#char.🌧 draken

[petrichorium]

“don’t!”

draken pauses when you yelp. he looks up at you, one eyebrow raised, boot in the air, poised to strike. “hah?”

“don’t kill it!”

“the fuck do you want me to do?”

“pick it up and take it out!”

he scoffs instead of giving you a full response, rolling his eyes and lifting the shoe further. you rush forward to grab his wrist.

“fine! i’ll do it!”

his boot is in your hand before he can protest, wrangled out of his grasp more thanks to his surprise than your strength. you brush the bug off the wall—it’s a tiny thing, a wispy little house spider, no harm and barely visible even against stark white paint. you’re halfway to the door with it in your palm when he finally calls after you, “you’re the one who screamed for me!”

you pout on your return. he looks somewhat amused by it.

“i can’t believe you were going to kill it.”

“i can’t believe you shrieked like a little girl and then took the damn thing out anyway.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“how sneaky, trying to get me to do work on my break.” draken makes a tut noise with his teeth, shaking his head playfully.

you wave your hand aimlessly. “what’s the point of working for you big, strong boys if i can’t make you deal with spiders for me?”

“i was doing it, ‘s not my fault you’re picky.”

“then you shouldn’t complain about me putting you to work.”

“mmm, only if you don’t complain about my methods.”

wrinkling your nose, you turn away and return to your perch with your computer on your lap. “not if they’re cruel.”

“less cruel than letting it die out there.”

“it won’t die.”

“i would’ve put it out of its misery sooner.”

you pout again. “now you’re just being mean. i get it.”

“hold on—”

“no, no, you’re right. i’ll do it myself from now on.” you focus your attention on the laptop before you, and pout further, mostly because it makes your heart flutter a little when your handsome boss approaches you and looms over your desk to draw your eye. still, you lift an eyebrow at him easily. “i said you were right, i’ll handle it and i won’t bother you.”

“nah.” he shakes his head, then reaches out and flicks you in the forehead—not without affection, but gently, accompanied with a little endeared smile and no bite in the words that follow. “i’ll listen to you, brat. take ‘em outside, be humane. got it.”

but it’s what he says as he pulls away, low but clearly intended for you to hear, that has your ears burning and you quite purposefully keeping your flustered face hidden behind your computer screen.

“got me wrapped around your finger, huh? spoiled little thing.”

[pluviophile-imagines]

“don’t!”

draken pauses when you yelp. he looks up at you, one eyebrow raised, boot in the air, poised to strike. “hah?”

“don’t kill it!”

“the fuck do you want me to do?”

“pick it up and take it out!”

he scoffs instead of giving you a full response, rolling his eyes and lifting the shoe further. you rush forward to grab his wrist.

“fine! i’ll do it!”

his boot is in your hand before he can protest, wrangled out of his grasp more thanks to his surprise than your strength. you brush the bug off the wall—it’s a tiny thing, a wispy little house spider, no harm and barely visible even against stark white paint. you’re halfway to the door with it in your palm when he finally calls after you, “you’re the one who screamed for me!”

you pout on your return. he looks somewhat amused by it.

“i can’t believe you were going to kill it.”

“i can’t believe you shrieked like a little girl and then took the damn thing out anyway.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“how sneaky, trying to get me to do work on my break.” draken makes a tut noise with his teeth, shaking his head playfully.

you wave your hand aimlessly. “what’s the point of working for you big, strong boys if i can’t make you deal with spiders for me?”

“i was doing it, ‘s not my fault you’re picky.”

“then you shouldn’t complain about me putting you to work.”

“mmm, only if you don’t complain about my methods.”

wrinkling your nose, you turn away and return to your perch with your computer on your lap. “not if they’re cruel.”

“less cruel than letting it die out there.”

“it won’t die.”

“i would’ve put it out of its misery sooner.”

you pout again. “now you’re just being mean. i get it.”

“hold on—”

“no, no, you’re right. i’ll do it myself from now on.” you focus your attention on the laptop before you, and pout further, mostly because it makes your heart flutter a little when your handsome boss approaches you and looms over your desk to draw your eye. still, you lift an eyebrow at him easily. “i said you were right, i’ll handle it and i won’t bother you.”

“nah.” he shakes his head, then reaches out and flicks you in the forehead—not without affection, but gently, accompanied with a little endeared smile and no bite in the words that follow. “i’ll listen to you, brat. take ‘em outside, be humane. got it.”

but it’s what he says as he pulls away, low but clearly intended for you to hear, that has your ears burning and you quite purposefully keeping your flustered face hidden behind your computer screen.

“got me wrapped around your finger, huh? spoiled little thing.”

[petrichorium]

It definitely sneaks up on u bc it’s entirely unexpected, he put so much effort into projecting a nonchalant no-attachments persona but really….. he’s a housewarden. He’s not fooling anybody. It’s instinct to him to take care of the members of his pride—but that doesn’t mean he’s nice about it.

Shoves his vegetables onto your plate at lunch saying he wouldn’t have eaten them anyway and then sits there until you’ve finished them…… hunts u down when you’ve stayed up too late one too many nights in a row and makes u nap with him in your bed……….. sometimes you’ll bend to pick something off the ground and when u stand again hes pulling his hand away from where he’d been covering the corner of the table so you wouldn’t hit it when u came back up……..

It probably doesn’t sink in until u see him with Cheka….. and realize he treats you much the same.

This convo was from last night but I’m jumping in here with the most piping hot of takes for ur consideration: big brother coded Leona 🫣

PLUVI U CANNOT DO THIS TO ME KJFDFGKJS

oh it fits him so perfectly.... oh my god. i think it sneaks up on you for sure.... like it's not something you expect but the more he spends time with you the more noticable it is </3 he's teasing you in that distinctly affectionate way but makes sure you never fuck up too bad. gets mad when you do something that puts you in danger ohhhhhhfhdghdjkfd

[petrichorium]

Symbiosis

in which you break down, and draken is there to pick up the pieces

draken x gn!reader

word count: 2.9k reader: gn (no pronouns, neutral terms, neutral clothing) tags: hurt/comfort ig??? just pre-relationship, cuddling, flirting, idk man reader's going through it and draken's v much in love w them

“stay,” you mumble.

draken stiffens. he pulls up a little, just enough that he doesn’t have to brace himself anymore, but it has you whining anyway until he sinks to his knees and lets you fall in close again.

“i can sleep on the couch—“

“no.” you shake your head and ball your fist around the fabric. “here. sleep with me.”

“i’m not getting in your bed wearing my work clothes, baby, i’ll get grease all over your sheets.”

“i can change my sheets. small price to pay for you to hold me tonight.”

he’s quiet for a moment. you think the words might have stunned him, just a bit; but they work either way, because after a beat he rises without protesting any further and silently pulls your covers aside to join you.

“all right,” he says, unbearably low and soft as his work boots fall to the floor with two heavy thuds, “can’t say no to you.”

Draken shows up on day three of your self-induced isolation.

You’re sitting out on your balcony, enjoying the cool of the evening and watching the sun dip beneath the horizon. It helps you orient yourself, you've come to find, being outside as the light slowly fades. When you crash like this you need all the help you can get.

Frankly you should be thankful it’s only him and not an entire brigade of motorcycles and ex-gangsters. You’re not well-versed enough to know it’s him from the sound of the engine—not like he is, when you sit next to him in the shop and he can tell you who will come walking through the door by the roaring noise of their approach—but you’re fairly certain it’s him. Even when he stops, and stands, and you can’t see much more than the bulky silhouette of his form with those broad shoulders and thick forearms covered by the work overalls he still wears, you know.

He doesn’t see you at first. The first few steps he takes are towards the stairwell that leads up to where your front door is, but then he pauses and lifts a hand to squint up at you before approaching your balcony.

You can only just see him through the bars of the railing by the time he stops, but he’s close enough now that you note the ponytail his hair is in—you hadn’t been there to braid it over shitty burnt coffee from the pot in the back room this morning.

“Didn’t come to work today,” Draken calls up to you. You hunker down further in your seat, and though you thought he couldn’t see you well enough he moves forward a bit at the action. “Everyone’s worried, you weren’t answering your phone.”

“I called out.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been three days. You hurt?”

“No.”

“Sick? You sound—“

“No,” you say again, more sternly the second time, because you know he’s asking about your voice and you don’t exactly want to shout down to your colleague that you sound congested because you’ve been crying all day.

“Good.” There’s relief in his voice as he glances over towards the stairwell up to your front door, then back to you, “can I come up?”

“Door’s locked.”

“I’ll pick it.”

You shake your head. “Latched.”

His sigh is long-suffering. “Always makin’ me work for it, huh?”

When he disappears from view you figure he’ll kick down your door. You resign yourself to it; anticipate the muffled sound of his foot against solid wood until it gives in, the complaints from your neighbors in the morning. Maybe someone will call the police thinking you’re being robbed and you’ll have to deal with that at whatever hour it currently is.

Instead you hear a grunt, and the shabby metal railing of your balcony rattles violently as a big hand catches hold of it.

And what you let out is more a screech than a yelp, taken entirely by surprise. You’re a bit calmed when Draken’s head follows—he hefts himself up with a surprising amount of ease, bicep bulging visibly even beneath the long sleeve of his jumpsuit—but your heart still pounds rapidly within your chest, and you’re still frozen half lunged away from him.

His other hand finds the top of the railing and it’s all over from there; soon he has all six-feet-and-change of his body up and one leg over. For a beat he sits like that, straddling the banister, and then he swings his other leg over all the way and settles heavy on the concrete floor.

The balcony is tiny, made even more so by the sheer size of your new companion. He approaches, careful not to disturb the multitude of plants, and drops to sit facing you.

For a heartbeat, two, several, he is still. You’re both silent. You tuck your head further into your knees, looking out at the drab buildings and glowing yellow street lights past the railing. Before your very eyes you watch rain begin to fall—a light smattering of drops at first, thick and fat against the dark asphalt below, and then more, heavier and heavier, until the world beyond is covered by the curtain of a deluge and nothing more than blurry acrylic on canvas.

“Got up just in time,” Draken says suddenly. You nearly jump. His voice is surprisingly clear despite the roaring sound of rain hitting every surface beyond the balcony.

You let yourself turn to him. He straightens as soon as you do, shuffling in a bit closer until he could practically lay his head in your lap. But he doesn’t; he shifts, turning to face out and extend his legs as far as they can go, toes of his large boots pressing between the bars of the railing he’d just climbed. His legs are so long they’re still largely bent, but he rests his arms there as he leans back against the building behind you, and you suppose it seems comfortable enough.

“How’d you even get up?” you ask him finally, earning yourself a biting grin.

“Used the balcony under yours. S’easy to climb these things if you know what you’re doing.”

Your nose scrunches, and that grin softens into something fond. Draken shifts to reach out and press a thumb between your eyes, smoothing out the wrinkles there.

“I don’t like when you do stupid shit,” is what you settle on saying.

“That’s a lie, you love when I do stupid shit.”

“Not when it’ll get me a complaint in the morning about the massive boot print on my neighbor’s railing.”

“To go with the noise complaints about the motorcycle after dark.”

The hackles you’ve had up slowly fall; his presence is calming, big but warm. Protective. You feel like he could shoulder every burden for you.

It would be cruel of you to make him.

But he catches onto your silence. “Hey, don’t go quiet on me now. Unless you’re figuring out how to tell me what’s up with you.”

Your shoulders slump. You pull your legs up again, leaning back, and Draken’s hand finds itself on your thigh, all big and heavy and comforting.

“Look, it’s just… been a bad few days. Happens sometimes. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Hm.” He hums to himself, and squeezes your thigh, almost in thought. “Can’t say I agree with that. In fact I think my whole goal here is to make you somethin’ I gotta worry about. So… give me more to work with.”

“It’s just me, okay? I just… crash, sometimes. Need to take a few days and work it through.”

“Alone?”

Your lip quivers. “Always have.”

“Not what I asked.”

“Well… fine. Talking won’t do much. I’ve just told you all I know—I get in a funk, like, twice a year and can’t leave my place for days at a time. Can’t say there’s been anyone around who wanted to help me out during it. So I guess if you wanna spend your Friday night trying, be my guest.”

He ponders on that a moment, turning away from you to look out at the still raging storm. Then he turns back and says, “C’mere.”

It sounds almost like an order as he pats his thigh, and to your genuine surprise you obey it. There’s barely enough room on the balcony as-is and you think it’ll only make things worse to attempt to fit two grown adults in the space next to the chair—especially when one of them is Ryuguji Ken—but there’s a magnetic pull to the idea of letting him comfort you that you don’t even want to fight. Halfway down though, as he reaches up to guide you, you have a sudden realization of what position you’re in—and what the implications might be, despite the overall context.

“Don’t kiss me,” you say.

“What?” There’s easy amusement in his voice—endearment, adoration—as he leans back comfortably against the wall and pulls you all the way into his lap without missing a beat. It’s strangely right. You’d have thought that feeling small in his hold would be distressing to you, but somehow it’s not some disjointed desire to leap away that beckons the tears welling in your eyes—rather it’s something like his hands, large and warm and secure on your waist, punching down whatever dam had been stopping the waterworks.

One of those hands reaches up to wipe away your tears. It’s sturdy, calloused—so very much the hand of a man who uses them for hard labor. Draken seems to have the same thought at the same time, though he comes to a vastly different conclusion.

“Sorry.” His thumb pauses against the soft skin beneath your eye, eases off you slowly. “’s probably—too rough.”

Your hand is flying up to make him keep it there before he can fully take it away, fingers a vice around his wrist. There’s a denial on your lips, an insistence that his hands are perfect, but you make the mistake of looking up to meet his gaze before you speak and whatever words you might have said get caught in the back of your throat.

He lets you hold his hand to your cheek and you kind of want to melt with him staring down at you like that. Sable eyes—deep and abyssal, like the starless night sky above you—regard you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. You watch as they trace over your face, as his Adam’s Apple bobs in his throat and his thumb brushes away your tears again, and your heart jumps.

“I’m serious,” you choke out, burying your face into his shirt just to hide from the way he’s looking at you.

“Aww, c’mon, don’t get all shy on me—“

“If you decide to kiss me for the first time like this I’ll hit you.” Your voice is muffled against him, thick with sobs, and you can feel in your chest the way his broad form shakes with low, smooth laughter. “I’m literally bawling, pick a more romantic moment.”

It takes a minute for Draken to stop laughing long enough to answer. “Noted. I won’t kiss you.” A pause. His arms tighten around you. When he speaks it’s softer, slightly hesitant. “Can I kiss your head, though?”

You snort. It’s watery. “Sure.”

The word is no sooner out of your mouth than he’s pressing his lips to your hairline, just above your temple, right where the head of his dragon is, on his own scalp. And he doesn’t pull away when he’s done; he noses into you, like some affectionate dog, pulling your own bark of laughter out of you simply from shock by the way the motion makes your stomach flutter.

“There. Feelin’ better already, yeah?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

At your waist, his thumb brushes soothingly against bare skin, tucked up beneath your shirt. His hand squeezes there, almost groping at your stomach; if he were anyone else you might be annoyed by it.

“You ready to head in?” he asks. “It’s getting cold.”

You wouldn’t quite say cold, but certainly brisk. And now that you’ve cried your eyes are feeling heavy, the exhaustion of your emotions settling in, so you nod against him and allow him to help you to your feet.

Once you’re standing, he joins you—and suddenly it’s even more tight, and you have to lean back against the railing to let him sidle along the building to get to the door and open it for you. His hands find your hips as he does; you laugh breathlessly at the cliched motion, and he squeezes at you again in a silent tease.

Draken reaches out to guide you through the door with a broad hand on the small of your back, thick fingers spread wide. The heat of it flutters across your skin as it urges you forward, stark against the chilly air, gentle but insistent.

You’d probably let him carry you back to your bedroom if the opportunity arose—honestly, he’d probably do it if you asked, but it’d been too cramped outside for him to even attempt that and you’re feeling far too contrary now to ask. Soon enough you’re at the door anyway, and he’s trudging over to turn on your bedside lamp for some light before returning to you.

“Wash your face,” he orders with a little nudge towards the bathroom. “It’ll help you feel better.”

And though a part of you resists giving in to his advice, you know he’s right. You even successfully push down the urge to tell him you’d have done it anyway; instead you obediently wander in the direction he pushed you towards and begin running the water to let it get warm.

“What do you sleep in?” he calls out as you go to bend down.

“Top left of the dresser,” you call back, directing him towards a drawer of soft t-shirts. “And a pair of sweats under it.”

By the time you’ve finished cleaning your face and patting it dry with a clean towel, he’s returned to lean against the door frame.

“Put a set of clothes out for you,” he tells you as you approach him, and sure enough when you look over his shoulder you can see a shirt and sweatpants laid out on your bed. He dips now that you’re closer, turning his face into your hair for a fleeting moment, and mutters, “I’ll go get you some water while you change.”

With that he’s gone, carefully closing your bedroom door behind him.

You want him to stay the night, you realize at that moment. You want him to stay the night and you’re almost certain he’d never go for it—Draken and his stupid, thickheaded chivalry. He’d have kissed you if you hadn’t stopped him, just because you looked cute cuddled up in his lap with your eyes all big and watery, but you’ll have to drag him into bed yourself if you want him to stay.

No matter. As you pull on the shirt he’d picked out (it’s big enough that it might be one of his, you think absent-mindedly; yet another thing he’d shamelessly do if he thought you wouldn’t notice) you make up your mind, and a plan of attack comes to you easily.

You’re getting into bed when the knock comes at your door. Draken doesn’t quite wait for you to answer, opening it just barely and peeking in to check himself if you’re decent. When he sees that you are he opens it entirely and comes in with his promised water cup in hand.

He sets the glass on your bedside table and turns off your light but you don’t acknowledge him verbally. Instead you reach up to hook a finger into his collar and tug his towering form down to loom over you. It’s a little clumsy, and he lets out a surprised grunt, but he catches himself with a hand against your headboard before he can come crashing down on top of you.

Like this, it’s easy to press your nose into his neck, just beneath his jaw, letting your eyes flutter closed as you take a deep, slow inhale to ground yourself.

“Stay,” you mumble.

Draken stiffens. He pulls up a little, just enough that he doesn’t have to brace himself anymore, but it has you whining anyway until he sinks to his knees and lets you fall in close again.

“I can sleep on the couch—“

“No.” You shake your head and ball your fist around the fabric. “Here. Sleep with me.”

“I’m not getting in your bed wearing my work clothes, baby, I’ll get grease all over your sheets.”

“I can change my sheets. Small price to pay for you to hold me tonight.”

He’s quiet for a moment. You think the words might have stunned him, just a bit; but they work either way, because after a beat he rises without protesting any further and silently pulls your covers aside to join you.

“All right,” he says, unbearably low and soft as his work boots fall to the floor with two heavy thuds, “can’t say no to you.”

One of his hands eases beneath you as he eases himself over you and pulls the covers back on top of you both, sliding up under your shirt to press a warm, calloused palm against your back. You reach your arms over his shoulders in return and use the motion to tug the hairtie from his hair—one of your own, you realize as you slide it onto your wrist, and it has your chest fluttering as those black strands fall to curtain your face along with his.

You let your fingers scratch at his scalp and he lets out a low groan. First his head drops to tuck into the crook of your neck, then his whole body, pressing not even close to the full weight of him against you. His other hand runs down the side of your body to your waist, and then he’s shifting you, pushing you over a few inches so that there’s enough room between you and the edge of your bed for him to lean against it.

At last Draken relaxes, more on top of you than not but carefully keeping enough of his weight off you that you’re not being crushed. You’re not sure you’d mind, though; as you begin to nod off, all that remains in your mind is how nice the pressure is. It’s grounding, and warm, and it’s not as if you’d complain about feeling him pressed up against you.

You turn your head to tuck his beneath your chin, and he sighs heavily against your skin, pulling you in even closer. Like that, you both drift off.

In the morning you think you’ll finally let him kiss you.

[petrichorium]

Draken’s “if you bring that damn cat home I’m moving out” to sleeping on the couch with a tiny kitten tucked into the crook of his arm pipeline is approximately an hour long

[pluviophile-imagines]

pluvi my beloved…how do knight!draken and arranged marriages connect 🙏

knight!draken who returns a war hero. the campaign had been long and grueling, but he returns victorious, the death of the former king well and truly avenged and himself little less than a legend.

when your parents tell you that they've arranged a match for you, he's hardly the first on your list of suitors. you've never met him, and knights are not among the pool your parents typically would choose from. you know his name, though; can't conjure up a face but you know of him. the prospect is more than a little terrifying and it only increases as the day of his visit draws nearer.

he's more handsome than you're expecting. taller, too; a little imposing but clearly doing his best not to intimidate. you'd expected the rumors to be exaggerated yet you find every one to be accurate or, to your surprise, find him to exceed them. your parents have already made up their minds—it's obvious when they leave the pair of you alone for a moment. perhaps he knows that as well as you do. perhaps he notices the way you stiffen when they leave. whatever it is, he takes the opportunity to talk to you and asks you if you're willing.

the question comes as a surprise. you wonder why he'd bother, when your opinion of the matter is hardly important. you'd blame it on your surprise at the question, but you respond truthfully and tell him as much.

and he surprises you further by being thoughtful, by responding with sympathy. by telling you that he has no intention of marrying through force and that if you truly wish not to have anything to do with him then he'd discuss with the king (my friend, he says pointedly, the man who initially approached your parents about this union). but then he continues, and he says that should you be interested he would like to be a good husband to you.

he tells you of his affair with his charge in the turbulent times prior to outright war, tells you of how she'd been candid with her fears. he tells you that he wants to be different for you. and you know just how rare of a man he is, you're well aware that though he's given you the option you'd be a fool to give him up. so you don't. you tell him that you wish to marry him.

when he kisses your hand in farewell it lingers, both his lips and his fingers. he makes eye contact before he stands to his full height—towering, but not intimidating. not anymore.

you think you could see yourself loving him.

[pluviophile-imagines]

My OTHER Draken thought of the night is that you will have to make the first move.

He waited too long the last time he felt something this deeply, he waited too long and he lost her. And maybe if he were a little more whole, a little less haunted, he’d be able to ask you out—but it’s hard, there’s this wall unlike anything he’s ever encountered with himself before. He cant quite put his finger on it, because when he sits down to think it though there’s no logic to it, but it’s there and it’s keeping him from you and he doesn’t know how to break it down. Despite all the strength he holds in his knuckles this barrier isn’t something they can break, and it’s so frustrating he’d almost want to cry.

He likes you. A lot. It might be a little embarrassing, if he thought about it too hard. Or a little terrifying. You like him a lot too, you hardly make it a secret with the way you look at him and prod at him. You’ve even kissed a few times, on late nights at the shop when he’s more irate and you’re more belligerent, when all he wants is to be able to take you home with him but all he can do is lose himself in your lips because action is easy while asking you out is hard. He knows what his appeal is; he’s all machismo, big and strong, cool-headed. Mature. A caretaker. Doesn’t that mean he should take charge? Take that first step? Yet here he is, months into pining after you like some flustered schoolboy, and the words always catch in his throat every time he thinks about it—not out of simple nerves but something a little more terrifying. Something a little more broken.

But there’s a reason he’s fallen for you. You’re perceptive, and you pay attention to him in particular. So by the third or fourth attempt you pick up on it—you don’t understand, not really, because it’s not as if he’s told you, but you pick up on it. So the next time it happens you’re prepared.

It’s just dinner, he reminds himself, because it isn’t even as if he hasn’t eaten with you before. It doesn’t work. He chokes after he calls you over, freezes in his tracks as he rises to his feet and turns as you announce your presence by lacing your fingers briefly into his ponytail to tug just hard enough for him to feel it. You stare up at him expectantly, and the script he’d had flies from his brain. But you see it, and you smile a little, and you reach up to cradle his jaw with your hand.

“There’s an exhibit at the museum a few blocks from here opening in a few days. Admission is free but they’re limiting visitors so you still have to get tickets, they go up for registration tonight at 9. I’ll send you the link. Get us two for Saturday, pick me up at 6. After the museum we’ll get dinner at that soba place we’ve been meaning to try. Sound like a good first date?”

“Yeah,” he says in a daze, still a little floored by the way your thumb rubs against his cheek.

“Good. See you then.”

[pluviophile-imagines]

PLEASE!! indulge me and give me some Knight!Draken! the Draken fever is strong over here - 🍁

knight!draken only exists because of a little luck and a whole lot of diligence, and every day he's a little more amazed he's made it this far.

he's born to a lady of the night; a courtesan; a brothel, it's always felt like, because the woman who gave birth to him has been less a part of his life then the whorehouse she worked in. she's more of an abstract concept, really, and his father is even moreso. he'd almost be inclined to believe he simply popped into existence there except that he knows good and well that's hardly possible.

but there's a single mercy that growing up in a brothel just outside the royal palace's walls grants him, and it's that noblemen are bound to notice him. and he gets lucky—one of them sees his potential. his size, really, and his general demeanor. he gets an offer when he's thirteen—a year of prep and then a squire position, and eventually (if he remains diligent and lucky) knighthood. he's not stupid. he takes it.

and he takes to the position like a duck to water. he is diligent, and lucky, and he squires with a Lord very close by. he befriends other squires, and the prince—brother of the king—and he learns his way around court politics as well as swordsmanship, grows into the ornate outfits of nobility alongside his chainmail. years go by like that, as young men growing up in pastoral estates training and learning together.

but then the king is assassinated. his friend rises to the throne. he's knighted and thrust into war immediately after—the death of the former ruler had been ordered by a neighboring kingdom. his king tells him he's one of the few people he can trust. he wonders how long his old friend's eyes have looked so dull and selfishly feels a little glad to be sent off on the front lines.

when he returns home it's as a war hero. it's not something he'd ever have dreamed of having, as a child, yet here he is: an estate, a title, the ear of the king where he stands at the man's right hand.

and you. yeah, you're a surprise too.

[pluviophile-imagines]

thank you for the 3-course knight!Draken meal, it was very delicious. I still hunger for more though - 🍁

he marries you in spring. for a war hero the festivities are surprisingly small, for which you're thankful; he has no family to speak of so his side is rather filled with his fellow soldiers. it's a bit of a whirlwind of names and faces and intimidating men in the very same formal garb your new husband wears but they're all warm. welcoming. considerate, when draken catches on to your increasingly overwhelmed state and orders them to give you space. it's a little bit thrilling to witness the sheer command he has over them, the respect they have for him, even in a casual setting. his hand rarely strays from the small of your back and his thumb rubs softly at the white lace of your wedding gown.

you return to his estate hastily. it's nearer to the palace than you've ever lived—less than a day's ride—and you settle in quickly. his household is new, green, and in many ways you are the one with the most experience considering becoming a lord's wife is the very thing you've been born to do. you haven't a predecessor to guide you yet in a way you find that's somewhat freeing.

it's slow yet steady. after your wedding (and the night after) he barely touches you at first, remaining polite and a little stiff whenever you interact. but he eats with you increasingly often, finds you walking in the grounds or seeks you out in the library simply to talk. soon enough walking arm in arm is second nature and stolen kisses become frequent. he melts into a boyish, charming man—a little rowdy at times, especially when certain visitors grace the halls, but undeniably attractive.

falling in love with draken is surprisingly easy, surprisingly right. he takes his code of chivalry seriously, never ignores or condescends to you. in fact he looks to you for advice at times, as a knight with little court experience requesting consult from a court lady; bids you to meet him in his study, sometimes with one or many of his fellow officers, and join in his work at his side.

it's a better arrangement than you ever could have wished for. even in your wildest dreams you never would have thought this would be your life.

you tell him that one night, when he's dragged you out in your nightclothes to look at the stars. you're tangled up together on the tallest hill of your grounds, and he's holding your hand with both of his as you stare up at the heavens.

that's a good thing, right? he asks you amusedly.

you think his eyes look a little like the sky above, infinitely vast, illuminated from within.

a very good thing, you assure him.

[pluviophile-imagines]

I wanna hear about arranged marriage and Knight!Draken 🥺 pls and ty

knight!draken doesn't consider himself a man who gives in to temptation but he can't say he's been tempted by many other than you, and he failed quite spectacularly at resisting you.

he'd been assigned to protect you on your journey to a neighboring kingdom. you're being married off; you're the king's cousin, a member of the royal family, and with war on the horizon it's necessary to form alliances. if draken had been born into nobility you and he might have grown up together. he tries not to linger on that thought; tries not to yearn for a nonexistent childhood spent with you, innocent and more free. he tries to be okay with sending you off, in the midst of political turmoil when your own family has already been targeted.

yet his protective nature is a double-edged sword. certainly it's the reason he's been chosen for such an assignment—he would, after all, fall on any sword for any woman—but he grows far more attached to you than he ought to. perhaps it's inevitable, with the sheer amount of time the pair of you spend together. fondness, he believes, is an inherent byproduct of being required to watch you sleep nightly. it's only natural for him to fall in love with you when for days, weeks on end he has only you for company in the carriage.

you're the one who initiates. it's late, only the pair of you in the room of the inn where you've stopped for the night, and you confess that you're terrified. you've never met the man who you're to marry, you've never experienced courting, you know it's always been your fate but that knowledge is hardly preparation. you whisper that you feel safer with him than you've ever felt in your life, and you beckon him closer, and you ask him to hold you while you sleep.

it isn't appropriate, i know, you say, and you sound small, but please. nobody will have to know. just you and me.

he knows he shouldn't but he agrees. and he holds you close, feels your trembling slowly stop, pushes down the urge to kiss your hairline.

it's a line crossed, a step he can never take back. suddenly you're sitting pressed into each other in the carriage, riding together on horseback when you request air. suddenly he's holding you every night as you sleep (sometimes he gathers his resolve and refuses, and still ends up kneeling by your side and holding your hand anyway, because he is stalwart and brave and caves to your every whim). it's hardly a surprise when you begin to kiss him goodnight–on the cheek first, then the lips. he's in far too deep by then to turn away because the way those kisses steal his breath are well worth the heavy sinking in his heart in the rare moments he has alone.

but of course it ends, as all things must. he has a duty, as do you. and though rage flares up within him when he catches the leer in your betrothed's eye while you curtsy in introduction, he is aware there is nothing he can do. in this castle, surrounded by strangers—potential enemies or allies, the difference resting in your hands—he hasn't a choice. all he has are the final lingering looks, his last goodbye in bow to you, and ghost of your last touch on his fingers as he pulls away.

he returns home brokenhearted and heads off to war mere weeks later. a part of him might be thankful to have something other than the loss of you on his mind.

[pluviophile-imagines]

Ok actually literal pigtail pulling too like. it’s right there just a light tug every time I approach him from behind,,,,, Pavlov him into going glassy-eyed whenever anything catches on his hair bc suddenly it’s like he can hear me giggling and smell my perfume and damn maybe he should call me he kinda misses my voice—

Smthn abt Draken just awakens the pigtail puller in me

[pluviophile-imagines]

I friggin' love your brain, Pluvi, you get the best ideas! I'm gonna have to check out Tokrev now 🤔 - 🍁

LMFAOOOO ty maple… I’ll give u an honest review the chars r more interesting than the actual plot but it’s mildly worth watching/reading for the fics bc they’re p good. Tho a lil more intense than I tend to write JDNFKD