zuko tugged you by the hand into his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around you. You hugged him back, tightly, almost squishing his torso into yours while a final few trembling breaths fought their way out of your lungs.

“I’m sorry,” he said to your shoulder, and you could hear emotion in his voice. “You deserve so much better than me. I’m so sorry. I- Y/N, I loved you then, too. If it weren’t for you, I might not have had the courage to leave the fire nation. You helped me change, and you didn’t even know it. Please, please don’t be mad at yourself.”

“I’m glad I met you,” you whispered, when a few moments had gone by.

“Me too,” he said back, laying his face down and into the crook of your neck.

You could’ve stood there and hugged him forever. You could’ve stayed in his arms, where you knew it was safe to be conflicted. He understood, and didn’t ask you to change, or make a decision. Maybe Zuko was better than Lee after all- he was flawed, but he chose to overcome those flaws and be a better person in spite of them.

It made him stronger. And, you thought, it would make you stronger.

Your heart had been broken. You’d been lied to, and cast aside. But you found it in yourself to forgive him, and to be honest with him, and to keep him close to you.

“Zuko?”

“Hmm?” You pulled from his chest, your eyes dry of their tears but heart still raw and open. You were ready to forgive him, and to move forward.

But there was one more thing.

“I need you to tell me what happened to Iroh.”

request for pt 7

edit: pt 7 requested!!

edit: | part 7 | part 8 |

-🦌 Roe

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