#angst and eminence | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sugudoe · 11 months ago

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᭡ ★ ׁ ׅ SUCH A TEASER! ⠀ׂ⠀⠀⠀ .⠀⠀─┈

. ֺ﹢ synopsis: ex-husband!nanami that filled for divorce under the idea he could die at any moment, and didn’t wanted you to suffer. four months later, after his injuries from shibuya, he is forced to retire, now the only thing he wants is having you back. before anything, you decide to get your little revenge on him.

. ֺ﹢ content: SMUT ╱ angst! and crack! ╱nanami is a bit of an asshole ╱ stimulation ╱ oral (fem!receiving) ╱ too much swearing ╱ no protection ╱ teasing ╱ face sitting ╱ mating press ╱ handcuff (male) ╱ good ending ╱ after shibuya ╱ burned!nanami ╱ english is not my first language.

. ֺ﹢ a. note: @emilyywhyy. another nanami smut, i’m feeling degenerate and happy. this one made me giggle and curl my toes, i want to be his little wife so bad! divider.

. ֺ﹢ wc: 6.k oopsie.

The brown pointy shoes of Nanami kept knocking on the wood floor repeatedly, mimicking the rhythm of his expensive watch — a gift you gave him on your first year together. It was supposed to be placed in the box of things to return to you, but Kento could only ever start to fill said box if his heart was put in there as well.

Nanami knew he was a fucked up man for many reasons. Firstly, he had given himself the nickname “Time-Bomb”, as in meant to explode — die — and have his remains hitting everyone in proximity. And secondly, despite all of that and his need to avoid hurting others with his eminent death, he still fell for you and build this relationship, the one he also broke up four months ago.

The blonde was also fucked in the head, anyone would tell him. Divorces are the aftermath of lack of love and trust, or uncountable fights, and yet, none of that applied to his two years long marriage to you. It was all perfect, balanced, the respect and affection you had for each-other was out of this world.

Nevertheless, his fears spoke loud, and made him act on autopilot.

You noticed how different he started to act when a boy, who you would encounter multiple times, had eaten a finger. You weren’t a sorcerer, had absolutely no idea what any of this meant, but the weight of the situation was noticed on your husband’s shoulders and yours, as well. The hours started to count down, and when it hit zero, life turned around.

Kento presented the divorce papers to you with a letter, wet eyes and as many “I’m sorry” the man could say before he turned around and left your shared home.

For someone who always presented themselves as smart and calculated, Nanami acted on impulse, and the gods seem to be punishing him even further now — inside this cubicle of an office, toasted coffee being gulped by his dry throat, he keeps burning himself after every sip, on purpose.

“Can you repeat that, again, please?” Kento puts the now empty mug on the wooden table, his green glasses are resting against the ceramic plate and he grabs it, staring at it to avoid looking at the male in front of him.

“Nanami.” Yaga sighed, hands scratching his beard. “You are no longer needed in this fucked up world. Look at your burns, you sacrificed enough! Now go home to your wife and retire in that country you always talk about — Thailand, isn’t it?”

“Malaysia.” The blonde corrects, before adjusting the sunglasses on his face.

“What’s the problem?” Yaga asks, although he doesn’t seem really into whatever it’s going on. “Problems in paradise?”

“Something like that.” Kento shifts on the chair, opening more of his legs, and letting his arms rest on it. “I fucked up with her. I thought something would happen, so I gave her the divorce papers and moved back to that old apartment.”

“You always fuck up when you think too much.” The older man sighs, piercing gaze hurting Nanami. “Let me guess, boy, you thought that death was coming and decided to spare her the pain?” At Kento’s nod, Yaga laughed with disdain. “She would still be in pain with your loss even if she hated you, but I doubt she does. Have she signed it?”

“No, we haven’t.” Nanami gets up from the leather seat and walked towards the only window in the room, lighting trespassing and reaching his wet face. “At any moment I fear the papers will come with her handwrite in it.”

“How long has it been?”

“Four months, it feels like years, though.” Kento looks over his shoulder.

“I bet it fucking does.” Yaga comes closer, strong hands dipping Nanami’s shoulder. “If she didn’t sign it yet, maybe there is a chance. Unfortunately, you will have to crawl on dirt and kiss the floor she walks to get her back.”

It’s a thought Kento avoided to have, he felt selfish to put you away and try to come back into your life, after all the pain. Like breaking a vase and messily fixing it with hot glue, he could burn the two of you again. Although, if Yaga was right, if there was a possibility you might be waiting for him, he should grab it. Right? It felt like all the types of right and wrong.

“I have to go.” Nanami walks towards the door, waving a quick goodbye.

“If you fuck up again, Kento, she’ll burn you herself.”

Nanami’s first stop was to a flower shop, and with the help of an old lady, he made the bouquet with clear intentions — violets for faithfulness, myrtle for marriage and red roses for love. A letter would accompany it, explaining the meaning with his own words.

❛❛ My darling,

if you find it in your interests to listen to this fool man, i will use your time with caution and care to explain of my wrongdoings with us and our marriage. it was never a question of lack of love, for even separated, it has always been growing for you and you only. our union is still sacred in my heart, and will always be. please, darling, reach to me if you so wish to know of the truth and let me beg for forgiveness. i’ll do anything.

with love, your Kento. ❜❜

And after the paying and a gentle tip, Nanami left the flower shop with a less heavy breathing, but an even more heavier heart.

Reaching his old apartment, one he had bought with his first salary as a sorcerer, he instantly missed the warm you had always brought whenever he stepped through the door and was engulfed in a hug, or had a spoon is his mouth with the dinner you were preparing. The cold lights of the living room and his small sofa would have to do for now, the sun was setting down and you were nowhere near the windows telling him how pretty orange and pink mix in the sunset, and Nanami would say they blend better reflected in your face.

Kento missed it so much. Your doll eyes shining bright staring up at him, the moonstruck smile in your wet lips, begging for him to kiss you. Fuck, your lips! Always the perfect match to his. Nanami also missed the feeling of them wrapped around his cock, how deep you could go and the thickness did not scared you. A single minute of this image in his head, and soon his scarred hand would be touching himself over his pants.

Like many nights before, he did the stupid routine of bringing his dick out, trying to massage it up and down, pressing when feeling like it. Nanami closed his eyes, throwing his head back and moaning quietly your name. Easily, he was too close, but as divine punishment, he never came. The pleasure would go away as quickly as it approached, making him grow desperate.

Four months without your presence, your mouth and your pussy. He knew he wouldn’t be able to last long, and in a desperate thought he wished he had burned more, maybe for his precautions of life to had been right.

What was he doing? Thinking of death, when you’re still out there, yet to receive his flowers, yet to reach him. Nanami grumbled and sweared as he got up and went to take a cold shower.

On the other side of the town, you had come home from work with an expensive looking bouquet in your arms. It smelled divine and putrid at the same time — of course, this came from your psychological warfare after reading the letter.

How could he do this? And how could he do this only now?

You wanted to cry and throw the flowers on your fireplace, and at the same time you had the urge to keep all the petals alive for in a way, a part of him would always be near you. The divorce papers greeted you like a sad lover every time you came home, it had not yet been removed from the place Kento placed it.

It was empty of your name as much as it was of his. Let me be a fool, you told it silently, and believe he still wants me.

You had only an imagination about the reason for your fairytale life to be brought down with reality. Not allowing yourself to drown in a pity party of believing he had cheated or fell out of love, but gods does it not make it a bit better? To think he left because he should, and not because he felt like he would die. You wanted Nanami alive and well with the same intensity you wanted him by your side.

Unfortunately, you have never been selfish, had you tried and clawed his torso, maybe he would have stayed. Instead, you allowed your husband to leave and drank two bottles of wine with vanilla ice cream.

You felt pathetic while opening a new bottle, and allowing your tears to smear your makeup while eyeing the flowers. Nanami had always been so thoughtful, anything he grants you was drowned in love. Still, he left you. Still, you miss him so much you could have him back right now, pretending these months never happened. With a drowsy hiccup and wobbling legs, you grab your phone and call him.

And he doesn’t pick up.

You sober up instantly, throwing the phone on the couch and raising your hands to your lips. Now you know you’re pathetic, and your drunk self needs a shower.

When you return to your living room with puffy eyes and a red silk pajama, you try to trick yourself into not staring at your phone. It takes you three more sips of the same wine you opened earlier, for your patience to run thin and unlock the cellphone.

There is a message.

Y/n, not love or darling. Maybe Kento is holding himself back, maybe he does not view you as that anymore. Maybe he is still stuck in this routine of fucking up everything, and although your face has a scowl in it, you answer cordially.

You slap your face hoping to sober up, but it does nothing but sting your cheeks. You moan in pain before letting the phone slip out of your grasp and walk to your room, leaving everything behind to try to sleep. You won’t take water, much less any medicine, you want to punish yourself for this desperation that comes whenever his name is mentioned.

It’s like loosing sight of what you should do and what you want to do. You should move on and find someone that won’t push you away, but you need your husband’s arms to cradle you to sleep. And, also, his secret weapon to deal with any insomnia and terrible thoughts — the dick. The perfect one, filling you up instantly, has you reciting your wedding vows in your head every time he makes you see stars. Your hands can’t do the same, not even the bright green toy your friend has presented you after dealing with a little crises of yours.

Nonetheless, you still reach down to your panties and try to play with your clit like your (ex) husband used to do. You never were capable of copying him, your pussy misses his long thick fingers and his cold tongue movements. You feel like crying all over again.

Is with your hand inside yourself that you fall sleep, much like Nanami in his own place. Both sad and with this pent up energy that could light Japan by itself.

The next morning, you wake up with enough pain to believe your head had grow two times it’s own size, and with fogged memories of last night, you halt your movements while smelling the flowers. In the limbo of dreams and reality, you had forgotten these flowers aren’t the usual ones your partner would greet you with, and instead are the desperation of Nanami to fix his mess.

You want to burn it again, but you decide against it and grabs your phone on the floor, eyes avoiding the texts of last night, you wonder if 9am is a good hour to call your ex husband and asks him about the impedimental fall of your marriage. Sighing desperate, you call him.

“Hello.” Nanami’s voice is still the same hoarse and low tone that has you closing your legs on your white couch.

“Hi, Kento.” You try to put strength in your voice, but it barely could be called a whisper. You cough awkward. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“Nothing to worry about, Y/n.” No, don’t call me that, you thought. “Are you better now? Feeling any pain or discomfort?”

“I am…” you admit. “…but it’s not from the hangover.”

There is silence on the other line.

“I’m sorry, Y/n.” Besides sincerity, there is a fragility in Nanami’s voice, and at that you almost cry. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“You mean the flowers or the divorce?” Your voice is starting to rise.

“Both, I don’t know.” Is easy to picture Nanami in his suit, head hanging low and hands over his eyes. “I fucked up.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Is the— Is there any way for me to fix this?” Desperation is added to the equation of emotions Nanami is revealing.

“I don’t know, Kento. I don’t want to be hurt again.”

“I won’t, I promise. I can guarantee to you, just let me explain.” You both are kept silent, only both breathings is heard. “Let me take you out today, a secluded restaurant where we can talk properly. If you think I don’t deserve you after that, I’ll respect your wishes, I’ll keep myself away. Please, just don’t let us regret losing this chance.”

Your hold on the cellphone grow tighter as you thought of Nanami’s words. The moment you snickered quietly you knew you deserved the truth of it all, even if partly you had an idea, hearing from the male was in your right. Having him trembling in your presence, begging for forgiveness, being pathetic was awakening new feelings in you.

“Pick me up at seven. And wear your cheetah tie.” Before Nanami can say anything, you hung up satisfied.

As always, Kento follow your orders, and when you open the door to your apartment later that day, he presents himself with the tie you required and another bouquet decorating his hands, the ring on his finger drying your throat right away. Nanami has a nervous smile when he lowers the flowers, showing you the scars you have only heard about from Shoko. Half of his face and body is covered with the pinkish tissue, and yet, he keeps being the most beautiful man in the world. You don’t tell him that, not so soon.

Grabbing the flowers, you turn around in place, showcasing your open back dress and a red pantie.

“Can you zip this up?” You ask, hearing Nanami’s groan before feeling his hot hands on your hips, he moves them slowly towards your ass before zipping the silk up to your waist. “All good there?”

“Yes.” Nanami answers with a tender grip again on your hips.

“Then why won’t you remove your hand?” You stare at him over your shoulder, red lips shinning with your saliva when you wet them, all under his hawk like gaze.

Before Nanami answers, you walk swaying your waist and clicking your expensive shoes on the wooden floor, putting the flowers on the vase and avoiding eyeing your ex husband and his completely hot self.

“I made the reservations for the Palpatine, you still enjoy their food, right?” He asks from somewhere behind you.

“We’ve been separated for four months, Kento, I didn’t change that much.” There is humor in your voice, for the same quantity that there is acid. You finish adding water to the vase and put it besides the other flowers the man has got you.

“It feels like years.” He comes by your side, smelling the sweet floral air impregnating your apartment. His eyes keep shifting between you and the colorful bouquets, until they fall on the unsigned divorce papers you forgot to hide.

“I bet it does.” You want to bite his head off when his long fingers (that you miss) moves closer to the paper, as if inspecting if it’s real. “Don’t worry, if you need, I’ll sign them when you drop me off later.”

“I thought I made clear I want for us to fix this.” Kento has a concerned look on his face.

“For how long? Until another big, dangerous mission? And the wheels will spin again, and you will tell me how cruel you are for staying with me?” Your don’t punch him, but you feel like you are close to, when your pointy finger starts hammering on his chest. “Kento, please, I can’t deal with the pain of having you just to lose again, it’s too much.”

“I promise you this will never happen again.” He says, his large hands holding yours to his chest, the rapid beating of his heart under your palms. “There will be no more pain, no more leaving.”

“I don’t want promises, I need actions. I need prove.” You roll your eyes and move away, wondering if all of this was a stupid idea. He follows you, and you believe it is.

“I’m not a sorcerer anymore.” Your back is to his chest, so you can sense his unhinged breathing that matches yours. Slowly, you turn to his scarred and beautiful face. “I’m retired now. After Shibuya, the higher ups agreed that my work as a sorcerer is over, that I needed rest.” Slowly, his hands moved towards your face, you flinched at first before allowing him to cup your cheeks. “If I had waited, right now we wouldn’t be fighting or nearly divorced, we would be somewhere calm and happier.”

“If- - If we are to make this work again, we-I, need boundaries!” He nods right away. “No more jumping to conclusions without consulting the other, no more conversations about death and pain. If we are together we will live happily, Nanami.”

You don’t allow him to say nothing more, arms going straight to his shoulders, you raise your feet of the ground and connect your starving lips together, melting in that fusion of longings and desperate love. You have missed him so much, but your body could never forget how it feels to be kissed devotedly by Nanami Kento, to have his grip on your waist trying to bring you impossibly closer or to hear his groans when you pull his blond hair. Four months, four years or decades, nothing could erase the love and connection you both had for the other.

But still, Nanami needs to learn his lesson.

You move backwards, mischief in your eyes and puff lips, Nanami feels his pants getting tighter with the look on your face. He knows what is to come, but he is not scared. You press both palms on his chest, making the male walks backwards until you both reach your room, there he ends up falling on the bed. He tries to pull you with him, but you shake your head in a negative motion.

“C’mon, please, darling. I need you.” He begs and you almost fumble at the sight of his large thighs spread for you, a messy hair and red lipstick smeared on his face. Your manicured nails scraping gently his cheeks, before tracing down to his neck, where you scratch, and still you go down.

“So good, you listened to me, baby.” You praise him when you touch the tie you ordered him to use, the print matching with your dress — Nanami thought you wanted the two of you to be paired, now, when you loose the tissue and prompts him to move back on the bed, he knows he fucked up when you follow him, crawling seductively and still, you are nowhere near his skin.

Holding it like a leash, you laugh sweetly with the desperate and piteous eyes of your husband. Nanami is torn between grabbing you to his laps or letting you command any movements of the night. It’s so hard to focus on not taking control, when you hair fails messily on your back, when you move closer to remove the tie and he smells your perfume, leaving a kiss on your neck that has you giggling or… Fuck, or when you bind him to your headboard. Nostalgia hits you both, but usually you were the one tied-up.

“You will behave, right, Kento?” Moving your dress up, you sit on his lap, perfectly on his growing bulge, earning a moan from him.

“Don’t call me that.” He implored, his jerking up enough to get a reaction out of you.

“What should I call you then…? Nanami!” You laugh among another moan elicited by him.

“You know that’s not my name for you, Y/n.” Your laughs cease, and his starts with the view of your irritated face. “Sorry, my darling.”

“That’s better…” The straps of your dress fall elegantly on your shoulder when you use his to come closer, whispering in his ear. “… my love.”

You kiss his cheeks, chuckling at his despair of not kissing your lips.

Raising on your knees, you remove your dress slowly, showcasing more of the red see through pantie he saw earlier, and no bra, the dress didn’t ask for one, he had know the moment the open back was show to him. Nanami had seen you naked a hundred and more times, but you have never failed to make him tremble at the sight of your beautiful body. The bed squeaked when on instinct, Nanami’s hands tried to reach your boobs. You knew he wouldn’t be restrained for too long, but he still owned you something.

“What are you planning on doing?” He demanded to know, eyes closed when you reached your hand down, touching his clothed cock, massaging it, opening his pants. However, you just pushed it down, but his underwear wasn’t phased by you. He hanged his head to the side, curious and already hating it. “Please, darling. Don’t do this.”

“Oh, why not, love?” Seductively, your words painted your tongue and lips with the fake innocence, while your hips started to move very slowing on top of his togged member, pulsating enough for you to feel even with two materials barring it from getting inside you.

“It feels like we are two dumb teenagers, y’know that.” Nanami groans when your pacing starts to get a little more faster.

Missing his heat and this feeling to an excessive extreme, you barely acknowledge whatever he had said. Your moans were getting louder, and the bed was shaking more, wether it was your doing or his irritated hands, you didn’t care. At this moment, the man under you was serving merely the purpose of getting you off, after four months of no cuming, you deserved it. Of course, you would rather be getting thrusted without mercy, his cock splitting your walls, still, he needed his punishment.

“Don’t cum, Y/n.” Nanami commands sternly, but you are too far gone to give a fuck. He hates when you waste your release on anywhere that is not his mouth, dick or fingers.

You keep moving, ignoring his pleas and demands, as if he was merely just a toy to satisfy you — he is, he knew that, wore that distinction like a badge of honor. But, right now, months after the breakup and longings of your pussy, he could not miss your first cum being on his underwear instead of on himself. You closed your eyes and whimpered in that way he knew you were either seconds or two minutes away.

“Fuck it.” You screeched when somehow the pleasure went away, and now two large hands had halted your movements. Leaving your daze, you realized Nanami had break free from his torment and tie, making you pout. “Don’t look at me like that, you’re not cuming on dry humping me, at least sit on my fucking face.”

No complains from you, he smiles at you silence before laying down, hands still on your hips. You move up, trying to get the wet panties off, after a few seconds of trying, Nanami simply tears it off to shreds. You want to complain and smack his smirk away, but fuck it, you’re too worked up to care. Rolling your eyes, you positioned yourself on his face, slowing descending into him, Nanami, though, doesn’t want carefulness, he pushes you down harshly and it’s already working his way to your release with his most cruel and perfect tongue movements.

Your grip on the iron headboard it’s nearly bending it, and your pleas and begs for more and more are getting drowned by moan after moan he takes from you. Nanami slaps your ass, a sign for you to start humping his face as well. His nose keeps touching your clit, and you can’t help but want to cry when he starts to gently bite it as well, moving his tongue inside, separating your folders.

“I- - I can’t, I can’t! Fuck.” Babbling nonsense, you feel the build up all over again, moving one of your hands to his hair you squeeze it enough to hear his moans of pleasure through you. “Baby, I’m… I’m…close!”

You hear something muffed, could only assume is Nanami encouraging you to let it all out. And when the knot on your lower body begs to be released, you let it go with a loud moan, tears falling and hips still moving, four months of neediness going all the way down to your husbands face and mouth, and he keeps devouring your still.

After what felt like hours, you move up with weak knees, Nanami mumbles something in an equally dazzled stated, you fall on the side on your back, laughing when he hoovers over you in an instant, pecking your lips a few times before going for your neck, where he is sure to leave those love bites and marks he adores so much. When he reaches your boobs you know he is going to be occupied for a while, sucking one onto his mouth while the other is being mercilessly pinched by his fingers, you cry out of desperation for more and more, and he keeps granting you. Always will.

He bites and sucks alternating between them, and you sense when one of his hands go all the way down to your pussy, two fingers separating your folds and penetrating it. Nanami eyes go up to stare at you eyes, drowning himself in more pleasure over your nearly passed out expressions — open mouth, bright eyes, moans of his name slipping from your lips, he is losing control with you.

“I need you, please Nana… Baby, please.” You keep begging like a prayer, hoping he can grant you what you missed the most.

He sucks stronger one of your tits before retreating himself with a loud pop sound. His fingers, though, keep moving in a steady rhythm, shaking your legs and pulling the knots from your inside. You fear you might faint if you don’t cum again.

“One more, my love. You can do that for me, right?” With the way he whispers near your ear, biting gently you lob, you could do anything he asks in this moment. You nod frantically and he coos at you with a sweet laugh. “I know you can, go on, baby. Cum for me.”

You follow his lead right away, letting yourself set lose and relax, drenching his thick fingers deep inside you while he groans at the feeling of your walls around him, knowing for a fact that it will all feel better when it gets replaced by his cock. Nanami knows that overstimulating you is a prize to win, but right now, you both need each-other in a more primal way. If you ask, demand, he will fall down on his knees and glue his face to your pussy until no one can get him out, he can leave his own needs for a century later, but right now you both are desperate for the raw feeling only him inside you can provide.

He moves away while you come back from the high, and remove all his clothing, before coming back on top of you. Kiss on your necks making you giggle in anticipation, soft sighs scrapping both of your throats before a kiss is started and deepened quickly, his tongue always so controlling of yours — you are too far gone in the need to be fucked to try and keep control of anything anymore, he knows it, he will take good care of you for that.

“My beautiful, beautiful wife.” Nanami praises you, one hand rests on your leg, he adjusts it to his waist before holding his own member and sliding inside you. “Fuck, it’s so fucking tight.” You moan with just the feeling of him going deeper, and when he stops, balls deep, you whine sad. “Shh, it’s okay baby- - I’m just feeling you.”

“Feel me while moving…” You blurted while moving your hips, hoping to catch some reaction out of it. Only a harsh slap on your thigh was the answer. “…please…?” He chuckles.

And then, he moves. Slow at first, as a way to say he is doing what you please but it’s still his call, his command. You don’t complain even if the words and sassiness are scratching your throat, they are being buried by your long moans and whimpers. Instead, to focus on anything else and let your husband grant you what you need without anymore punishments for the two of you (him for being a dick, you for being too eager), you wrap your other leg on his waist, making him go even deeper and the both of you groan simultaneously.

It’s so good you now it won’t last long. The first feeling of being buried by his thick cock is much better than you remembered, and it’s been four months, you won’t judge each-other. Nanami, though, thinks different. It’s his first time fucking you after a long time, he is going to make all of this worth it. If he had any say in this, he could be inside you for days.

A yelp scapes you when his thrusts stop being gentle and turn into a maniac rhythm, dazzled by your scent and the feeling of you wrapping around his dick, Nanami is surely losing control, you think, and while mumbling on his ears about how good he feels and how much you love him, he goes back to the slow pace. You groan and he laughs.

“You’re evil.” You whisper with a hiccup, fat tears forming on the side of your eyes. Nanami was focused at staring down, seeing himself going in and out of you, but your broken voice made his head snap up, his burned hands holding your face and cleaning the tears of frustration, he kisses them as well.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” You nod at him. “That’s what I want, baby. To keep it good for as long as we can.” And so, the fast pacing comes again.

You feel desperate and hot, your skin is burning with the desire to release yourself all over again, to crumble under Kento, and let yourself be taken care by him. He holds you like you’re a delicate paper, and still he fucks you like you are unbreakable. Maybe you are, when he moves both your legs to rest on his shoulders and starts the mating press position, you know you are stronger than you look, otherwise, you would have fainted with how terribly good it fucking felt to be even more deeper and filled.

Nanami did not stop for even one second, he didn’t need to catch his breath or stretch his legs, he only needed you. To be inside of you deep enough to never be apart, to print his size on your body so only he could bring you that pleasure. Of course, none of that matters to you — too busy moaning so loud and scratching his back to the point of bleeding. Everything felt too much, and too good.

“M-m…more…” It’s the only thing you can say on this position, Nanami smirks at your requests and complies to it, even more faster and brutal, your legs are shaking by his shoulders, he push them down to your chest and uses the back of your thighs to keep himself balanced. His eyes can only focus on your wet entrance receiving all of it, no complains. “S-so good, baby!”

You feel the same knots from earlier starting to untie, from your abdomen, your hands instantly goes to Nanami’s thigh, trying to stop his movements but he won’t budge and you’re glad for it.

“Gonna cum, baby?” He asks, and you nod with closed eyes and open mouth. “You keep wrapping me like this, I can’t handle more.”

“Please, cum inside me.” Nanami groans at your request, and like fuel to fire, he doesn’t stop thrusting. You know you made the right choice, he is going to fill you whole.

The burning of yours and his skin makes you wonder if you’re seeing smoke coming out of your bodies. It’s all too heavy and foggy, and the way his hands are gripping your thigh more and more, certainly marking it, you know what’s about to happen. Staring at him with pleading eyes, he nods at you, and you cum over his still moving cock, a shinny mess of your liquids mixing with his own, coming right after yours. Nanami removes your legs from his shoulders, letting them go to his waist again, he falls over you, kissing you starved while still shuffling inside you, making sure both of yours release are mixing deep in your womb.

After a few minutes of dizziness and high, Nanami presses kisses to your neck, prompting you to snuggle him impossibly closer to your body.

“I love you,” he says. “and I’ll never make any stupid decision again. You are mine and I’m yours.”

“Good thing we didn’t sign those papers.” You weakly state, already feeling the need to sleep. “I love you.”

“I’m still going to rip it, burn it. Whatever it takes to get that thing out of existence.” Nanami grunts when he gets up, you pout at the lack of being filled and he snorts. “Just a second, love.”

The vision of his naked ass has you ready to jump on him again, but you control yourself when he grabs something in his pants’s pocket and walk towards the bed, sitting in front of you and placing a box on your hand. You know what it is instantly, that doesn’t stop you from crying when you open it to be presented with the sight of your wedding band, the one you had throw at the table the night he left. You had searched for it everywhere in the apartment, not knowing he had took them.

“Let’s get married again, what do you think?” You sob at his request, nodding your head right away, not trusting your voice. “How about we go to Malaysia? Beach wedding, only the two of us.”

“Forever…?” You wonder while he puts your ring on your finger, while you touch his, that he has never removed, kissing his hand after it.

“Yes, my darling, forever.”

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a-hermit-pining · 2 months ago

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LaDS React to a War General Reader

AN: Take a guess, I am reading Brandon Sanderson. I fucking love Dalinar and Kaladin. I would die for them. Alas I must write this. This is also why I have been writing so little.

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn reader

Ingredients: 100% pangst (pining x angst- my fav combo)

My Fav: Xavier because of course he would fall in love with someone older.

Xavier:

He is barely of age when he first sees you.

The war banners rise above the parade ground, crimson and silver, the kingdom’s crest stitched in gold thread , all symbols he has known since birth. But none of them matter.

Not when you're standing beside his mother, head held high, armor gleaming in the fading light. You are a warrior of her clan. A general. Her most trusted blade.

Your hair is braided back in soldier’s fashion, but a few strands have escaped, clinging to your cheek. You don't brush them away. Your hands rest calmly on the hilt of your sword. Not possessive. Just ready.

And then he sees it, the scar just below your right eye. Faint, half-faded, nearly lost among the curve of your smile.

Something fractures in him.

His chest tightens. His breath catches. The war drums beat in the courtyard, but he can only hear the thunder in his own blood.

Anxiety. Awe. Something darker. Something deeper. A sense of longing he doesn’t know how to name yet. He shouldn’t feel this. Not for someone like you.

But he does.

He watches you from afar for months. In training yards. In strategy halls. Once, in the rain, when you carried a wounded squire and scolded him with a laugh in your voice.

Each time, he falls harder. Softer.

He prays for battles just so he can see you ride out. He studies maps not for war, but for the chance to be stationed at your side.

Because you are the sword of the kingdom.

And he, he is just a boy in love with a flame that does not burn for him.

Yet

Rafayel:

The court sings of you. You, the general with sun-threaded hair and dimples that damned worlds.

Rafayel watches from the edge of the throne room, wine untouched in his glass, jaw set tight. He watches another group of nobles stumble over themselves just to get near you, and of course, you smile. Of course, you lift a fainting young lord into your arms and laugh like it’s all a game.

And the court laughs with you. Because you are beautiful, and beloved, and so damnably kind.

He mutters under his breath, "For a warrior, you smile too damn much."

But he watches. Always.

He watches the way your blade moves fast, clean, elegant. He watches the way you speak to soldiers by name. The way you remember their children, their injuries, their fears.

He watches you stand beside the Lemurian crown and never bow too low. You are not theirs. You’re not anyone’s.

Not even his.

But gods, he wants you.

In the darkest part of the sea, where even the sirens do not sing, you are his sun. The only warmth he ever knew.

And it infuriates him , that the court gets to see you laugh, to bask in his sun.

He dreams of you. Of you loving only him.

And if that makes him selfish, so be it.

He’s already drowned for less.

Zayne:

You are not a soldier. You are not a general. You are something older. Something worse. Something eminent.

Zayne hears the earth shudder before the gate even opens. The stars above Astra dim as if to brace themselves. Then your laugh. Low, raspy, hungry, one that has been silenced for way too long.

He doesn't need to look to know it’s you. The one they warned him about. The one he was supposed to kill.

You do not walk. You arrive. Sword dragging, blood-slick, eyes sharp with some storm even the gods couldn’t name.

And still, he stands between you and Astra.

Not because he believes in the fate. Not because he believes in the god who owns his bones. But because he needs to see it. Needs to see if the stories are true. Needs to see if a god can truly be undone. To see if his wretched fate with you could ever be laid to rest.

You raise your weapon. You smile. You say nothing.

And Zayne, traitor, guardian, prophet, fool, finds himself shaking.

Because you are not fate. You are its end.

And he, broken thing that he is, loves you for it.

He does not beg you to stop. He looks forward to the end that brings him to you. Away from the world.

Sylus:

The general kneels in front of the wounded, sleeves rolled to the elbow, armor long discarded. Your hands are stained with the blood of soldiers no one will remember. Your voice is hoarse from barking orders and whispering comfort in the same breath.

He watches from behind the war tents. A dragon in name, in form, but not yet in freedom. Still bound. Still collared. Still owned.

He is no stranger to cruelty. He has seen the whip. Felt the fire brands burn across his scales. Heard his name used as a command, not a right.

But you, you speak differently.

You sit with the dying. Share your meals with the stable hands. Offer your water to those who carry the tents for the war camp.

For the first time since his capture, since the collar was tightened around his throat, he feels a human hand touch his snout without fear, without dominance just gentleness.

“Be free,” you whisper. The lock on his chain rusts, and then crumbles beneath your fingers. “Beyond the mountains,” you say, voice soft in the old tongue. “Where no one can name you but yourself. Where the skies are bright and the land men have yet to walk on.”

And then, just like that, you let him go.

You didn’t just free a beast. You gave him a name. And that name, Sylus, he has carried it through lifetimes, meant only for you to utter.

Caleb:

He watches the light bleed from your eyes. Not all at once, slowly, like a sun setting behind smoke. Like a lantern flickering through ash.

You’ve both fought too long. Too hard. You’ve won battles that should’ve broken you. Celebrated victories with laughter that always came just a second too late.

He’s your advisor. The arrow in your quiver. The plan beneath your fury.

But this time… this time, something has shattered.

The battlefield is still. The wind has no songs left to carry. Your helmet slips from your hands and rolls to a stop among the corpses.

And you...you fold.

Not dramatically. Not with rage. You just… bend. Under the weight of what you’ve done. Under the weight of what you are.

Caleb rushes to you. Drops to his knees before your crumpled form, hands trembling, reaching. “We fought for our people,” he breathes, brushing dirt from your cheek. “For our king. For our home. For—”

Your eyes don’t meet his. “It was for nothing,” you say.

Your armor is cold against his chest. Your tears are hot against his fingers. He tries again. “You protected so many. You gave them hope.”

But you shake your head, slow and dazed. “So much blood,” you whisper. “For nothing.”

And he knows then, this isn’t about the war. It’s about you. About what you lost to become the kind of weapon kingdoms needed.

He holds you tighter. Like maybe if he anchors you, you won’t slip away completely.

He is so cold. And so afraid. Because if you can fall, what else is worth saving?

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace headcannon #love and deepspace x reader #sylus x reader #xavier x reader #rafayel x reader #zayne x reader #zayne love and deepspace #caleb x reader #love and deepspace reaction #love and deepspace xavier #love and deepspace zayne #love and deepspace rafayel #gn reader #angst #pining #warrior reader

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trulyhblue · 1 year ago

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INAPPROPRIATE

leah williamson x arsenal! reader

warnings — tiny angst, annoyed! Leah, Emma Hayes, Chelsea, sorta fluff, coarse language, mention of injury scare.

A/N — in light of Lee’s birthday!!!! short one today, sorry! Thought I would add some spice to this. Emma Hayes needs to realize that pretty much all of woso have dated each other, including her own players lol. there is a mention of Bug, which is a character in one of my stories. Just for context, that is Caitlin Foord’s daughter.

___________________

After hearing Emma Hayes yap on about her opinion on footballers' relationships, you found yourself subjected to a pretty pissed-off Leah Williamson.

Today was the London derby, a long-awaited revenge for Chelsea, it seemed, as the Arsenal bus arrived outside the stadium. Seas of blue and red treaded the stands — you caught sight of a couple of jerseys with your number plastered on the back. Leah was holding your waist as you wandered through the mob of fans reaching for autographs and pictures, a cold facade planted across her face.

Leah was always solemn before games. She was a serious contender, North London bred, with a serious competitive nature that no one could break down.

When you moved to Arsenal from your childhood club, you instantly caught onto Leah’s prominent soberness. Every player knew that if they didn't show up for a game and give it their all, their position would falter. It wasn't like any player with a job as a professional ever thought to underperform, but Leah was an exemption from sincerity. You couldn't joke with her the same way you could during team bonding. You would be stupid to slack off during training or talk to an exaggerated extent when Leah was running beside you. The Lioness Captain copped none of it, and there was no exception for you, her girlfriend.

The woman had woken up with an eminent frown playing on her lips. This was arguably the most important game of the WSL season, and with Leah starting after a long time away, there was a newfound angst set in your shared apartment.

Not only that — the stress Leah had put on herself to perform exceptionally — but the media spotlight Chelsea’s Emma Hayes has put on herself after a certain interview regarding coach-player, and player-player relationships.

From your viewpoint, it didn't really affect you. Everyone had their own opinions based on who dated whom. There was no stopping someone for sharing what they thought, so you simply shook it off as soon as you watched the clip. You did feel bad for the select few of the Blue’s team that were dating players. To not have the personal backing of your coach wouldn't be the most relieving sensation. You knew that the fans were in upheaval regarding her comments, but to be honest, there was nothing anyone could do to stop her.

But, it seemed that Leah did not share the same insight as you.

“She can't just go ‘round saying that.” She barked, hiding the Emirates logo as she crossed her arms in disapproval. “It's barmy, that's what it is.”

You were side by side in the change rooms. Leah was already in her kit, the Chelsea socks sticking out like a sore thumb. You were tugging up your shorts, your shirt yet to cover your sports bra. You sighed, having been hearing Leah go on for the best part of the morning.

“You shouldn't let it worry you, Lee.” You muttered, sorting through your bag, ignoring your girlfriend’s huff. “I don't think she meant any harm—”

“Well she did, didn't she?” She retorted.

You pulled your jersey off the hanger, slipping it on. “Leah, c’mon.”

“Why does she feel the need to talk about us, huh? She should be more worried about the amount of injuries on her team, not about what they do in their free time.”

“Leah, that's enough.” You snapped, your hands planted firmly on your hips. The blonde in front of you looked subtly started by your sudden change of demeanour. “Don't worry about it. It's not worth your time.”

You were currently faced with the nerves of the game, on top of other things like international duties, and the Olympics. To have Leah in this mood, in such a critical time like this, was not only overwhelming but downright anxiety-inducing.

Leah didn't answer you. Instead, she tied her laces and crossed the room, exiting into the tunnel for kick-off. This gave you a few minutes to breathe, to centre yourself. You weren't starting, but your nerves were rising by the time you took your seat next to Alessia.

As soon as the game started, it was clear that Chelsea had it covered. Alessia joked that it was the socks, but you could see by the look on Lee’s face that she was fuming from something other than the odd black that covered her shin pads. You warmed up along the sideline, carrying Caitlin’s bug by your side when you saw her growing restless near Frida.

Unlike the rest of your teammates, you bit their nails at the painful game in front of them, you tried to hone your focus on keeping Bug’s hood down, making her giggle instead of wince at the tackles Caitlin was receiving.

You had been benched for the past few games, your hamstring giving you grief over training. But you were anticipating Jonas to call you over. You waited for the flick of his hand, wanting to make things right on the pitch.

The second-half whistle couldn't have come slower. The starting eleven were frustrated, angry, and quiet when entering the changing rooms, an eerie aura lingering inside. You held onto Bug all the way until Caitlin took over, trudging over to Viv, who happily took the girl up to the stands to watch. Jonas had told you and Emily that you’d be put on, so you were preparing yourself for what was to come.

You tried not to interact with Leah. It was an unspoken rule that unless it was personal, it was not to be said directly, especially when you were losing. But the blonde was leaning nearer to you the closer you were meant to be out on the pitch once more. She made the effort to tug at the hem of your shorts, and hold both your shoulders as she stood behind you, listening to the plan for the rest of the game. You pushed your back into her chest, letting her hug you from behind. She squeezed affectionately, and you noticed the subtle unravelling of her tense shoulders. Her features smoothed when she found out you were replacing Victoria in the midfield, and she made sure to hold your hand as you walked back into the stadium.

“You're doing great, Lee.” You managed to say, hoping that your substitution would be before the sixtieth minute. “Just be careful near the wing. It's very congested and you should wait for the midfield to sort it, alright?”

Leah cared deeply about her career and strived for greatness in all that she did. There was nothing that she couldn't achieve without perfection in her eyes. Many people said that you would bring her down to Earth, and remind her that mistakes are human. But there was only so much you could do, and you found that simply telling the girl that she was making the right decisions, treating her softly, was a tactic no game plan could ever beat.

You were about to find your way down the sidelines, getting ready to finish your warm-up before you were subbed on. Both teams had started filing out of their respected halftime seminars, Chelsea looking as confident as ever. Arsenal were sauntering out with much determination, the spite and inherent desire for justice spewing from the gunner’s crowd. Leah and you were near the entrance of the tunnel, standing on the edge of the field in what seemed like your own personal bubble.

Jonas had taken a seat near the rest of the officials, but Chelsea’s Emma Hayes was standing not far from where the two of you stood, skimming her surroundings vaguely without giving too much away. You could feel the irritation radiating off Leah as soon as the woman was in your sight. You both knew the coach was trying to look at you, without it being bitterly obvious, but it seemed to make the tension rise all the more. Your girlfriend found solace in kissing your forehead, running her hands down your sides painstakingly slow. You felt your cheeks go red, the blush filming over your face when Hayes’ eyes darted away.

“Leah.” You warned her wandering hands, squirming in the taller girl’s potent grip around your hips.

You pulled taunt against her, sighing when she loosened. She ignored your scolding look. A smirk was aligned on her lips, threatening to spill the cocky remarks relieving her lips. You watched her run over to the rest of the team, a meek smile matching hers.

God, you couldn't wait to go home.

_________________

A/N — again, sorry it's really short but I wanted to put something out xxxxxx

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fakeuwus · 2 years ago

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UNDERSTAND | park jongseong smau (ongoing)

now playing ☾⋆⁺₊🎧✩°｡ understand by keshi

"maybe we could try, if you let me"

PAIRING: idol!jay x idol!yn (femreader)

SYNOPSIS: coming fresh off your debut, you get invited to be a part of the revival for the beloved variety show 'We Got Married'. what happens when you find yourself falling for your "husband", as he's the perfect partner on and off screen?

FEATURING: enhypen, son jiwoo, moon chanelle, choi jihyun, bang jeemin, + other idols!

GENRE: smau, crack(ish?) (its just me trying my best to be funny but i have the humor of a 12 y/o boy), fluff, angst, idol au, fake dating?

WARNINGS: suggestive jokes, suggestive content(just making out and lots of TENSION!), couple stuffs, will specify in chapters if needed, ignore timestamps and dates!!!

MESSAGE FROM NIC: ahh my first smau!!! sent this prompt to @enmayz on anon and now im bringing it to life :3 IM SO EXCITEDD it's my first smau and im getting the hang of things, so pls be nice!! feedback is always appreciated as well :D

TAGLIST: OPEN (send a ask or comment to be on it!)

PROFILES: worst group ever | ENHA ENHA ENHA

CHAPTER 1: ill choke you in your sleep

CHAPTER 2: we live in a Society . 😕

CHAPTER 3: that's not very pride month of u

CHAPTER 4: u mean *OUR girlfriend

CHAPTER 5: jay pookie nation???

CHAPTER 6: mentally physically weak .

CHAPTER 7: im a sensitive little fella

CHAPTER 8: the eyes chico, they never lie 😔

CHAPTER 9: bros got attachment issues idk!

CHAPTER 10: JAYYN NATION RISE

CHAPTER 10.5: see you loverboy!

CHAPTER 11: copium 💀

CHAPTER 12: omg i love jungkook sunbaenim

CHAPTER 13: eunchae... 😡😡😡😡😡😡

CHAPTER 14: call that idgafism

CHAPTER 15: ch*emin happend

CHAPTER 16: floppy disk or balls

CHAPTER 17: the dots are connecting...

CHAPTER 18: he's MENstruating

CHAPTER 19: a lovers quarrel 😟

CHAPTER 20: —

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beebazooka · 6 months ago

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just happened to land on you, who else?

----- pt. 1/2

daisuke x gn reader fic 𓆩⟡𓆪 word count; 1.1k

content warning: later smut, non-established relationship, awkwardness, NEEDY 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴suke, angst(post crash doomed-ness)

You were Anya's intern— you didn't know what career to pick so you followed whatever your parents thought was best. The money balanced out the negatives; long and unpredictable hours, patient interactions, and differing opinions from coworkers on how to deal with someone. All you needed to get that was a good recommendation and your parents would deal with medical school's expenses.

So you signed up for every advertisement that didn't look scam-y. Until no one would call back, it made sense. You had nothing on your record but a summer job you had at sixteen and a high school diploma. Not exactly the top candidate.

Your last hope was a faded-out pamphlet stapled to an electric post. Reluctantly, you ripped off one of the phone number handouts printed between the dotted punctured lines. That flyer was no doubt, the sketchiest thing you had ever seen in your life. That cartoon horse mascot smiling at you didn't ease any worries despite how much the company probably wanted it to.

<⟡>

Now you were boarding the Tulpar, you could see your new coworkers through the small crowd of higher-ups and last-minute maintenance workers; a bunch of sad sack adults, and a guy like you. Small carry-on bags either held or settled by their feet.

He was friendly, really friendly. He ran over to you immediately, imaginary tail wagging at the mere sight of someone in his age group.

"Daisuke Juárez." He blurted out, extending a hand for you to shake.

"Uh, what?" His eyebrows furrowed as he dropped his hand, looking away. You could see his lips mutter a swear but no sound came out.

"That's my name, sorry for no intro before that..." He gave a nervous chuckle before he offered his hand to you again. You took it, why wouldn't you? It would just make this already weird conversation worse.

A quick shake between new coworkers. Nervous sweat passed back and forth, a cold feeling and a 'clink' sound from his rings bumping against yours. This guy would probably be your only choice for socializing. He had a lot of enthusiasm to pass around and frankly, everyone needed it.

<⟡>

A couple of months on board and by some miracle, he wasn't your thirteenth reason yet. Your boredom wouldn't let you hate him. You looked forward to his shenanigans. To Swansea's dismay, you started participating.

Sneaking sugar packets here, teaming up to cheat on crew game nights there.

Then it happened. That fake scenic sunset display quickly changed to a message so contrasting; Crash eminent. You had no clue what to do other than prepare. The blaring alarms didn't stop even when you ducked down behind the kitchen counters.

<⟡>

Everything was ruined, tousled, destroyed. Emergency foam went off everywhere, closing off the sleeping quarters, and a couple of hallways.

Every day, every new experience drained you. You had to hold back Anya's hair four times as she vomited in between patching up Captain— no, just Curly now.

One day, Swansea gathered up everyone, well tried. He only got the interns to sit down in the living quarters, pacing back and forth while he gave a doomed pep talk to the only people who would listen.

"We're fucked. This goddamn company doesn't care about us or that one of their ships went offline. We're dead meat, just names on a fucking list." He kept pacing. He had that little rasp in his voice, probably from the fact he kept pausing his spiel to take swigs of mouthwash. Daisuke told you all about Swansea's drunken rants whenever the two of you got bored enough. He said he liked the burn. The knowledge that he was ruining his life all over again. He loved it.

"You kids do whatever the fuck you want, 'cause I'm not doing shit. I'm not going to spend the last weeks of my life slaving away at the same company that already took forty years of my damn happiness." Then he walked off, too drunk to stomp away. Going to stand in front of the utility room. The only task he wanted to commit to; stopping others from doing something stupid; he always did. Daisuke could be his whole defense for that argument.

"So that's our advice... We do whatever because we're dying soon anyway." You mumbled after some struggle. Someone both you and Daisuke were supposed to look up to and ask for guidance just told you to fuck around while you still can.

"That's it? Our first fucking trip and we die here?!" You stood up, your anger wanted to move and right now, you didn't want to deny it.

Daisuke let out a quiet sigh, leaning back until his body hit the cold floor, he ran his fingers through his hair, in an attempt to ease something... anything. "I haven't lived yet. I partied. I jacked around. I don't have anything to actually be proud of. I haven't done anything."

That made you stop. He was right. He hasn't lived and neither have you. You were getting mad at people millions of miles away on Earth, that for sure didn't know your name or face.

"Bucket list." You whispered in that same tone you used to pass jokes to him during lectures with Swansea... a long time ago. He would give anything for this shitshow to be a dream that he could wake up to and have you joke about Swansea's under-eyes over and over again. "We make a bucket list. We do everything before we die when the food and oxygen supply run out.

<⟡>

They wrote down a small list each. It was cute at first, pranking the unbothered Swansea wasn't as fun as before but it was something. They shared a couple sugar packets, helped Anya out for a bit, and destroyed the kitchen by mismatching recipes.

Then their lists went cold and desperate; in tiny, rushed pen-written letters were four words. "Don't die a virgin."

After reading it from the other's list, they looked up at each other. "This is humiliating, you know," Daisuke spoke up first, despite his words he had a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Yeah... I know." You replied back. This was a horrible way to lose something people said was so sacred, but now, you saw it how it was; just another experience to have before you died.

#daisuke x reader #daisuke mouthwashing #mouthwashing x reader #mouthwashing #anya mouthwashing #anya x reader #swansea x reader #swansea mouthwashing #curly x reader #captain curly #curly mouthwashing #mouthwashing smut #mouthwashing fanfic

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sunboki · 1 year ago

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— ENDLESS WINTER. a Christopher Bahng fiction

Christopher Bahng x f. reader

TROPE. Beast! au, Mage! au, enemies to lovers (she wants to kill him), marriage au, angst

WARNINGS. violence, kidnapping, mention of a past war, descriptions of murder, reader is injured, hyunjin is a bit of a pain, hinted minsung (hehe), blood, kissing (dubcon), cursing

WORD COUNT. 12k words

AUG'S NOTES. if there’s ever been a more spontaneous fic in history it would be this… every sentence is write is purely self indulgent…. (genuinely a written version of the stories i make in my head while laying in bed)

SYNOPSIS. As heiress of the Magus, otherwise, Mage Clan, you find your position ripped from your fingertips when the Beast Clan conducts a raid. Left the only survivor, you make it your priory to stay alive in a ravaged Kingdom. That is, before you’re captured.

alternatively :

Starvation becomes the least of your problems when you meet King Bahng.

Hiding in the kitchen’s cupboard was definitely not your intention.

Neither was the Kingdom getting raided by the Beast Clan or being the (presumably) lone survivor in the castle, but fate would have its way, whether you liked it or not — this one just a bit more severe than usual.

Your mother once told you of the Beast Clan, of their ferocity and inability to handle things diplomatically. In her opinion, Beast were barely able to be considered Human.

Well, these words came after the Mage-Beast War; a grueling, disgustingly brutal dispute that caused what was referred to as the “Endless Winter”, a curse put upon the nation by a Magus overseer bidding every day of every year with, well, “endless winter”.

She told you how the ground used to be a wondrous green. Soft beneath your fingertips like feathers. Now, blankets of snow stretched as far as the eye could see, killing off any remaining expanse of foliage.

Although years had passed since then, your Kingdom was still recovering, still navigating importing routes in order to supply necessary goods.

Yet, everything was rapidly adapting, whether that was the snow-shoe rabbits roaming your vast tundra or the unexpected growth of fur on the bottom of the horse’s hooves.

Growing, learning.

Magus, though a lineage of magic practitioners, had begun to dull over the centuries. There was no need to learn with peace eminent, and the more aged those wielding supernatural abilities became, the less said abilities progressed into your generations.

However, Magus is the hearth of your Kingdom, and for as long as you live, the title shall reign supreme.

A title that, used by enemies and allies alike, had modernized from its ancient form Magus, to Mage.

Dinner held in the customary hall began that night, seat upon seat homing each member of the family adorned in their extravagant clothing.

Your father occupied the upmost chair, his plate stacked full of greasy lamb and pork bones. You, on the other hand, had had your fill chatting the cook’s ear off, slipping sweet potato wedges here and there as you talked.

Ms. Maewether was her name, a sad soul who carried her love in her cherished dishes. A love reserved for her late husband, a Beast himself, who unfortunately passed in The War.

Back then you asked her questions to the moon, about what they looked like specifically — if they really had eight inch claws like all the other children gossiped, if they could feel.

The last one was important, because everything Ms. Maewether told you you believed without a doubt, and the number one thing she pressed was that Beasts can feel, so very deeply. Just like humans.

The War changed that, and tension rose tenfold, especially as each Kingdom recovered from their countless casualties.

Luckily, your life had been peaceful, having been born young enough you could hardly remember.

Had been peaceful.

A scream from outside redirects the table’s conversation, relatives and siblings alike turning their head to gaze out the window.

Your blood runs cold.

Beasts, left and right, are slaughtering. Their clothing stained in blood that certainly isn’t their own, blades in clutch.

Immediately, panic ensues. People are trampling over each other to get out, disregarding every instinct but to stay alive. It’s chaos.

Dodging flailing bodies, you anchor yourself in a secluded cupboard below the countertops, shrinking as close to the wall as possible.

A few moments after everyone evacuates the Dining Hall do you hear cries. Yelling, gargled sounds. You cringe back imagining, stifling your breathing as much as possible.

Suddenly, a thought comes to mind, a thought that might just be responsible for saving your life.

Smell.

Ms. Maewether warned you a Beast’s smell is like no other, like a dogs. Twenty times as heightened as a persons.

So slowly, silently, you fish your hand into the small bit of darkness in front of you, locating a small bottle of cooking grease you wince upon finding — forcing the awful smelling concoction over your body, masking your scent.

Right after sitting down the container does the door creak open, heavy footsteps belonging to none other than a Beast. You can hear it in their sniffing, the clicking of their claws. Chills scatter your arms.

Another enters as the second door creaks, muttering something incomprehensible to its companion. At this point you’re pressed to the other side of the cupboard, both hands covering your mouth.

Your heart thunders in your chest, beating unbearably loud the longer you huddle.

Walking past where you lie, a Beast stops, body ducking down close enough you can hear its labored panting. You wait, waiting for the door to be flung open and for your death to await.

It doesn’t. And you thank whomever above for the echo of its presence fading away into the distance, barely relaxing against the highly uncomfortable hiding spot.

Instead, a blood curdling screech rips through the atmosphere, comparably close to where you hide. Abruptly, it stops, the thump of a body against the floor making you staunch the nausea building like bile in your throat.

It takes three days for you to finally peer out of the cupboard, the entirety of the Kingdom completely void of a soul.

Taking your first few steps around do you notice a woman, obviously slain by the puddle of blood surrounding her and the putrid stench. Her mouth hangs open—horror-stricken, frozen in place. You vomit in the sink.

For about a week do you roam the murder-house of a castle, finding purchase in a non-blood-bathed room and the many, thought to be endless amount of food.

You won’t leave, simple.

As long as the Beast Clan believes they’ve killed everyone, you’re safe.

That reminder was assuring, until your food supply dropped exponentially and a new problem situated itself on your platter.

Worst case scenario you die of starvation, the likelihood high if you stay here. Solution? Hunting.

Granted, you’re not the most skillful hunter, but you’re also not horrendous with a bow. Except, it’s not your aiming abilities you stress, it’s the chance someone sees you, the enemy sees you.

Four weeks in and you’re left with no other choice than to bundle yourself in layers upon layers of clothing and heed the feeble weaponry available.

Blizzard frost permeates your vision, wobbling steps making your hunger evident the more you roam. A horse would’ve been effortlessly useful, but selling yourself into that fantasy had been futile upon realizing they either took or killed all escapades.

A hare catches your eye, pale fur barely divisible from the terrain below. Carefully, you crouch down, elbow stretching the arrow back as far as possible whilst maintaining a solid grip. Steady. Steady.

Shoot!

The arrow flies, puncturing the animal in its chest enough to where it thankfully doesn’t suffer, flopping over rather pathetically instead.

However, your success is short-lived.

Stalking forward to snatch the creature quickly, a shadow looming overhead halts your footsteps. Behind you.

Before you can think to run, you wind back, meager arrow in hand providing little defense against the attacker.

First thing you take in is how huge they are. At least six feet tall if not taller, brilliantly ruby eyes revealing its true identity.

Beast.

With ease the man has your efforts pinned, curiousity overflowing as the animal looks at you. Yet, he doesn’t look like an animal, and apart from those eyes of his, no other factors would’ve revealed him to you but that.

This Beast has a fox-like face. A younger stature and smaller, slanted features.

“Hyung, what is this?” He asks, lifting your petrified frame like you were the rabbit you’d killed earlier.

His older counterpart glances over, and any hope of getting released plummets upon those wild crimson hues focusing in on you—knowledgeable as to what you were.

The cooking grease had long worn off, and your identity was likely as apparent as can be.

Mage.

Older Beast easily roaming through the snow, his fingers tangle into your hair, drawing out a cry when he jerks his hand up, forcing your gaze to meet his through the searing sting of your scalp. The younger grimaces.

His long, nearly white hair is tied into a ponytail, sharp cheekbones and calculating stare beyond intimidating. Beneath his left eye you note a small, distinct mole.

“One remained, huh.”

It’s a fever dream walking into the Kingdom that, compared to yours, looks positively flourishing with life. Beasts of all kinds roam about, carrying on with their daily lives, oblivious to the winds of death they’ve swept your way.

Everything in your body feels as if it’s shutting down, unable to feel the sensation of your legs as you trudge forward, the younger, much kinder Beast ensuring you kept pace.

Freezing temperatures carry on the longer snow falls, gluing strands of hair to your forehead, blanketing your lashes while your nose runs incessantly.

In front of you now lies the castle, far grander than you could’ve ever imagined. Twin spires peek above the low-hanging clouds, stone columns towering above.

From your distance you spot two knights positioned on either side of the entryway, large armored helmets with hawk feathers adorning the ridges.

One knight stops your ascent, the light-haired man rolling his eyes profusely.

“Minho, this is important.”

“Important enough you’re bringing a Mage into the Kingdom?”

His voice smooth as honey, he sports a dominant tone when speaking. Stare observant, he watches the other Beast’s expressions with uncanny precision.

“Because if you haven’t noticed Hyunjin,” He leans forward a bit, whispering. “You have the entire Kingdom’s attention.”

At this, either of the Beasts who escorted you turn around, and upon doing so are met with hundreds, if not thousands of eyes boring into their soul. Whether it’s younger Beasts or aged soldiers, those heinous vermillion orbs seem to see through you.

You gulp.

“C’mon,” Hyunjin harshly beckons, nudging you forward through the gates with the younger quick on his tail.

Every color in the Palace is monochromatically grey, although strikes of royal blue reside in large drapes hung from perched balconies.

Similar guards to those outside sift throughout the room, familiar hawk feathers litter everywhere in sight, paving paths to the core of the room where a throne sits.

Pointed edges flank either side of the massive chair, the ocean blue rug underneath reflecting up and out of the ceiling — a glass design stretching wide across the throne room, emphasizing the dusky weather outside.

According to the younger Beast whose title you learned as Jeongin, the King was currently participating in a hunt with Changbin (the lead hunter of the Palace), so after hasty appreciation of the sheer volume of this breathtaking castle, you’re forced toward the dungeons.

Jeongin wears a pitying frown, promising to return with some food to your chambers in the case the King doesn’t arrive for a while.

At least someone in this Kingdom doesn’t insist you’re beheaded.

“Finally, somebody else is here.”

A voice erupting from the darkening depths to your right make you jump, chained wrists clanging abruptly. Through minimal lighting of the burning lamps hastened upon the walls, you make out the silhouette of a man, face bunching in a sweet manner when he smiles.

Unusually, his hands aren’t chained.

“What’re you in here for?” You begin, gaze narrowed in confusion. The chubby-cheeked stranger smiles haphazardly.

“I would ask you the same thing. I’m the King’s Advisor, he just gets tired of me and puts me in here sometimes,” Your chamber-mate sighs, and once you take in what he professed, the urge to laugh becomes too strong to control.

Laughing for the first time in quite a while is sort of relieving, especially when this new acquaintance of yours begins whining his dismay, aimlessly trying to hush your giggles.

Red eyes. You can see them blinking up at you, gleaming when he grins his pointed teeth.

Quickly pausing, you wait in horror as he gradually sniffs in.

Your stomach sinks.

“Wait… You’re a Mag—“

His phrase is cut off by a loud ringing noise, a familiar echo of keys tunneling down the dungeons stairwell.

Another stranger unlocks the door. He’s burly, with curly hair in disarray. Cuffs of animal fur wraps around defined biceps, his top a tight-fitted arrangement of fur and woven leather paired with small iron spikes studding the shoulder lining.

A scar passes down the corner of his lip, long since healed but remaining faded.

“C’mere,” He ushers, voice gruff and rumbling when he unlocks your shackles, big hand pushing you forward up the stairs.

If anybody here had pure Beast in their bloodline, it would be this man. His demeanor is rough, but his touch on your back is surprisingly gentle whilst guiding you upward.

Again you’re granted with the wondrous sight of the Throne Room in all its historic glory, although your gaze directed at the floor keeps you ignorant to so many heads bowed, so many voices cast to silence upon the click of footsteps approaching.

And when you look up, you meet strikingly blue eyes—perhaps a genetic mutation of a sort.

They’re stunning, enrapturing almost, and you find the need to break eye contact immediate, more dire than normal while staring down at you.

Plump, full lips and perfectly sculpted facial features seem that of a Greek god’s, too ethereal to exist in your reality. A glittering, silver crown sits stark atop a black nest of hair.

Either arm rests on the sides of the throne, and you swore you’d never seen someone look so, King-like. That, and the massive cape of wolf-skin draped over his back.

A devil, dressed as an angel.

“Your Highness, this Mage was found near the L/N Kingdom by Hwang Hyunjin and Yang Jeongin while scouting the territory.” A palace-woman announces, the same guard who lingered outside, Minho, standing to your side.

Your blood boils, disregarding every ounce of amazement once inhabited.

It’s him. The man responsible for the demise of loved ones you couldn’t count on all of your fingers and toes.

Minho, as if sensing your frothing rage, mutters through his helmet a staggered warning—remaining upright and unmoving at attention.

“Do not move and do not look into his eyes unless you’re asking for death.”

Your patience dissipates, lip twitching involuntarily.

You can’t remember the last time you were genuinely angry. You were happy, surrounded by people you loved.

Those people weren’t here now, they were killed.

“You murderer! You’re a—“ Your attempt at lashing out at the King stalled when Minho kicks the crevice between your knees, forcing you down on the carpet below.

“Monster! A bloody— fucking— Monster!”

Palace representatives gasp their bewilderment, some beckoning you away to the dungeons, others urging Minho to end you right here and now.

It wouldn’t matter, would it?

The King’s raised hand stalls the accusations, his familiar clicking footsteps nearing closer till he stands before you.

Shifting down into a squat, the man tips your chin up to meet cerulean again, his head slightly tilted to the side.

“Don’t get it mixed up little one,” He murmurs, the pad of his thumb controlling your movement.

“I did not kill your family. Your family killed themselves.”

Fist sharply winding around for a punch, he catches it before you can even register your predicament, iron grip strong enough you fear he might just snap your wrist in half.

“And I wouldn’t recommend fighting back, otherwise I can’t guarantee your safety.”

Concluding his threat the further he bends your wrist, you whine, face scrunching from the pain until he finally stops, amusedly surveying your expression.

Denying your own enraged shaking, you suck your teeth, focus vehemently pinned onto him.

“Why would you care about my safety?” You snarl, trying to wriggle his hold off to no avail.

“Because,” The King cocks his brows. “I like you.”

About to spit another word, he interrupts you, index tracing the veins of your arm.

“Plus, I could break you any time I wanted, Mage. So behave.”

You shiver.

Your second day and you feel as if you’re officially going insane.

The only person tolerable here is Jeongin, that chamber guard whose name you don’t know, and Felix, the castles cook. You barely see the King, and even when he’s present he’s usually quartered in his study.

What he does there remains unknown, information learned in the mere form of startled maids leaving the room and gossip among those wandering the Kingdom.

“Do you know what he does?”

Felix looks up from the dish he was laying in front of you, wispy blond locks bouncing with the movement.

“Does what?” He piques, ridding a stray piece of hair clinging to your sleeve.

“The King, what does he do all day long?”

One thing about Felix you love, his honesty. Regardless of if most would tell a quick fib and flee, Felix, although occasionally working around a topic, takes the time to actually explain things to you.

Allows you to learn more of the place you’re going to have to call home.

“Hm..” He pulls a chair from your right to drop into, and for a moment, you see Ms. Maewether in that smile of his. Your heart aches.

“Chris— I mean, King Bahng is always busy. He plans trade agreements, oversees the hunts, and basically keeps this castle alive.”

Chris?

“Who’s Chris?”

Felix nearly squeaks, burying his head in his hands. Evidently, you weren’t supposed to hear that part, but an eagerness to know more about this solitary King kept your hesitance at bay.

“That’s his name. Christopher Bahng, but you’re not allowed to call him that and not allowed to tell anyone about us having this conversa-“

“Tell who?”

You quite literally almost fall backwards in your seat, failing to anticipate the pair of hands placed on Felix’s shoulders.

A pair of hands, followed by a pair of ocean blue eyes, boring right into you and the horrified boy in front of you.

King Bahng. In the flesh.

“Oh.. Hey Chri— Hello Your Highness.”

Again he corrects. These two must know each other.

“Tell who, Felix?” He speaks, tone nothing short of teasing—though the boy looks just as startled, practically sweating through his clothing.

Still adorning that flanking wolf-cape of his, his dark hair is slightly messy, expression distorted curiously.

You hate him to admit, but King Bahng is horribly attractive.

“Nothing! Nothing at all, Your Highness,” Felix chirps, fixing you with a ‘Don’t say a word’ glare you cease to argue with.

Rising up from your seat quickly as if you had any duties in this Kingdom to tend to, you find yourself stalling.

You have so many questions. …And the overwhelming urge to slap him across the face.

You’ve received a fair warning on the latter.

“I’ll be off now, Your Highness.”

The last words come out involuntary, used to referring to your own father this way. It made you sick to know you regarded his murderer the same.

And though the King didn’t stand extremely tall (considering how young Beasts were already your height), his hulking stature felt as if it could swallow you whole, pointed canines flashing when he smiled, sending your head reeling.

Pleased.

King Bahng was pleased hearing something nonthreatening come out of your mouth.

Vile.

Yet, you simply curtsied and hurried off, ceasing to notice the immediate growl Felix directed in the King’s direction.

“Good lord, I know she smells good but you’re practically undressing her with your eyes,” The freckled boy grumbles, returned with an uninterested expression from his friend.

Before the King can head off to whatever meeting he has planned, however, he spins on his heel.

“Have you consulted Seungmin about the scent-blocking salve?”

“Possessive, are we?”

His glare shuts the cook up immediately.

“If there is one Mage left, it’s mine. And since she’s the survivor, she’s mine.”

Yeah, he’s not beating the possessive allegations. But if he’s going to gain your trust, and eventually, after much thought, become mates, he’s keeping every other Beast in the Kingdom at a distance from you at all times.

“Jeongin will report when it’s completed. And Chris?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t expect her to warm up to you.”

King Bahng hums.

“I don’t.”

And with that, Felix follows your exit, leaving the King to his own devices, your nectar-sweet smell lingering in his nose.

“If I stare at the same wall for hours and hours, shouldn’t it break by now?”

“You’re a Mage, not telekinetic,” Han replies, repetitively scanning over a piece of parchment assumed to be a guest list.

In the midst of your incessant boredom, you found yourself following the King’s Advisor around, peering over his shoulder at the endless list of haughty names written in languid ink strokes.

Amongst them, you ceased to find your father’s name. You knew it wouldn’t be there, but somehow, you wished if you blinked enough it would magically appear.

King L/N, written in that same, cursive font.

Rounding a corner, you conclude if there’s anyone you avoid more than King Bahng (a.k.a Chris), it was Hyunjin. That man was a serpent in a Beast’s body.

Catching sight of his dreaded ponytail, you hastily retrace your steps, hiding behind a massive doorframe while Han stares at you as if you’re a rodent scurrying at his shoes.

“He won’t bite y’know.”

“If only you would’ve been there when he first found me,” You whisper angrily, practically clawing at the wood desperately till he leaches you out.

Leaching enough, in fact, that you end up right in Hyunjin’s line of sight, who surveys you up and down with a cocked brow to the point you’re sure steam is billowing from your ears.

Mocking. Ruby-red, mocking eyes.

He does bite. He sinks his teeth into the flesh and tears.

You won’t bleed without biting back.

Han’s iron grip tightens on your arm as slowly, oh so slowly, Hyunjin walks closer.

The strategist prowls, edging right up in your face—noses a thread-width apart.

His glower sets your fury alight, lips curled in a deriding notion.

“No need to glare, wouldn’t want wrinkles ruining that face of yours.”

“No need to get so close unless you plan to kiss me, mutt.”

Though, just as Hyunjin preapres to lunge, a big hand holds him back, animal fur cuffs indicating it isn’t the King who stepped in.

The man who had fetched you from the chambers earlier divided either of you. Shorter, but evidently stronger.

“Control yourselves, both of you. For as long as she stays in the Kingdom, she’s The King’s property—“

“I am no one’s property,” You snarl, and the guard turns.

Basked in clear lighting, you can finally see him. Honing dark brown hair hanging above his eyebrows, the same scar resides by his mouth, though, his eyes are much kinder than you expected.

Taking a slow inhale, he reads your conflicted expression like an ornate mirror.

“One mage in the Kingdom of Beasts? Sorry to break it to you, but yes, you are his property. So as long as she’s here, nobody lays a finger on her, understood?”

Glancing to each person, either of them ease their apprehension, the bewildered Jisung next to you stifling a breath, Hyunjin rolling his eyes with a loud huff.

Baiting seconds pass, and in that period of time do you realize you never caught his name. Specifically, the guard’s name.

“Excuse m-“

“Seo Changbin,” Han interjects. “His name is Seo Changbin.”

Ah. Right.

Now on the roster of least-likely to kill you, Jeongin, Changbin, Felix, and Han.

Filled with a need to evade, you stand merely as a spectator as each horridly red hue snaps to stare at you, your heart spiking an alarming rate.

The King’s Advisor’s fingers tighten to the point you’re sure he’s blocking blood flow.

“You need to leave. Jisung, get in contact with Seungmin and see when the salve is done,” Changbin instructs, already shoving Hyunjin away.

Salve. What salve?

Failing to give you any explanation, you’re dragged off, boisterously complaining before the highly annoyed man abruptly pauses, finger nudging your forehead irritably.

“You smell.”

Then he leaves, and you’re left to wonder if you’re still in primary school or the Kingdom of Beasts.

You smell? What’s that supposed to mean?

First thing in the morning, you’re torn from your slumber with a blazing sun scorching your eyes.

Your canopy beds silken drapes doing little to block the attack, you whine to an apologetic Jisung who merely sighs in return.

“Sorry sleeping beauty, but we have an appointment to attend this morning. Can you handle getting dressed on your own?”

You roll your eyes, groggily pulling yourself upright. “I was an heiress, not helpless.”

To which he cracks a miniature grin and slips out the door, allowing you to hurriedly strip off your chemise and messily arrange your stays and petticoats.

Out of all things you’d been deprived of, a part of the L/N Clan unable to be divided was your garments.

Somewhere, in the midst of fabric and citrus scented soap, you swear you can still smell bits and pieces of home.

What this appointment entailed you failed to ask, gingerly hustled down winding hallways barely illuminated with sunlight.

The Kings Advisor expertly winds further and further down, georgian architecture littered in symmetrical golden portraits and decorum, casement glass windows twinkling as you walked past.

Having reached a dead end, you’re pleasantly surprised to watch Han jar a brass doorknob open, paving a breathtaking view of the garden ahead.

Garden had to be an understatement. This amount of foliage was nothing short of a forest.

Flowers of all kind surround your walk to a shrouded greenhouse, abnormally brick relative to it’s stone-castle counterpart. Its walls are overgrown in slithering vines, door nearly invisible without proper inspection.

Jisung, having noticed your amazed expression, chuckles.

Granted, it’s been years since you’d seen any form of green vegetation, your astonishment felt justified.

“We’ve arrived.”

Oh how you wish to stay here forever. Not captive by the Beast Clan, no, but in this garden, hidden.

And if the last door took effort to pry open, this was a new challenge entirely. Through thickets of dense hedge and tangled branches, Jisung had to quite literally ram himself into the chittering wood for entry.

“Knock next time would you?” A voice projects from inside, belonging to a man clad in rounded spectacles, a slightly hooked nose, and cleanly hair parted to the side.

The Kings Advisor, apparently having known him, beams his prize-winning smile upon seeing the man.

“Seungminnnn—“ Han drawls out, excitedly waddling over to wrap him in a crushing hug. Stiffly, Seungmin pats his back, an action you fondly watch from afar.

“Ah!” The more ebullient of the two springs up, turning to you. “This is Seungmin, he runs the apothecary here.”

Nodding stiffly, Seungmin ushers you to one of the many mahogany chairs circling a gateleg table; a vase—likely jade with its pale green hue—filled with indigo hydrangea presides in the center.

“And,” Han’s outburst cuts off your awe. “He’s practically my little brother.”

Now you’re in awe again, but for a different reason. And by the evident frown on Seungmin’s face, he can tell.

“Shocking, right?”

Yes, shocking for certain.

Though, before you can reply, Han slaps his hands on either of the man’s shoulders, expression transformed into one of seriousness.

“About time I left then, yeah?” Was spoken while his form hurriedly retreated out the door, leaving you with more questions than answers to what just occurred.

“..He forgot something again.”

Biting back your laugh, you finally take a seat, given ample time as Seungmin shuffles off to the side to acknowledge your everything to its fullest extent.

Matching the plant-infested interior, verdant drawers scatter the corners, a lone, looming medicinal cabinet left ajar as the chemist poured over a variety of assorted concoctions.

Air stained with a damp smell of earth, you notice, much to your curiosity, the longevity of such a place.

This apothecary, though inside the castle, feels like an entirely new settlement of its own. An establishment existing before the war, rebuilt (inefficiently) enough to where it was only required to stand stable.

From first sighting you’d grown an attachment to it, but this newfound understanding, these newfound details setting the apothecary apart from your predicament let you imagine yourself anywhere else, back to a nostalgia you longed for.

A short term fix.

“This.” You’re handed a phial from overhead. It’s a slightly green substance, thicker in texture that rests heavy in your hand. “Is for you.”

Slipping across from you, he surveys your analyzing, arms crossed over a deep brown waistcoat.

“And this is..?” You inquire, looking up from the cork-sealed glass.

“A salve. You had better not waste it, material is low as is and I’ve been waiting years for this winter to end already.”

Well that didn’t answer your question. You’ve heard conversation about a specific salve for days on end, but no genuine explanation caved in—

‘I’ve been waiting years for this winter to end already.’

Repeatedly mulling over the words, you can practically feel your heart palpitating, head beginning to spin.

..End already? The endless winter.. ending?

“So you’re saying,” You murmur, placing down this special salve in order to truly regard him.

“There’s a way to end the Endless Winter?”

His brows crease critically, seemingly sarcastic.

“There’s an end to everything sweetheart. Life, death. Start, finish. War,” He meets your eyes with a conniving grin, a face you hadn’t seen on the man before.

“Peace.”

Automatically, you roll your eyes.

Peace? Peace when there was no peace left to be made, no kingdom remaining to make peace with?

“And how do you think the nonexistent Mage will make peace with Beasts?”

Seungmin grins.

“Well there is a Mage left,” He scornfully states, flicking your forehead whilst you palm the sting, frown evident.

“And as far as making peace goes, marriage.”

Marriage.

What.

“Wait- so you’re telling me big bad King Bahng could’ve just hooked up with a Mage and called it a day and everything would be fine?”

Seungmin clears his throat.

“One, Bahng doesn’t ‘hook up’. Two, it’s not as easy as that.”

Of course it’s not as easy as that. Why would it be?

You wish to claw your eyes out of your head, anticipating his explanation.

“Because if you weren’t aware before, marriage ties between Mage and Beast are very difficult to establish. Bahng is picky on everything, and even pickier when it comes to mates.”

But before you can argue there were thousands of suitors roaming the L/N Kingdom for him to pick from, Seungmin interrupts.

“Plus, if anyone else were King I’m sure we would’ve had peace decades ago. You’re lucky you’re in the castle right now, otherwise you would be eaten alive.”

Your face scrunching worriedly, he rakes an exasperated hand through his hair, plopping down on the vanity’s chair.

“Your scent.”

Again, you’re reminded of Han’s ‘you smell’ comment. Why is it showing up a second time?

He groans frustratedly, wordlessly praying you understand.

You don’t.

“Mage have specific scents. You can’t smell it since you’re not Beast. But let me tell you, you smell fucking delightful.”

Oh.

That’s what he meant by eaten alive, and the entire ‘you smell’ conundrum.

Seungmin, rather entertained with the shock written on your face, shrugs his shoulders, nonplussed by the crassness of his earlier statement.

“Now you get the use of the salve, right? And why you’re not allowed to leave the castle?”

Your mouth feels dry of response, beckoned toward the exit without so much as a peep passing through your lips.

However, right as the you’re halfway gone, he stops you, brows cocked.

“Do us all a favor and marry him, will you?”

And like that, the apothecary’s door thumps closed behind you.

If only the “him” he was referring to wasn’t King Bahng, you might’ve agreed.

Marriage in the L/N Kingdom had been a sacred event.

An event you’d been prepared for since childhood, fed daydreams of a day you would be married to a prince-like man with perfect features and a perfect personality, every element fabricated from a young age.

Truly, you loved it. Loved visualizing a life shared with your loved one, whoever that man would be.

Little did you know he might just be King of the Beast Clan.

No. You refused. Marrying a murderer, the murderer of your family, was the last thing you would oblige to.

He sent the command, he led the attack, and you’d rather die than give him the satisfaction of marriage.

Although, one problem. Similar to life back at the L/N Kingdom, supplies only lasted for some time before shipments became low, and pretty soon (according to Seungmin) the salve you were given would run dry.

Meaning, your meager chance of protection lay completely exposed, susceptible to any Beast daring enough to try something.

Two sides of a coin remained. Heads, you marry the murderer of a King and spring returns, or tails, you abstain and are eventually left vulnerable.

You’ve always been the person to confront a difficulty head-on, but, in this case, a different, defensive approach crossed your mind.

Run away.

Despite Seungmin’s sensible reminder to not leave the castle, what other option sounded suitable?

Die physically or mentally, pick your poison.

Or maybe, never drink the poison in the first place. Evade.

Three days have passed since you received the salve, and after applying it behind your ears and between your elbows at dawn, you were free to do as you pleased—within the castle walls.

Yet, tomorrow’s dawn would be divergent. Tomorrow, you would be days away from the Beast Clan.

Sneakily roaming around, you managed to find certain outlets to your disposal. Nearby the chambers you’d been kept in was a moth eaten, hooded cloak seemingly unworn for quite awhile. Ideal for an anonymous escape.

Furthermore, amongst the colloquy during a dinner with Changbin and Felix in the Great Hall, you distinctly recall overhearing information about the stables.

If you were to flee, you needed a horse, and thanks to the guard, you knew right where to find one.

Unable to sleep the night before, your dry eyes blink through the dense darkness, sweeping the candlestick from your side table for a minimal source of vision.

Lathering a copious amount of salve all over your skin, you slip down the winding stairwell, grateful for the shadowed moonlight gazing down upon the Throne Room as you venture.

Bingo. There’s the cloak.

Sweeping the fabric over your shoulders, you slip the hood over your head, creeping down the steep steps leading into a surrounding ward.

On your left, across the butcher’s vendors.

Blindly searching, the whinny of a mare alerts your close distance, carefully winding through lead ropes and linked fences to the first horse in sight.

You have to be fast, the sun will rise at any moment it pleases, and it’s impertinent you’re gone by then.

Hoisting a mere saddle pad over the back, you deem the saddle too noisy, slipping the reins overheard and adjusting their length accordingly.

Jogging forwards, you’re brisk to gain a running leap atop the horse prior to the thunder of hooves charging forward.

Closer to the gatehouse you near, a luckily open drawbridge allowing easy passage across.

Faster, faster. You can’t afford to slow down. Daylight is beginning to peer above the horizon, warming your back with rays of sunlight amongst a snowy landscape.

And when the kingdom wakes up, it’ll be as if you were never there.

But, an undecided factor stayed. Where would you go? There was no kingdom left for you, no home to go to.

For now, you needed to prioritize finding a hiding spot, if only for a night, that supplies warmth.

Given the opportunity, too long out here and you or your horse will indefinitely succumb to the frigid conditions.

Veering off sharply, you sidle beneath a barren magnolia tree, its thick trunk barely blocking the unforgiving wind. Pretty soon you’ll have to keep on, but for now, you’ll savor the temporary peace.

Blue skies indicate it must be nearing morning, and you assume the castle will be slowly waking up. By now, King Bahng would likely be awake as well, you’ve been told he doesn’t sleep well anyway.

Scouts. He’ll send scouts most likely. Knights like Minho or Hyunjin.

Ugh, the mere thought of Hyunjin finding you a second time makes you nauseous.

Except, the longer you consider it, King Bahng is the worst case scenario.

I could break you any time I wanted, Mage. So behave.

Those words send an entourage of chills slithering up your spine, and not from the cold.

Because while Hyunjin is a type of spiteful strong you want to avoid primarily due to how annoying it is, King Bahng is a quiet strong, the kind that wouldn’t confess his anger, but have you witness it firsthand instead.

Enough thinking. You have to go.

Using the bumpy roots below you for leverage, you wind a leg around the horse’s back, aiming to reach the edge of the territory before midday.

That was the goal, until you’re pummeling to the ground.

The moment is instantaneous, your horse releasing a shriek as it’s swiped right off its feet, slipping onto hard, icy ground and simultaneously crushing you in its descent.

Almost like vomit you feel the screech of pain building in your throat, a numbness in your right leg along with the warmth of blood soaking your clothing doing little to sustain level breathing.

Then, in the midst of your hysterics, you look upon the visible side of your horse, a pair of claw marks scratched right across its stomach.

Scrambling out to the best of your abilities, you bite your tongue, praying this is one of Hyunjin’s sick, sadistic games and not an obvious ambush.

You refuse to die like this. You’ve survived once and you’ll be damned to give up now.

“I’m impressed. You’re not as weak as I thought.”

A sneering tone speaks from behind you. According to the claw marks, Beast, but not one you remember. And with your current state—being unable to rise to your feet—you’re utterly incapable of ascertaining an identity.

Instantly, your hand reaches up to trace the alcove beneath your ear and neck, any ounce of hope disappearing upon feeling for the salve.

Gone.

“Now, care to tell me what a Mage is doing in Beast territory?”

He’s hiding behind you on purpose, drawing you into a sensory overload, a panicked frenzy of adrenaline and fear.

Deer caught in headlights.

A curved claw unlike those in the Kingdom of Beasts winds your head back, staring straight into the face of something you can hardly deem Beast, more like wolf.

He has this terrifying look in his eyes, and breath that stenches of metal and flesh.

This man is the kind of Beast you’d grown up believing in. Violent, merciless.

Minho, Hyunjin, hell, anyone. Please.

As if second instinct, you assess everything around you, snatching the closest stick to you and jarring the sharp end through the bottom of his chin with all your might.

A gagged, sort of howling sound emits from above you, putrid-smelling blood spraying all over your face.

In split seconds does another form appear in your peripheral, your dread heightening before ultramarine stills the horror in its tracks.

King Bahng.

He’s quiet, expertly slicing the back of the neck, the attacker dropping to the ground motionlessly.

“I could’ve handled it myself.”

It’s a lie. He doesn’t respond.

If the first Beast hadn’t killed you, he certainly would. He said it himself, whenever he pleased, he could break you.

So when King Bahng’s arms extend toward your position on the ground, you prepare for the worst, crawling backwards as quickly as possible.

Surprisingly, he kneels down in front of you, and, as your vision clears, you notice the concern written on his face.

Weird, the feeling compiling in your gut as he looks at you like that. The way your eyes build with tears, lungs finally hacking for as much non-congested air available without a single word said.

Just by his expression alone, you’re a fit of blood and tears, the aftershock hardly helping ease the experience.

Crying, in the middle of a forest, with King Bahng as a witness.

“I know, I know,” Is all he whispers, and you barely recognize when he hoists you into his arms, the searing sting of your leg your only indication of movement.

Smoothly maneuvering you again his chest, he cradles your body close, one hand directing his horse as you ride back to what you assume to be the Kingdom.

Through the aching pain, you can’t even be upset about returning, merely focusing on the subtle warmth of his body and the strength willing you to say something.

“You speak nothing of this moment,” You murmur, the King’s body erupting into a tremor of laughter.

“I speak whatever I like whenever I like, sweetness. No one touches what’s mine, yeah?”

Mine. You hate the effect he has on you.

Yet, your snarky remarks are depleting in tandem with your energy; the soothing, shushing sound he’s making and the repetitive thump of hooves doing little to keep you from sleeps tempting beckon.

Eyes drifting closed, his tightened grip pulls you closer, your cheek smushed into the fabric of his coat whilst lost in slumber.

“Hold on a bit longer for me, we’ll be there in no time.”

Recovery, to your luck, is swift. Either that, or Kim Seungmin is secretly a Mage, because within a week spent off your leg, you’re back to normal.

A little sensitive to weight, but overall, healed.

Initially, despite the agony blazing through your body, you were thankful you barely recalled seeing anyone, swept into the apothecary immediately.

The last thing you wanted to see after returning would be the faces. Plus, what about your friends? Jeongin, Felix, Han? You’re sure they looked destroyed.

Except, it’s all fake. A feign kindness given to you only by sympathy. What do the faces matter anyway?

You gorge that question to the very back of your throat when said Cook walks through the apothecary’s door, utmost apprehension apparent. He grabs your face, brows knit—but not in an angry sort of way, more like staving-down-tears.

“Don’t you ever do something like that ever again.”

Past him, you can’t help but smile seeing Seungmin’s softened expression watching Felix, adoring his preciousness just as you are.

“I promise.”

Nodding curtly, he turns around, leaving you to view the many ingredients scattered across his apron.

He rushed here, cute.

“I’ll bring breakfast down here.”

Craning, you can barely make out his deep voice, lowered to a nearly inaudible decibel. Ears flushed pink, you’re filled with a worrisome amount of happiness seeing Felix’s embarrassment trying to maintain an upset facade.

“Hm? What was that?”

Ah, at this point you’re picking fun.

“I said I’ll bring breakfast down here.”

Precipitously slipping outside, both you and Seungmin are left to stifle your bubbling laughter, graced with the most appetizing platter you’ve had the pleasure of eating a few minutes later.

However merciful those first few days were, dissipated. And in a short amount of time, you could feel the eyes boring into your back, the questions resting on the tip of tongues.

All the same, nobody mentioned it. And if anything, that made the paranoia grow.

It was gradual. The subtle shadow you swore you saw in corners, the terror stopping your heart in your chest when you swear someone breathed down your neck.

Your body may be healed, but your mind certainly isn’t.

To a degree that two weeks later, you’ve found sleep nearly impossible, lingering in the kitchen in the wee hours of morning, teetering on your wits end.

Some occasions it’s Felix who you see first, wiping the sleep from his eyes, loading coal into the furnaces to heat the kitchen for the day. Other days it’s handmaids, shuffling around busily, carrying goods to and fro.

This time, Minho arrives first, for once wearing regular clothing opposed to his usual armor, steaming saucer in clutch.

Perhaps this is an opportunity, he is a knight after all.

“Hey Minho?”

Tired eyes sweep to your figure on the table, the rim of his cup held to his lips.

“I’m too paranoid and at this point I might die of sleep deprivation,” You huff, referring to his raging, bed-headed self . “…Could you teach me how to use a sword?”

He’s staring at you like you‘ve grown two heads, pulling a chair back to settle in, arms crossed over his chest.

No sentences need to be said aloud, merely spectating the gears turning in his head enough to set your nerves on edge.

Yet, in the midst of your waiting, you note a peculiar bruise peeking from his collarbone, another lingering a tad bit lower.

“And you think a sword is going to protect you?”

The question is genuine, lacking the bemused nature you were expecting.

Another thing you’ve noted throughout your sleepless nights was the continuous amount of times you’d watch the King’s Advisor sneak into his quarters, a realization keeping your response baited.

Seems his love life isn’t a concern.

“Hey, those marks on your neck and shoulder, are those from Ha—“

“When do you want to train.”

All lightheartedness vanishing, you have to chew your lip to avoid ticking him off further by giggling.

“Tomorrow?”

Pushing in his chair with an agreeable hum, you merely whisper a hurried “Thank you” he grunts at, rushing off to who knows where and giving you leeway to recover from the hilarity of it all.

Tomorrow, however, came far too early, not anticipating to be woken up at the crack of dawn, grumpy enough the prospect of blackmailing the King’s Advisor became dangerously tempting.

Yeah, good luck. He’s not budging until you’re on your feet.

Seems you underestimated Han Jisung’s stubbornness.

Rushed into a loose gown, you’re led to the Inner Ward, an open sector in the middle of the castle.

Upon being met with a too-smug Minho, you can practically see the word “payback” hovering above his head, busying himself with fetching supplies.

Perhaps this is karma coming back to bite you.

Ouch.

Except, you’re puzzled. You’re being taught how to deul, yet your teacher isn’t adorning armor nor gear of any kind.

At your confusion, the knight chokes a cocky guffaw.

“First, we learn how to properly move.” He hands you a wooden sword. “If I so much as leave a scratch on you I’m as good as dead.”

Again, he may appear snarky, but his tone is nothing short of serious. Minho is hard to read.

Wait.

Seeing past your panic, the Beast seems to answer your unspoken question.

“King Bahng is visiting the villages today, he won’t be back till the evening.”

A wave of relief grounds your bones, standing rather pathetically while Minho aids in critiquing your position, instinctively shifting into his own in front of you.

“Now, there are a lot of things to consider when dueling. I’ll narrow things down. Don’t overestimate or underestimate your opponent, trust your gut, be aware of everything, and lastly, do not be afraid to deceive.”

Promptly, he’s lashing out before you can even process his advice, wooden weapon drawn above his head as your grip tightens, attempting to block the strike only for his foot to press into your stomach, sending you falling right onto the ground instead.

“Isn’t that unfai—“

“Like I said, deception is your greatest weapon. In a game of swords, it doesn’t matter how dirty it’s won, it matters who won.”

He reaches a hand out for you to take, helping you back up again only to both fall back into your stances.

“Keep in mind, your sword isn’t your only weapon.”

Minding his instruction, you continue onward, sparring heartily till the beating afternoon sun becomes too hot to bask in any longer. Amongst the four hours you had been consumed in training, you’ve snagged certain valuable points.

Calmness is crucial. Your mind streams clearer when you parried, void to the opponent’s increasing frustration—given an advantage of both agility and focus.

Two, unpredictability is a gift. Minho is especially good at being unpredictable.

Whether he charges headfirst or aims the forte of his sword toward particularly weak points, you begin to mimic his performance, growing closer and closer to conquering those signature tactics.

Of course, your enjoyment can only last for a bit before it spoils.

Spoiling as in, Hwang Hyunjin’s random appearance, sauntering into the area as if he’s King himself.

“Well look at this, didn’t think I’d see our runaway and Minho here.”

There’s an air between Minho and Hyunjin, one that forbids Hyunjin from egging his superior on, just like when you were first brought to the Kingdom. Lucky for you, you could be degraded as much as he approved of.

Feigning a dramatic gasp, he gestures to either wooden sword held in raw palms.

“No way, you’re learning how to deul?! Don’t tell me you’ve never learned basic attacks? Oh right, you never had to fight, huh, princess?”

You bite the skin of your cheek, minding your composure.

“You know nothing about me.”

“I know enough.”

Now he’s asking for it.

“Say,” He sneers. “Let’s duel.”

Keeping Minho from intervening, you apologetically nod to his disproving expression. He knows it’s stupid, even while fetching his armor and adjusting the metal plating to your body, and you do too, but you can’t afford to back down, you won’t.

Testing your abilities carrying a legitimate sword this time, Minho grants Hyunjin a terse scowl, their own wordless agreement to tone down on anything too harmful.

Somehow, it grates your nerves further.

Straight away, he charges his right foot forward, the metal colliding with a loud ring, narrowing your body to shield your unprotected side.

Hyunjin, though skillful in his wrist mobility, clearly uses his size compared to you as an advantage, carelessly throwing around his jabs whilst relying on form alone.

You shuffle back and forth continuously, the commotion of metal rifle drawing the attention of Beasts alike throughout the castle, stopping their movements to survey.

Lurching himself forward once more, you will your legs to support you, balancing the crushing force of his pushing ascent with as much strength as possible.

“If you win, you get whatever sensible award you want,” He grits, using pure weight alone to gain higher vantage. “But if I win, you marry King Bahng.”

Suddenly, interrupting your stunned reaction to his proposal, Minho’s reminder breaches your eardrums.

Deception is your greatest weapon.

Honestly, you’re bewildered Hyunjin hadn’t played petty thus far, and you have no doubt he will any moment now.

You can’t afford to waste the opportunity.

Maintaining your gaze targeted on his face, you steal the chance, slipping your sword right beneath his feet, hooking the guard just fast enough to cause his legs to buckle.

The tip of your sword centimeters from his neck, you cock your brows, finding satisfaction in the glare he’s boring into your skin from his spot on the ground.

In a game of swords, it doesn’t matter how dirty it’s won, it matters who won.

“If King Bahng wishes to marry me, he will deul me himself. That decision isn’t up to you.”

Stalling his immediate laughter upon nudging the sharp point right up against his pulse point, you chuckle.

“I might have to do this more often, you’re not bad when you shut your mouth for once.”

Dropping your sword, you reach out a customary hand he rejects, either of you following Minho to the side stalls to return his armory before a haunting voice stops you in your tracks.

“One more match?”

You’d been ignorant to the Kingdom’s sudden burst of energy, the trembling chains of the drawbridge dropping onto cobblestone ground, the gates shifting open.

Having appeared through thin air stands King Bahng, constantly arriving at the worst of timing.

He’s clad in traditional armor, though his has fancier plating, cleaner sheen, azure hues hidden within the gorget.

Your stomach ties itself into a knot, piecing together the details.

“If this is about the deal, I don’t think I-“

“Oh please princess, this was never up to you. We did this for the sake of the Kingdom, you think we ever considered your say in this?” Hyunjin interjects, quickly escorted away by a frowning Minho and an additional guard you don’t recognize.

Huh?

What… What is he talking about? For the Kingdom? What does he mean for the sake of the Kingdom?

Do us all a favor and marry him, will you? Seungmin’s words ricochet in your skull, the parts assembling perfectly into place.

But if I win, you marry King Bahng.

Marriage.

They knew all along. They knew you were set to marry him and yet, no one told you.

If your betrayal had been violently inflicted, you would look like a rag doll. All this time, these moments you thought were glee-filled, hopeful.

Lies.

Tearing the King’s chance to speak from his fingertips, you pick up your sword, denying your shaky, white knuckles and replacing those broken feelings with rage instead.

No, you can’t afford to show weakness. You must replace these feelings as quickly as possible.

No weakness, no mercy.

“Fine, let’s duel.”

“But-“

“Pick. Up. Your. Sword. And fight me.”

Releasing a sigh, he cautiously pulls his own sword from its sheath, waiting to be counted off unlike Hyunjin.

However skillful you’d been before had completely vanished. Though, you would give yourself the benefit of the doubt, this fight meant your future, meant the minuscule bit of freedom you’d gotten to experience here.

The last thing you wished was to realize you had been lied to, but even more so to realize you’ve been lied to in front of the entire Kingdom, curious faces peering from the castle’s allures.

Your swings sloppy, you credit the severity of the blows as you attack and defend, evidently dueling with fatal intent.

You’ve lost this battle, you know it. Your senses are too overwhelmed to assess spatial awareness, and every muscle in your arm cries out for relief.

Swept off of your feet in a repeated cycle to earlier, you accept, sitting below the tip of King Bahng’s sword, your defeat.

Almost automatically, the pieces of pride you’d attained after your victory against Hyunjin amounted to nothing.

You may beat everyone else, but you will never beat this man, now matter how hard you try. The odds will always soar in his favor, and you will suffer the results of it.

This is not a game you’ll win. Because from the beginning, you existed as a marionette, enjoying such naivety till the comprehension as to who controlled the play hit you.

This theatre was particularly unforgiving.

He won.

If your insomnia before was grueling, this was an entirely new extreme.

Averaging a meager two hours per night, you’re positive you’ve memorized the guest list by heart, staring blankly at the crinkled parchment, unblinking.

In a matter of days, the congratulatory ball will be held.

You’ll be attending said ball as the bride.

Weeks ago, the guest list had simply been a past time, a mandatory errand for the King’s Advisor, a ball you weren’t aware, and wouldn’t be aware, was meant for you.

Your chest feels.. sad? Empty?

Yes. Empty is the word. An emptiness gutting you from the inside, the ugly drawback of exhausted options and worthless optimism.

There’s a lot of things to ponder on as well, factors you have to analyze, ensure it wasn’t another stage for an audience you so foolishly performed.

No escape.

Tuesday, two days before the ball, Jeongin drops by your door, carrying a package under his arm and that effortlessly adorable smile gracing picture-perfect features.

“This is for you, from.. um..” The anxious boy stammers, placing the binded package on your room’s veneer.

“You can say his name, Jeongin, I’m not mad.”

He exhales audible relief, slender fingers wrapping around your hand before you can bid him farewell.

“He— The King, he’s a good person.”

You force a tight grimace, agreeing despite your contradicting expression.

Perhaps he is, perhaps he isn’t. You don’t know what to believe anymore.

Slipping from bed once the young boy’s footsteps fade in the distance, you gingerly unwind crimson ribbon, allowing the leather exterior to unfold.

Inside lies a gown.

A gown that, investigating how breathtaking it is, should be considered nothing short of a ball gown the longer you stare.

Designed as a mantua, the white fabrics paired with lace neck frill and engageantes add an elegance you’ve never seen before. Light, subtle blue hides beneath ruffles of the skirt, further accented by equally blue lace strings fastening the back together and outlining the seam of your square-cut stays.

You can only marvel at the gift given by your future husband, wishing so terribly you could simply run into his arms and pretend everything was well.

If only it was under better terms, as if nothing had happened. If King Bahng was another man, it’d be possible.

And Wednesday night, the root of your problems bares his face, knocking at your door while you were under the impression it was Han instead.

Acting as if you didn’t care was much easier around everyone but him, especially when you were halfway into tying the laces of your dress, the dress he had purchased for you.

What awful circumstances.

“Don’t touch me,” You hiss, regarding the man across from you with a frown.

Lifting either hand in the air, he seemingly invites you to figure out the impossible strings yourself, cueing a very aggravated, very futile attempt at tightening the ties of your ball gown before (hesitantly) allowing the man to slip behind you.

Of course you had to choose now to try it on.

His touch irritably careful, he ensures the fabric is snug fitting but breathable, each woven thread in its coordinating pattern.

Where he learned this you have no idea, only aware of how horrific this close proximity is, your restlessness growing unbearable.

Running his tongue over his top teeth, he backs up slightly, taking you in with apparent speechlessness.

He clears his throat.

“I won’t apologize because I know it means nothing to you, but please, let me explain. I intended to tell you, I just-“

He sounds timid, like a child.

A sour, bitter fury froths like bile in your throat. You want to explode.

“No. No. I didn’t want this! I won’t!” You wind around, pointing an accusing finger to his chest. “You killed them all, my family, my loved ones, children. I hate you. I hate you!” Your voice breaks, a gravelly, disgusting drawl raking your throat raw. Salty, burning tears drip down your collarbones.

Grievance. An innumerable stage of sadness you hadn’t reached before now, overflowing.

As he tries calming you down, you only grow angrier, pushing from your path to the door, ripping the handle awry.

Instantly, his arms wrap around your middle, hauling you back as you kick and scream, fingernails digging into any available skin, dress puffing as your legs flail.

Catastrophic.

“No- No!”

You’re certain the entire kingdom can hear you, but that’s the last concern occupying your headspace, too focused on escaping, far off as you had done earlier, anywhere but here.

“Stop crying,” He commands, either hand on your wrist pinning your back to the bed, expression morphed pitifully. His calloused hand swipes the storming rivulets from your cheeks.

“Please, Y/n, please stop crying. It hurts.”

Your response shortens into a simple sob, aching.

“It hurts..?” You murmur, eyes shifting over his face. “…You hurt?”

Incessant crying causing your skin to burn, he only blinks at you.

A fit of anger forms just as fast as it disappeared in the pit of your stomach.

“You’re hurting? You’re the sick son of a bitch that killed my family and took everything I’ve ever loved away, you don’t deserve to hurt!”

Sucking in a necessary inhale, you angrily flail, wrinkling your nose at the careful tilt of his head, the distance of his face from yours, every scar, every pore close enough to see.

What happened to the King who threatened to break you? Why is he pitying you, looking at you with such kindness?

Longing to bring up how useless the deal was, how the benefits of the marriage aren’t your responsibility, you simply glare, emotions a whirlwind you can’t explain, can’t say aloud.

And all he does is stare. Staring like you’ve said nothing at all.

You want to cry out, want to curse him for all eternity, curse those blue eyes that seem to pave a pathway through your soul.

But you don’t. He beats you to it.

“..Do you know why my eyes are blue?”

What?

“Because I’m not fully Beast. My mother was a Mage. She turned against my father after I was born, left us, and vowed to do everything in her power to destroy Beasts.”

Your face contorts nonsensically, his tight hold on your wrists loosening the longer he speaks.

“And I assume,” He redirects your head, forcing you to maintain eye contact.

Rearing deja-vú reminds you of your first encounter.

“No one ever told you Mage’s started the war.”

You scoff.

“Or that the Mage planned to cut off all trade supply simply out of spite. And so, I did what I had to—“

“You did what you wanted to. You killed helpless people because of your own problems, my family had nothing to do with it!” Vocal cords throbbing the louder you scream, you try kicking your legs to no avail.

“Your family, Mage, had everything to do with it. My people would have died-“

“Mine already did. So now what?”

A minuscule pinch occupies his brows.

“You weren’t supposed to be alive.”

“But I am, so you might as well let me join them.”

He sighs, a stray, obsidian strand of hair hanging over his forehead.

“You know I can’t do that.”

You test the words on your tongue, wedging your hand out to grab his face, feeling the dip of his jaw as he sucks in a breath.

When you first met, he had told you he’d break you. This change of heart confuses you, grates more anger in your chest.

“And why is that?”

Opening his mouth, he momentarily closes it, then opens again, contemplating the statement with caution.

He’s right, in some way.

You’re not supposed to be alive, not supposed to be saddened. You were meant to be in the ground with them, be one of the many bodies littering the L/N Kingdom, granted an eternal sleep.

Yet, you aren’t.

You survived, and you despise this man with every fiber of your being for that.

But things cannot change. You can’t bring them back, and his situation is just as painful as yours.

You both lost people, or, would’ve lost people.

An explanation or an apology, as he said, isn’t necessary.

So you’ll get what you want, tangibly.

Forcefully grabbing his chin and jutting him closer to you on the bed, your voice drips with venom, noses mere breadth apart.

“Then end this winter and marry me, Your Highness.”

For a split second you swear his gaze drifts to your lips, but you shake the thought away, his sharp canines glinting off the mirrors reflection.

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one to propose?”

“You killed my family, no need for formalities.”

“Care to remind me why you agreed to marry him? Weren’t you planning to kill him?” Felix piques, apron woven around his thin waist, skillfully measuring flour that’s dusted over his nose.

You needed to get your anger out, then devise a plan. Show King Bahng you weren’t going to succumb to his charms, tricks. Ever.

You hum from your spot on the counter, conversing just as you’d done back in your kingdom with Ms. Maewether.

Technically, he was your new Ms. Maewether.

“Oh no, I still plan on killing him, I just want something first.”

Except, you didn’t talk about murder in front of Ms. Maewether. That was new.

He raises an eyebrow.

“And what would that be?”

Snapping your fingers, you cheerily tap your heels against the cabinets below.

“I want to see spring again.”

Silence overcoming the kitchen, it takes Felix a full minute to understand your preposition before bursting into unadulterated laughter. Well, until he realizes. Then he pouts.

“Aw, I was really looking forward to seeing Chris rejected at the altar.” The smaller Beast whines, popping a piece of sugary sweet dough his mouth and handing another to you.

“Hey, now that’s just cruel,” You mumble, muffled by the delicacy you’re currently chewing on.

“According to you yesterday, not really.”

Ah. Right.

“We just… have a lot to talk about.”

The phrase sounds stupid, but it’s true. Logically, emotionally it’s true. There is a lot in need of discussing.

For now, you’re indifferent.

“I’ve always thought you two were similar.”

The cook’s outburst catches you off guard.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve always wanted to protect what mattered to you most, and maybe, one day, you can understand why he did what he did.”

Leave it to Felix to be your reasonable opinion.

Nevertheless, an invisible barrier rests between you two. A lie. His lie. The Kingdom’s lie.

“Felix, I will never understand why he did it,” You humorlessly chuckle, hopping from your spot. “So tell me, why did you lie?”

All morning you debated the right time to confront him. Tonight was the night, the congratulatory ball, the wedding. Why wait?

Freezing with his back turned to you, he stops mid-slice, dropping the knife atop the cutting board and gradually facing you.

Oh Felix.

His nose flushed pink, lips quivering, you allow him to race forward and hug you, head tucked into your shoulder while you stand there, motionless.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It was decided from the start, but we were told not to tell you, not until King Bahng told you himself.”

You want to tell him it’s okay, make some jokes, act like things are normal. Though your arms stay glued to your side.

“I guess Hyunjin beat him to it, huh?”

His arms tighten around you and, with a sigh, you pat his back, gently nudging him off of you where you can hold that sweet face of his.

“But don’t worry about me, alright? I can handle this, and I forgive you, so let’s move on from this, Lix.” Tenderly rubbing the skin of his cheek, he meekly smiles, an action you can’t help but feel relieved seeing.

You’re strong. You have to be strong. For Felix, for Han, for Jeongin, for your friends throughout the Beast Clan, you’ll be strong. You’ll enjoy wearing the gown regardless of who bought it for you, cherish the wedding no matter the man you’re wedded to.

If you’re going to have to live like this forever, you might as well make the most of it.

On today’s occasion, you’re dressed by a hand maid sent to your quarters, polished and puffed to perfection by the time five o’clock arrives and the banquet officially begins.

And when you see yourself in the mirror, you’re not exactly sure who stares back at you.

She’s pretty, yes, but she isn’t Y/N. She’s a Queen, the Queen of the Beast Clan.

Your stomach wrenches.

By tomorrow, you’ll be married. Married to King Bahng. You will be a wife, the wife of a King just as the L/N Kingdom intended.

The thought continues to plague your mind, sucking more and more oxygen from your lungs that as you’re escorted to the ball room.

You can hardly inhale and exhale normally as Changbin, whom you appreciate enormously, walks you down the aisle, past an abundance of people you’ve never seen before. Beasts, business men, acquaintances alike.

Sensing your panic, your linked arms allow him to spare you a meager glance you anxiously return.

It’s fine. It’ll be fine.

All previous calmness long dissipated, when you finally redirect your attention from your feet and take in King Bahng waiting at the altar, your rampaging anxiousness increases tenfold.

As the audience claps and either of you turn with your backs facing the crowd, you scorn your lack of a poker face when the King rests a hand on your back.

“Breathe,” He utters, only a whisper you heard.

Wishing to thank him, you bite your tongue, considering the man you’re referring to in the first place prior to replying.

A sharp nod of your head is enough.

Stifling an exhale, you spin on your heel, both bowing to the public before facing each other and holding hands, an action that shouldn’t cause goosebumps to swarm your arms, but does anyway.

“You plan to smash my face in at our wedding?” He murmurs below the customary vows, acknowledging your fingernails digging into his hand.

“Keep giving me ideas and I migh-“

The retort vanishes when he presses his lips to yours, doubling back in shock before his palm on your back keeps you close.

Granting you breathing room if only for an instant, a slow grin tugs at the edge of his lips.

“Then before I die, let me have this first.”

And he dives right back in again, kiss surprisingly tender compared to what you’d expected. Something bruising, dominating.

Instead, the King was soft. Soft as he held your cheek in a hand, soft when pulling you in by the waist.

Separating if only for a fraction of a second, you reach to hold his face, every instinct beckoning you to push him away dissipating into nothing but the nullified drone of your head and the insistent racing of your heartbeat.

“Are you that nervous, pretty? Your heart is-“

You pull him to your lips once more, hating how easy it is to forget, how his lips numb your thoughts—though unable to get enough.

“Shut up and kiss me.”

The guests hollering in your peripheral the lone sound breaching your eardrums, you can’t help thinking.

He did this for his people just as you would’ve done. As for the Mage instigating the war, some secrets shall remain hidden, unable to be answered. You have to accept that among many things.

The King has done nothing but care for you, and as much as you resent him for it, you respect him, if only a tiny bit, as well.

He’s irritable, and not to mention annoyingly handsome. His sympathy-filled eyes might be the death of you, and those dimples of his are stupidly lovable.

But he’s your husband, and somehow, strangely enough, you don’t find yourself hating the thought as much anymore.

Not when he holds you, and especially not when he kisses you as if it’s your last.

After the many hours spent celebrating, you couldn’t have been more enthusiastic about returning to your quarters.

Joined by King Bahng, you find traversing as easy as ever with the help of the (half) Beast behind you, helping navigate past multitudes of people, oddly comforting touch on your back guiding you through the hallways.

Arriving at your room, he pauses, awkwardly shifting his weight on his heels, bewitching gaze flitting left and right, uncharacteristic to his usually smug attitude.

“…Was the kiss too much?”

King Bahng, asking if his kiss was too much?

You wanted to photograph this moment in your mind forever, debating on whether you should tease him about it, egg the normally stoic King on.

However, you tip his chin down, pressing a chaste, soft peck to his lips, amusedly observing him freeze before melting into your touch.

“Could be better.”

He huffs a sigh in response, and you’re left wondering if this is the same man who threatened to break you, the one who now looks like a pouty toddler.

Although, just as you slip by, he takes ahold of your wrist.

“Goodnight Y/N.”

You crack a smile.

“Good night Chris.”

And, suppressing your chuckle, you close the door behind you.

Hastily undressing into nightwear and slipping into bed, you stare up at the ceiling, hours passing from the ticking of a clock in the corner, echoing around the room.

Then, abruptly, your door creaks open.

“My gods, what are you doing here?” You whisper into the darkness, the door creaking behind his crouched form, King Bahng’s crouched form.

“I needed to see you.”

Ah. Don’t say things like that.

Pulling the covers further over yourself, you squint accusingly at the man as he enters, silencing your urge to reprimand he saw you mere hours earlier, presumptuously sitting opposite to you.

He scans what’s visible, fixating on your hand for a moment.

“You kept the ring on?”

Noting the gleaming jewel on your ring finger, you can’t help but feel slightly bashful. It’s not like you’re really married, but the thought sends a sort of satisfaction spreading throughout your chest.

“If I take it off, will it become winter again?”

He grins, giggling childishly.

“Is that the only reason?”

Debating on your response, you wet your lips, looking back up at his barely distinguishable face shrouded in darkness.

You have no doubt he’s thriving off your hesitance.

Oh how badly you wish to wipe that look clean, but in reality, keeping the ring on feels as if a part of you from your own kingdom is with you, similar to your old clothing.

The part of you that, if not invaded, would belong to someone loved, newly wedded.

“No,” You mutter, though the phrase is barely audible.

He perks up.

“Hm?”

You regret saying that. But he’s already heard, there’s no use lying aimlessly.

“I said no, that’s not the only reason.”

“Care to tell me the other reason?”

Rapidly averting your attention to your hand, you discover speaking is easier when not looking at him.

“Keeping it on makes me feel like I’m really in love. I like imagining that, being married.”

You miss the sad lilt crossing his face.

“We are married.”

Without missing a beat, you meet his stare.

“Are we?”

Unlike before, there’s no waver to your voice, no caution.

Winding around to your side of the bed, he settles beside your feet.

You clear your throat.

“I wanted to see spring again, and to you, I’m simply a present. A playtoy to your disposal. This isn’t marriage, not how I was taught, this is just a business arrangement.”

Nevertheless, the hurt leaks into your voice. So long to a resilient tone.

“Y/N, don’t do this to me.”

Come to think of it, it’s the first time he’s ever called you by your name apart from last night.

Having had enough of his nonsense, you spring for his collar, dragging him below you on the bed. Opposite to earlier, you’re on top this time, you’re in control.

“You don’t deny it.”

A silence passes.

“I would deny it a thousand times, but you wouldn’t believe me. And I don’t blame you for that.”

He sucks in a breath.

“I only ask you don’t doubt this marriage. This isn’t a business arrangement, and I will treat you with as much respect and love as possible, even if you don’t want me too. That is what marriage is, how I was taught.”

It’s your turn to inhale, lost within the confines of this dark space.

“Chris, do you love me?”

You both have people you love, people you want to protect, wanted to protect. It wasn’t his intention to hurt you, not when he found you after you ran away, not when ordering a salve to keep you safe, nor now, as you lean above him.

Like he told you. You weren’t meant to survive. You were supposed to be peacefully asleep, forever.

This man, this Mage, this Beast, is as much a murderer as your savior. You choose how to condemn him.

“I do, more than you could ever imagine.”

How can you stay mad at a guilty man, a man who kept you alive when you were on the brink of death? Who now professes to loving you, wanting to give you a marriage you’d been cheated of, give you everything you’ve been cheated of with everything in his power.

Hovering right by his lips to the point your chests touch, you place a miniature kiss there.

“I hate you, so much.”

Then another kiss.

His arms, wrapped around your more elevated form, drag you down in an embrace. One hand presses your face to his shoulder, another rubbing circles on your back.

“And I’m so sorry, I’m so, so, sorry.”

Raising up, you can’t contain the tremor of your lip, the way your eyes shakily close shut as you steal a third kiss from his lips, a kiss he returns, hands carefully holding each side of your face.

“Chris?” You manage, currently straddling his lap, his body resting against the headboard.

Kindly, he keeps a palm against your lower back, helping you balance.

“Can you show me what it means to be loved?”

You never understood how a person could melt until this moment. He wears that look again, like in the forest. The look that makes you cry.

What love looks like for Christopher Bahng, you don’t know. You have no doubt there will be ugly moments, moments you’ll reconsider, rethink.

You’re both hurt, some wounds still hurting. But for him, for you, you’re willing to take that chance.

“I’d be honored.”

FIC TAGLIST. @stayceebs97 @duhgirl @yourgirljanvi @readr1221 @spearbinnie0327 @hyunjinsartpeice @cheesytangerine @palindrome969 @luminouskalopsia @kiaralynn3838 @chrizztopher97 @starlost-andfound @weeping-angel-in-the-tard1s @zaggprincess2

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b-plot-butch · 15 days ago

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lawrence angsting about being called a manager and not a shepherd and meanwhile sister agnes sees him languishing in all his anguish and goes. skill issue. get up your eminence we have shit to do.

#thomas lawrence #sister agnes #conclave 2024

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maopll · 2 years ago

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Could I request Kaeya, Diluc, Thoma and Ayato with an s/o who, when jealous, stays quiet and nuzzles her face into their chest.

SOLACE

# genshin impact !

⌗:, a/n: I would SQUISH my face into their tits your honour

⌗:, warning: might seem female inclined, mentions if petnames & endearments, lil angst in ayato

⌗:, pairings: kaeya, diluc, thoma, ayato & gn!reader (separately)

You two went out on a date after a long time because moments like these were sparse because of his hectic schedule, hoping to spend a romantic time together only for a random woman to turn your mood sour as they started flirting with your already taken lover....he got the random lady away but your reaction is....

KAEYA —

Less than a dozen words were shared between you two while returning home. Kaeya has never been this tensed about the current situation. He has handled many of these with ease only since they were work related, but with you,it's a different story. He closed the door behind, and when he tried to say sorry, you suddenly tackled him and hid your face in his chest.

He was quite surprised, but his gaze grew soft as he hugged you back, his one hand caressing your head and the other one wrapped tightly around your waist. "Were you jealous dear?" he asked teasingly. "just...stay close to me next time someone approaches..." you said sheepishly, words barely above a whisper, but he heard your words. Your ears and face were almost on fire because of how embarrassed you felt since you got jealous because of just a chance encounter between your lover and a random lady. He let out a hearty laughter and kissed you because of how adorable you were acting. He promises you that he would never abandon you nor be the reason of your tears.

DILUC —

He was tensed and anxious, thinking he might have ruined your once jolly mood with just the appearance of a random woman who you clearly did not like. But oh god...this situation is bad, you weren't even talking nor holding his hand. Once inside the house, he hung his coat and made a beeline towards the shower so that he could think of some words that might make you feel better.

As soon as he stepped foot outside the shower, you wrapped your arms around his neck and nuzzled your neck in his shoulder. He hugged your waist to give you support to lean on since your feet were clearly not touching the ground. His hair still wet, and the towel hung low on his waist. He was surprised by your sudden move. "Dear? you might get wet..." he further nuzzled your face into his neck, "y'know I did not like when you were around that woman...". His eyes grew wide, he was taken aback but he grinned softly. A soft chuckle reverberated from his chest and he softly kissed you on the lips. "why must I talk to another lady when I already have an angel beside me ?". You smiled seeing his lovesick face with a bright red blush akin to the colour of his hair.

THOMA —

He was already tired after all the housework he had to do and now he had to deal with a lady who suddenly started to claim him as hers. He knew your feelings like the back of his hand and he could very well understand that you didn't take the conversation between your lover and that lady very well.

It was already quite late into the night. While on your way he decided to confront you at the bridge in inazuma city. " [name]...did I offend you somehow ? please don't be angel I'm sorry.." Although you two share a lot with eachother and believed that none of you would cheat, he knew you felt jealous inside and being the good boyfriend he is he wanted to comfort his dearest the most. "so let me make it up to you plea—" before he could finish his sentence you kissed him, rather roughly, but that familiar love was eminent. "there...don't be sorry over everything...you couldn't have possibly guessed her trying to make a move on you yeah?". You held him close to you by his neck. "but! I still do deserve to be cuddled...I hope you are not going to take back your words babe?". He heartily laughed at your so adorable and sweet behaviour. How can he refuse the wishes of his beloved when you are acting so cute.

AYATO —

"dear? are you still mad at me?" he would quietly ask but your mind was still occupied with the idea of ayato with someone other that yourself. You loved him dearly and he reciprocated the same feelings to you. But you could never forget the difference in status and power between you two. Although he promised to not let the barrier of status in society hinder your relationship, you couldn't help but feel worried and sad more than jealous. However, you had to admit that you were, truly, jealous.

"Love?" he said a little loudly "I've been trying to call you..what happened?". Your mind has been so preoccupied the last few minutes that you didn't realise you were at Chinju forest. You abruptly hugged him, wrapping your arms around his neck. "ayato, you'd never leave me right? you will always love me right?" you said softly but the pain evident in your voice. He knows you like the back of his hand. He caressed you back carefully and whispered in your ear with gentleness "I am forever yours darling" he turned his eyes to look at you "now dry those tears, you know how I would do anything for you". His words provided you faith. You cracked a smile on your lips "now my darling looks beautiful!" he kissed you on the lips and you once again resumed the journey towards your humble abode.

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brailsthesmolgurl · 1 year ago

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CHASTENED

The Foreseer was only tasked with one job, to be the guardian of the Creation Protocore under Astra's rule. Men of all walks of life, all kinds of statuses tried to get close to the Creatio Protocore only to deeply regret their decisions. But how about a young lass at the verge of death with a motive to steal the eminent gem takes on the impossible challenge?

Warnings: Angst, Extreme Pain, Character Death, Blood and Gore, consideration of a part two soon. Spoiler towards Zayne's lore.

Y/N pulled her coat tighter over herself, the huge bundle of animal fur still not effective against the harsh gales of the region. Her lips were severely chapped, if she were to lick them at any point, she might either end up with her tongue stuck to her lips for the remainder of the journey, or else she would have a bleeding issue. None of the options on the table present a feasible method.

The tower sprouted from below the hills, the achromatic slates of the gray towers stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the span of white snows. The sight of the towers a reminder to her that she just needs to hang on a bit longer to get to her destination. The closer she reaches the towers, the smaller she felt as compared to the towering structure.

She stood at the doors that could easily fit a snow giant and looked at the scriptures carved onto the heavy doors. '𝕿𝖔 𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖘𝖊 𝖉𝖔𝖔𝖗𝖘, 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖕𝖑𝖎𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝖆 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖆 𝖈𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖆𝖗𝖞. 𝕿𝖔 𝖌𝖆𝖎𝖓 𝖆𝖈𝖈𝖊𝖊𝖘 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕱𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖊𝖗, 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖕𝖚𝖗𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖊, 𝖙𝖔 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖞𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕱𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖊𝖗. 𝕿𝖔 𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖊𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖆 𝖉𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖞, 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊 𝖇𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖔 𝖆𝖈𝖈𝖊𝖕𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖗 𝖔𝖜𝖓 𝖋𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝖎𝖋 𝖎𝖙𝖘 𝖋𝖆𝖙𝖆𝖑.'

Pulling off layers and layers of animal fur, she revealed her uniform underneath, a chain mail clad to her small stature, with a layer of thick yet fine leather draped above a gown of woven silk. The emblem of the castle she hailed from sewn onto the front and back of her leather armour. You see, this trick of hers would cost her kingdom a great fortune as every century, the King would send his troops out to the Towers of Thorns to receive a prophecy for the next coming century.

It has been a tradition since the first formation of the kingdom. However, y/n had travelled regions beyond one's imagination, to get an answer for her cure. However, all answers lead back to the towers she is currently entering into. There was a small door which is of the size of a mundane. She pushed the door and it creaked open, heavy iron scraped against the snow covered grounds. The snow becoming a good lubricant for the cracks that grew deeper into the floors.

She managed to squeeze into the small opening and was met with a huge hall, tall ceilings held up by pillars made of solid mortar. A highly sought after material for her nation, to build their own castles and for the symbol of wealth. Mortars were shipped in by boats from lands afar but coming across it is entirely rare. Chandeliers made of soft rime hung from the high ceilings, with the purpose to capture the moonlight at night and to provide what little lighting the hall already has.

The hall would have easily been mistaken to be a ballroom hall, if it was not so dead and cold. Literally dead and cold. Y/n figured if there were a bit more decorations; such as extravagant paintings, sculptures and better lighting, this place could easily surpass all of the other ballroom halls she had ever attended. She walked towards the end of the ballroom hall, a huge and wide flight of stairs welcomed within her sight.

Up to the second floor, the floor had transitioned from tiled marble to stone made out of the hands of a very talented stonemason, given its adjacent patterns. The halls presented on both side were long and seemingly endless, with only four doors occupying on each of the sides. She will have to figure out eventually which room leads to the Foreseer.

She came to the last door, disappointment slowly etched onto her face as she have only been greeted with nothing but empty rooms. She actually wondered for a moment if she had ended up in an abandoned castle. The last door opened with a slight creak to its hinges and she saw a spiral staircase leading upwards. Off she went, feet stepping onto the steps carefully as they are quite steep.

She came across another room, a larger one this time, but not as big as the ballroom hall she had first entered. Windows aligned the room, a sight she has been missing out for a bit when she was exploring downstairs. The middle sat a man, eyes closed as if he was resting, with a large sceptre in his hand and the Creatio Protocore floating within it.

That is the Foreseer. Her mind spoke out as she slowly approached the man in slumber. She had only heard of stories of the Foreseer, but she had never known that he was this handsome? This could explain why troops that were dispatched to this tower refused to reveal the looks of Foreseer. It was clear jealousy brewed within those men, if they were to describe the Foreseer as how y/n is admiring his features, the troops would not be scoring any women anytime soon and this castle could and would be swarmed by females.

The Foreseer's skin was pale, akin to the snow that surrounds the tower, but his raven hair a contrast to his complexion. He adorned a dark blue outfit, that carries an iridescence of silver, a subtle match to his silver accessories that were embroidered onto the ends of his long coat and sleeves. His hands were hidden under a pair of gloves just as black as his hair and he was sat in his throne. Or more like chained down to it.

Eyeing the Creatio Protocore, y/n thinks it would be the best timing to grab the protocore now while he was still sound asleep. She reached her hand out to inch closer to the sceptre, but when she is close enough, the Foreseer's eyes opened and he turned his head to look at her. She clumsily fell, startled by his sudden wake. "What do you think you are doing mortal?" The Foreseer's voice was surprisingly low, no hints of grogginess despite him just waking up.

"I represent the troops from the land nearby to receive the prophecy for the next centenary. I would wish to know it so that I may bring the destiny back to my people." She lied, pushing herself off of the cold floor. The back of her gown now stained wet but she could care less.

"The tradition has been banished I see." The Foreseer slowly blinked his eyes, to wake himself up better and took in a deep breath. "You are not here for your people. But it is for your own." His eyes snapped towards her, deep forest greens darkened.

"I...I..." She hesitated, eyes darting everywhere when she tried to come up with a valid explanation for what she was trying to do earlier. "I need the Creatio Protocore, in order to cure my heart that is dying of a reason that nobody could elucidate."

The chains wrapped around the Foreseer emitted a faint glow and she watched them disappeared off of his body, except for his thorax. The chains on his torso were pointy but it rested comfortably on him, with every breath it takes, the chains expanded and contracted accordingly. "It is very assumptive of you to think I would give it to you, just because you asked nicely. What a fool you could be." He remained seated on his throne. "Many men who stepped foot in here with reasons and excuses similar to yours ends up getting deprived of their existence. Should you wish for the same ending as them?"

"No. Please no." She begged, getting onto her knees this time. "Please do not kill me. I will do anything. But please do not kill me."

"Even if I do not, your heart shall anyways." He acknowledged, beckoning her to her feet. "As punishment, you shall remain in this tower to serve me through the end of your days." His voice and facial expressions are alike, stoic. "Should you try to leave, I shall not show you any mercy as how I have dealt with the previous trespassers."

"Where are we going?" Y/n asked, speeding up her footsteps behind the raven haired man. The man had woken her up, provided her with a few pieces of rye bread and here they are, walking up a stair well that goes up in a spiral. The rye bread she had yet to finish still in her hands. She was worried she might get motion sickness and waste what had already went down her throat. The Foreseer remained silent, footsteps steady on every step. A candlestick within his grasp, illuminating the steps ahead.

A thud followed by a creak was heard and sunlight poured in. Both of them had arrived to a roof top. Not being a lover for low temperatures, the warmth of the sunlight made her sighed in enjoyment. "Come here." The Foreseer called out to her and she went towards him, towards the stone barrier. Her eyes widened when she took in the view of the snowy mountains in the far distance, the snow had came to a halt, leaving white traces over the whole span of land ahead, with occasional barren stalks of trees reminding her the consequences of the harsh winter. She never knew she could find beauty within a sea of pristine white.

"This shall be your punishment." He pointed towards a small pot on top of the stone barrier, a single bud remained unbloomed. "Bloom this plant and your punishment shall be voided and you shall regain freedom." Y/N raise her head to meet his gaze, blinking in confusion.

"The weather is so cold here, I don't think it will be able to bloom under such harsh conditions." His never-changing expressions made her gulped. "Nevertheless, I would give it my all." Her surrendering stance made him huffed in approval. "So do you come up here often?"

"Making small talk I see." He turned to face the view. "Casual notes will not lessen your punishment."

"I know for sure it would make our accompaniment more pleasant." Her bravery got commended when the man eyed her for a second. "I certainly do not wish to spend the last of my days talking to a wall or a flower when I acknowledge the existence of another person within the same confinement as me."

"I come up here whenever I want to see the view, or to be under the sun." He replied.

She pointed towards the bud in the pot. "How and where did you obtained that because it will practically be impossible for you to find that out in the cold here."

"Someone gifted this to me and this is not an ordinary flower." His gloved hand traced the clay pot that holds the bud in place. "I was told it could bloom even in the harshest of winters. So, ensuring the flower to bloom shall be your expertise."

A series of shrill chirps pierced through the silence and both of them looked up in sync. The man looked relaxed while poor y/n looked like she was about to witness god herself, although she is already in the vicinity of one. "What is that sound?" Her hands were halfway lifted up, next to her ears, getting ready to cover either her head or ears, depending on what happens next and whether it would involve her head or ears. "I have never heard of such sounds!"

The chirps are continuous, leading her to cover her ears with her small hands. A gust of wind hit her head and down came a bird-like creature, about the size of a hawk. The bird-like creature is almost-crystal like, coated in a silverish blue from head to toe, body texture a close resemblance to crystal glass on chandeliers. It's raptorial claws beats the impression of it being a fragile bird. "This is an Arcticyon, they pass by here whenever they migrate. Alas, that was eons ago." His look resembled a quaint longingness, staring at the bird.

"I suppose being in the cold, all the way out here, away from civilisation, things get pretty lonesome." His cold gaze returning and the bird rejoiced with it's flock in the skies, a moving blue cloud then proceeds towards the opposite direction it came from.

"You are not here to study my behaviour. Your curiosity almost led to your own demise." His cruel reminder made her wished she never said anything earlier on.

After a couple of days, the daily routine of caring for the bud got emblazoned into her head. She was assigned to a room which has all of the amenities she needed to keep herself alive and entertained. That includes having her own clothes, food sources and bathroom. She assumed all of which are a part of gifts from the royals who came to visit.

She got out of bed at the crack of dawn, the sun peeking over the horizon of one of the mountains in the far distance provided a normal circadian rhythm for her. Time is not a limitation here for her, she is free to explore within the towers. Visiting the Foreseer is out of the question for her. She lit up a candle and started climbing her way up to the top of the tower, speeding up her footsteps just so she could catch sight of the early sunrise. It is an unspoken competition now.

When she arrived to the top, the Foreseer had already beaten her to it. Not that he had ever been a part of this 'competition' of hers but she did not expected him to be up here this early. "Good morning---" Her right arm violently jerked and she gasped in surprise, the candle falling from her hand and onto the snowy ground, instantly getting extinguished. Hands were tightly pressed to her chest, screams muffled with her biting down harshly onto her lips. Tears welled up in her eye sockets almost instantly.

The Foreseer approached her, watching her closely as she faltered to the snowy grounds. He said nothing, but stood next to her figure within reaching distance, awaiting for her next move. Her gloved arm make it hard for him to assess where is her actual pain spot. Her twitching slowed and he took a step back, to give her some personal space till he noticed something falling from her face, wetting the grounds beneath. She is crying.

He was about to take a step closer but she pushed herself off of the floor, head remained facing downwards and muttered under her breath, fleeting misty clouds formed when she spoke. "Good morning, I will go ahead to water the bud now." She took her time to walk over towards the edge of the rooftop and there sat the pot, with the bud already at the verge of blooming. She surely have a good pair of green fingers, just like what the Foreseer had suspected.

The Foreseer could see why she needed the Creatio Protocore now. Her weakness hails from her once in a lifetime disease, Cryotasis. This disease only occurs to people whom are born to be Astra's nemesis. The God inflicting this upon the chosen one a sign of a cruel punishment, and nothing could heal them other than the Creatio Protocore. Throughout centurions, the Foreseer had witnessed only a handful of Cryotasis victims, mostly wanting to get the protocore so that they could heal themselves, but of course, the Foreseer would never succumb to the greed of a mundane. But now, she is the tainted individual, cursed with the touch of a God.

"Are you alright?" He could not stop those words from rolling off of the tip of his tongue. It was certainly very rare for him to ask someone about their condition, not that he ever thought about caring either. He is incapable of sensing emotions or resonating with them but with her, she makes him feel things that he had never felt before. It is a new sensation for him, so maybe that is why he thought it was only right for him to ask if she was okay.

"Yeah I am used to it by now." And he saw a reflection of him, a fraction of him in her. How she holds back her pain and diverts her attention to something else to suppress her mind. Whenever he felt lonely, he too, would divert himself from having to feel the loneliness creeping in. Her words of dismissal made the man leave her to her own desolation. When the Foreseer had went down the steps, she lifted her sleeve up, the blue veins stuck out like a sore thumb against her pale skintone, imprints of webbed and black snowflakes emblazoned on her skin, cold to the touch, even colder than the winter she is currently in if that makes any sense at all.

She ran her fingers over it, but it did not hurt, she only felt the scars raked across the pads of her fingers, but her affected arm did felt numb and stiff. The young maiden stood up, leaving the watering can by the side of the potted plant and she proceeded to head downstairs so she could layer on an extra coat. Upon arriving at her room, her wooden door was slightly ajar and she saw the man sat on the plush chair inside of her room, a book held up to his face and his legs crossed comfortably. "Come in."

"I never thought I would be able to see you read." She commented, slotting herself into the adequately sized room. The Foreseer paused momentarily, book lowered and his icy stare pierced through her, just like his following sentence.

"First, you asked me about being on the roof and now you are mocking me about my habits." Although she never had that intention to mock him but she could tell he does not like sharing anything about himself. He is a lone man locked in a tower afterall, the act of sharing would practically be impossible. "I may be a deity who has responsibilities, but this does not defer me from my hobbies." Tapping the hard cover of the book, she took a seat on the edge of her bed, trying to initiate more conversations and the day went by, with them both exchanging conversations. More like her asking him questions and him replying in impermanent statements.

But two weeks had passed, with her being reluctant to leave now. Be it her wounds are getting more and more severe, the cryotasis on her arms had gotten so severe that she had limited movement for her thumbs, sometimes not being able to bend it to pick things up or to hold things. The nights she had spent rolled up in bed, enduring the excruciating pain littered all over her arm. Stygian veins now a replacement of her previous symptom and she strongly believe that she is rotting from the inside out.

The knock on her door woke her up, eyes snapped open. “May I let myself in?” The voice of the only man she had been acquainted with for the past two weeks came through the other side of the wooden obstacle at the entrance.

“Yes you may.” She could not hide the weakness in her voice. The door then opened up, revealing The Foreseer in his usual outfit but without the blue coat this time around. He claimed that his coat resembles nothing more than an accessory and she remembered teasing him about accessorising himself even though he does not even have any visitors on a daily basis. His retort was witty, turning the table she had set against herself, emphasising that if it was not for him, she would have been stuck in the clothes she had originally worn and the amount of methane gas buildup on her would have made the Foreseer kicked her out of the tower.

He stood still at the entryway, lips slightly parted as his eyes traced the maiden in front of him, from top to bottom. Her cheeks flushed at the way she was being stared at. This is the very first time the deity had looked at her so tediously. “We need to get you to the hall downstairs.” His feet hurried across the floor and he scooped her up into his arms, her squeaking in response to his sudden actions. Till she realised that she no longer felt like she had a pair of legs. Her thoughts of the Foreseer wanting to make a move on her immediately got diminished. She is now in her late stages and there is nothing she could do. Nor would she want to do anything about it. She realised throughout these past weeks, she had fell for the man, the deity himself who showed her no signs of interest other than entertaining her questions with one-worded sentences.

She was pretty certain that she has a one-sided affection towards the man holding her now. His footsteps are hurried, the sound of his shoes thumping against the tiled floors echoed through the long hallways. As she was about to say something, another series of pain struck her and she arched her back involuntarily, wailing in pain. The man laid her down onto the floor instantaneously and he held her torso up to keep her from breaking her back. She did not know that this man, the deity himself reciprocates the same feeling towards her. This only took him a week to finally come to a conclusion to the ache in his heart. He ached for her belongingness, her company, her smile, her curiosity; he is in love with her.

The eyes of the deity burnished into flames of gold and the sceptre that houses the Creatio Protocore formed in mid air and landed into the hands of the Foreseer. She had regained her breathing, still panting heavily with tears slowly forming icicles on her pale stricken face. The linings of black veins now climbing upwards like vile vines towards her neckline, peeking out from the collars of her night gown. The parasitic nature of the curse now taking its full course on her. “The Creatio Protocore will heal you.” The deity looked at her and for the first time, she could notice emotions within his gaze. “For that, I shall give it to you.”

“No you can’t, you can’t do it.” She used every last bit of strength she had left in her body to push herself up, watching the deity kneeling on one of his knees, statued right in front of her. “You will lose your life.” He had explained to her the sole purpose of his being and presence within this world. He is only here, as his name suggests, as a tool of Astra, as a Foreseer of men. His duty held him back from having to step out of the premises of the towers and that he is strictly forbidden to foresee his own future. She called it an irony, but he called it his responsibility. “Don’t do this for me. You know how important you are to us, to everyone who looks up to you.”

The maiden staggered and he caught her by her waist, pulling her closer to him effortlessly. “What a fool of you to come up with that, through my own will, I shall be losing my sole purpose of living to someone of significant importance to me.” He ran his fingers through her hair, his touch warm and gentle, unlike what she had expected, including this intimate moment between the both of them. His willingness to kill himself just to save her received an immediate rejection from her but it fell upon deaf ears as the deity remained stubborn with his decision. “With this, I bequeath my Protocore to you. So you are to be set free from Astra’s curse.”

The sceptre emitted a blinding light, a high pitched screech came along with it and the both of them closed their eyes together. She hung onto his coat as blustery winds engulfed them, a pathetic attempt to try and separate the both of them. The Foreseer’s grip tightened on her waist, pulling her closer to him till her face caved into his neck. Once the gale had stopped, she pulled back from his embrace and she sat up hurriedly, eyes bearing concern as her sobs jerked her back to reality. The physical pain of hers disappeared but not applied to her faint heart as she watched his skin take on the shade of cement, grey and tough-looking. He is solidifying, a common telltale sign of deities dying before they fade into dust. “No. No. NO!” Her screams elevated with every word, hands coming up to cup his face, his eyes meeting hers directly. Orbs of hazel brown and deep green held emotions that meant the world to her at this moment. “Please no.”

The man pulled one side of his lips upwards, a crooked smile landed its way on his face and he spoke what was seemingly his last sentence. “I hope in the next life, we shall never cross paths again as I shall always pick you over anything else.” He let out a soft chuckle, already accepting the fate of him dying. “I love you.” He then leaned in, sealing their lips together for the first and last kiss before his body fully solidified and she was kissing nothing more than a statue. She did not even got a chance to tell him about how she felt.

She was caught up in an emotional turmoil, losing him after a confession was the worst ending she could hope for. But the blinding light behind her lover made her covered her eyes. Uncovering her vision, she noticed a lady had appeared from the source of light, adorned in gold that could build a whole empire, her olive skin a compliment to her outfit. She matched the description of Astra, with aura that immediately establishes tension within the whole hall and with eyes the shade of the iridescence of the sun, sometimes yellow and sometimes orange. Tutting both in disappointment and strong indignation, the deity stood in front of the couple, her height towered over the late deity whom kneeled in front of her. “Betrayal is what I caught on I suppose.” Her voice booming, reverberating through the hall. “A mere sign of affection towards a mundane cost him his life. What a blot on one’s escutcheon.” Although she was talking to herself, her statement indirectly suggested towards the maiden bawling on the floor.

“Now.” The deity continued, proceeding towards the mundane. “A tool I shall make of you. I hope you shall not be a replica of such a failure.” Snapping her finger, the maiden cried out as she too, experience the same fate of solidifying, just like the deity she had fell in love with. The both of them then sat as a centrepiece in the grand hall. One wore the expression of acceptance while another the opposite of it. Astra smirked, determined to make them suffer as the jasmine on the rooftop bloomed exuberantly, marking the memory of the man coming to an end and soon to be renewed in his next life.

Another deity series started and ofc, this shall take course just like how the Rafayel series did, so stay tuned for more angst my loves <3

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #zayne love and deepspace #lnds #rafayel love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #zayne angst #zayne lnds #zayne x reader

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daragona · 20 days ago

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Beguiled | Chapter I:

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | strong language; dark!content; infidelity; angst; smut; manipulation (from the reader and others); obsessive behaviour from our leading men; complicated dad-daughter relationships; power imbalance; time-accurate misogyny and sexist behaviour; political intrigue; etc.

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | As the daughter of a great man, you're used to putting great effort into your father's cause. But when you're tasked with getting the Queen and the King's best friend into an affair, you might see more consequences than you bargained for. (Zemo! Reader, Medieval/Tudor! AU)

– Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

Your words pass through the wooden trellis between you, nearly lost beneath the languid murmur of Latin prayers coming from the priest on the other side. The confessional is small, stuffy, and you fidget with the hem of your gown as you lower onto the kneeler. – It’s been… six hours since my last confession.

Silence.

The Latin stops short —cleaved clean by the sound of his head turning, followed by that rumbling laugh you know all too well. – That was awfully quick, child.

You settle on the cushion under your knees, smiling. – I am a very efficient sinner, if I may say so myself, Your Eminence.

His laughter grows louder. – Shall we add presumptuousness to the growing list of sins you seek absolution for, dear girl?

You chuckle, rolling the rosary beads between your restless fingers. – Do forgive, Father, but as my list of committed sins goes—

– Father?!

You fall silent immediately.

A rookie mistake. One he has corrected you for one too many times. You bite your tongue, bowing your head despite the fact he neither looks at you, nor could see you if he did. – I meant it in the ecclesiastical sense—

– You meant it in the way I know you did. – He scolds. – If you make a habit of—of that word, you’ll say it where you shouldn’t. Even walls have ears in this castle, I cannot afford any scandal. I won’t warn you again.

The moment of grace between you shatters like glass.

– As you wish… uncle.

– Don’t be insolent, now.

The beads bite into your palm. You correct yourself before your bitterness slips out again. – As you wish, Your Eminence.

– Speak your sins. Unburden your soul to me, that God may forgive you.

There is no burden in your soul.

You've sinned and you’ve shamed yourself, and yet your conscience is as light as a feather.

You have him to thank for that—He’s trained you to commit sin without guilt so long as it contributes to his cause. After years of obedience, your soul is as bloodied as his hands, and yet, you feel nothing of it.

– I’ve corrupted myself. – You begin, ashamed not for the crimes you are about to confess, but for the slip up you’ve just commited. – I have given coin as bribe to the Queen's handmaidens, to keep me informed of what passes within the royal chambers. I’ve traded…favors with his Majesty's closest royal guard for the same cause. Not to mention his footmen. – There’s a sound of approval —soft, almost aloof. Your father does not flinch at the thought of you whoring yourself for his intelligence. Maybe he doesn’t mind that you do. To him, it might just be another means to an end, as he so often puts it. Or maybe he simply doesn’t care. – I regret to say, Your Eminence, the news are grim.

Light filters through the screen of his door. You catch a glimpse of his face then, shadowed under the weight of his robes, under the pattern of the screen, under the years of work he's put in to never reveal too much at once. The ruby in his ring catches what little gleam of light the confessional grants.

For a moment, as you eye him through the trellis, you think there is something in his eyes —interest, perhaps. Pride. Amusement.

But you can never tell. Not with him.

The only emotions he conveys with any clarity are frustration, anger and disappointment— And before you even speak again, you know he'll feel all three of those as you reveal what you've discovered at last.

– Go on. – He insists, already impatient.

You don’t take much longer: – Their Majesties have once more come to blows over the question of Princess Mary’s betrothal.

He shifts, sitting up too suddenly, the impatience turning to denial at the flick of an eye. – No. No. That is impossible. The deal with Asgard has been—

You don’t wait for permission to speak.

– I’ve gathered from multiple sources that the Queen has yet again caught His Majesty abed with an Asgardian woman. Perhaps the recurrence in his choice of mistress has offended her, perhaps she already disliked Asgardians before. It does not matter. What matters is that the agreement with Prince Thor is thus dissolved in all but name.

His head sinks into his hands, the weight of months of diplomacy crashing down like stone. He had your brother accompany him to the diplomatic visit he used to secure the arrangement with Queen Frigga, and left you behind to report the whispers of courtiers back to him in his absence.

It took him six weeks to convince the woman that the marriage was a good idea. You have no idea what he forfeited so she would accept, but you can already feel his anger, seeping off of him in waves. – God be good… Steven! Could he not be more careful?!

– What King is ever careful?

– Not Steven, that much is certain!

– The guard tells me His Majesty has gathered anger of his own, and now, to spite his wife, he intends to revive the old pact to marry the Princess to the Duke of Carthage.

– Stark?! – His voice climbs. – No. No — he must be losing his mind! That's the only explanation. Carthage is a wasteland! England cannot depend on the mining of iron and the building of machines to keep itself afloat. Steven must know that!

– I have my doubts, your Eminence. – He doesn’t pay any mind to your disrespect, still shaking his head profusely. – The Queen’s handmaiden tells me that Her Majesty dictated a letter to her cousin, King T’Challa, suggesting that a union be made between Princess Mary and Prince Azari of Wakanda.

He bangs his fist against the side of the screen. You shift back, but don't startle, already used to his antics. – To punish me, surely. As is her habit! – He bemoans. – I tell you, girl. She lives for no other reason than to spite me. And after all I’ve done… After all that my predecessor sacrificed to marry her to Steven! I did warn him. The poor man must be rolling in his grave…

– Advising is a thankless job, – You hum. He nods along, oblivious to the double edge of your tone. – It gets worse, I'm afraid.

Your father falls silent again, his eyes betraying outrage even though you can barely see him.

– Well, do go on.

– One of our friends in Wakanda reports the Queen’s wakandan cousin is due to arrive before the Feast of Saint Michael. In secret. He brings a cleric… and a jewel-studded dowry.

He turns toward the light, as if it might burn the fury out of him. – A clandestine engagement? What does she think this is? A love song?!

– A ceremony, I believe, and she might yet be able to have this come to pass, should His Majesty’s indiscretions find their way to the ears of the conclave.

Your father leans back. You hear the shift of fabric, the creak of the old wood, and can all but picture the way his fingers steeple beneath his chin. – Then it must not.

– Your Eminence?

– The conclave cannot know. Not yet. We are not prepared. After Steven's stunt with the Pope's mistress… We are already on thin ice! – He groans, rubs his temples, looks at you, tired, spent, like a man begging for mercy. – But you would not have left your duties unattended to confess to me a single sin, would you?

You forget that he knows you well.

Sometimes you wonder how much of what he knows of you is what he sees in the mirror, and how much of it is actually yours.

You wonder if there is anything yours to speak of.

– No.

– So you have more to tell me.

– I do, your Eminence. But the news are similarly grim.

Your father exhales like a dying man —slow, theatrical, measured. – Then let us have it. The full confession. I’ll not grant you absolution in parts.

– The Asgardian was not alone.

– What?

– She came with others. The guard thinks they were sent as a gift, by Prince Loki. I suspected the elder prince, but neither one of them wants this union, so—

– King Steven entertained all of them?

You shrug. Sometimes it's better to let the information speak for itself than make it worse by over explaining it. – The Queen found four women in His Majesty’s chambers. Two of them sisters. One… a cousin.

There is a long, stunned silence— Not the stunned silence you'd expect from a clergyman hearing of such debauchery. The silence of a man who's trying desperately to think of something that could excuse it.

Your father sits back and groans like a man who’s just been told the world is ending, but not soon enough. – Four?!

You nod.

– The guard told me he thanked them for their “diplomatic service.” – You recall his laughter, and bite your lip so you don't make the same mistake.

Your father puts a hand over his eyes. – God deliver me from these honey-tongued harlots.

– And kings.

That earns you a sharp glance, but he does not scold, this time. Only sighs.

– He could not keep his belt fastened for a fortnight if the world depended on it. And the Queen, insufferable crone though she is —Lord help us— she’s not wrong to be furious.

You let the silence hang between you two for a moment.

– Her fury will not die down easily.

– Of course not. Nothing in my life can ever be easy. – His Eminence rubs his temples. – If the conclave catches wind of this, we’ll have a papal inquest in the middle of Michaelmas. If the Pope doesn’t laugh himself to death first!

– You think his Holiness would find amusement in the prospect of a tri-state war?

His eyes grow grave. His brow twitches. – I think that lecher would find delight in the sight of children dying so long as their blood did not stain his precious garments.

You swallow the words that'd been forming on your lips, though your throat is suddenly dry. – I took the liberty of… removing something. My second sin in these six hours, God forgive.

– What have you done now, girl?

The edge in his voice is sudden and sharp. For a second, you flinch. – Her Majesty’s letter to Wakanda. – You shift the parchment through one of the gaps of the trellis, the wax seal creaking quietly as you roll the paper to push it towards him. – I intercepted it before it could leave the castle. The courier was redirected to deliver a forged copy —vague, flowery, harmless. As is her habit.

Silence.

– You forged the Queen’s hand? – He asks, in a tone that's almost accusatory.

– Her scribe’s hand. – You clarify, as if it made the crime any less fatal. – The only thing of her I took was the seal on the original letter. Which I glued on the decoy with similarly colored wax, from your desk. I hope you don't mind.

A pause.

For a moment you think some lapse of morality has befallen him, and that he might scold you for your crime.

But it doesn’t take long before you hear his laughter echo against the walls of your little confessional. – Clever girl.

You close your eyes.

It shouldn’t bring a smile to your face.

But you can't help it.

– Was I right to do so?

– That’s not the question. – He leans forward, voice low, smile playful. – The question is: can you do it again, should the Queen write another?

You don’t hesitate.

Your father might fancy himself a wolf in sheep's clothing, but you know for a fact wolves and sheep enjoy flattery just the same. – If I have your Eminence's blessing I can do anything.

He laughs again, low, pleased, approving.

His eyes meet yours through the trellis, gleaming. Whether the gleam is born from pride or merely from catching his own reflection on the likeness of your face, you can never know, but your heart skips a beat regardless. – Then yes. You were right. God will forgive you, my child. As I have.

He looks away, happily fidgeting with the ruby on his Cardinal's ring before looking at you again.

– The letter, your Eminence.

– Your stolen letter. – He chuckles, bright, amused. Your chest grows heavy. – What of it?

– The Queen asked King T'Challa for absolution. In writing.

He looks at you, the amusement draining from his face as water from a syphon. – Where?

– Third to last paragraph. ‘I come to you, beloved cousin with the hopes that you will ease my heart as well as my worries for my daughter…’

– ‘...and spare me a moment, in private, where I might relay my heart and soul to your mercy.’ – A booming laughter blooms from his chest, mocking as the rest of him. You know better than to feel relief. This is not happy laughter. – What… What is her majesty getting at now?

– She does not say. Only that she has sinned, and wishes to be forgiven in the eyes of God before Saint Michael’s Day.

– He is not a priest. Why would he absolve her of her sins? – You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He turns to you, and stops cold as you raise your brows. – No. It cannot be. Tell me—

– She perfumed the letter with Lilac.

His eyes widen – Lilac? Why would that be—

– It's the same perfume her mother wore before her execution.

There's a beat of silence between you. Cold, tense, absolute. The silence of someone walking the plank to their death, or considering to throw the man behind them into the water before begging mercy. – …How do you know that?

– Our court is not the only one in which the walls have ears, your Eminence. King T'Challa's servants whisper. They say that he cannot borne the smell of lilac near him. That his eyes well-up if he so much as senses it from afar. – You laugh, more a scoff than a chuckle. – Apparently, upon one of Crown’s visits to Wakanda, King T'Challa locked himself in his rooms and sobbed as he sensed the perfume from an embrace with the Queen.

That lands.

It thuds between you like a thrown gauntlet. He closes his eyes, his smile fading completely. – And yet now, she would spritz this perfume over the letter. – He hums. – What for?

– Sentiment? Perhaps she was hoping he'd catch the glimpse of that perfume on the parchment and feel sympathethic to whatever she proposed.

– You think she means to martyr herself.

– Maybe. Lord knows she’s always thought of herself as one. These last few… indiscretions from the King have only furthered her self-aggrandizing humilities.

Your father breathes out through his nose. – She wishes to provoke a scandal. To humiliate him into docility. – He scoffs. Cruel, calculated. – Perhaps she is a woman, after all.

You ignore the comment.

– She should divorce him into exile. – You say it thoughtlessly. Quickly. Too quickly. Before your brain gets the chance to think it through. You regret the words as soon as they leave your mouth.

Your father laughs.

Loudly.

Delightedly.

As if the suggestion was so absurd it merited a moment for laughter alone. – Divorce him? – He intones. – You are not in Sokovia anymore, my dear. Women here cannot demand divorces. They can't command houses. They can't even leave their homes without the presence of a man, lest their royal guards condemn the for witchcraft. – He laughs again, with just as much delight, as if it's humorous instead of daunting. – They act as if we are the uncivilized ones, as if we are the heretics, because of out past. Of our religion. And yet they sack and pillage people's homes over superstitions. Stake them through spears like fowls. Treat their women like cattle and their men like rowdy children, waiting to throw a tantrum…What a land of fools!

You scoff, mouth suddenly bitter. – And yet it's this land you had us abandon home for.

His gaze cuts through the trellis again, eyes gleaming like the last coal in a fire refusing to die. – Watch your tongue, girl.

You incline your head.

You didn't lie. Your sentiment is no less true for his disaproval of it. But every bird has to know when to fold its wings, and you only fly when he gives you leave, or when he’s too far to notice. – I apologize, your Eminence.

He doesn’t hear your apology.

If you hadn't said it he would keep scolding you until he tired himself out, but now that you did, he doesn't acknowledge it.

You sigh, passing your rosary through your hands again, the flowery smell rises to meet your nose as the beads brush against the laced end of your veil, dead and yet still delicate, a lovely ghost.

– Divorce. – Your father scoffs, perplexed at the mere idea. – And what, pray tell, would this fool or a woman do after achieving this fictional divorce? Take her bastard child and retire to a convent? Return to her desolate homeland where nothing or anyone exists without the English patronage? Or flee to some far corner of the continent to write hymns in lilac ink while her former husband beds the last half of the world he hasn’t yet gotten to before marrying some other simpering, forgotten daughter of a random place that might actually give him an heir?!

You don’t answer.

He's speaking to himself more so than to you.

He drums his fingers once against the side of the confessional. A slow, steady rhythm —like something crawling through the walls.

– This is no longer foolishness. – His voice is quiet. That frightens you more than when it was loud. – This is a campaign.

You don’t respond. Your silence is assent.

– If she poisons him in the eyes of the world... if she plants the idea that the sin is his, and not hers… – He trails off. But you know what he’s thinking. She won’t just humiliate the King. She will force him into submission. – Those fools in conclave love her, still. The ones with their cocks in hand and their noses in poetry. They call her pure because she still wears that stupid veil. They call her wise because she weeps instead of speaks. – He sneers. – They would gladly see the King brought to heel. Any ounce of justification from her might warrant a full-on attack on his Majety.

You glance down at your rosary. Let it slip through your fingers again.

The scent of lilac clings to your fingertips as you clasp your hands before yourself. You wonder if it will ever come out.

– If this reaches Rome, – He continues. – and they begin to believe her as a victim... then she will not need to demand a divorce. – He turns. Looks at you as if you are not his daughter, but something nearer to a reflection. – She will be given one.

– I don't think that's what she wants, Your Eminence.

– That's absu— He pauses, looks at you, waits. – You don't?

You shake your head. It still surprises you, how even the cleverest of men can be so foolish. – King Steven has been bedding half of England long before they were married. His infidelity is no secret. If she wanted a divorce, she would have claimed him impotent and gotten it before she fell pregnant with the Princess Mary. But she didn't.

– She didn't…

– She might have thought a child would change him. Or at least subdue him. – You drop the rosary on your lap and pull at your veil. Free from the sheer black fine-linen, you see just that much clearer. – Clearly it didn't. He wants an heir from her, blames her for not bearing any more children, and yet he doesn’t visit her bed. Only his mistresses’.

He scoffs, but there's no trace of disbelief in his eyes, only ridicule, as if he believes it whole-heartedly even while thinking it's the stupidest thing he's ever heard. – You think she means to punish him back into her arms?

– Misguidedly, but yes.

– Not misguidedly, child. Delusionally. – He barks out a laugh, cutting and humorless. – She might as well leash him and drag him through the halls like a dog. It would be more effective at making him love her again than whatever this pathetic little theater is. – He laughs again, pure venom dripping from his lips. – It's no wonder he doesn’t visit her bed. No man wants to bed a woman he pities.

– But they do want to bed the women they hate. – A beat of silence hangs between you for a moment. The wind outside howls shyly, cut thin through the small gaps between the stained-glass windows of this chapel you sit in. But he considers your words, even if carefully, as if he hasn't yet thought of what you proposed. – She might yet succeed if she can achieve that.

– To the doom of everything I fought for. – He bemoans, almost theatrically. But he raises his head, eyes glinting with something dark, something you know all too well. – We cannot allow this. We will not allow this.

You raise your brows.

Your mind flashes.

All the destruction he’s set off upon the word after saying these exact words.

Your mother’s doom.

Your Uncle’s death.

The disappearance of the last High Chancellor.

The Queen of Sokovia, and all he put her through.

A shiver runs through you.

– You cannot mean that, your Eminence.

He laughs again. Colder. Crueler. Careless and smiling like a hound waiting to bite. – Of course I mean it! With her foolishness she will destroy us!

– You said it right: foolishness! The Queen is a fool in love. She means no offense to yours or the King's work, she only wants her husband to pay attention to her!

Your father scoffs, moving around on his seat, huffing like a steamboat. – Enough that she would send a letter bethrothing the King's only legitimate child to the previous suitor’ greatest enemy?!

– I've collected the letter! It can do no harm now! You can return to her and with it in hand and advise her, intimidate her, put an end to this at once. No scheming needed. No destruction needed.

He growls, shakes his head, eyes sharp as a dagger. – That will not be sufficient.

You're growing desolate. – What would you have us do?! Accuse her of treason?! Drag her through the streets?!

He smiles —that awful, papal smile, all white teeth and rotting calm. – Of course not. – A pause. – I will speak to someone. Or better yet, you will.

You freeze.

– Your Eminence.

– The Duke of Suffolk—

You don't even wait for him to finish, so great is your outrage. – James Barnes?! You have gone mad!

He pays no mind to your insolence this time. – He has returned from Asgard, has he not?

– Barely a fortnight ago!

He smiles coyly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They're too busy staring at his ring as the gears of a plan spin behind his irises. – Just long enough to see the kingdom with fresh eyes. Just long enough to feel unwelcome in it.

– He’s the King’s closest friend!

– Was. – He corrects. – And don’t insult my intelligence —you know better than to pretend there was ever any love there. Not from James's side, at least. He's always envied the King. Almost loathed him.

– No more than he loathes you! – You shout, exasperated.

– He doesn’t have to like me. He only has to want something. Something that belongs to Steven.

– This is ridiculous!

– Hardly so, my dear. You've said it yourself: men will always want to bed the women they hate. And what man doesn't want to bed the Queen?

– Any with at least half a brain!

– Which he has not. – He laughs, low, casual, as if he were not speaking treason. – Good for us.

– Even if he did not have a brain —which, I’m sure, by the way, that he most certainly does— do you truly think James Barnes capable of seducing a woman he isn't able to pay for?!

– He doesn’t have to seduce her, sweet child. You will. In a way. You'll plant the seed in his mind. He'll notice her. Then admire her. Then desire her. And she —poor, humiliated creature that she is— will bask in it. A dangerous, quiet admiration. The kind that ruins empires, or, more likely, Empresses.

You shake your head.

– You cannot be— you want me to… what? Tell them to dance?!

– Not even that. Merely to open the windows and let them notice one another. Whisper here, glance there. Do what you do best! Fan the air. Let the fire catch on its own.

It's absurd.

Outrageous. You can’t even put words to the situation, so unbelievable that it is. – They’ve known each other for years. 13 years, just as long as the King's been married, and I don't think I've ever seen them do so much as talk to one another!

– Then let you be the bridge! – He hums, voice light, eyes bright, as if he’s encouraging his child to ride a horse for the first time, and not to commit high treason. – Gossip lightly. Mention how the Queen watches him when she thinks no one sees. Or say he’s asked after her. The Queen will preen. The Duke will wonder. That is all. Let nature take its course.

You draw a breath, unsteady.

– And when it does?

– Then we let the King see it too. – He leans in, voice like poison wrapped in prayer. – We give His Majesty proof. Desire. Betrayal. His Queen and his closest friend, conspiring behind closed doors. We give him justification. For annulment. For outrage. For remarriage.

Your blood runs cold. – That would ruin her.

– That would save the kingdom. She is a dead end. One daughter. No heir. No fortune. She has become a liability.

You clench your jaw.

– And what of the Duke?

– Oh, he’ll be broken. But he’ll know why. Everyone will. A man who betrays a King loses his name before his head.

A pause. You want to say no. You want to scream.

– And if it doesn’t work?

Your father laughs.

– Don't pretend. – He chuckles. – Was it not your favorite hobby? Goading two people that didn’t know each other into suddenly falling in lust?

Your breath catches.

Your eyes go wide.

You were only a girl. A bored, discarded girl in the overly tight-laced court of Sokovia. You only wanted something to do. A distraction. A mission as matchmaker.

You never meant for it to go as far as it did.

Worse, you never knew he was watching.

– You think I don’t know you have experience in the business of ruining Queens?

You try to swallow. It scrapes down dry.

– That was—

– That was—?

– That was… – Your mouth opens and closes, but the words don’t come.

Eventually, your father speaks for you:

– Cruel? Childish? – He hums the words like a lullaby, turning the heavy ring on his finger. The ruby catches the sunlight and sends a flickering crimson stain across your cheek. Like blood. Like accusation. – Yes. But now you have a reason to do it. And it will be better, of course. Since you obviously have the experience.

You don’t answer.

Because the truth is you were good at it. Too good. And if there’s one thing Cardinal Helmut Zemo never forgets are the things his children are good at, especially the things he can exploit.

– That's when I knew, you know? – He looks away, at the gaps of light that bleed onto him through the screen of his door. At the ring on his finger. – That's when I knew you were the blood of my blood.

– Don't— Your Eminence, please.

He smiles —Soft, warm, fatherly— and brings up his hand, pressing his hand to the trellis, and his fingers through the gaps. – Come to me, child.

– Your Eminence…

– Daughter. – He whispers, saccharine, and he knows he’s ended you then, for your eyes water, your mouth hangs agape, and your hands tremble around your rosary. – Come. – Your fingers still shake as you raise them to meet his. – This is what you're good at. Your calling.

– Ruining people?! – You cry. The single first tear you've shed in years falling down your face as he shakes his head and holds your hand.

– Exerting God's justice upon their misdeeds. – He whispers, his breath brushes against your skin like a feather. – I was only a boy when I learned of God's true calling for me. I was a child, clutching dates to my hand and whispering prayers to false icons painted in gold, when at first I saw these. – He grabs the velvet trim of his garments, letting your hand linger there, against the wood, waiting for his. His touch. His words. His point. – This red. A Cardinal’s robes. I was a butcher’s boy, as was he, so he told me. And yet he was a prince of the Church. – He presses his palm flat to the lattice, and you realize —with dread— that he’s no longer speaking only of himself. – He said the world would always mistake softness for sin. And so we must become sharp. Useful. God does not ask for innocence. Only obedience.

You close your eyes.

He waits.

Then, quieter:

– Do you think it was easy? Watching them jeer when I passed with my sack of bones and offal? The stink clinging to my sleeves even when I scrubbed until they bled? Do you think I wanted to become what I am at the cost of my honor, my integrity? I had a soul once, too. – His voice shudders, just enough to make your heart flutter, consumed by a with terrible pity —He knows. He knows— Because he made you this way, too. – I built this, for us. For your brother. For our legacy. For you, my girl. – His voice soft. His eyes are soft. And then it hardens, steadies. Disappointment wrapped in velvet. – I kept you fed, educated, hidden. When they would’ve spat on your cradle. When they would’ve put you in a basket, left you in the church steps and wash their hands of you. When they might have put you to the blade. – You don’t know who he means by ‘they’. Your father's memory of Sokovia is an endless library of hypothetical enemies. You mother, your aunts, your sisters, the nuns in the church you were born in. What matters is he hates them. What matters is that you’re his. – You think I didn’t want to keep you from this, from this palace of debauchery? This life of sin? I did! But I need someone who understands. Someone clever. Someone like me.

– I don’t— You stutter. – I don't understand.

– You do! – He turns to you fully now, his other hand knocking against the lattice, calling for yours just as his eyes are. You meet him without hesitation. – You've always understood. I look into your eyes now, child, and I see myself. The fire, the fury, the drive— He laughs, breathless, staring at you as if you were a newborn again. – the pitiless ambition. You are made in my image.

Your hands stay in his.

The ruby of his ring still bleeds red across your skin, deep and cruel like stigmata.

You should pull away.

You should.

But instead, you whisper. – And what of our souls?

His smile flickers. Not fading, just changing shape. As if you’ve asked a child’s question.

Something simple. Naïve.

Sweet.

– We are already damned, my daughter. You and I both. – He says it like a lullaby, like it should be a comfort.

You search his face. The elegant lines carved by the sleepless nights, the pitiless ambition he speaks of. – Is revenge not a sin? – It comes out small. Like a last protest. A child clutching at the hem of righteousness one final time before the tide of sin swallows them whole. – Have we not gathered enough of them? Sins? Lies? – You remain quiet for a moment, listening in to the outside world, searching the gap of the screen door for any movement. – Crimes? – You don’t mean to sound so weak. But the words crack under their own weight. – We've corrupted ourselves in almost any way there is, and we've not yet had any reckoning. Will God not turn His face from us?

He holds your hand a little tighter through the lattice.

The answer is gentle. Unflinching. – Our God, my child, is not the blushing Christ of painted chapels and fat English bishops. – He leans forward. His voice is warm, a hearth flame glowing inside a tomb. – Our God is the one who walked in the wilderness, who struck down cities with sulfur and raised kings from ash. – His eyes narrow with something ancient, something fierce. – Our God is the God of the Old Testament. The one who loved Jacob, but hated Esau. Who chose, and punished, and marked His chosen with fire.

He lifts your hand, once more, and places it against the wooden screen —reverent. Steady. – And I will execute great vengeance upon them with furious rebukes, – He recites, voice like low thunder, – and they shall know that I am the Lord, when I shall lay my vengeance upon them.

A breath.

You don’t move.

Because you don’t remember the verse— You’ve never heard it. He’s made it up. And now he looks at you through the screen, the ruby light catching his cheekbone like a brand. – This is not a sin, daughter. This is justice.

Your lips part. But there is no protest left.

Only the echo of your own heartbeat.

And the shape of your father’s hands, still cupping yours, like a vow.

Your heart flickers between your loyalty for him and your fear for your immortal souls.

You've ruined a Queen before. Your father then went on to crush her, whatever there was left of her, for his benefit—your benefit. Yours and his both.

You look to your clothes.

To the elaborate brown brocade in black velvet accents. The Linen undershirt, with sleeves and collar you took days to fully embroider. The pearls of your earrings, your necklace, your rings— Paid for by the ruin of a woman who was never outwardly cruel to you, only petty. And whom, with your immature anger, you led to her doom.

You think of Queen Margaret, now.

She is no friend of yours, and yet she's always been gracious enough never to sneer upon you to your face.

You cannot say the same for most ladies at court.

Could you see her to the same fate you saw Queen Yekaterina? The one that haunts you to this day?

– I love you, your Eminence. You know you are dearest to my heart than even the air I breathe. But please, please don't ask me to do this.

Not “I won’t”

Not “I can't”

But “Don't ask me to do it”

Because you know if he does, you will.

And he knows it also.

– Sweet child…

– You're asking me to destroy her.

He smiles. – No. Never that. – A pause, soaked in sentiment, so heartfelt and genuine you almost believe in his mercy. – What I'm asking of you is that you set her free. From the prison of her virtue. From her cold, fruitless marriage. From her crown.

You stare at his hands, still pressed to the wood, still clutching yours. The ruby gleams like an open wound.

Your voice wavers. – And if they find out? What will they say about me? That I'm a witch. That I'm a sorceress.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t hesitate. With eyes just as kind, he says the cruelest thing he can think of, in a tone as soft and warm as the most expensive velvet. – What do they say now?

It's be an easier question to inquire upon the things they don't about you.

You knew enough english when you left Sokovia, but you learned all manner of insults that never, in your wildest rage, you could imagine, by simply walking the corridors of Hampton Court with your ears peeled.

The insults got cueler when you listened through the walls of private chambers. And even more so when you caught wind of them from behind the ladies’ fans.

– They sneer when I pass, just like they sneered when you climbed the Sokovian court. The same pursed lips, the same sharpened Latin. False convert, they say. Savage. Heretic. Sokovian ape. – Your voice shakes, your eyes water, but you push it through. – The Lords call you Crimson Pig. Serpent. The ladies call us worse. They say I smell of my mother’s kitchen herbs, of frankincense and garlic, like a witch raised in a root cellar. One asked if I’d read my lessons in blood. They laugh when I pray. Bless themselves when I pass. – You exhale sharply. – How is this different?

There’s a silence.

His fingers press tighter through the wood, wrap around yours. Warm, dry, paternal. – We’ll make them kneel. – His voice is soft, coaxing. – We did it before. You remember. When the princes of Sokovia laughed at a butcher’s son with a ribboned cassock. When they said that the scrawny little girl with bruised hands would never master French or canon law. When they turned their noses at the sight of us —until we climbed. Until they had no choice but to whisper their insults while they bowed.

You’re breathing hard now. Your knuckles pale. He is close. The world is only wood and shadow between you.

– We’ll put these perfumed, powdered English swine to shame the same way we did our countrymen. We’ll do it again—to the stiff-backed, fish-eyed courtiers who mock us with gloved hands and kiss our rings in secret.

His thumb brushes your knuckles.

– To the King, who calls me brother in Christ when he sins but mocks my accent when he drinks. – A smile, dagger-sharp. – To the Queen, who says we are witchborn beasts in silks, who spits "Sokovian ape" behind her fan. – His voice dips into a growl. – And to the Duke. Who should be our ally. Who came from nothing, just like us. Son of a groom. Who should know better. But repeats their venom with a grin, as though it were merit and not proximity to the crown that made him noble.

He lifts your hand —still through the lattice— and kisses the side of your fingers like a priest anointing a relic.

It's reverent. Loving. Burning with the rage of someone who spent too long a time being sneered at to let things go. – Let them call us monsters. – He meets your gaze through the trellis. – Let them howl and scoff and rage like wild mutts. We will make them kneel regardless.

For a moment, you remember it—the first time he pulled you from the kitchens, bloodied and weeping after a noble girl had spat in your hair. He did not comfort you. He did not say it would be well.

He taught you to smile.

To kneel.

To pray.

And then to rise.

So your hand stays in his.

And your silence, this time, is not refusal.

You must be going mad.

Because when he whispers it at last, when he delivers the last blow like a pièce-de-résistance to your corruption, you don't fear him. You don’t shrink. You don’t recoil. You lean in, and you agree. Genuinely. Ardently. With your entire heart. – They say we are the unholy family. – He laughs. – So let those pompous english brats know why Sokovia still trembles at the name Zemo.

The words feel colder than the stone floor beneath you. Still, you bow your head and murmur your thanks, your heart as heavy as your conscience is set. – Bless me, Your Eminence.

He smiles, almost relieved. Almost accomplished.

– May the Lord keep you sharp and silent, child. And may your hands remain steady, if ever they must forge a crown. – He signs a cross before the trellis, looking at you with all the love Abraham must have had in his eyes as he offered Isaac up for sacrifice. – Ego te absolvo ab omnibus censoris, et pecatis, in nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.

– Amen.

He rises, robes sweeping the tiled floors of the chapel as he exits the confessionary, walking as if he'd been the one who was delivered absolution. And you remain kneeling, spine straight, fingers wrapped tight around the rosary —not in prayer, but in calculation.

It falls as you lift your veil to put it back on.

And when you pick it up, there it is. The red spot of light from your father's ring.

You look up.

It’s sitting on the side of the lattice, waiting for you to put it on.

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