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hisunshiine · 2 years

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— a wager of lords & love | myg

♔ pairing: noble!yoongi x noble!reader

♔ au/genre: regency era au, arranged marriage au, s2l, fluff, smut, angst

♔ rating: M

♔ wc: 6,813

⚔ warnings: reader’s mom is not alive, era-appropriate sexism, sex jokes, pet names, bedding ceremony, explicit smut: fingering, marking, light breast play, oral (female receiving), vaginal penetration, multiple orgasms, loss of virginity, you will fall so hard for yoongi.

♔ an: this story was written for Leah | @colormepurplex2 as part of the BangtanWHQ Valentine’s Event “Picture Perfect”. Thank you to my beta readers: @downbad4yoongi, @peachiilovesot7, and @moonleeai; this story was so much fun to write. Your feedback, as always, was valuable to making not only this story at it’s best but also making my day better when reading your comments. I love regency era au’s and this one only made me fall even more madly in love with Yoongi, and I hope you will too! Please enjoy!

“What in heaven’s name did I do last night?”

Yoongi groans as he rolls over in his plush bed sheets, sunlight streaming through the window at an ungodly hour. Ungodly, because he never sleeps in this late, but the Scottish whisky and late night at Lord Kim Namjoon’s manor has made him act out of character in more ways than one.

*flashback to the previous evening*

“Yoongi, it has been too long since we’ve gotten together properly. You must come celebrate. It’s not every day that one as young as I is able to acquire more wealth than what feels like the King himself can own.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes from where he stands across the study from his large oak desk, hand gripping the telephone to his ear as he leans closer to the box on the wall to reply.

“I have a plethora of worries, Namjoon, and none of them can be solved by celebrating your wealth.”

“I beg to differ! Come! Have a drink and make merry, partake in some illicit pleasantries. I am sure that’s just what you need to clear your mind and find a resolution.”

“I doubt I will have a resolution by the night’s end, but against my better judgment, I will be there.”

And Yoongi made sure to keep his promise, strolling into the large manor filled to the brim with the most darling of debutantes from Daehurst to Ilsansterchire. He recalls the way the single women seemed to throw themselves at him, all fluttering eyelashes and demure smiles as if they were captivated by his looks and not the wealth they knew lay in wait for his future bride.

The knowledge of his arrival spread like wildfire through the ballroom and Yoongi had felt himself grow flustered as a gaggle of pristine beauties crowded around him to fight for his attention. He kept his face nonplussed despite the rising anxiety creeping along his outer extremities and towards his chest. Luckily, the arrival of the Earl of Upton Busan and the Marquees of Gwangchester helped reduce the number of women in his presence.

Yoongi remembers pretending to be summoned by a friend, escaping into what he thought was an empty parlor that belonged to the late Lord Kim, but the sitting room, with two walls filled from floor to ceiling with books of all sizes and colors was, in fact, occupied. The large oak desk off to the side held an older gentleman, who also seemed to be happy in his solitude, hiding from the revelry.

The man moved a jewel-encrusted chessman across a marble chess board before looking up at Yoongi, a slight nod of his head summoning Yoongi over to join him. He produced a bottle of Smokehead Islay single-malt scotch whisky that he’d been nursing, poured Yoongi a hefty serving into a Glencairn whisky glass, which he promptly swirled to open up the aromas for full appreciation before downing the entire portion.

He knows that this was the catalyst for the conversation of what was bothering him, and so Yoongi, lips loosened from his liquor intake, shared to whom he found out was the Marquees of Seoulshire, his predicament. How his late father’s younger brother, jealous of his position, was sowing distrust in the elder’s bloodline, touting the fact that his eldest son was already married and with an heir on the way, when Yoongi had yet to take a woman’s hand in marriage despite being five years older than his cousin.

Typically, this would not be such a strange thing; many male nobility did not wed until their late twenties, and Yoongi only recently turned his twenty-ninth year, but with his estranged uncle vying to take over the wealth and power of the entire family following his father’s passing, Yoongi had to procure a wife, and fast.

Bonding with the elder nobleman, both introverts sequestered themselves with flowing, piquant beverages, and a small miniature of the only daughter of the Marquees produced for viewing, and thus, a drunken deal was struck for the hand of his only daughter to be wed in one week’s time to the Duke of Daehurst, Min Yoongi. That only daughter being none other than…

You stare at your reflection in the full length mirror. The white dress, with its cut right beneath your bosom, is stifling despite its beauty, and the body of the gown falls along your figure gently. The sleeves are loosely capped, a lace frill edging the cuffs and the line of your decolletage. Your hair is pinned up, with a tiara inlaid with precious stones as the centerpiece to secure the veil flowing down your back in place.

The gloved hand of your maid of honor, Eleanor, who you lovingly refer to as Ellie, reaches up to fluff the veil, nervous energy displacing itself as she holds back from igniting your ire again. You have only just calmed down as your lady’s maid, Charity, places the last of the thrown perfume bottles back on the vanity. You had catapulted them for good reason, you believe. For in a few minutes, you, the unmarried daughter of the Marquees of Seoulshire, will walk down the aisle in the Duke of Daehurst’s manor, towards a man you have never spoken to—have never met—where your traitorous father plans to give you away to become the Duchess of Daehurst.

“Lady Eleanor, will you please take your spot at the door?” Charity asks quietly, following a quick rap on the door, and you feel your heart begin a mad dash within the cavity of your ribcage. As a woman, you have nothing—no power, no wealth of your own, even your title changes from your father to that of your future husband. Some of the things your father has bought you have traveled from your home to the Duke’s, but other items are expected to be bought new, because even they belong to your father. Your only worth lies in the ability to be a proper match for a nobleman and provide him with an heir to carry on his bloodline.

A rush of anger quells the sadness this arranged marriage has left you feeling this past week, since your father went back on the one promise he made you: that you could marry for love, like he did with your late mother, rest her soul.

You scoff at the thought that men should hold any power in society. In one moment, your own father forgot his loyalty as well as his promise to his only daughter. In a drunken stupor, two men agreed to trade you like chattel, your position in life changing in the blink of an eye. Useless, is what they are.

The door is open just a sliver, allowing in the swell of the music, and you hear the creak of the hinges as Ellie disappears down the hall. Your father stands in the corridor, his eyes staring at the floor, unable to meet yours. You can tell he feels rather guilty for the predicament he has forced on you, but with the knowledge that he is not actually mad at the match, you still feel furious. Marrying up in society may afford you a better life, not that you would have had a destitute one with your father’s title, you’d just hoped (and had been promised you would get) to be in love with the man waiting at the end of the aisle for you, instead of dreading the stranger you were about to meet.

Barely able to focus, you feel out of body as your father wraps your arm through his and leads you down the same path Ellie took just moments before. You can see the archway that leads into the wedding hall where your family and friends wait to observe you promise to obey and cherish a man who was described to you by your father as a “rather strapping young man, who’s quiet but wise and with gentle eyes.”

Taking the turn into the room, all eyes are drawn to you as your eyes are drawn to him. He looks breathtaking. Is this truly the man your father made a drunken deal with? The two of you lock eyes, and you work to fix the shock from your face as his demeanor barely changes. In a blink, your father is placing your hand into the Duke’s, and you are able to take in his features up close.

His face is sharp, eyes angled in a cat-like manner that give the impression he is gazing into your soul and sees the truth you attempt to keep hidden. His hair, wavy and pitch black, is parted to the side where the length falls into his face in an alluring manner. It calls to you, wanting to tuck it behind his ear if only to touch his porcelain skin, unblemished and glowing.

He watches you closely, eyes traveling across your frame as he follows your lead, drinking you in. You’re sure that you still look flawless, ever the blushing bride that Charity and Ellie made you up to be, and for a moment you wonder if the Duke is as taken by your looks as you are by his, before remembering that he is the enemy.

The ceremony ends quickly, a recitation of words that will join you in holy matrimony, followed by words promising to remain faithful to one another until parted by death, and you find yourself face to face with the Duke. He takes a small ring from the man right behind him, Lord Kim Namjoon, who you recognize from his many visits to handle business with your father.

“Like this ring, I shall endlessly provide for you and cherish you, until I no longer exist.”

You can hear Ellie swoon from the low tone his voice takes to deliver the sentiment as he stares into your eyes. Vulnerability flashes for a moment before he looks down, focus solely pointed towards the task of claiming you by way of a golden wedding ring, moonstone inlaid with tiny diamonds surrounding it.

Ellie nudges you to hand you the ring provided for the ceremony by the Min family. It is a deep ebony, with a single thin gold stripe running across the middle of the band. The top is raised to a plateau, a moonstone carved with the Yeoheung Min Clan symbol set within the ring.

Taking the regalia from her gloved palm, you recite your part with eyes on him. Despite your anger at the arrangement, he truly is breathtaking. It takes away from the sting of your words just barely, enough that you are able to deliver them without gagging on the bristling words.

“Like this ring, I shall endlessly obey and cherish you, until I no longer exist.”

You barely hear when the minister says that the two of you are free to share a kiss, but you dutifully keep your face calm as your stomach ties itself into knots.

He leans closer, blush colored lips drawing closer until your eyes close with the contact. So soft…his lips tenderly settle against yours, slight pressure as he angles his head to receive you better, hands falling to your hips gently as he tugs you a step closer and it’s like the room disappears leaving just the two of you in it.

All too soon the room comes back into focus as he steps away, face blushing as the room erupts into applause and cheer from the audience. The end of the ceremony is like a blur, and the next thing that you are aware of, you are seated for an early dinner and a reception in the Daehurst Manor Great Hall for guests to greet you and your new husband, leave expensive gifts, and offer kind words of advice for a long-lasting, happy marriage.

“Would it be weird to introduce myself to you, seeing as I am already your spouse?”

His voice is intriguing—having barely heard it during the ceremony—a low rumble that has you leaning in to hear him better.

“I assure you, my lord, weird was deciding for me that I would marry you, without even bothering to meet me beforehand. What if I had been an ogre? But I digress, it’s not any weirder than hearing you call yourself my husband, husband.”

He smiles, one side of his mouth lifting in an amused smirk as he turns in his seat to face you head on. You dislike him even more that your snide remark made not a dent in his armor. No trace of the bashful hue from the kiss lingers, cat eyes glinting with mischief.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my non-ogre wife. I am Duke Min Yoongi of Daehurst.”

Charity and Ellie can barely contain their laughter as they stare at your contemptuous face. Eyebrows furrowed and arms crossed, you shake your head rapidly in distaste at the bedding ceremony outfit they laid out for you.

“I simply will not wear it.”

“Please, Lady Min, you will leave him stunned. It’s perfect.”

“Who said I want to stun that man? Besides, I cannot be seen in so little clothing by a stranger!”

“He’s hardly a stranger, love,” Ellie said, ignoring your stubborn nature. “He’s your husband.”

“Yes, my husband whom I have known all of two hours! I’m just expected to strut in wearing this to please him, and then—” you pause, stricken as your thoughts settle on what is expected of you.

“Yes, you will wear this very thoughtful gift from me, and then you will consummate the marriage!” Ellie whispers the act as if conspiring to commit a crime. To be fair, you felt like a criminal for how indecent the undergarments were.

Laid on the bed was a short, white boned corset, all frill and lace with a matching pair of high waisted drawers. Ellie had also provided a matching pair of white stockings, made of silk and to be held up with ruffled garters at your thigh. There was a silky chemise that you could wear as a tunic to cover yourself, but once in the Duke’s bedroom, he would see you in all of your risque glory.

“Come now, m’lady, we must finish getting you ready. I am sure the men are chomping at the bit to begin the ceremony.”

Dread fills you as you strip from your wedding dress and step into the lingerie your maid of honor gifted you for your wedding night.

“Well, they can just chomp a bit longer, maybe they can tire each other out enough that I am not needed tonight.”

Having only bathed two hours prior, you are able to skip the bath and spend a few more precious moments with your closest friends. You didn’t have a mother to talk to about things like bedding ceremonies, having learned everything you could from the head house matron, kitchen maids, Charity, and Ellie. Ellie was able to convince her own mother to share a little this past week to help you, but there was still so much you felt you did not know to expect.

As Charity brushes your hair, Ellie spreads a glittering, perfumed powder onto your skin as she talks in the background of the excitement she feels, but you cannot bring yourself to share in it. With a quick twist and pin, your hair is up and you find your feet leading towards the Duke’s wing of the manor. You can hear the merrymaking from the reception still carrying on downstairs; with a wedding as important as yours, you were sure that the people would be here celebrating your union until the sun began to rise.

The door to the Duke’s room is ajar, loud laughter coming from the well lit room. Ellie walks arm in arm with you as Charity follows behind, seeing you off. As your lady’s maid, she’ll reside with you in the Daehurst manor. The housekeeper stands a few paces from the door to lead Charity to her new quarters. Bidding you goodnight, Charity retires for the evening as you and Ellie enter the bedchamber. It is quite spacious, with a large bed in the middle of the room. To the left of the entryway sits a low table surrounded by a pair of armchairs and a matching loveseat, all framed by a magnificent fireplace.

Every seat is taken, with three men squeezing onto the loveseat and a sixth perched on the edge of one of the armchairs. You don’t recognize five of the six men, though Lord Kim Namjoon is among them. You do not see your new husband, so you and Ellie remain standing away from the men so as not to be seen as indecent.

“Duchess! You have arrived for your bedding ceremony, have you not?” A blond haired man nearly falls from the love seat, giggles alerting you to his inebriation. An open decanter sits on the squat table, almost empty.

“Please, Jimin, on all things that are holy, do not bother my wife.”

Your head whips around at the gravely sound of the Duke’s voice. Yoongi looks freshly bathed, no longer in a suit but in a long tunic that sits untucked over loose, black trousers. His dark hair falls in damp curls framing his face, and you hold in a small gasp.

“I won’t bother her hole-y, hyung—that’s your job! Get her all hot and bother—”

“Get out.”

The giggling, intoxicated men all look to Yoongi, pouting with various levels of frowns and scowls adorning their faces. You and Ellie watch the interaction, Ellie with a smile at their banter and you with a grimace as you attempt to keep yourself from growing warm at the indecent remarks regarding what is to come.

“But hyung!” You watch as another one pouts, standing from the loveseat to full height to plead with your husband. “You’re the first to be wed, we’ve been talking about being witnesses for each other for years!”

“Taehyung, you know the plan was to be here when she arrived as a testament to the wedding night, but never to stay. I appreciate your…excitement, but now that you can confirm the duchess’s arrival, you all may take your leave.”

“Appreciate our excitement, but won’t let us stay to watch as you get exci—”

“Jungkook, that’s enough! Out, now!”

With a groan, the three mischievous men begin to walk out of the bedchamber, waving at the older three who are slow to get up. Ellie squeezes your hand in unity before stepping away to follow the boisterous group out into the hall.

“I’ll see you at breakfast, love. I’ll be traveling back to Seoulshire with your father tomorrow afternoon.”

You can only nod, aware of the plans but seeing her linger to make sure that you are okay. You give her a smile, and she finally steps through the threshold behind the first troupe of men to return back to the room you had prepared in. The last three men follow, greeting you and saying goodnight in the same breath.

“It is a pleasure to see you, my lady. I pray that by morning you are able to turn this peevish man affable.”

“Enjoy your night, Duchess!”

“Yeah, all two minutes of it!”

Yoongi thunders to the door, shutting it as the group bursts into laughter muffled by the oak barrier. He turns the lock, then turns his back to it to lean against. You can’t help but to watch him, chest rising before he releases a long sigh. He reaches a hand up to his neck, scratching subtly. The sleeve of his tunic slides along his arm, revealing more unblemished skin. His head is facing the carpet, ink-colored hair falling to cover his face—a face you think you could like very much—eventually. Though right now, even the thought is not enough to quell your irritation at your welcoming.

“I am so sorry for my friends’ behavior.”

His apology startles you. You are not used to men of his prestige to be so easy to offer an apology. During the wedding and at the reception, he appeared stoic, quiet and observing except for the few moments he engaged with you. You assumed it was just happenstance, that he was playing off of your stubborn jests, but seeing him now so open makes you wonder.

“My lord, no need to apologize. They were inebriated and excited for our coupling. Ellie was excited too, though she was better at keeping it hidden.”

“Yes, women do tend to be better at that. More practiced.”

“Do you truly believe that? I have watched my father work, and all noblemen seem to be very good at hiding their emotions.”

Yoongi smirks at your wit, pushing off of the door and walking closer to you.

“You are quite keen, my lady.”

His compliment startles you, as does his encroaching proximity. It is not menacing, if anything you are startled by your body’s response to it. His scent, a heady, woodsy musk infiltrates your senses causing any lingering animosity you had towards your father for this arrangement to seep from you. You’re tired of fighting; the knowledge of having lost before even starting lingering in your mind each time you fight back against the marriage has exhausted you. Still, you want to make sure that the Duke is aware that while you may be acquiescent, you are not easily compliant.

“My lord, I—” you look down at your hands, stumbling over your anger as you collect your thoughts. “I just want to say that I know neither of us wanted this, neither of us knew what to expect until we saw each other today, but I made a vow, so I promise to try my best, but I don’t know what I’m doing or what you expect from me, and I don’t think that I will be good at obeying, so please do not expect that from me. You may be a duke and my husband, but I demand that you treat me as an equal—”

“Shhh…” Yoongi’s thumb and forefinger grip your chin, tilting your head up to face him. You have no idea when he got so close. “I spent quite some time with your father, my lady. He spoke very highly of you and even produced your miniature from his coat pocket to show me. I may have been drunk, but I was not a fool in my decision.” His eyes rove across your face as he gently tilts your head side to side. “You are much more beautiful than the painting captured.”

If he’s hoping that flattery will tamper your annoyance, you feel he will need to try a bit harder. Though, to be fair, his flattery is working on you. Pair that with his face, and he’s doing quite a good job at putting out the fire, but you still remain steadfast.

“How lucky to be a man. You got to see a sample of the product before buying, while I just had to trust that my father wasn’t so drunk that he sold me to the next man who walked past?” You scoff, crossing your arms as you raise your chin out of his hold in defiance.

“Trust me, princess, the luck was all mine. Had I not been the next man to walk by, who knows what woman I would have had to settle for.”

You can’t believe he’s teasing you. Calling you princess and making jokes off of your distress. You want to smack the smirk off his face. You want to kiss him again like at the altar. You’re clearly confused after such a long day of upheaval.

“Right, because any woman should be grateful that you chose them? I was promised I would get to marry for love, just to wake up and be told I was marrying a stranger in a week.”

“Are you really angry because of this arrangement? Not that you should be grateful that I chose you, but you should be thankful for the life that you have, even before me. Not everyone lives how we do.”

Shock. That’s the only way to explain what you are feeling. He is not…man-splaining society’s plights to you, is he?

“I quite know this, my lord. I never said I was not grateful for my life, just that I am currently upset at a promise being broken.”

“Princess, I am sure you know this, but in your stubbornness, you seem to have forgotten yourself. You have a good life, you have food on the table prepared daily by the cooks and maids, and are not having to whore yourself out for a few coins to feed yourself.”

“No, I just have to whore myself to you for the rest of my life, provide you with heirs as soon as possible.” You decide to not hold back; if he’s going to be vulgar as a tactic, two could play at that game. “I may not be whoring myself out for a few coins to feed myself, but let’s not kid ourselves. We both know that I am not seen as anything more than a vessel for your cock and your children to use.”

“Tell me, princess, are you upset because you truly think me some evil, vile man, or are you actually more upset that you don’t have a real reason to push me away?”

Yoongi steps away from you, walking over the bed and settling down on the edge. You can’t help but watch the way his veins move as he leans back and rests on his palms. He’s so handsome and so assured of himself, and behaving as if he doesn’t even care that it’s your wedding night. You really don’t know how to explain how you’re feeling, because everything is at odds. He mistakes your silence during your internal debate as confusion and continues to explain.

“I know I’m not unappealing to the eye, and not an old geezer like many of your friends have had to deal with, I’m sure. We probably aren’t that far off in age difference, if there even is any. We’re young, and while you may be feeling angry about this marriage, I also get the feeling that you’ll be open to letting that anger go soon.”

“I barely know you, my lord, so please don’t take offense to this, but what, pray tell, gives you the feeling that I’ll be letting my anger go soon?” you ask, walking over to where he sits. You feel powerful as you position yourself right in front of him, and being above him like this with his head turned up in order to lock eyes with you, makes his cat eyes look even more alluring.

“Because, my dear wife,” Yoongi leans forward, entering your space as he brings his right arm up off the bed and to your thigh, “of what I plan to do to you tonight.”

Yoongi’s touch is like fire as he drags it up your thigh to the hem of your chemise, using both hands to grip the edge and pull you even closer to him. You inhale a breath, your body giving away just how much he affects you. The last tiny bit of you fights to not give in, that is, until he pouts up at you.

“If you’ll let me?”

Never have you experienced a man handing control over to you like this. All your life, you have been told what to do, how to behave, who to befriend, and even who to marry despite being promised that would be the one area you could decide. But here sits your husband, a man who quite literally holds you in his hands, able to do whatever he wants with your body now that he essentially owns you—this husband of yours is asking your permission to ruin you.

Unable to speak, you simply nod, eyes wide as he stands, and he never looks away from yours until your chemise blocks his view as he pulls it over your head. Now it’s his turn to inhale sharply as he takes in your angelic form. White lace corset ending just below the bust, high waisted lacy bottoms, ruched garters around each thigh with a clasp to hold your silk stockings in place…an angel, indeed.

Leaning closer to you, his words send tingles down your body as he pleads with you.

“I need you to say it, my lady,” he whispers, “tell me that I can touch you here.”

You jolt as you feel his hands touch the exposed skin of your side.

“Y-yes,” you say, clearing your throat due to how parched you sound.

“And can I, say, touch you here?” One hand trails lower, fingers dancing over the front of your drawers as the other holds you in place. Two of his fingers slide between your thighs, pressing against your core, and you sigh out a quiet moan.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good girl.”

His fingers continue to travel back and forth, slight pressure causing you to grasp his shoulders for balance. He drops his head into the bend of your neck, lips leaving wet kisses on your overheated skin. He smells divine, his long hair tickling your cheek as he continues kissing and touching you. Your breathing gets louder, and he responds in kind, speeding up his fingers as you feel yourself ruining your panties for this man.

“Y-yoongi…that f-feels really good,” you tell him, surprise lacing your whimpers. You don’t want him to stop touching you, if anything you want more. Yoongi’s lips are latched onto your neck, tongue swirling with light pressure as your knees grow weak. With a light nip of his teeth, he pulls away to speak.

“I want you to always feel good with me, princess.” His gravelly voice is full of yearning, and you can tell he’s just as affected as you are. “I promise you’ll always feel good, if you let me take care of you.”

You can only nod your head, words eluding you as he turns you in his hold, pressing your back to his front while letting his fingers slide inside of your panties and part your lips. You feel his length pressing between your cheeks, thick and firm. He steps backwards with you, pulling you down until the two of you are seated on the edge of the bed. You’ve never been so turned on, dropping your head back to lean on his shoulder as he pulls one thigh to open you up wider.

You put up no fight, instead grinding down on him as you swirl your hips in time to the pads of his fingers circulating your dripping center. His lips reattach to your exposed neck, this time with more passion and it almost distracts you when his fingers dip inside of you, bucking once in his grip at the welcome intrusion. He’s gentle, only going as far as you let him, and the more he does it, the less you tense up, until he’s gliding in and out of you.

You’re unable to stay quiet any longer, every breath letting out a moan that is a melody to Yoongi’s ears.

“I…Yoongi, I think…I’ve never done this before, what’s happening?” you breathe out, and he chuckles darkly.

“Do you trust me?”

“I—”

“I promise it’ll feel good, okay? Trust me, and don’t fight it.”

“But—” his fingers don’t let up, and you squirm on his lap.

“Princess, be a good girl and trust me, don’t fight it—don’t fight me anymore.”

“O-okay, I trust you, Yoongi.”

Letting go, you relax into his hold as he resumes kissing your neck, left hand pulling your chin until your lips meet his in a sloppy sideways kiss. His foot presses against the inside of yours until you groan at the muscle strain. Your legs are so far apart, but it feels even better as his fingers begin a rapid thrusting. He swallows all of your whimpers as you feel your body reaching a peak and it all just feels so good, his free hand leaving your chin to touch your chest, hands roaming as you rock your hips to meet his palm against your sensitive nub and with a simultaneous bite to your bottom lip and pinch to your neglected nipple; you feel yourself combust.

You swear you see fireworks behind your eyelids as you tremble in Yoongi’s arms, barely alert enough to hear him whispering words of praise as he works you through it. It’s not long (or has it been ages?) before your hands push at his, overstimulation causing you to mewl in frustration.

It feels good and you don’t want to stop, but your body can’t take more. Not right now at least.

“That’s it, you did so well.”

“Me?” you question, voice raspy. “I didn’t even do anything but sit here.”

“Trust me, you did plenty. I think you can feel exactly what you did to me.” Yoongi alludes with a slight thrust of his hips, and you in fact do feel him.

“That’s because of me?”

“It’s all because of you. Your sounds, the way you were grinding onto me, the way you taste…” Yoongi slides his fingers into his mouth, sucking your essence from his two fingers lewdly. “You made me this way.”

Your face grows impossibly warmer at the thought of the power you have over a man such as he, and your ability to bring him to this level of vulnerability.

“Does…does it always feel like that?” you question, wondering if it could possibly get better.

Yoongi can barely contain his smirk, “Oh, dear wife, that was just the appetizer.”

Lifting you off of his lap, he sets you down next to him so he can stand and shed himself of his clothing. Naked, he stands before you in all of his glory so you can take in just how well endowed the duke is before kneeling on one knee.

“Can I take these off of you?” he asks, hands gesturing to your hips. You softly say yes, and once your ruined drawers are discarded, he then touches the sides of your corset. “And these?” Nodding, he leaves you in just your silk stockings. “I rather like how these look…”

Still kneeling, he takes your leg and leans you back until you’re sprawled on your back and he has a perfect view of your heated core. He kisses along your clothed leg until he reaches the skin of your thigh, biting lightly until he rests your leg on his shoulder. Turning to the other leg, he does the same, this time going all the way up. You throw your head back into the soft, satin sheets as your hands grip whatever they can. His tongue explores your sensitive area, lapping at your pearl until you’re incoherent, hands tugging at his long tresses to guide him where you want him.

There are no words to describe how Yoongi is making you feel. You’ve never felt this way before, so powerful or in control. You wonder if he’ll always be this willing to hand over the reins. Either way, you plan to savor it.

The sounds coming from between your thighs are obscene, but the louder and sloppier Yoongi is, the better it feels.

“Yoongi, oh!” Your toes curl as another wave of euphoria grips you. Tender kisses along your stomach just barely keep you from floating away as Yoongi brings himself higher and higher along your body. His teeth nip at your breasts, teasing as he laves his tongue around your nipples, perky against the air in the room. Chest heaving, you try to gather your wits as Yoongi’s naked body lays along yours, his hands on either side of your chest as he massages them, spending ample time tasting everything your body has to offer.

“My lady, if you’re ready, I’d rather like to feel you.”

In your post climactic haze, you try and understand what he’s asking.

“Feel me?”

“Yes,” he says, kissing your neck and you don’t understand how your body can still crave for more just from his lips on your skin, “I rather ache for you, princess.” The meaning becomes clear when he adjusts himself over you, and you feel the thickness against your thigh. You are aware of what he needs, how he means to alleviate his ache, and for a moment, you’re scared.

It all fades away as he kisses you, his lips soft against yours as he soothes away the worry.

“I’ll be gentle, I promise. If it hurts, just tell me to stop, okay?” he presses another kiss to your lips, and you melt.

“Okay,” you whisper as you pull away from the kiss, “I trust you.”

He smiles, this time a genuine one at your words before kissing you again. You feel yourself getting lost in it when a pressure at the apex of your thighs causes you to gasp. Breaking the kiss, you look between your body and Yoongi’s watching as his cock, flushed and rigid, breaches your core. He’s going slow, and he lowers himself back down to kiss you more, wanting to take your mind off of the pain as he fills you.

“You’re…impossibly tight…” he pants, and you would laugh if you were in the mindset, but at the moment, you are all consumed by Yoongi. He pushes another inch, stopping to allow you to grow accustomed to him, and you know that this is unusual for a wedding night—you have heard the horror stories from other women, and this has been anything but. Yoongi has made sure to let you have ownership of your pleasure tonight, and even now, he looks to you for confirmation that he can continue on without hurting you.

Raising your hips, you help guide him in the rest of the way, and he grunts as his forehead touches yours. His arms shake as he holds himself above you, wanting to take you with haste, but knowing he must control himself for now.

Reaching for him, your palms settle on either side of his face, bringing him closer to kiss you as you roll your hips against him. He huffs, pulling out to give you a good, even stroke, and you nearly scream at the pleasure and pain of it. He apologizes against your lips, but you shake your head, urging for more. He complies, though slower this time, not wanting to scare you off from sharing his bed. Yoongi is so gentle, sweet even as he swivels his hips, and you move your hands to grip his hair and his shoulder, leveraging to meet him with every gyration of your lower body.

A few tugs to his hair leaves him cursing in gratification, and soon you feel his hand reach to your leg to lift. His thighs speed up as he thrusts haphazardly into you before you feel a hot release of his seed filling you and spilling out around his cock, now lazily unloading itself as he slows with each jolt. His release provides you with just what you need to follow him, walls clenching around him to milk the last drop.

Sighing, the two of you lay tangled in the sheets, Yoongi’s fingers smoothing your hair as yours play along his chest, a feverish color now spread across his decolletage after your love making.

“I’ve never experienced such a blissful feeling as this,” you admit.

“Likewise, my lov—my lady.” Yoongi corrects a slight slip of the tongue.

“It’s okay, I think I could quite like being called your love,” you tease, though your words ring true. You now know what you felt with Yoongi. Liberation. A freedom you have never felt as a woman, provided to you in the most surprising of places: the arms of a man.

At breakfast the next morning, Ellie can’t help but notice the way you seem to glow as you sit at your husband’s side. The two of you can’t stop touching, whether it be holding hands or light touches to each other's arm as you two talk with the others who stayed overnight. Being married may not have been what you had seen for yourself a week ago, but after last night, you have a feeling that you could fall deeply in love with your husband, the Duke, and he with you, his Duchess.

“Marriage isn’t all that bad, is it, my love?” Yoongi whispers as the maids pass around the breakfast foods, and you shift your gaze to the marks you left barely hidden by his collar from an early morning romp.

“No, my love, I rather find that you have proven me wrong, and I quite like that.”

“And I quite like you.”

“You had better!”

thank you for reading!!!

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arc-hus · 2 months

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Glencairn House, Melbourne - Trower Falvo Architects

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warwickroyals · 2 months

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↬ Warwick Wives (2/7) | royal wives during the reigns of Louis III & James I, 1817 - 1857

Both Louis III and James I were unpopular, their reigns were characterised mostly by the royal family's struggle to produce a male heir. In the mid-nineteenth century, the middle-aged, promiscuous and ill-tempered sons of Louis II, vied for the throne. They scrambled to marry and have children. This power struggle divided their young wives, who over the years became jealous, power-hungry, and cunning.

E L I Z A B E T H was the daughter of a wealthy American merchant, the first of House Warwick's many American brides. She married Hereditary Prince Frederick, the only child of King Louis III, in 1826. Criticized as morganatic, the marriage was harmonious but deeply unpopular. Elizabeth was tiny but fierce, with Frederick calling her his "Pocket Artemis" due to her spirited personality and uncharacteristic love of hunting. During her time as Hereditary Princess, Elizabeth was a strong voice for social reforms, although her activism was pointedly ignored by the staunchly conservative king and royal dukes. Elizabeth and Frederick had no children at the time of his early death, sparking a succession crisis. Elizabeth remained close to her in-laws, but later remarried and had four children, the eldest of which was named Frederick.

C A R O L I N E married fifty-three-year-old James, Duke of Lennox when she was twenty-six. The marriage was chiefly a political one, in light of Prince Frederick's death and King Louis III's unhappy marriage with Queen Mary Caroline the Duke was increasingly likely to succeed to the throne. James despised his younger brothers, the Dukes of Glenciarn, Bessarion, Westminster, and Keele, and saw them as a threat to his inheritance. When a healthy son, the future Louis IV, was born in 1840, James was relieved.

Caroline herself was miserable. Her marriage to James had also produced several children who were stillborn or died in infancy. With her health permanently weakened, Caroline was isolated at Lennox House, where she lived with Louis separately from her husband. German by birth, she spoke broken English (although many historians believe this was an act to appear unassuming) and had a hard time adjusting to life in Sunderland. When she became Queen, her situation improved, but she attracted the ire of the Duchess of Glencairn by snubbing her son. Their rivalry would haunt Caroline for the rest of her life. While she was an affectionate mother to Louis, Caroline was intentionally cruel to James's numerous illegitimate children. She promptly banished them from court after James died in 1857.

Caroline has the great accomplishment of being the first woman to serve as a regent. During Louis IV's minority, she governed with a surprising level of competence; but she was unable to control Louis, who had grown temperamental and spoilt.

I M O G E N was stern and grim, with a sharp, unsmiling face. Despite this, in 1837 she left her home in England for the man she loved—the kindhearted Prince Henry, an amateur playwright and the third son of King Louis II. Imogen was passionately in love with her husband and she took pride in her two children. The couple's youngest, George, was the first male-line grandson of Louis II since Hereditary Prince Frederick's death, and Imogen was convinced he would be king someday.

Imogen was crushed by Henry's early death in 1840; after which she became paranoid, controlling, and antagonistic. For the next eighteen years, Imogen clung to George, fearing that his uncles would murder him to secure their own claims. When King Louis IV was enthroned in 1857, with Imogen's arch-enemy Queen Caroline serving as regent, Imogen returned to London, dragging her reluctant teenage children with her. By the time George became king in 1860, Imogen was estranged from him. The pair only reconciled after George became a father in 1862.

E L I Z A B E T H was another German princess who married a son of King Louis II. Prince Reginald's horrific reputation preseeded him, and the seventeen-year-old Elizabeth trembled on her way up to the altar. Reginald was a career soldier who lived a Spartan lifestyle and the rumours surrounding him ranged from off-putting to abhorrent. Luckily for Elizabeth, these rumours were mostly conjecture, and Reginald treated his wife with a "passing indifference". Reginald's military career was sporadic, and he left Elizabeth alone at his city estate for increasingly long stretches of time.

Elizabeth ran a carefree but lonely household. She was often seen picking flowers around the mansion's perimeter and trying to befriend the serving girls and vagabond women who passed through the estate, often giving away her possessions to win their friendship. In her later years, Elizabeth was aggravated by her late husband's debts. While Queen Alexandra, dismissed Elizabeth as peu de chose (not much), King George I was saddened when Elizabeth died.

J A N E had a habit of chewing on caraway seeds. She was pleasant, but known to pry. She came from a family of Sunderlandian aristocracy, a descendant of the Prussian entourage that followed King Louis I and Queen Whilmenina into Sunderland in the 1780s. Her family name Smith was adopted after King Louis II anglicized his own name from the German Hohenzollern to Warwick—an attempt to distance himself from Prussia. Jane married King Louis II's youngest surviving son, Prince Robert, who was fifteen years her senior. Robert was polarizing and widely despised for his controversial stint in the House of Lords. Despite this, the marriage was a happy one and Robert doted on his wife. Jane was the favourite aunt of King Louis IV but his successor, George I, had little love for her and his mother distrusted her.

M A R T H A was a large and domineering woman. Despite marrying the fifth son of King Louis II, she had a bravado that outpaced her station. Unlike her sisters-in-law, Martha remained a prominent member of the royal family during the reign of her nephew, King George I. Known to be an extravagant hostess, Dear Aunt Westminster drank and ate in excess, and habitually burned through her generous pension. She also quarrelled with Queen Alexandra, who thought her impertinent. Family drama quashed Martha's high ambitions in the later half of the 19th century. Her elder son was disinherited after marrying his mistress and her second entered a loveless political union that produced one daughter, Anne. Martha died at the age of ninety-five in 1911, making her one of the longest-lived members of the royal family. Just two years after her death, her granddaughter Anne married the future King George II.

#warwick.extras #warwick.wives #tw pregnancy loss #gif warning #✨#ts4 #ts4 story #ts4 royal #ts4 storytelling #ts4 edit #ts4 royal legacy #ts4 legacy #ts4 royalty #ts4 monarchy #ts4 screenshots #ts4 historical

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psikonauti · 11 months

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James Paterson (Scottish,1854-1932)

Autumn in Glencairn, Moniaive, 1887

Oil on canvas

#James Paterson #upl #art #painting

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dwellerinthelibrary · 3 months

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On this red-coloured stela, King Psammetichus II offers the Eye of Horus to Bastet and Horus (I think, these hieroglyphs are all over the shop). Bastet has a lioness head and holds an ankh and a lotus staff; Horus holds a was-sceptre. Interestingly, he stands behind her.

When: Late Period, 26th Dynasty

Where: Glencairn Museum

#Ancient Egypt #Bastet #Horus #Late Period #26th Dynasty

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phramboise · 7 months

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— risqué mistress of morbidity:: captainjohnpricexfemale!reader

In my tavern, my muse, leaves me longing, as he quiets my insanity's wild ruse.

tags and warnings: 18+, price and bartender!reader, reader is also smoking and drinking; he denies eye connection, both are madly alone, kissing, choking(?), vague smut, no aftercare, depictions of breakdown and depression, touch starved reader, touch starved price, implied cheating, death. one time thing with a stranger that visits for a drink.

read the dry salvages after to give this post another perspective, to see a happier closure (!), or his view.

wordcount: 4.1k

;;

A little city, or not quite, not even a town. Some place between other little places. The kind that keeps you in front of the radio, listening through channels to find one that works, or the kind that makes you wonder how people who live here spend their days with. Rarely a vehicle glides down the road, throwing pebbles around the one-line asphalt, and even rarer does one stop in front of this pub to walk in. Still, roads smell of dust, soot and grease; ground dry and deserted, feels like the sun stays right in the middle of the unsure sky the entire day. Not moving, not a cloud over it for it to blink ─always hazy, even indoors, even when it’s dark outside. A hit stench that sticks behind your neck, one that hogs your vision, one that feels like the breath you take needs to be a lot deeper for it to feel enough.

Slow, banal, monotonous; makes one think of one simple thing for days for there’s nothing else this place offers you to do, to think about. A stale life, one with no surprises. Where days feel long, years feel short. Hours are slow, and weeks are even slower, without one noticing, -but maybe with one noticing, noticing but not having the will in oneself for putting it to a stop- how the life, however fast or slow it might be, is still yours, and you are watching it away, for here leaves no wish, nor will.

Not to say that the man who now walks in the pub is simple -maybe his clothes, indigo rinse jeans, a fleece are- but even in such attire, he looks.. jarring, debonair, taking the air off the small tavern, suffocating -makes her take a big sigh before catching her breath. The place feels as it gets smaller as he makes his presence known, with a terrific aura oozing out of his frame, even glancing from the door his eyes are clear when looking inside. Dark blue landmines, the sea she always wished to see one day but never will, but she knows, if she were to see it, it would be of the colour of his eyes. The sweltering sun hits the sideline of his face for a sliver of a second as he steps in, the sun kisses his hair, bathes his brunette in golden rays, skin turning tan. She lifts her head off the counter, leaving the dry towel to her side to see who would step into this pub that has only her inside. And sees him. And meets his unavoidable mercy.

After that -after she looks away- there’s this haze in her head, an unease that dreads her, a cloud between thought and morals, and a ringing in her ears, vertigo, a pressure when having a long trip. She turns back to the counter, trying to avoid the impossible.

─that is, before he finds himself a seat next to the counter, slanting over it before asking for a whiskey, adding neat right after.

Glencairn winces in her hand as she places the glass in front of him, before giving the drink a firm twirl.

The goldenest burnished copper, a soothing sherry, a hint of warming smoke. Oloroso & oak. She even eyes the quaich on the glass shelves.

Lee Hazlewood in the background, the whiskey works his inhibitions away, it seems. His eyes linger longer on her with each sip, but each looks away after a moment on her body and never meets her eyes, as if such capable-looking man is afraid of simple connection, never suggestive. Maybe he’s looking at her only because nothing ever moves in this dead bar, but she prefers to think otherwise, and is free to dream. One hand dives in his hair, fingers graze on his forehead while the other holds a thick cigar, turning his head down as he takes drags of it between his thick fingers. He looks as if he finds comfort in smoke, and for his comfort in a smoke, she wants to take it to herself.

The cigar between his lips seems like a mockery of her own desire, knowing it can lovingly touch and feel between his lips and her lips just aren’t able.

Not one to fall into compulsions on his intuitions, he is. He shifts in his seat, stretching his leg out to take out his wallet. Windows open, so he tucks the paper under the tulip glass.

Five minutes, if not more. No talk, not a glance.

“I can have you another? On me?

This is ridiculous, needy, she thinks. A bartender asking to give a free drink, and the customer not attentive. He looks like he has nothing better to do anyway, he looks like he’s going to go somewhere unwanted after. Unwilled, to an infinite wrath, or an infinite despair. A silent man, he looks like he finds comfort in silence too. No defeat in silence, no rejection. A man who looks like he knows that it’s only the time that heals, and not the memory. Just a man, it’s what she sees, who looks like any other man, but not quite.

The quiet man does not object, and she fixes a drink with the sleight of her hand. “Forgive me, but you look rather… tense. Can I help you in a way?”

The fingers tapping on the wooden countertop miss their next beat, stop their steady pattern for a second. He doesn’t need to lift his head, look up to her to see that she’s speaking to her, he doesn’t bother anyway.

When there are two people who are strangers alone, only the one who wishes for a talk feels awkward. The other doesn’t notice, doesn’t want to talk. He looks down at his drink, the narrow-mouthed tulip, at the linted lifelines in the palm of his hand. Turning his palm against the counter, he looks at the cuts on his tanned skin. At some point he even reaches for his pocket, shifts in his barstool to take something out his pocket, and looking askance, she sees the split corner of the glossy paper, no wonder a polaroid. Only a second, before he secures it back in his pocket. Worn and irritated, it’s clear he had it with him for long enough. She can’t get a glimpse of the picture but has guesses on who that might be. The owner of the ring on his finger, perhaps? She curses the woman whom she never met, as if she’s to blame. She knows this man didn’t come here for the reason she has in mind, but she tries to deceive herself, reassure herself, make a consensus, a false one at that. It’s easy to justify, to blame her impurity on her id. Because who would come to a bar in the middle of nowhere at this time of the day? Only for a drink? Not likely if you ask her.

“This is enough.” He says, swirling the glass he lazily holds with a twirl of his wrist. It was on you, remember?

Rarely one comes here, but never once someone gives this answer to her question. Any other man, what she sees, and each time that other man looks like every other man, with trivial thoughts of every other man on their minds. Same minds dressed in different skins. This is another man.

Any other man thinks, she’s given me a drink, a sly smirk on his indifferent, indiscreet face. A young woman offering me of all men -as if there’s someone else around to compare- a drink? And she has plenty else to offer, no? This man, the another, looks like a man who is not in need of a proposal, looks satiated, even with the remorse of his sulken face. He looks like a man who has everything with nothing to lose. Like a man who seizes how transient she is, who wouldn’t be interested in her if she was a ghost of his wildest dreams.

Maybe that’s why, she doesn’t remember asking a question twice, she remembers when she hadn’t, when other men already had the proposal themselves, many of them she remembers rejecting. But never she remembers being rejected, never remembers simple defeat.

─So, she persists, dainty steps walk over, towards the customer side of the counter. Nervous, but slow enough to make it obscure, slow enough to notice her own breath, light as air as she walks next to him. I only want you to relax, no other reason.

She’s skeptic that he’d pull away, but alas, she’s also insistent, and he does not squirm nor he moves. Doesn’t tell her to stop, doesn’t tell her off. He doesn’t even grunt in efforts to mean something, to dismiss her. That’s her answer, she feels the tense muscles under her almost sweaty palms -nervous as she does -, gives a squeeze before daringly trying to snake her hands along his neck. Then gives another.

Then once more, and one more, until he slants back, until she hears a groan of relief out his hoarse throat, does she rubs his shoulders. Can I keep going?, mutters her, earning no yes, no no, but a little hum, it comes out as a withering moan out his lips, fainter than he planned to make it sound. Each rub inches her closer, until her breath kisses his nape, her front pressing right behind his back.

He looks capable, enough so, she wonders what kind of woman would leave him unsatisfied back home, she even wishes to be such lady, leaning over his shoulder slightly to not startle him away from compulsion, but enough to remind herself of the silver band on his finger, lambent in the midday sun. No reason to stop. Soon she leans her head down, down and her hair embraces his, as he tilts his head equally back, eyes closed. She clicks her tongue, rubbing it inside along her teeth as she looks down at him, and his short hair meets her skin through her v-neck.

A plea rolls out of his mouth, a growl, a promise of a whine, he tries to protest but is in the last sips of conviction. He puts his hand on her shoulder, he does, but he does not stop her. Only one way this goes, and now they both know it. One proposes quite openly, and the other subliminally accepts.

“I only want you to relax…”

With his head resting on her breasts and her supporting him, he only relaxes a little more on the stool, his breathing slowing and slowing. Heavier, bated. His eyes closed; his cheek feels against her breastbone.

This girl, undeniably smells like his lover. Talks like her too. Hearing the suggestive delivery of her voice, an immediate animal presence with incredible luring power, she whispers something simple, something she probably already said to many others who came here before his turn, but her voice, her fluid, languorous movement, just moves him in. Erotic and subliminal, but she’s not to blame. Him? He’s practically starving for some affection, and she’s warm. She feels like the warmth in a haze that holds you in bed early in the morning, an unhurried mist of comfort, all with terrifying seduction. Thus, he closes his eyes, to feel her but to see someone other.

He curses himself.

A little tug on his arm, and a brush of her lips along his jaw, is an overt invitation, for him to follow. And with a shaky breath, he does.

…

Through the water-stained mirror of the open lid of the locker, she watches his face as his hand wraps around her throat, rough fingers dragging along her supple skin, thumb searching for her life under its warm pad. Thumping harder and even palpitating with each beat, it’s ridiculous, she feels his warm breath as his lips inch closer right under her ear. His eyes trail along her hair, over the features of her face, every spot but her eyes as if she doesn’t have any, what she notices also is he doesn’t look at himself over the mirror too -as if he hates the sight, this charade that he plays. Then again, would a cherished person be in a staff room of a dusty bar? Only she sees the mirror, and only she feels what’s felt now. Him?.. Face indifferent, only his breath speaks.

She ignores it, just like she does with the fact that they don’t even know their names.

Palm leaves her throat, and she whines as his knuckles brush down her nape, taking her necklace off. It would be such romantic sight if he were to meet her eyes, she thinks. A kiss to her cheek, and a smile as he unclasps the chain. Some sweet whisper along her name. She even contemplates, would he let her if she were to snake her fingers towards his chin, lift it up to see his eyes that never see hers?

She does not risk it, for she feels like he’d pull away and leave her here. Behind.

Distant eyes are no matter, for the hands are what she cherishes. Even when obligatory, even when it’s mandatory. Hands are hands, and they are warm, warm but not burning on her skin, not sickening and twisting in her head -easing some vertigo. Oh, how she wished to get sick so that someone would take care of her, even when out of pity, even fake, even without looking in her eyes. The envy when she sees a damsel in distress, with her company along her, a crave for a wound for someone to heal. They don’t see her when looking at her, they see someone else. Still… She can close hers, and pretend. How she wished for a brush, of a touch, a graze, a squeeze, a straddle even intended to hurt her... For so, she wouldn’t stop. This is another man, and this is not only touch.

Don't mind my desperation.

—Let me hold you, not just for vacation.

Until he notices, she’s under his mercy, one hand enough the grasp her supple neck, holding tight, a little too tight to enjoy -him the executioner, and she would lovingly be the sacrificial lamb- for she’d be something then. And she’d feel warm hands on her. Isn’t this the reason for every other man anyway?

Instinct and desire, his rough hands scrape towards her chest, thumb presses on the notch between her clavicles, forehead resting on her shoulder as she leans back, hand on his wrist as she leads his hesitant touch further, through the loose buttons of her linen shirt.

It’s torment to be this slow, a hiss leaves her as she turns back, pulling the collar of his jacket in a fist, her bare back meets the cold of the metal door of the locker, goosebumps on her skin as her lips find his jaw, pressing against him, unzipping as he leans against her with his forearm resting next to her head, trapping her between his broad physique and the door behind her. She’d usually hear whispers by now, promises to never keep, on how good it will feel for her, never teaching her things she doesn’t know- along with some praises and sometimes with fool words. Out filthy mouths, with a sharp tone, turning her off in how unnatural and forced they sound. Now she imagines how his voice she only heard when he was ordering his whiskey would be a perfect candidate, etching prayers into her skin, voice husky and deeper than usual, in desire, and the thought burns an image between her thighs. Between little groans, she tries to matchmake words.

His large hold gropes the back of her head as she kisses his chest through the black t-shirt he has on, sliding his arms off the jacket, leaving it on the floor as she walks him back, the zipper makes a sound on the tiles off the personnel room. Her nails graze his jaw, he turns his head away as she moves to his lips, pressing her head to his neck further. What’s sex without a taste? Can fulfilment ever feel as deep as a kiss? Vexed for attention, she begs his lips, rising on her feet, rubbing hers all over his face, nibbling his skin just under his ear, tongue tracing right after, a cool blow of her breath as he looks up at the ceiling, holding onto some sort of sanity, holding onto her. He only threads his arm along her nape, pulling her to his chest, his teeth graze the strap of her bra, tugging it down, his lips light on her shoulder, it’s a kiss —only if she accepts.

Forget about her already, you’ve been too far to compensate. Seal us with a kiss and forget about her, or don’t.

Don’t forget about her, just kiss me. Kiss me as you’d kiss her.

It’s raw and as clean as an almost abandoned pub could be, the back of his legs touch the couch as she pushes him onto it, and not him pulling her back with her, he watches her body as she undresses, putting on a needy show, spreads his legs as he shifts comfortable on his seat. She doesn’t ask for another kiss after, only moves towards him as he fiddles with his belt, unbuckling as she moves her lips, kissing him through his underwear, lips on his happy trail, moving upwards as her hand moves his t-shirt upwards, he helps her take it off, before pulling her on his lap with arms holding her to himself, close to him. Sweet girl. Hands on her knees move up, up to her thighs, hooking her underwear with his thumb on his way to her spine, palm open on her back as he buries his forehead on the side of her face, pressing his nose into her skin, his stubble burning on her core.

Nothing to know about one another, no explanation, no justification, but it keeps on. A mutual tension, a strange exhilaration, they’re both dancing around something with no name, something that gets her heart racing, stirring and swelling inside her. For a moment, she dares to dream, to think beyond the moment as she grinds her hips against his. Of something more, of this once more, somewhere else, a future of endless moments of this. An abyss of something… she wants more of. Strange, unsure, unknown. Not really recalling what she does, she just tries to feel more of his skin against hers.

She feels him move, his hand coming to her chin, thumb caressing her bottom lip, tugging it down with enough force as he tilts his head, finally about to seam the inches. The pulse on her throat quickens, she looks at him, but his eyes are already closed, so she mirrors, leans into his touch, parts her lips as she feels his, with a hum blooming on her chest to kiss his lips, he just lets it happen, leads it. The rush in her veins dulls the chill of the wedding band that brushes her back as he slides to a more comfortable position, pressing her chest to his. It’s a gentle kiss, patient, yet she feels the unshakeable core of stoicism behind too. He’s always in control, emotions controlled and calculated. Not the greediest, but he kisses like he knows when to let them take over, both of her and himself. And her, she holds him like she begged something above for him to kiss her, and the way she kisses him back, it’s clear she did.

In the moment, she fails to read the engravings of his initials on the dog tag around his neck as the chain goosebumps its way on her chest. Each kiss of his leaves an indentation of his lips in intensity on her body. Each kiss that travels her thighs, so does his tongue. Each kiss gets her ensnared, trapped, she feels as if he’s holding his voices back, but when he does not, when little muffled curses with letters moaned out —telling her to keep doing what she does, they fall into her ears, takes root in her soul, sprouts inside her stomach, she lets them grow. Voracious, alive, relentless in lustful abandon. He tastes her in an unbridled display of passion. Never met her, but he fucks her like he missed her.

…

Her figure follows his as he pulls back, a heavy warmth now leaving itself to the sun’s. The difference is the latter is sickening, and unwelcomed, yet he still is on his feet, hastily looking around for his clothes as she lays, reclined, pulling the sheet over her, watching his back, muscles moving in rhythmic fashion, before he covers it with his t-shirt. Not holding her anymore. But when he sits at the edge of the worn couch to tie his boots, she at least feels his weight through the sunken cushion. She could savour it.

“Would you visit again?”

I’d wait.

She blinks once, licking the taste of his skin on her lips. Hopeful, alas, she knows the answer already.

He moves onto the other boot, type that men in field work would wear. Not even sighs, as if she hadn’t asked him something, as if he’s alone at this personnel room with nothing to consider. As if she’s gone in the wind, used and thrown away. As if he’s leaving no one behind. A fantasy unwind in summer breeze. Gets on his feet, on his way to leave.

And as if not having his answer loud and clear, and having the audacity, she pleads. As if she just didn’t fuck with a married man. A married man whom she knows not the name of.

But she knows he belongs to someone else.

“Right, your wife!?” She wipes the passion off her lips on the back of her hand then. “You should’ve thought about her before you decided to fuck me!”

He stands a second, petrified, judging in his mind if she’s worth turning back to answer, and when he decides, he turns halfway before her, looking at her with a mocking squint of his eyes, which trail up and down on her, belittling her. Brows furrow, meeting his lashes before he speaks. Voice low, lower than a whisper, but still is assertive, only the tone of it enough to put her back in her place. Almost a threat, and as sure as the sun outside.

She sees his thumb playing with the band on his ring finger, mad in rage she spoke about his wife; she wishes she never asked, afraid he would just walk up to her and do something that wouldn’t give her a choice to object. She wonders of the times where she needed to speak up but didn’t, and when she needs to shut up she never is able.

It’s the only time, for a sliver of a second before he meets her eyes.

He mercies her an answer, nonetheless. Maybe for she'd eased some of his own distress, silenced some insanity.

“She’s dead.”

…

The vertigo he brought stays after his leave.

She bites and scrapes the polish off her bitten nails, until the skin around is red and throbbing and her teeth are frail, when there’s this familiar chemical taste down the pit of her stomach. She hates it.

She’s not sure how many minutes passed, but getting off the couch to speak back, to shout and break stuff, she finds the things back in their usual order, and even the seat she pulled him off from stands neatly tucked under the counter, the parking lot empty once more, the scent he brought with him gone. The only remnants are a stub and an empty glencairn, which keeps a banknote under its diligent tulip to keep it secure. Not a number, not a thing she gets to keep, no memoir. As if he’d never been in here, as if no one visited today either, and it was only a fragment of her tainted imagination. Only the ghost of his lips imprinted on the glass keeps his now gone presence real as she lifts it to her lips, before feeling the inside of the bar to grab her slim cigarettes to try what she saw him do.

Can I ever not think about you?

;

the dry salvages

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tessa-liam · 4 months

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Marabelle Series

Long Live the King - Chapter 12-

Choices – The Royal Romance, AU – (cross-over with Rules of Engagement)

Series Premise – An American teenager from New York City is introduced to the world of a small European country and its society of royalty, nobility, and commoners. How will her life story be transformed? Will this new adventure bring her happiness...or regret?

Marabelle Series Masterlist

My Complete Masterlist

Main Pairing – Crown Prince Liam Rys x F!OC Lady Sophia (Sophie) Taylor

Other Pairings – Maxwell Beaumont x M!OC Daniel (from NYC), Drake Walker x F!OC Melanie Smithson

Most characters belong to Pixelberry Studios

Series Rating – M*🔞Warnings: this series will have NSFW material, drinking, crude language & innuendo.

Not Beta’d - Please excuse all errors.

Category – Alternate universe/on-going series/angst/fluff/cross-over with Choices Rules of Engagement

Words: 3480

Long Live the King – Chapter 12

Chapter Summary – Leo confides his reasons why he has decided to abdicate the throne to Liam, as Madeleine is notified by King Constantine that she is no longer the queen-in-waiting.

Music Inspiration: I Get to Love You, Ruelle

A/N1: Bethany Beaumont, Maxwell’s mother, is originally from the U.S. and is Barthelemy Beaumont’s second wife. Annabelle Beaumont (deceased) is Bertrand’s mother.

A/N2: ‘Social Season’ in this AU series refers to a traditional period in the spring/summer for royalty and members of the court to take part in Balls, dinner parties and charity events.

A/N3: Thank you to @peonierose for your ask/quote prompt, “He looks at her like he just realized what love is.”

Monterisso

Inside the dimly lit speakeasy nestled in the small island country of Monterisso, the atmosphere was both vibrant and clandestine. The air was filled with the tang of citrus from freshly squeezed lemons, mingling with the rich aroma of aged wines and the faint scent of tobacco from elegantly smoked cigars. Soft jazz music played in the background, creating a sultry ambiance that enveloped the patrons in an air of secrecy and luxury.

Amidst the plush velvet couches and ornate decor, Leo sat with his brother in a secluded corner of the speakeasy. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across their faces as Leo took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation ahead.

Liam was already quite sure and prepared for what his brother was going to announce that evening. In talking with their father shortly after the charity polo match had ended, he learned about his brother’s contemplations and desire to abdicate the throne. The surprise being, for Liam, that his father confessed to him that he was relieved about Leo’s decision.

"Liam," Leo began slowly, his voice low and filled with gravity. "There's something I need to tell you." He paused, sitting back in his chair as the buxom server deposited a bottle of top shelf scotch complete with Glencairn crystal tumblers on the table in front of them.

Liam looked up at the woman, and cordially thanked her before returning his attention back to his brother.

They sat in silence for a moment, each enjoying their scotch. The only sounds were coming from the smooth and mellow tones of a saxophone from across the room.

Letting out his breath slowly, his eyes were fixed on the flickering candle at the center of the table.

"I've made a decision," Leo started, his words measured. "I have decided that ... that I am abdicating the throne." He looked warily at Liam, not knowing what his reaction would be. Considering the news will profoundly affect his brother’s future trajectory, it could possibly go sideways.

Liam looked down, nodding his head. His features reflected a mix of concern and disbelief upon hearing the words coming out of his brother’s mouth, even though his announcement was expected and forewarned by their father.

"Abdicate? Leo, why? You've always been committed to your duties as the crown prince." Turning to him, Liam questioned further, in a hushed tone, “why now ... what has changed?”

Leo leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper now, mindful of the ears that may be listening in the secretive ambiance of the speakeasy. "I know it's abrupt, Li, for you. I have been thinking about this for a while now. I cannot ignore my heart any longer. I want a life of my own choosing, not one dictated solely by duty and tradition."

Liam took a moment to process his brother's words, the weight of the decision settling between them the unspoken truth that both men already knew. "I understand, Leo," he finally responds after a moment, his voice filled with compassion. "Your happiness matters more than anything else to you. I know that you want your freedom.”

As the jazz music continued to weave its melodies around them, Leo and Liam sat in quiet contemplation, they were united in their bond as brothers, even as their individual paths ahead were destined to diverge into uncharted territory.

“But Liam.” Leo began, moving in closer and watching his brother’s reaction and facial cues. “I already knew and accepted the fact that you were the one destined to take the crown many years ago. Not me.”

Liam raised his eyebrows in confusion but remained silent to allow Leo to continue.

“Remember that time in Athens, Liam? I was 21 and you had just turned legal? I was showing you around town?”

Liam sighed, chuckling, “Ah, yes ... that was the royal visit when you picked up that woman! Father was so pissed when Bastien found you at that hotel after the diplomatic summit!”

The broad smile on Leo’s face, with his booming laugh rattled throughout the room. “Yes, yes ... it was quite the eventful trip.” Leo smirked, shaking his head.

“But seriously, Li, it was on that trip when I realized you would make the better king.”

“Oh, come on, Leo. You had your doubts, but you were always the natural born leader.”

“No, Liam. It’s so much more than that. That incident with Bradshaw and Isabella Achillies at the party on the Auvernal yacht. You handled it with such grace and diplomacy.”

‘...The deck was filled with diplomats mingling and drinking. Leo and Liam each grabbed a glass of ouzo from a passing waiter. When the sun started to set, Leo and Liam rose to leave the yacht to return to the summit being held at an uptown venue.

“Prince Leo, are you ashamed?” Bradshaw taunted as he also rose, noticing the Rys brothers leaving his yacht.

Leo stopped and turned around to glare at Bradshaw for that comment. All eyes were now focused on the king’s raised voice.

“Your schoolboy brother is afraid of being tardy.” Bradshaw ridiculed.

“Insult my brother again, and you're going over that railing, Bradshaw.”

“Come on, Leo.” Isabella chided. “Stay and have another drink.”

“I guess Cordonia is too weak a nation to do as it pleases.” Bradshaw turned, to grandstand in front of everyone on the yacht. "As evidenced by Prince Leo and his tedious little brother.”

Leo swiftly stepped up to approach him, as Bradshaw quickly retreated.

“You can call me a coward all you want ... but don't you dare” ... Leo seethed and stopped mid-sentence with clenched fists when Liam placed a hand on his shoulder. Knowing that Leo was losing his head and was about to blow up in front of everyone, Liam came forward, as cool headed as ever.

“King Bradshaw, our kingdom honors and respects its neighbors, even those who do not deserve it.

Cordonia’s strength is in our integrity.”

Liam paused and moved forward to stand directly in front of Queen Isabella.

“To answer the summit's call is not about being or acting like a coward. It is about acting like a king.”

Bradshaw stayed silent with a reddened face.

Isabella was also silent, clearly embarrassed as their guests stopped their conversations to witness the altercation.

“Please enjoy the rest of the party while Cordonia helps to shape international policy.”’

...Pausing, Leo threw back his scotch; quickly refilling his tumbler as well as Liam’s...

‘Bradshaw and Isabella's jaws were on the floor. It actually embarrassed them enough that everyone else felt uncomfortable and left, abruptly ending the party.

As Leo and Liam strolled back to the summit, Leo stopped.

“Hey, can I just say that it was an impressive move back there. It takes tact and cunning to lie in a bed of snakes and avoid a bite.”

Liam responded, “you would have done the same if I hadn't interrupted.”

“Huh. Yeah. No. No, I wouldn't have, honestly. You made Cordonia look good back there. You were born for this world. Cordonia is lucky to have you.”’

“That was the moment when I realized that you were so much more suitable to wear the crown, rather than me. The things that got me excited for those summits was the chance to meet people, to meet new women, outside of Cordonia. For you, it was negotiations, networking and diplomacy.”

“Ah, that.” Liam shook his head. “It wasn't my finest moment, but I had to step in.”

“You diffused the situation brilliantly. Liam. Your words about Cordonia's integrity and strength... that is what a true king embodies.”

“I was just trying to keep the peace and uphold our principles.”

“You did more than that, Liam. You showed me and everyone else on that yacht what it means to lead with honor and wisdom. It told me that she was in your heart. Cordonia needs someone like you to wear the crown after father.”

Leo put his hand on Liam's shoulder. “It hit me, at that moment ... that you would make a way better king. Much better than I ever could be. It said that you have faith in this country before anyone or anything else. Liam, you are the king Cordonia needs and deserves.”

Liam breathed out slowly; a myriad of thoughts swirling in his head.

Leo refilled their glasses with amber liquid.

“And I trust you to lead Cordonia into a bright future, Liam.” Leo raised his glass to propose a toast. “And you know what? Cordonia is lucky to have you as its future king.”

“To Liam Rys. Long live the King.”

The Beaumont Estate

Sophie stepped into her bedroom, her mind reeling from the events of the day. The charity polo match had been a success, but the victory was bittersweet. The encounter with Neville had left her feeling shaken, confused and vulnerable.

As she changed out of her clothes to slip into her pajamas, her thoughts returned to the moment when Neville had pushed her. The look of hatred and disdain on his face was burned into her memory. What had she ever done to deserve his cruel treatment?

She sank onto the edge of the bed, tears stinging her eyes. Her shoulder was throbbing from the fall and her knee ached from hitting the hard ground. The day had been an emotional roller coaster, and she was mentally and physically exhausted.

Sophie picked up her phone, hesitating. She knew Liam was busy with his brother, and she did not want to disturb him. But she wanted him; she needed to see him; to feel the warmth of his embrace and to hear his reassuring words. She placed her phone back on her nightstand and laid her head down on the pillow.

As the night wore on, Sophie found herself drifting in and out of sleep, her thoughts consumed by the day's events.

Sitting around the firepit on the grounds outside the estate, Maxwell and Daniel shared a bottle of wine, the night sky a blanket of darkness overhead. They laughed and chatted, the warmth of the fire keeping them comfortable in the cool evening air.

"It's nights like this that I love," Daniel said, his eyes shining as he looked up at the stars.

When Maxwell didn’t respond, Daniel looked over at his partner.

“Maxwell? Earth to Maxwell... you seem like you are a thousand miles away."

"Oh, sorry, I'm just a bit tired," Maxwell apologized.

"Is everything okay? You've seemed distracted tonight?" Daniel asked, a look of concern on his face.

"Yeah, it's just..." Maxwell trailed off, his expression uncertain. "It's Sophie. She's been through a lot lately, and I'm worried about her."

"Oh, the polo match?"

Maxwell went silent as Drake plopped down in a lounger beside them. “Sorry, I’m late.” Drake took a long pull from his bottle of beer.

“Hey Drake, glad you could make it tonight. But hey, where did Melanie go? I thought she was coming?”

Drake scoffed, “yeah, she decided to go home.” Maxwell raised an eyebrow.

“She was in a mood, so I asked her ‘what’s up’, and she tore a strip off me. Drawing another pull, Drake, clearly annoyed with his girlfriend, “I am in no mood for aggro tonight, so I drove her home.”

"Hey, where's Taylor? I know she is not with Liam tonight." Drake looked around the grounds.

"She is in her room. She wasn't feeling well, Daniel answered.

"So, Maxwell," Drake looked quizzically at him ... you were telling me that you were worried about Taylor? What's up?"

Monterisso

“I have met someone." Leo took a moment, the flickering candlelight reflecting in his eyes as he gathered his thoughts. "Katie," he begins, "she's not Madeleine. Meeting her on that cruise was like stumbling upon a new adventure, a chance to explore life beyond the confines of royalty."

Liam listened intently, a flicker of curiosity dancing in his eyes. "Tell me more about her," he prompted, sensing the significance of this encounter for Leo.

"She's... different," Leo mused, a soft smile tugged at his lips. "Katie is spirited, full of life and has a thirst for adventure. With her, I feel like I can be myself, and not be the crown prince, burdened by expectations."

"I realize that you already knew about my decision before tonight," Leo said after a while, breaking the quietude. "I wanted to apologize for not telling you sooner, for not confiding in you."

Liam shook his head, a reassuring smile on his face. "There's no need to apologize, Leo. I understand why you made this choice, and I support you wholeheartedly." Liam never held back with his opinions for Leo’s betrothed.

Leo let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, a weight clearly lifted from his shoulders. "Thank you, Li. Your support means everything to me.

Liam nods, his understanding dawned in his expression. "It sounds like Katie has brought a breath of fresh air into your world."

"She has," Leo confirmed, gratitude coloring his tone. "Being with her these past three weeks has made me realize that there's more to life than the crown, more to discover beyond the palace walls."

Liam reached out and placed a reassuring hand on Leo's shoulder. "I'm glad you found this, Leo. Everyone deserves to find their own happiness, even if it means taking a different path that was originally planned for them."

Leo nodded in agreement, a sense of resolve settling within him. "Thank you, Liam. Your support means everything to me."

As they sat in the intimate corner of the speakeasy, surrounded by the whispers of jazz and the allure of hidden conversations, Leo and Liam watched as a jazz singer took to the stage and began to sing.

"You know, Liam," Leo started, his voice carrying a note of contemplation, "with Sophie by your side, you could start thinking about the future. About heirs to the throne and building a family."

Liam's expression softened at the mention of Sophie, his eyes reflecting a mix of love and longing. "I've thought about it," he admits, his voice filled with quiet determination. "Sophie and I have talked about our dreams, about the possibility of a future together."

Leo nodded in agreement, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "She would make an incredible queen, Li. Her grace, her kindness, and her love for you are evident to everyone."

"I agree," Liam responds, a warm smile of affection coloring his features. "And I couldn't imagine a better partner to share the responsibilities of ruling Cordonia and raising our children."

"You know, Liam," Leo began, his voice carrying a note of contemplation, "with your betrothal to Sophie there would be no need for a social season.”

Liam was taken aback by the suggestion. "Leo, you sound like father."

"Well, Father has a point. If you are going to rule, you need to secure the throne for the next generation. The need for a queen is paramount."

“That was before you abdicated, now, everything has changed. And, well, we are not engaged; not yet."

"Well, maybe it's time you fixed that,” Leo looked meaningly at Liam. ‘Sophie is a perfect fit for you."

"I appreciate your support, Leo. But it's not that simple."

"Why not? From what I can see, you two are clearly in love. She comes from a noble house and has been accepted at court. Father and Regina think very highly of her."

“Marrying me now comes with a lot of baggage. There's the political side of things, the court politics, and the pressure to produce an heir."

"But that's all manageable, isn't it? Liam?”

"Maybe. But Sophie is still new to all of this. I do not want to overwhelm her. We've had a whirlwind romance, and I don't want her to feel rushed or pressured."

"I understand. But Liam, the longer you wait, the more you risk losing her."

Liam understood too; all too well. According to Cordonian law at the time of a coronation, he must be betrothed.

Cordonian Royal Palace

The following day, Madeleine sat in the opulent sitting room of the royal palace. Her fingers nervously traced the intricate patterns of the embroidered cushion beneath her. She had been summoned by King Constantine, and the weight of anticipation hung heavy in the air.

As the throne room doors opened, King Constantine entered the sitting room, his expression somber yet composed. Beside him Liam also entered, his face a mask of conflicting emotions.

"Madeleine," King Constantine acknowledged, his voice carrying the weight of the impending revelation. "There's something we need to discuss."

Madeleine's heart skipped a beat, a sense of foreboding settling over her like a dark cloud. "Of course, Your Majesty," she replied, her voice steady despite the rising unease within her.

Taking a seat opposite her, King Constantine fixed his gaze on Madeleine. "It concerns Leo," he continued, his tone measured. "He has made a decision regarding the throne."

The mention of Leo's name caused a flurry of emotions to surge within Madeleine—hope, fear, and uncertainty mingling in her thoughts. "What decision?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Liam stepped forward; his expression filled with empathy. "Leo has chosen to abdicate the throne," he revealed, his expression stoic.

Madeleine's heart seemed to stop as the reality of the words sank in. Abdication meant that her dreams of becoming queen, of standing by Leo's side as his consort, were shattered.

"I... I do not understand, why," Madeleine stammered, her mind racing to grasp the enormity of the news. "Why would he abdicate? What about our plans?"

King Constantine sighed, his eyes reflecting a mixture of sympathy and regret. "Leo has found his own path, Madeleine," he explained stoically. "He believes it's time for a new chapter in his life, one that doesn't include the responsibilities of the crown."

Tears welled up in Madeleine's eyes, her dreams crumbling around her like a fragile illusion. "But... but I thought..." Her voice trailed off, unable to articulate the turmoil raging within her.

Liam reached out, offering a handkerchief as her tears began.

"I know this is difficult, Madeleine," he said softly. "But Leo's decision is his own, and we must respect it."

As the reality of Leo's abdication sank in, Madeleine felt a mix of sadness and resignation wash over her. The future she had envisioned, the life she had planned, seemed to slip through her fingers like grains of sand.

"I understand," Madeleine replied, her voice steadier now, masking the pain that threatened to consume her. "I will accept Leo's decision and wish him well in his new path."

King Constantine nodded, a sense of finality settling over the conversation. "Thank you, Madeleine. Your grace and understanding in this matter are appreciated."

As Madeleine composed herself and prepared to leave the sitting room, the sense of loss weighed heavily on her heart. The dream of being queen was no more, replaced by a stark reality she had not expected.

With a heavy heart, Madeleine left the royal palace, her thoughts and mood now turning into anger. Consumed by thoughts of what could have been and her uncertain future that lay ahead.

House Beaumont

In the morning, Sophie woke to a text from Liam.

'Sorry I missed you last night. I'll be over later today.'

Sophie's heart pounded, her fingers trembling as she replied, 'I'll be here.'

It was a simple message, but it spoke volumes. She had missed him, and she couldn't wait for him to return.

She had never felt this way about anyone before, and it scared her. She knew that being with Liam was worth the risk. thinking to herself that she would do whatever it took to make their relationship work, no matter what obstacles stood in their way.

Thanks for reading; please let me know if you would like to be added or removed from this series.

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#marabelle #tessa liam writes #the royal romance #liam rys #trr fanfic #trr #choices fic writers creations #sophie taylor #crown prince Liam Rys #choices #maxwell beaumont #drake walker #daniel trr

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