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fushitoru · 5 months ago

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an imperial command a knight!choso fic

pairing ⸺ knight/warrior!choso x princess!reader

summary ⸺ you, the princess of the nation, and choso, the son of your father's most trusted general, have been inseperable since birth. but after many deem it inappropriate for him to be so close to you, the distance between you and him only deepens after he leaves for war. when he comes back older and a more handsome, bigger version of the choso of your childhood, you both grapple with love, duty, and test the bounds of propierty.

warnings ⸺ smut, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, fem!reader, reader has a vagina, classism? not really, reader may seem pushy at times, not edited, very sweet love confession, happy ending, fingering, breast worship, virgin reader, mutual loss of virginity, mentions of sexism and archaic beliefs about virginity, pathetic choso, soft dom choso, p i v sex, gentle choso :(, me being really horny about his HAPPY TRAIL

a/n it's something about a hot decorated warrior that crumbles at the thought of you...

general masterlist

You and Choso had been inseparable since birth.

As the princess of the realm and the son of the general—your father’s most trusted advisor and sworn brother—it seemed ordained by fate itself that you should become steadfast companions. And companions you were; as babes, you darted through the royal gardens, frolicked in the halls of the palace, and devised schemes to escape the ever-watchful eyes of your tutors. Only the constraints of your education would separate you. You were confined to lessons in the classical tongues, the harp, and courtly diplomacy, while Choso immersed himself in the arts of the sword, the strategies of war, and the unyielding discipline of a soldier.

“Choso!” you squealed, your laughter ringing through the royal gardens as you fled from an imagined dragon. You ran toward him, your skirts billowing behind you, and found him poised and ready. His knees were bent, his gaze unwavering, and his small wooden sword clutched tightly in his hands. He glared past you at the phantom threat with the solemnity of a true knight.

“I will save you, Your Highness!” he roared and lunged, hacking away at the demon passionately. You cheered him on, giggling at his act.

“You’ve done it!” you cheered, clapping your hands in delight. But then your eyes widened in feigned terror. “Look, another one approaches!”

Choso spun around at your warning, his attention diverted just as you had planned. Seizing the moment, you imagined the dreadful beast closing in on his unguarded back.

“Watch out!” you exclaimed, grabbing a fallen branch to defend him. With a bold leap, you placed yourself between Choso and the imagined peril, brandishing your twig as though it were a knight’s blade.

“I’ve got you!” you declared, laughing as you swung your newfound weapon, the pair of you lost in the unrestrained joy of childhood.

Of course, while the king, your father, appreciated you so closely acquainted with his general’s son, your mother did not seem to think it wise that you become estranged from the daughters of nobles; after all, you would need to forge relationships early on to strengthen your future court. This led to many a playdates being interrupted.

“You didn’t need to save me!” Choso whined, pouting while crossing his arms.

However, you held out a pudgy hand, patting his hair as if to soothe him. “It’s okay, Choso. If you ever need saving, I’ll always be there—” “YOUR HIGHNESS!” You heard footsteps running towards where the both of you were sitting idly. When parrying the imaginary monster’s attacks, you had tumbled on top of Choso, your dress and limbs entangled with his and both of your hair unruly. Hearing your governess’ voice led you to pout, for you were sure to earn a scolding for fooling around with Choso rather than practicing the violin for the nth time. Alas, you couldn’t escape her—as well as Choso’s nannies, who had appeared—and you both looked sheepishly at their horrified faces.

Frowning, Choso’s nanny stomped towards the both of you, untangling you both impatiently and, once you were both standing, giving Choso a light smack on his head while bowing towards you. “Your Highness, I apologize, but the both of you mustn’t do such things anymore. You both are far past the age that this is appropriate.”

“What?” You pouted, disappointed in having to back to your room, confined to practice your violin with those dreadful, boring tunes. “What isn’t appropriate about this? We’re just playing—”

“Your Highness,” your governess began, her strained smile barely masking her displeasure. “It is not fitting for a princess to engage in such… undignified behavior. You must remember your station. A young lady of your rank is expected to conduct herself with grace and decorum at all times.”

Choso’s nanny, now tidying his tousled hair with brisk, efficient motions, added in a sharper tone, “And you, young master, should remember your place. You are not her equal but her servant’s son. Such familiarity is unbecoming.”

At her words, Choso’s face turned pale, his gaze dropping to the ground. His hands clenched into small fists at his sides, but he said nothing, his lips pressed tightly together. You could see the effort it took him to remain still, his shoulders stiff with tension.

“Choso?” you called softly, tilting your head to catch his eye.

However, he did not look up, though his voice came, quiet and steady. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I… I won’t do it again.”

Your brows furrowed, your chest tightening at the sight of his downcast expression. “What are you apologizing for?” you demanded, your voice sharper than you intended. “You’ve done nothing wrong! We were only playing.”

“Your Highness!” your governess interjected, her tone scandalized. “Such defiance is unbecoming. You must understand—”

“I understand perfectly,” you snapped, cutting her off. “I understand that I don’t care for these rules. Choso is my friend, and I decide what is and isn’t proper!”

Choso’s nanny inhaled sharply, but he quickly stepped forward, shaking his head fervently. “Please, Your Highness,” he murmured, his voice almost a whisper. “Don’t… don’t say such things for me. I’ll… I’ll do as I’m told. I promise.”

“Choso!” you exclaim, betrayed as the sting of his words settling in your chest. His gaze still refused to meet yours, fixed instead on the ground between you.

Your governess, sensing her victory, straightened. “Your Highness, you must return to your chambers immediately. Your music tutor is waiting. And as for you, Master Choso, your training will resume at once. I trust there will be no further disruptions.”

Neither of you spoke as the governess and the nanny ushered you away in opposite directions, their sharp voices ringing in your ears. Yet, as you glanced over your shoulder, you caught one last fleeting glimpse of Choso, his hesitant gaze finally meeting yours for the briefest of moments. It held a quiet resolve that only deepened your frustration.

“Wait and see,” you muttered under your breath as you were dragged back toward your chambers. “I’ll change this someday.”

That was the last time he ever spoke your name aloud; now, you were only Your Highness and The Royal Princess. It irritated you to no end; you were his friend, not his superior. But he insisted, falling deeper and deeper into the depths of social proprietary and hierarchy his nannies and parents were no doubt pressuring him into. You could only take what you had; if he was refusing your affection, he would at least not refuse royal commands of rendezvous.

Years had gracefully unfolded since that day, and now, as teenagers, your clandestine meetings in the royal gardens had blossomed into cherished rituals beneath the cloak of night. The gardens, adorned with that glowed under the moon's gentle gaze, became the sanctuary where you and Choso could momentarily escape the rigid expectations of courtly life.

As you approached the secluded alcove near the ancient marble fountain, your heart fluttered with a mixture of anticipation and nervous excitement.

And there he was.

Choso waited beneath the willow tree, his dark eyes darting between the swaying branches and the dimly lit path beyond. The shadows stretched long in the garden, and the faint sound of patrolling guards put a furrow in his brow. He shifted on his feet, arms crossed tightly as though bracing himself for some reprimand.

When you finally appeared, dressed in your lighter night robes, he let out a small breath of relief. “Your Highness, you shouldn’t—”

“Can you stop that?” You whine, brushing him off and making a move to sit in the swing right by the tree. You lightly swing your feet, establishing a gentle rhythm while you grin mischievously at him, meeting your lighthearted eyes with his furrowed, slightly worried ones. “Don’t be such a spoilsport, Choso. No one’s going to catch us.”

He can only shake his head, for after years of friendship had led him to know one universal truth: if there was one thing, it was that your mind, once resolute, could not be changed. “I don’t know how you keep wanting to risk them discovering this.” Then, he sighs, lamenting weakly, “and why I have to dragged into this.”

You flash him an innocent smile, about to give a cocky response about how you’re the princess and it’s not like Choso doesn’t want this…right? but both of you pause, deadly still, when you hear the undeniable clinks of armor.

Patrolling guards.

Choso’s head snapped toward the sound, his body going rigid. It kind of dazes you, in a way, how his curriculum as a warrior leads him to be so alert. It’s also this moment that you realize how grown you both are becoming; it feels as if you’re stuck as a dainty princess, while he’s steadily growing taller and bigger, a smaller picture of his formidable father.

“Someone’s coming,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rustling leaves.

You froze, exchanging a wide-eyed glance with him before instinctively ducking behind the grand marble fountain. The cold stone pressed against your back as the guards’ footsteps grew louder, accompanied by the bobbing light of their lanterns.

“Who’s there?” one of them called out, his voice sharp and commanding.

Choso shifted beside you, his breath quick and shallow. Your hand brushed against his arm in reassurance, but it did little to ease the tension radiating off him. The guards’ lanterns swept methodically across the gardens, their shadows flickering on the trees.

“Stay still,” Choso mouthed, his dark eyes fixed on the approaching light.

The guards drew closer, their boots crunching against the gravel path. You could feel your pulse hammering in your ears, each second dragging on unbearably.

Then, a faint rustle to your left—a squirrel darting across the underbrush. The guards turned toward the noise, their lanterns swinging wide.

“Must’ve been an animal,” one muttered, though he sounded unconvinced.

“Keep looking,” the other replied gruffly. “The king’s orders were clear—no one’s to linger in the gardens after dark.”

The pair continued past, their voices fading as they moved toward the far side of the grounds.

You let out a shaky breath, but before you could fully relax, Choso grabbed your hand, pulling you to your feet. “We need to go deeper,” he said urgently, his voice low.

Without waiting for your agreement, he led you away from the fountain, weaving through the hedges and into the denser parts of the forest. The shadows thickened as the soft glow of the garden lanterns disappeared behind you. Branches brushed against your arms, and the earthy scent of moss and damp leaves filled the air as you ran.

“Choso!” you whispered breathlessly, struggling to keep up with his longer strides. “They’re gone!”

“Not far enough,” he replied, glancing back at you. “We can’t risk them doubling back.”

The forest grew darker the deeper you went, the canopy above blocking out most of the moonlight. Finally, when the sound of your own breathing seemed louder than anything else, Choso slowed to a halt beneath a towering oak.

“We should be safe here,” he murmured, releasing your hand.

You both sank to the ground, the soft carpet of moss cushioning your fall. For a moment, neither of you spoke, too winded to do anything but sit there, catching your breath. Then, a stifled giggle bubbled out of you, unable to contain the absurdity of the chase.

Choso shot you a warning look, but his resolve cracked when you pressed your hands over your mouth, failing to muffle your laughter. A small laugh escaped him in turn, and soon you were both doubled over, trying in vain to quiet yourselves.

“Shhh!” Choso whispered, though he was grinning. “You’ll get us caught.”

“You’re the loud one,” you whispered back, nudging him playfully.

Soon, the laughter slowly subsided, leaving only the sound of rustling leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. Choso leaned back against the tree, his expression softening as he glanced up at the canopy. His eyes caught on something above, and he pointed. “Look—fruit.”

Following his gaze, you spotted the cluster of small, round pomengrenates hanging from a low branch. Choso stood, brushing dirt from his trousers, and reached up to pluck one. He examined it briefly before biting into it, his movements unhurried and deliberate.

“Are you just going to eat that without offering me one?” you asked, crossing your arms.

He smirked, holding another pomengrenate aloft. “You want it?”

“Obviously.”

But instead of handing it over, Choso lifted it above his head, his smirk widening. “Come and get it.” You stood up, moving closer to him to make a motion to grab the fruit. Alas, the effort was not fruitful.

“Choso!” you hissed, glaring at him as he kept the fruit just out of reach. You try many things: you grab his shoulder, tickle him on his stomach, and arms. However, it all is in vain.

“You’re the one who wants it,” he said, his head peering down at you in amusement.

You stood, determination written all over your face. “Fine. If you think I can’t—”

You leapt, swatting at his hand, but he easily moved the fruit higher, his height giving him the upper hand.

“You’re insufferable!” you said, laughing despite yourself as you tried again, this time jumping with more force. Still, you missed.

“Perhaps you should’ve been born taller,” he teased, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Or perhaps you should stop being such a—” Before you could finish, he lowered the fruit suddenly, pressing it into your hand.

“There,” he said, smirking. “Satisfied?”

You took a triumphant bite, your glare softening into a grin. “For now.”

Settling back down, you both shared the fruit in companionable silence, the earlier tension of the night dissipating in the quiet forest. Yet, as you sat side by side, something about the way his gaze lingered on you—or perhaps the warmth blooming in your chest—made you wonder if these late-night meetings were becoming something more.

And then, years later, he left for war. Choso left for the battlefield, summoned to serve alongside his father as the general’s son.

The morning he departed was etched into your memory with painful clarity. The air was crisp, the kind that stung your lungs when you breathed too deeply, and the courtyard was alive with the sounds of preparation. Soldiers moved with purpose, their boots striking against the cobblestones in rhythmic determination. Horses snorted and pawed at the ground, their breaths rising like smoke in the cold air.

You stood at the edge of it all, your hands clasped tightly in front of you, trying to keep your expression composed. This was no place for a princess to display her feelings, no matter how tightly they knotted in her chest. Your father was nearby, speaking with the general in low, serious tones, his gaze sweeping over the troops with pride. Your mother was absent, as always, too preoccupied with courtly matters to concern herself with the departure of soldiers—even one who had once been your constant companion.

When Choso emerged from the crowd, his figure clad in the red, utilitarian uniform of a soldier, it was as though the rest of the scene blurred. The boy who had once darted through the gardens with you, his hair wild and his hands dirtied by mischief, now looked every inch the man his father had raised him to be. His hair was tied back, his face set in an unreadable mask of calm, and he carried himself with a solemnity that felt foreign.

He always did make you feel like a child. While you were still delaying acceptance of your fate as the princes—future queen—-he had grown into a man, fated to be a war general.

He approached slowly, each step deliberate. When he stopped before you, he did not smile. Instead, he bowed low, his dark eyes briefly meeting yours. “Your Highness—”

But you had enough of that godforsaken title. “Why must you leave?” You cried, your voice breaking as Choso stood before you in the courtyard.

The image of the steeled soldier crumbled as his eyes softened in fondness and melancholy. “You know I must.”

You shook your head fervently, as if to vehemently deny what was undeniably the truth. “You know that’s not true.” And it wasn’t, for it would only take an imperial command of yours to bar him from ever entering the battlefield.

But it was his dream; you saw the way he looked at his father. To deny Choso the sword and the glory he was destined for was to chain him down, and you knew that. So instead, you shook off the idea, then blurted, “You’ll write to me, won’t you?”

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with expectation. He hesitated, a flicker of something—guilt, perhaps—crossing his face before it smoothed back into neutrality. “If time allows.”

That was all he offered. No promises. No reassurances. Just a vague, distant answer that left your heart sinking.

Outraged, and a bit petulant, you exclaimed. “What do you mean if time allows? Will you be so busy that you won’t have time? Are you not at least going to grant me some peace of mi—what is that?”

In the corner of your eye, you see something in his hand catch the sunlight, and glimmer. He hesitates, his hand clenching before inevitably opening his palm. A timid, “For you, Your Highness.”

An instinctual don’t call me that dies out in your throat as he shows you what he was hiding. In it he uncovers a small, delicate object—a pin shaped like a blooming flower, its petals carved with meticulous detail and painted in hues of white and gold.

You stared at it, your hands trembling as you took it from him. “What is this for?”

“It’s a symbol,” he explained, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “Of where I’ll always be, even if I’m not here. Keep it with you, and you’ll know that... that I’ll do everything I can to return.”

“Oh, Choso.” Your bottom lip trembled as tears welled in your eyes, threatening to spill over. Your fingers closed around the pin, the intricate craftsmanship biting into your palm. Somehow, the weight of it felt heavier than it should’ve been. “I don’t want a pin, Choso,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I want you to stay.”

His expression softened, and for a moment, it seemed like he might reach out to you. But then he stilled, the rigidity in his posture a clear reminder of the boundaries he refused to cross.

Even so, you didn’t want to seem ungrateful. The gift, despite your pain, was beautiful, and its meaning wasn’t lost on you. You sniffled, brushing a tear from your cheek with a trembling hand. “But it is beautiful, regardless,” you murmured, holding it up to the light. The golden edges of the petals gleamed softly, like sunlight captured in metal. “Put it in my hair?”

Choso blinked, caught off guard by the request. His gaze flickered between you and the pin, uncertainty etched into his features. “Your Highness, I—”

“Please,” you interrupted gently, tilting your head slightly toward him. “Just this once.”

He hesitated for a long moment, his fingers flexing at his sides as though he were battling some internal conflict. Finally, with a barely audible sigh, he reached out and took the pin from your hand.

You held your breath as he stepped closer, his presence steady and grounding despite the whirlwind of emotions inside you. His hand brushed against your hair and your neck as he carefully gathered a small section, his touch warm and deliberate. You could feel the calluses on his fingertips, earned from countless hours of swordsmanship, yet his movements were painstakingly gentle.

“There,” he said softly, stepping back to examine his work. His gaze lingered on you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, his formal mask cracked ever so slightly. There was something in his eyes—something raw and unspoken—that made your chest tighten.

You reached up instinctively, your fingers brushing against the cool metal of the pin now nestled securely in your hair. “How does it look?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light, though the lump in your throat made it difficult.

Choso’s lips parted, but no words came. He swallowed hard, his gaze darting away as if he couldn’t bear to look at you any longer. “It’s beautiful,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The horn sounded again, louder this time, breaking the fragile moment between you. Choso stepped back, the walls of propriety rising between you once more.

“Thank you,” you managed, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest.

He bowed deeply, avoiding your eyes. “Goodbye, Your Highness.”

And then he was gone, leaving you alone with the faint scent of earth and steel, the pin in your hair a bittersweet reminder of the distance that now separated you.

For weeks after, you found yourself restless, wandering the garden paths where you had once talked and laughed together. You scribbled letter after letter, pouring out questions and updates, recounting bits of palace gossip and even sending sketches of the places you’d been. But no reply ever came.

At first, you tried to excuse it—surely, he was too busy, too occupied with the rigors of war to respond. Still, you kept writing, sending your letters to the front lines with the faint hope that one day, you’d receive one in return.

“Any news of the general’s son?” you would ask your father over dinner, feigning casual interest.

“He’s doing well,” your father would reply, distractedly cutting into his meal. “His tactics in the northern campaign have earned him commendation. A fine young soldier.”

You pressed further, ignoring the disapproving look your mother shot you. “And... is he safe?”

Your father raised a brow but indulged you. “Of course. The reports say he’s advancing quickly through the ranks. A promotion to captain is already under consideration.”

Your chest swelled with pride at the thought, but it was quickly eclipsed by frustration. If he was receiving such accolades, surely he could find the time to write a simple letter?

“Why do you trouble your father with such questions?” your mother chided later, her tone clipped. “The general’s son is serving the nation. You should focus on more important matters, like preparing for your duties.”

But your concern for Choso only grew. Whenever news from the front lines arrived, you would listen intently, hoping to hear his name mentioned. When you did, it brought a fleeting sense of relief, but it never lasted long.

The silence from him felt heavier with each passing month. You couldn’t understand it—how could someone who had once been your closest companion, who had sworn to always protect you, sever that bond so easily?

And yet, you never stopped writing. Each letter was folded with care, sealed with your personal wax stamp, and sent off with the same unwavering hope. Even if he didn’t reply, even if you didn’t understand why, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop.

The city was alive with celebration, a symphony of cheers, music, and the occasional crackle of fireworks that lit up the night sky. The soldiers had finally come home after a long winded war, and you just couldn’t miss out on the excitement. After Choso’s departure, you had grown. Before you were a gangly teenager, but now you were a young woman. With this came you forming your own opinion, independent of our parents, and had developed a habit of frequently sneaking out of the palace.

You couldn’t bear to stay confined to the palace, not when the air was thick with excitement and the news of the army’s triumphant return had set the entire city alight. The soldiers, clad in polished armor that gleamed even in the dim light, strode through the streets in small groups while the people cheered on the sidelines. They carried themselves with the confidence of men who had seen battle and emerged victorious.

Young ladies lingered at the edges of the crowd, their eyes alight with hope as they watched the soldiers pass. Some called out to them, their voices playful and lilting, while others merely smiled shyly, clutching kerchiefs or flowers they clearly longed to offer. The soldiers, for the most part, maintained a stoic demeanor, though a few exchanged grins or nodded in acknowledgment, their faces betraying a mix of pride and exhaustion.

Children darted between legs, waving tiny flags and shouting in delight, while their parents looked on with a mix of relief and gratitude. The scent of roasted chestnuts and spiced wine wafted through the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the soldiers’ armor. It was a night of unity, of celebration, where the lines between commoner and noble blurred in the shared joy of victory.

Draped in a simple cloak to conceal your identity, you slipped past the guards at the palace gates, your heart pounding with both exhilaration and trepidation. The anonymity of the cloak felt liberating as you merged with the crowd, the world suddenly vast and unguarded in a way it never was within the palace walls.

Laughter surrounded you, the contagious energy of the revelry lifting your spirits as you wandered farther from the familiar confines of royal life. You paused to admire a street performer juggling flaming torches, your cloak billowing slightly in the breeze. But before you could move on, a sudden gust snatched the handkerchief tucked into your cloak.

You gasped, your fingers grasping for it, but the delicate fabric was already airborne, dancing above the heads of the crowd. You watched helplessly as it soared higher, carried by the playful wind. Instinctively, you gave chase, weaving through the throng of revelers as your heart raced with the thrill of pursuit.

The handkerchief drifted out of sight, disappearing beyond the swell of people. Your steps faltered, and you stood on tiptoe, scanning the crowd in vain. It was only then that a firm hand shot up above the sea of heads, catching the fluttering fabric mid-air. The sight of your handkerchief, caught in a strong, gloved grip, sent a jolt through you.

Your gaze traveled upward, and there he stood—a figure that was at once familiar and startlingly different. His broad shoulders and proud stance were unmistakable even before he turned, his dark eyes locking with yours.

“Your Highness?” His voice was deep, steady, and entirely too familiar. Then, his eyes went to your hair—you, still wearing the hairpin he gave you that day—and they filled with a conflicted, longing sort of expression.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you froze. He looked so much…bigger. He always had muscles due to his frequent physical lessons, but he was so much taller now, his face a lot more sculpted. Before you could interpret what the lurching in your heart meant, he took a step towards you. But before he could take another step toward you, you turned and ran instinctively, the sound of his voice chasing you as surely as his footsteps.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK! If Choso knew you had sneaked out, he would send you right back, citing useless things about duty and protecting you. While your traitorous heart started beating faster as soon as you saw him—different, but still undeniably Choso—you knew your liberty was at an end if he sent you home and informed your parents of what you did.

You bolted as fast as you could, your cloak billowing behind you as you darted into a narrow alley. Footsteps echoed against the cobblestones, heavy and deliberate, chasing you down. You reached the end of the alley and stopped, your chest heaving, unsure whether to keep running or face him.

“Your Highness,” the voice came again, closer this time.

You spun around, and there he was. Choso. But he wasn’t the boy you remembered—he was a man now. Broad shoulders filled out his uniform, the insignia of his rank glinting on his chest. His hair was tied back, revealing a face hardened by battle and time. Yet his eyes, dark and intense, still held the same quiet depth you’d known as children.

He dropped to one knee, his hand over his heart. “Your Highness.”

You gaped at his display. Since when did he start kneeling? “What are you doing?”

His voice came out, devoid of the warmth you had once known. “It’s protocol, Your Highness.” His head remained bowed, his knee pressed to the uneven cobblestones, the hand holding your handkerchief resting against his heart.

But you were in denial, scrambling to pull him up by his arms. It was futile; he was way stronger than you, and at your touch, he jumped back, as if stung. Wounded, you urged him. “Get up,” you stepped closer, “Choso, it’s me. You don’t need to—”

“I must, Your Highness.” His tone was calm but resolute, his gaze fixed on the ground. “Unless you are issuing an imperial command, I have no choice but to honor the rules set forth by your station.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening. “An imperial command?” The words tasted bitter on your tongue. You didn’t want commands; you wanted familiarity, the easy camaraderie you once shared.

“Yes, Your Highness.” He finally lifted his gaze to meet yours, his dark eyes steady and unreadable. “If you do not wish me to kneel, then say it as such. Otherwise…” He lowered his head again. “This is my place.”

“Your place?” You felt a flicker of anger rise in your chest. “Choso, your place is by my side, as it always has been! Don’t—don’t treat me like some distant monarch.”

His shoulders tensed, and you thought you caught a flash of something—guilt, perhaps?—in the way his fingers tightened around the handkerchief. But still, he didn’t move.

Frustrated, you stepped even closer, your voice rising despite your efforts to remain calm. “Get up,” you said, reaching out and tugging at his arm. “I said, get up!”

“I cannot,” he said softly, the words cutting through your frustration like a blade. “Not unless you order it as my superior.”

You stared at him, a mix of hurt and disbelief swirling in your chest. “Fine,” you said, your voice trembling. “If that’s what it takes, then I command you—get up, Choso. I command you to stand!”

For a moment, the tension lingered in the air, thick and suffocating. Slowly, reluctantly, he rose to his feet, towering over you with a presence that felt both familiar and foreign.

But as you looked up at him, your frustration only grew. “This isn’t you,” you said, your voice softer now, tinged with sadness. “You’re treating me like I’m just your princess, like I’m someone you barely know. Do you even know how much it hurt when you never wrote back to me? I kept sending letter after letter, but it was like you didn’t care. Like you forgot about me.”

Choso’s jaw tightened, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. “It wasn’t my place to respond, Your Highness.”

It was that damn phrase. “Your place?” you echoed, now even more bitterly. “You were my friend, Choso. My closest friend. Now you stand here, calling me Your Highness like I’m a stranger, like we never ran through the gardens or talked under the stars. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

For a moment, his expression softened, but it was fleeting. He straightened, his demeanor distant once more. “It’s dangerous for you to be here,” he said quietly. “I need to call for a carriage to take you back to the palace.”

Your heart sunk to your derriere. If Choso did indeed send you back, your parents would undeniably discover that you’ve been sneaking out. “No!” you snapped, stepping forward. “You can’t. If my parents find out I was here, they’ll—”

“They’ll ensure your safety,” he interrupted, his voice steady but firm. “And that’s what matters.”

You stared at him, now anger bubbling in your chest. “So you’ll just hand me over like I’m some burden to be dealt with? What about you?” Then, in a strong fit, you bursted out. “Are you going to stay here and fool around with girls while I’m locked away in the palace?”

His eyes widened briefly at your accusation, a flicker of surprise breaking through his stoic mask. But then his expression hardened, and he took a step back. “That’s not fair,” he said quietly.

“Fair?” you shot back, your voice trembling. “What’s fair about any of this, Choso? You’re not even trying to fight for us—for the friendship we used to have.”

He hesitated, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “It’s not that simple,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Then make it simple!” you demanded, your heart aching with every word. “Stop pushing me away. Stop acting like I don’t matter to you anymore.”

For a moment, you thought he might say something—something real, something that would bridge the growing chasm between you. But instead, he turned away, his voice steady and distant as he said, “Wait here. I’ll call for the carriage.”

You watched him walk away, the ache in your chest spreading until it felt like it would consume you entirely. The handkerchief in your hand trembled as you clenched your fingers around it, your anger and sadness swirling into a storm of emotion.

And yet, even as he disappeared into the bustling streets, a part of you refused to believe this was the end. You couldn’t let it be.

Ever since his return to the palace, Choso has been ignoring you.

It’s not that you were spending every hour and every minute with him before, when he was just your childhood friend. However, you would meet everyday, whether it to be sneak off into the gardens at night, or meet for lunch or dinner. Even a request of yours could’ve secured a visit to town, the both of you going to town to eat pastries and street food while accompanied by a chaperone. Of course, that was due to your incessant pleas to your disapproving mother, but you could score an occasional playdate outside the palace every month or so.

But it feels…different. And he feels different.

You oft find yourself daydreaming about him, older and a decorated soldier. And before you can catch yourself, you find your cheeks heated and your heart set aflutter. It’s a bit mind-boggling, really. Ever since Choso left, none of the future dukes and lords had ever caught your attention, even at balls. Their gentle, weak disposition didn’t compare to your Choso, you always thought. Back then, you had always thought of it as pride for your best friend, but now…..

Musing aside, you’re tired of this distance Choso has created between you. So you choose to seek him out.

The castle courtyard was alive with the sharp clang of swords and the rhythmic stomp of boots on hard-packed dirt. You leaned over the balustrade of the upper terrace, concealed behind a stone pillar, watching the soldiers below. It wasn’t the sparring or the strategy that captivated you—it was Choso.

The sun bore down on him as he moved with precision and power, his blade a silver blur as he sparred with one of the veteran knights. His whole torso is bare; damp with sweat, the sun shines against the cords and cords of muscle that then lead to a string of hair that trails into his trousers. The muscles in his arms ripple with every swing and parry. You bite your lip, feeling a warmth creep up your cheeks that you stubbornly attributed to the summer heat.

He had changed so much. Gone was the boy who had laughed with you under the willow tree and run with you through the gardens. In his place was a man who carried the weight of war on his broad shoulders, his every movement deliberate, his expression unreadable. And yet, despite the distance he put between you, you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

When the sparring session ended, Choso handed his sword to a squire and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. You straightened as he turned, half-expecting him to glance up and spot you. But he didn’t. Instead, he spoke briefly to the knight, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. You couldn’t keep hiding and watching from afar. You had to speak to him, to demand answers for why he had been avoiding you since the day in the alley.

Quickly, you made your way down to the courtyard, your pulse racing as you rehearsed what you would say. But when you reached the training grounds, Choso was already heading toward the barracks.

“Choso!” you called out, your voice echoing across the courtyard.

He froze mid-step, his shoulders tensing before he turned slowly to face you. His expression was neutral, guarded, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something he quickly masked.

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing his head. “What brings you here?”

You frowned, frustrated by the formality in his tone. “I wanted to speak with you,” you said, stepping closer. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

He shook his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes. “I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve been busy with training and my duties.”

“That’s a lie,” you said, crossing your arms. “You always find a reason to leave whenever I try to approach you. You didn’t even look at me after the alley—”

“Your Highness,” he interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s not proper for you to be seen in the training grounds.”

“Proper?” you repeated, anger flaring in your chest. “Since when do you care about what’s proper? You didn’t care when we were sneaking out or when we were running through the gardens—”

“That was different,” he said, his tone softer now. “We were children. Things aren’t the same anymore.”

“Why not?” you demanded, your voice trembling. “Why are you pushing me away?”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the soldiers milling about in the distance. “I’m not pushing you away,” he said finally. “I’m doing what’s best for you.”

“What’s best for me?” You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “How can ignoring me and avoiding me be what’s best for me?”

Choso didn’t answer. Instead, he bowed his head again, his hands clenched at his sides. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I need to return to my duties.”

And before you could stop him, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the courtyard, your heart aching with every step he took.

You paced the length of your chambers, clutching the skirts of your dress. It’s been two times that Choso dismissed since his arrival. Did he abhor you so?

It was as if an invisible wall had been erected between you, the builder of it Choso for some mysterious reason. Proprietary aside, it would be okay for the occasional chat, would it not? After all, he was still a noble in his own regard, and a conversation or two wouldn’t be frowned upon. So why was he ignoring you entirely?

You couldn’t take it anymore. If he wouldn’t come to you, then you would ensure he had no choice but to stay by your side. If he truly detests it, you will let him go, no matter how painful it would be and how ardently you would mourn your friendship. But you needed to know.

Resolved, you marched to your parents’ audience chamber, where they were seated in quiet discussion. Your father looked up first, his brows furrowing slightly at your abrupt entrance. “What is it, my dear? You seem troubled.”

Your mother glanced at you as well, seated right next to the king, her sharp gaze assessing. “Has something happened?”

You straightened your shoulders, facing them both, willing your voice to remain steady. “Father, Mother, I have a request.”

Your father tilted his head, curious. “Go on.”

You hesitated for only a moment before speaking. “I would like Choso to be assigned as my personal guard.”

The queen blinked, her lips pressing into a thin line, and questioned, “Choso?”

“Yes,” you said quickly to prevent your mother from getting a word in. “He’s proven himself in battle, hasn’t he? He’s been promoted several times for his skill and loyalty. Who better to protect me?”

Your father leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “It’s true he’s risen quickly through the ranks. He’s a fine soldier.”

“And he’s someone I trust,” you added, stepping closer. “He’s been by my side since we were children. I feel safer with him than with anyone else. With me growing into adulthood, there would be no one better to be by my side.”

Your mother’s gaze sharpened. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with his recent return to the palace, would it?”

You met her eyes, refusing to back down. “It has everything to do with the fact that I need someone I can rely on. Someone who knows me.”

Your father exchanged a look with your mother, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded. “Very well. I will speak to the general about the arrangement.” Then, a little wryly, he adds, “Although, I did hear that it was him that reported you when you were sneaking out in public. Perhaps it would be a fine match.” At that, your mother visibly bristled at the memory of hearing that you were out, unguarded.

At the king’s words, relief washed over you, but it was quickly tempered by your mother’s stern voice. “This is highly unusual, you know. A princess requesting a specific guard. People will talk.”

Inwardly, you rolled your eyes, but showing sass to your mother would mean that she would argue further. Instead, you went and showed her your pride. “Let them,” you said, lifting your chin. “I don’t care what they say.”

Your father chuckled softly, knowing you would say something of the sort. “Spoken like a true princess.”

“Thank you,” you said, bowing your head. “Both of you, Father and Mother.”

As you left the chamber, your heart raced with a mix of excitement and nervousness. This was your chance—your chance to bring Choso back into your life. Whatever walls he had built between you, you were determined to tear them down.

The water was warm, steam curling gently around you as you leaned back in the large marble tub. The golden light of the setting sun streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting vibrant patterns across the tiled floor. It was one of the few moments you had to yourself, free from the watchful eyes of attendants and the endless constraints of royal duty. You closed your eyes, sinking deeper into the water, allowing yourself to relax—until the door to your bathing chamber slammed open.

“Your Highness, why did you—” At first, Choso raised his voice slightly, storming in. Then, he stopped right in his tracks as he noticed you, and your face, your neck and then the rest of your body engorged in soapy, steamy water. Blushing furiously, he turned, scrambling for the door. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to—”

He was rigid as he stormed toward the exit, and you couldn’t help but stifle a giggle at the sight. “Choso, wait,” you called, your voice laced with amusement. He stopped abruptly, halting awkwardly in his tracks. “While I appreciate your enthusiasm for your new title,” you teased, “I’d prefer if you didn’t barge into the bathing chamber. Let us count ourselves lucky that you had not seen… more.”

It was nearly impossible not to laugh now. Even the back of his neck was flushed a deep crimson, and it struck you as absurdly endearing. The aloof and stoic soldier who had spent weeks ignoring you had crumbled into a shy boy at the mere sight of you in a tub. You supposed it made sense—he’d likely not had much interaction with women, what with his rigid dedication to the army. Still, his reaction felt... exaggerated.

Choso let out a shaky exhale, his voice strained when he finally spoke. “I apologize,” he said, his tone clipped as though to mask his discomfort. “But I must ask—why did you instate me as your guard?”

The answer was simple, and you played absentmindedly with a soap bubble as you replied, “Because there is no one I trust more than you.”

For a moment, the room was silent save for the faint dripping of water. Then, Choso spoke, his voice low and almost pained. “Why must you do this to me? Why must you torment me so?”

What?

His words pierced through the lighthearted atmosphere, leaving you stunned. A pang of hurt welled in your chest at the sharpness of his tone. “Does it torment you to be in my company?” you asked, laughing scornfully to hide the sting.

When he didn’t answer, the silence was louder than any words could have been.

“If it torments you,” you continued bitterly, “then so be it. You have already had my one liberty stripped away. Mother and Father have doubled the surveillance on me, all thanks to you.” The memory of your recent restrictions only added fuel to the fire of your frustration. “Is this not fair? An eye for an eye, then. Perhaps your torment will teach you to stop pretending you know what’s best for me.”

Still brimming with anger, you lifted your chin and gestured to the door. “You may leave now.”

For a moment, he stood there, the weight of his presence filling the room. Then, with a stiff nod, he turned to the door. “Your Highness,” he murmured, his voice cold and formal.

And then, he was gone.

You really do abhor dinner parties.

There’s much wrong with them, and if you had to, you could do a systematic rundown of every single grievance. The first and foremost was the absurd inability to properly enjoy the food. The chefs’ hard work deserved to be indulged in, not nibbled delicately with those ridiculous little spoons. And then there was the matter of breathing, which you could barely manage with your waist cinched so tightly and your bodice forcing your chest up like some cruel display. Sitting down practically demanded you forgo the simple luxury of air.

But the worst part? Having to entertain men.

“And I have acquired double the profits of Lord Gojo,” Lord Naoya declared, puffing his chest like a rooster preening in the henhouse. His voice boomed with self-importance, his words spilling out in a showy, rehearsed cadence.

You couldn’t help yourself—you smiled. And while it appeared to him as admiration, it was born of pure amusement. The man clearly thought you were too dim to know better, but you were well-versed in state finances. Lord Naoya’s exaggerated claims were as transparent as glass.

On your right, Choso sat silently, his role as your personal guard justifying his unusually close position. He had been quiet all evening, his eyes scanning the room more than his plate.

“And surely, a woman as lovely as yourself would agree that business acumen is the truest mark of a man’s value,” Naoya continued, leaning closer to you with a smirk you found utterly punchable.

You giggled, not at his words, but at the sheer absurdity of them. You bit your lip to stifle a laugh, but your amusement couldn’t be fully hidden.

When you finally turned to glance at Choso, however, your mirth faltered. He wasn’t looking at Naoya anymore—his dark eyes were locked on you, his brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

He looked very upset.

You blinked, confused, before glancing back at Naoya, who was still prattling on, utterly oblivious. Was Choso… angry at you?

It didn’t make sense. After you had initiated him as your guard, he’d been resigned after that confrontation in your bathing chambers. Ever since, you’d seen him stoic, protective, and even exasperated, but this—this was different. The weight of his gaze lingered on you like a reprimand, and it unsettled you in ways you couldn’t quite explain.

“Your Highness, I trust you’d agree,” Naoya pressed, oblivious to the charged air.

“Agree?” you echoed, snapping back to attention. You hadn’t been listening, too distracted by Choso’s silent brooding. “Oh, of course,” you said vaguely, waving your hand with a polite smile. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Naoya looked pleased with himself, but you barely noticed. Your focus shifted back to Choso, who had turned his head forward, his jaw tight. You leaned closer to him, lowering your voice so only he could hear. “Is something the matter?”

He didn’t look at you, his tone curt. “Nothing, Your Highness.”

Your stomach twisted at the formality. The night had already been exhausting enough, and now Choso was acting like you’d personally offended him.

“Choso,” you pressed, your voice softer now, “if I’ve done something to upset you—”

“It’s not my place to say,” he interrupted, finally looking at you. His gaze was sharp, cutting through your defenses. “But if I may offer counsel, I’d suggest not wasting your smiles on men like him.”

You blinked, taken aback. His words weren’t loud, but they struck with the force of a hammer.

“What does that mean?” you whispered, your amusement long gone, replaced by confusion—and something else you couldn’t quite name.

“It means,” Choso said, his voice low, “that he’s not worth it.”

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication.

Before you could respond, the clinking of glasses drew everyone’s attention, and you were forced to look away as a toast was made. But even as the room filled with polite applause and laughter, your thoughts were consumed by Choso’s quiet but pointed remarks.

When you glanced back at him, his focus was elsewhere, his expression carefully neutral. Yet something about the tension in his shoulders told you that the conversation wasn’t over—not really.

And for the rest of the evening, Naoya’s words became nothing more than background noise, drowned out by the quiet storm brewing in Choso’s eyes.

The air in your chambers was warm, the faint crackle of the fireplace soothing you as your maid finished tugging the laces of your nightgown into place. The fabric was delicate, thin enough to feel the cool evening breeze against your skin despite the room's warmth. With a bow, the maid excused herself, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Ever since that dinner party with Naoya, Choso had been more distant than ever. Before, it had seemed that he had warmed up to the task of being your guard; whenever you walked through the garden, you eventually warmed him enough that the both of you could converse during the stroll. Of course, it hadn’t returned to what it was like before, but it was still progress. However, now it seemed that all he had to offer was curt responses and avoidant stares.

The change grated on you, more than you cared to admit. You weren’t naïve; you knew something had shifted that night. The way he had looked at you, the way his words had cut—it all lingered, a splinter in your chest that you couldn’t pull free.

Still, tonight was meant to be routine, a brief reprieve from the emotional turmoil. You always ended your evenings with a massage, a small luxury that helped soothe the tension from the day. Summoning Choso to your chambers, you intended for him to call for the maid who usually performed the task.

When he arrived, his expression was as stony as ever. “You called for me, Your Highness?”

“Yes, Choso,” you said, smoothing your hands over the hem of your nightgown. You lazed back on your chaise lounge, head against pillow as you looked at him. “I need the maid for my massage. Could you fetch her?”

He hesitated. “The maids have retired for the night. Shall I summon someone from the servants’ quarters?”

You frowned. The thought of disturbing anyone at this hour felt excessive. Then, your gaze drifted to Choso, his broad shoulders rigid, his hands clasped behind his back in his usual formal stance. An idea struck you, and you spoke before fully thinking it through.

“Then you’ll do it.”

His dark eyes snapped to yours, wide with disbelief. “Your Highness, I—”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence but unable to fully hide the mischief in your smile. “Oh, come now, Choso. You’re stronger than any maid. Surely, your hands would be better suited for the task.”

For a moment, he simply stared at you as though you’d just declared the sky was green. His lips parted, but no words came out, his gaze darting nervously around the room before settling back on you. “I don’t think that’s… appropriate,” he said carefully, his voice low and strained.

You leaned back slightly, arching a brow. “And why not? It’s just a massage. Surely, as my personal guard, it’s your duty to ensure my comfort, no?”

“Your Highness—”

“Choso,” you interrupted, your tone softening as you leaned forward slightly, letting your hair cascade over one shoulder. “You’ve sworn an oath to protect me. Are you really going to deny me such a simple request? Besides,” you added with a teasing smile, “I trust you. Who better to take care of me?”

His jaw tightened, and he looked away, his shoulders visibly tensing. It was rare to see him so uncharacteristically flustered, and you found it almost endearing. Still, you could see the war waging behind his eyes—the struggle between his rigid sense of propriety and his inability to deny you.

“Choso,” you said again, gentler this time, “it’s just us here. No one else needs to know. Please?”

The word seemed to undo him. After a long, weighted pause, he exhaled sharply, his hands clenching at his sides before he gave a stiff nod. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

You smiled in satisfaction and shifted, lying down on the chaise lounge with your head resting on your folded arms. The thin fabric of your nightgown clung to your back and shoulders, leaving little to the imagination, but you paid it no mind. Choso, however, hesitated, his gaze flickering over you before he finally moved to kneel beside you, his movements almost painfully hesitant.

You settled onto the chaise lounge, lying on your stomach and pulling your hair over one shoulder to expose the curve of your neck. The thin fabric of your nightgown clung to your body, leaving little to the imagination, but you paid no mind to it. Choso, however, lingered for a moment longer than necessary, his dark eyes flickering over the exposed skin before quickly darting away.

The tension in the room was palpable, and though you couldn’t see his face, you could feel his hesitation. The silence stretched, heavy and awkward, until finally, he knelt beside you, his movements stiff and deliberate. His hands hovered just above your shoulders for a moment, as if he were debating whether to go through with it, before he finally made contact.

The first press of his palms was firm, his calloused hands warm against your skin. He worked in silence, but his touch was tentative, almost reluctant, as though every movement was a battle against himself. His fingers found the knots in your shoulders, but his grip tightened slightly as you let out a soft sigh of relief.

“You’re good at this,” you murmured, your voice languid. “I should’ve asked you sooner.”

Choso didn’t respond, but his hands stilled for the briefest moment, his jaw tightening. He resumed a beat later, his touch growing more confident as his fingers moved lower, kneading along the length of your spine. Yet, there was something almost possessive in the way he worked, his hands lingering at the curve of your back, brushing the edges of your nightgown with an intimacy that felt deliberate, even if unspoken.

Heat pooled in your belly, but the mood shifted when Choso spoke, his voice low and edged with something that made your breath catch.

“Do you let all your guards do this to you?”

Your eyes snapped open, the sharpness of his tone cutting through the haze. You turned your head to look at him, frowning. “What?”

He straightened, pulling his hands away, anger visible on his face. “Do you let all your guards touch you like this, or am I just the special fool?”

The accusation in his voice stung. You sat up on the chaise lounge, clutching the fabric of your nightgown to your chest. “What are you implying?”

“I’m implying,” he said, his eyes dark and filled with something unnameable, “that you smiled at Naoya like he was the only man in the room. That you entertained his nonsense—his lies—like you actually enjoyed it.”

A sharp laugh escaped you, incredulous and hurt. “You think I was flirting with Naoya? That I would ever entertain a fool like him?”

“You did tonight,” Choso shot back, his jaw clenched tightly. “You smiled and laughed at him, as if he deserved it. As if you weren’t above him. The you I knew wouldn’t have entertained someone like Naoya for a second. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

That cut deeper than it should have. Your breath hitched, and frustration welled in your chest, bursting free before you could stop it.

“You don’t know me anymore?” you echoed, your voice trembling with emotion. “Well, Choso, I don’t know you either! You’re the one who left me without a word. You’re the one who never answered my letters, who pushed me away for no reason. You didn’t answer them for years, Choso. For years! How can you stand there and talk about me changing when you’ve done everything you could to shut me out?”

He flinched, as if your words struck a nerve. His gaze fell to the floor, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I didn’t answer because I thought it was better that way,” he said quietly. “Because I knew… whatever this was—whatever we were—it couldn’t last. I didn’t want to make it harder for you.”

Your heart cracked at his words, tears threatening to spill over. “You didn’t want to make it harder for me?” you repeated, your voice rising. “You made it unbearable, Choso! You didn’t just leave me, you abandoned me. Without explanation, without closure. You were my friend, my closest ally, and you just… disappeared!”

“I was avoiding the inevitable,” he said, his tone low and bitter. “I was saving us both from something that could never be.”

“And why not?” you demanded, stepping closer. “Why couldn’t we have stayed friends? Why couldn’t you have stayed as someone I trusted, someone I could rely on?”

Choso let out a harsh, incredulous laugh, his head bowing as his hands rose to rub at his temples. When he looked back at you, his eyes burned with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

“You think I just want to be your ally?” Choso’s voice cracked, his tone harsh and trembling, a storm barely contained within him. He stepped closer, his shadow stretching toward you in the dim light. His dark eyes blazed, raw and unguarded, piercing straight through you.

“Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life standing at your side, pretending it doesn’t destroy me every time you smile at another man?” he continued, his voice rising with emotion. “Do you think I want to be some nameless figure in your life, someone who exists only to bow, to nod, to follow orders while the rest of the world gets to bask in your warmth?”

Your breath hitched as he took another step, the space between you shrinking.

“I don’t want to be your ally, your friend, or some loyal servant,” he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “I want you. I have always wanted you.”

His confession struck you like lightning, setting every nerve ablaze. You could see the anguish etched into his features, the way his hands shook as if he was struggling to hold himself back.

“I want to touch you without wondering if it’s inappropriate,” he went on, his words tumbling out, unrestrained. “I want to kiss you without the weight of the crown between us. I want to wake up beside you every morning, knowing you’re mine—truly mine—and not just some unattainable dream I’ve been foolish enough to carry.”

“Choso…” you whispered, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

“I want to tear apart every damned rule, every line drawn between us,” he continued, his voice thick with frustration and desire. “I want the world to see that you’re mine—not Naoya’s, not some prince’s, not anyone else’s. Mine.”

He let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair, his composure unraveling further. “But that’s not what the world allows, is it?” he said, his tone laced with venom. “Because I’m not a prince or a duke or anyone worthy of you. I’m just a man—a soldier. And the world says I can’t have you.”

His chest heaved with the force of his confession, and his eyes—God, his eyes—burned with a pain so deep it was almost unbearable to witness.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding as his words sank in. “You could have had me,” you said, your voice trembling, tears stinging your eyes. “If you’d just stayed, if you’d let me in instead of shutting me out. We could have figured this out together, Choso. I would have fought for you.”

His expression faltered, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through his anger. “And what would you have me do?” he asked hoarsely. “Stand beside you while everyone whispers that I’m unworthy? Watch as suitors line up for your hand, knowing I can’t stop them because it’s my duty to protect you, not love you?”

“I don’t care what the world says!” you burst out, stepping closer, your voice rising with desperation. “I don’t care about duty or station or rules. All I ever wanted was you, Choso. You, as my friend, my ally, my—”

“Your what?” he interrupted, his voice low and rough. “Say it. Say what I’ve been longing to hear and dreading all at once.”

Your breath hitched, tears streaming down your face as you met his gaze. “My everything,” you whispered.

For a moment, the tension between you hung thick and electric, the weight of years of unspoken words pressing down on you both. Then Choso stepped back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw tight.

“That’s why I stayed away,” he said quietly, his voice breaking. “Because I knew if I didn’t, I’d lose myself in you completely. And I wouldn’t be able to let you go. This is why I must stay away.”

For a moment, he lingered there, his hand flexing at his side as if fighting some invisible force. His gaze dropped, and when he finally turned away, it was slow, deliberate, each step a struggle. He didn’t look back as he crossed the threshold, the heavy sound of the door closing behind him echoing in the silence.

The silence in your room was suffocating. Curtains drawn tightly, the dim flicker of a single candle cast wavering shadows on the stone walls. Plates of untouched food sat on a tray near the door, abandoned by the maids you had dismissed hours ago. The only sound was the faint rustle of your gown as you shifted on the edge of your bed, your arms wrapped around yourself as if trying to hold your broken pieces together.

A soft knock broke the stillness, tentative and almost hesitant. You didn’t answer. You didn’t want to see anyone, let alone speak. Whoever it was would surely leave if you didn’t respond.

But the door creaked open.

Your heart twisted. “I told you all to leave me be,” you said hoarsely, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

“I’m not one of your maids,” came a quiet reply from a voice that was all-too-familiar.

Your head snapped up, breath catching in your throat as Choso stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. His dark eyes, always so steady and unreadable, now held an uncharacteristic uncertainty.

“Get out,” you said, your tone sharper than you intended, though the hurt behind it was impossible to mask. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“I know,” he murmured, taking a hesitant step forward. He held something in his hands—a small stack of parchment, edges worn and yellowed. “But I have something to say to you.”

You frowned, your gaze darting to the papers he carried. “What is that?”

“Letters,” Choso said, his voice thick with emotion. He swallowed hard before continuing, “The ones I wrote to you but never sent.”

You stiffened, your heart lurching painfully in your chest. “Why are you showing me this now?”

“Because I should have given them to you a long time ago,” he said simply. “And because I need you to know… what I couldn’t say before. But what I feel I must say now, for I am done with pretending I am not a selfish, selfish man.”

He stepped closer, setting the letters on the bed beside you. For a moment, he hesitated, then knelt before you, his hands resting on his thighs as he looked up at you with a mixture of guilt and determination, as if he had made a decision. And you fight desperately to not yourself believe that, perhaps, he has changed his mind, that he will finally take you in the way you desire.

But you steel your heart as you cautiously look at him.

“Read them,” he said quietly. “Please.”

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the stack, the paper cool and rough beneath your touch. The first letter was dated years ago, the ink slightly smudged, as if his hand had lingered too long on the words.

My dearest friend,

I’ve written and torn up this letter a dozen times. How do I explain the ache I feel every night I march under foreign stars? How do I explain that even on the battlefield, amidst the chaos, my mind drifts to you? I think of our secret meetings in the garden, the way you’d laugh as you dared me to meet you in the willow tree every night. Do you remember that night we barely escaped the guards? Your laughter, your gown splayed across the forest floor. I dream of those nights—of you leaning close to steal the fruit in my palm, staring up at me, the world disappearing, and wishing I could ask for more. For you close to me not under the pretense of stealing the pomegranate in my hand, but for something more.

Your voice broke as you read, tears pooling in your eyes. Choso remained silent, his head bowed, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.

You moved to the next letter.

The scent of jasmine haunted me on the journey here. Every step of the way, I remembered you crouched beneath the trellis, daring me to pluck the flowers despite the gardener’s wrath. When I handed you the bouquet, your smile made me feel invincible, as though I could conquer kingdoms just to see it again. I wished then that I could have told you the truth—that every reckless moment we shared was a reprieve from the weight of duty. I wanted to kiss you in the moonlight, to tell you that you were more than a dream to me. I tried to, in part, with the hairpin I gave you, one that amplified your gentle beauty even more than I thought possible. But how could I ruin what little time we had?

“Choso,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Why didn’t you send these?”

“I was a coward,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “I thought… I thought it was kinder to stay away. To bury how I felt. But it wasn’t kinder, was it?”

You shook your head, unable to speak as you continued reading, each letter peeling away the walls you’d built to protect yourself from the pain of his absence.

When you reached the last letter, your breath hitched.

If I were braver, I’d tell you this to your face: I love you. I’ve loved you since the first time we ran barefoot through the gardens, laughing until we couldn’t breathe. I’ve loved you since you bandaged my hand after my sparring lessons, scolding me and treating me gently as if I weren’t a warrior, as if my rough, damaged hands were worth your care. I love you with a desperation that terrifies me, that kept me awake in camp as I replayed your smile over and over. If I lose you now, it will be my own doing. But still, I love you.

Your tears fell freely now, soaking the parchment. Choso rose slowly, his hands lifting as if to touch you but stopping just shy of your skin.

“Say something,” he pleaded, his voice raw.

Instead, you surged forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down to meet you. Your lips found his in a kiss that was fierce and unrestrained, pouring every ounce of longing, anger, and love into the connection.

Choso froze for a heartbeat before melting into you. The kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that matched your own.

His hands moved to grasp your waist, as if afraid you might vanish. Before they could touch you, he paused as if doubting his ability to be able to touch you. To your frustration, the heat of his almost-contact pulled away. “Your Highness—”

“Choso,” you pleaded, grasping his hands in yours and placing them on their rightful place: your body. You dragged his hands down your torso, helping him explore your curves sensually, intimately as he squeezed his brows together, eyes shut, conveying his inner turmoil. His resolve almost cracked as you begged him, “Take me. Please.”

With agitation, he withdrew his hands from your grasp, painfully clenching them by his sides as he groaned. “Your Highness, you’re playing with fire. I mustn’t. Your body is of a thousand gold, and I would never dare to touch you with my hands—”

But you interrupted him by snorting. “If it is of a thousand gold, or whatever archaic term the royal legends have invented, then you are a thousand gold richer.” You gently took his face in your arms, kissing his forehead. “I am yours, and if you believe that anyone will have my heart after you, then you are most grievously mistaken.”

He still looked at you, both kneeling on your bed, with a conflicted expression. You gave him a reassuring look before pressing another gentle kiss to his lips. Then, you teased him softly. “Will you not fight for my hand? Will you truly let me be promised to another man after this?”

His eyes darkened in a possessive manner, as he joined his lips against yourself furiously. “I would never,” he punctuated his interruptions with a searing kiss. “let anyone have you after this.”

With tender hands that heavily contrasted his desperation, he slipped the shoulder of your dress, dragging the hem down and down until your breasts were bare to the air. “So, so beautiful,” he whispered before enclosing your nubs in his mouth, kissing them both tenderly.

You could only but gasp, victim to his ministrations as he sneaked another hand up your legs, gently caressing your thighs until he met your core. He groaned, louder than ever, when he was met with the bare heat, wet with your desire and arousal all for him. With painstaking gentleness, he eased a finger in, drinking in your moans and sounds of pleasure.

He couldn’t help but smile at the small scream that escaped you when he curled his fingers up. It seemed he had found the place that pleasured you most, one that you had stayed unbeknownst to. And he definitely couldn’t stop himself from torturing and repeatedly hitting against it with the way squeals of his name left your mouth whenever he did so.

Before you knew it, an unknown feeling washed over you as Choso kept continuing his touches, one that seemed like worship with how he was looking for your reactions, for your pleasure. A gush of slick escaped you, and Choso kissed your breasts one final time before drawing out his finger.

You peered down at him, flushed, as his eyes stayed trained on you while he slowly drew his finger inside his mouth, seeming to savor your taste. At last, he pulled it away from his mouth and asked, voice hoarse, “how are you feeling?”

You laugh bashfully and look away, blushing. “You know you don’t need to ask that. But,” and you pause, looking at him through your lashes, “you know I want more.”

The flush that was only apparent on his cheeks spread to his entire face and neck and he whines as he buries his face in your breasts once more, now to evade eye contact. “Don’t say things like that. It makes holding back even more arduous.”

You stroke his hair, smiling softly. “Would you have any qualms about taking my…maidenhood if you were my husband.”

His answer is immediate. “Absolutely not.”

“So you want to…make love with me?” You heat up at your own words, nervously looking at him in fear of his rejection.

He pauses, but then slowly nods. “Well, yes, but—”

“Then we shall put archaic traditions aside. Choso,” and you look at him mischievously as he squints at you, “I command you to make love to me.”

The reaction is immediate. As if animated again, he pins you down against your mattress, eyes feral as he takes your lips with his once more. With both hands, a riiiip echoes across the room as he entirely tears your shift in his bare hands. Mind you, it was not weak material, and you lay dumbfounded as he strips his shirt off.

You don’t even have time to admire his bare torso, muscled as you knew it would be. Your eyes automatically trail down to the string of hair that leads down to his v-line as he rids himself of his trousers.

What gets uncovered makes you pray for your life, and you gasp, eyes wide. “How is that even supposed to go inside—”

He says your name, reassuringly, as he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “I will take the utmost care of you. I promise.” He lines his length with your entrance, and, with another kiss, he pushes in gently.

When his member first breaches you, you gasp, dizzied by the fullness. Then, as he slowly bottoms out, you whine while impaled on his cock. “More.”

Basking in the euphoria of your clenching heat around him, at your request, he curses. He pulls out his length—slowly, gently—and then slams back in, and you squeal, whispering a breathless utter of his name once more.

He continues making love to you, the sounds of his devotion echoing across the room. When you both climax, it is down with a prayer of the other’s name, as a promise. That you are both each other’s, and no qualms about proprietary and status could any longer apprehend either of you.

When the both of you settle down, him having gently cleaned you with a cloth, he collapses next to you in bed, bare arms engulfing you and pulling you closer. As you both lie there, skin to skin, you giggle at your own thoughts.

At the sound, Choso perks up, looking at you in soft amusement. “What’s the matter, my love?”

Ignoring the way your heart fluttered at the nickname, you replied, “I daresay you will be the strongest prince consort in the history of our kingdom.”

The mention of the weak nobles that had ascended the throne in centuries past makes him snicker smugly. “I would agree,” he muses, amused like you. “They would not have been as tall as me, or as strong, or as good in bed—-”

“Choso!” you squealed, grabbing a pillow and smacking him with it.

Grinning like a devil, he dodged with ease, catching your wrist and pulling you down onto the bed. Before you could protest, he wrestled himself on top of you, pinning your arms above your head and smothering you in kisses.

After his barrage was over, he turned solemn once more. “I’m serious,” he murmured, his tone softer, more sincere. His dark eyes searched yours, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. “I’ll protect you, stand beside you, love you until my last breath. You’re my queen in every way that matters. And no matter what, I’ll never leave your side again.”

Your breath hitched, his words settling deep in your chest. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you smiled, warmth flooding your heart. “And I’ll hold you to that, my love.”

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was equal parts promise and devotion. It wasn’t hurried or frenzied, but slow, a tangible declaration of everything you both had endured to reach this moment. Here, in the quiet of your chamber, with his weight grounding you and his lips marking you as his, you found the only place you wanted to be—by his side, now and always.

general masterlist

a/n AHH HI POOKIES!! I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKED MY FIRST CHOSO FIC?? let me know if i do him justice this was written with my pussy and me having a specific hyperfixation :3 anyways i really enjoyed writing this and i hope you guys did too :')

comment and reblog to let me know ur thots ;3

#jjk #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk smut #jjk x reader smut #choso #choso smut #choso kamo smut #choso kamo x reader #choso x you #choso kamo #choso x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk choso #choso kamo x you #aashi writes

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rohitjabre · 1 year ago

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Veista Updates

#scheme #goverment #yojana

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bennetsbonnet · 4 days ago

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If Mrs Bennet was indeed the only one 'doing something about the situation' like I often see argued when Pride and Prejudice is discussed... surely she would have spent frugally to ensure her daughters had substantial dowries? Surely she would have employed governesses to educate her daughters to ensure they had the accomplishments necessary to enable them make a successful marriage? Surely she would not have relied on desperate schemes to throw her daughters in front of eligible men and instead allowed them to be judged on their merits?

And yet...

We are told in Chapter 50 that Mrs Bennet has 'no turn for economy,' and only Mr Bennet (a waste of space himself, mind you) prevents them from exceeding their income,

Elizabeth tells Lady Catherine in Chapter 29 that 'we never had any governess' and that 'those who chose to be idle, certainly might.' So even in the absence of having someone around at Longbourn who was entirely dedicated to the girls' education, no pressure was exerted upon them to study... and Elizabeth smilingly reassures Lady Catherine that Mrs Bennet was not a slave to their education,

In Chapter 18, thanks to 'a manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet,' the party are the last to depart after the Netherfield ball and 'had to wait for their carriage a quarter of an hour after everybody else was gone.' Which is not only rude but highly embarrassing... but she really wanted Bingley and Jane to spend a few extra minutes together, just to make sure...

As you see, there were plenty of opportunities for Mrs Bennet to ensure her daughters were better prepared to find husbands. Yes, in marrying Mr Bennet, she married 'up,' and so might not have had these advantages herself (and Mr Bennet does share some of the blame).

But it's honestly somewhat of a miracle that Jane and Elizabeth turned out so well and were able to make such good marriages, even in spite of such a calamitous upbringing...

#pride and prejudice #jane austen #elizabeth bennet #mr bingley #mrs bennet #mr bennet #jane bennet #lady catherine de bourgh #my analysis #when you learn more about the era it's honestly astonishing how AWFUL they were as parents #and yet elizabeth and jane (luckily) turned out nothing like them... at their cores....#though elizabeth did have a lot in common with her father i think... certainly before she read darcy's letter #her wit definitely came from mr bennet... but scary to think about her turning out like him lol #but sometimes the apple does fall far from the tree... LUCKILY lmao

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yuriartillery · 2 months ago

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Agatha and Elizabeth

“Lady Agatha, I’ve brought you your tea.”

I set the platter down on the end table next to my mistress and pour out her tea. She doesn’t take it with milk or sugar, and she always insists that I oversteep the leaves in the pot. Bitter herbs sharpen the mind, she says.

Agatha is sprawled out on her reading chair in her chamber, still in her nightgown despite it nearly being noon. Lady Agatha purportedly drove away several governesses in her youth with her willful and unladylike attitude, and I have personally seen her drive out a fair score of potential suitors in much the same way. I admit that I almost admire her sharp tongue when it’s turned towards those above me, but all too often her disposition grates on me in the way that only a spoiled child can.

“Thank you, Liz. Would you draw the curtains? I have a bitch of a headache.”

Her delicately manicured left hand covers her porcelain face, as she regards me through spread fingers. My lady’s room has a western facing window, and there’s not a single stream of light flowing in at the moment. A catty remark crosses my mind briefly as I walk over to the curtains to draw them.

“Right away, my Lady.”

She’s not fond of sharp or sudden noises, so I carefully pull them together, taking far longer than I would prefer. Once the are curtains shut, I tidy up her room. The laundry maid has often complained that Agatha’s clothes seem to spend more time as makeshift rugs than on her body. She’s still watching me through her fingers, although she hasn’t yet deigned to honour me by turning her head.

“Lady Agatha, forgive me my presumption, but you seem not to be feeling well today. Shall I send word to that factory owner’s son that you won’t be able to entertain him for dinner?”

Exactly on cue, she lets out a put-upon sigh and slumps further into her chair. Mister John Harker has been quite dogged in his pursuit of Agatha, despite her repeated deflections of his various advances. By society’s estimation he’s a perfectly unobjectionable man, though the arrogance he displays by courting far above his station embitters him to me. Not that anyone of standing minds, her parents have been trying to marry her off to any man who will take her, both to finally rid the estate of her presence and to dispel the rumors that they’ve spawned an unmarriageable hellion.

“I’m afraid you didn’t respond clearly enough for me to answer Mr. Harker’s solicitations, my Lady, shall I return after you’ve had time for the tea to settle?”

My mistress is so predictable. As soon as I suggest that I’m about to leave, she immediately rights her posture, combs her hair out of her eyes, and clears her throat.

“Tell that parasitic bastard that I am indisposed in no uncertain terms, Liz.”

She pauses for a beat, her face twisting as venom decants behind her ruby lips, until her expression settles into a malicious grin barely veiled by an austere half-smile. Just as I’m about to prompt her, my Lady speaks.

“On second thought, I’m feeling much better. Your tea always does wonders for me, Elizabeth. Let him know that I would be honored to dine with him alone tonight.”

I know she’s not touched her tea yet, so Agatha must be plotting something. Typically she would hold a massive party so that she could publicly humiliate a suitor. A solo dinner is well outside of her usual mischief.

“Very good, my Lady. I’ll have a messenger send word to Mr. Harker immediately.”

“You must help me get dressed and prepared first, Liz. I can’t host anyone in this state, certainly not him. My hair’s a mess, as is my face.”

I can’t help but smile to myself. Agatha is always so petulant and exacting when she gets an idea like this into her head. Until the very moment her plans begin, she’ll find something wrong with her appearance or presentation and endlessly correct it such that everything is perfect. She’ll need to bathe, get dressed, do her hair, and have at least four hours to make sure that each room in her scheme is arranged to her need.

“Did you bathe last night, my Lady?”

Of course she didn’t, I was with her until I turned out her lights. My mistress never bathes unless I remind her too. She seems startled when I ask this, snapped out of her plots for a moment by the societal expectation of cleanliness. Honestly, she’s helpless.

“Oh! I, well, no…”

“I see, my Lady. I’ll go draw a bath for you now, and I’ll fetch you when it’s ready.”

“Thank you, Liz.”

“It’s no trouble at all, my Lady. Do you have an idea of what you’ll be wearing tonight?”

“…I don’t.”

“Well my Lady, I encourage you to think on it while I prepare your bath. Please excuse me.”

She’s not listening anymore, and I know it. I don’t particularly mind. The look of her perfectly focused face tells she can’t tell if I take a moment outside of her notice. Some time to alert the staff to the general outline of what will be occurring today. I quietly excuse myself from her chambers and look for Anthony, the estate’s coachman and messenger. He seems genuinely excited to be giving Mr. Harker substantial news for a change. I can’t blame the man, it must be exhausting to constantly rebuff the pesterings of a desperate lovelorn fool.

Lady Agatha didn’t outline any of her plans to me before I left, but they all more or less follow a rote routine, so providing advanced notice to the kitchen and cleaning staff has historically improved the odds of my mistress’s plans going off without a hitch.

The bath has always been simple, but unorthodox, to prepare. Agatha prefers her baths to be as hot as possible, so I nearly boil her bathwater. When she’s ready it’ll be the almost scalding temperature that she so adores. I gently knock at the door and let myself in. Agatha has spread a few different dresses out on her bed and the floor and is in deep deliberation as to which dress she should wear.

“I think the sky blue dress would be appropriate for today, my Lady.”

She starts up, like a cat that’s had its tail tread on. I suppress a giggle. She nods to me in agreement and begins to gather up her other dresses.

“Also, your bath is prepared. Leave the cleanup to me, my Lady.”

I reach down to help her upright and she takes my hand swiftly. She pulls herself to her feet in one sudden motion and walks to the bathroom faster than is necessary. Out of the corner of my eye I catch her alabaster cheeks flushing rose, cut off sharply by the slamming of a door. This is routine as well, a startled Agatha can’t bear to be seen by anyone else. I tidy up her room, returning all but the blue dress to her wardrobe. After all is set into its rightful place, I make up her bed and tidy the mess of romance novels on her desk.

A book titled Carmilla catches my eye as I clean, hidden away behind the headboard of Agatha’s bed. It’s in a horrid state, spine bent and broken, pages yellowed with several dog-eared to hold her place. My lady is still bathing, so I take a break from my chores to peruse a few pages. Within seconds I am absorbed so fully that I nearly miss my Lady crying out for my aid. I clear my throat and tuck the novel back where I found it.

“Liz! Elizabeth! I need your help! Now!”

It’s strange, she almost never requires assistance in the bath, but I open the door to the bath and a wave of heavy steam forces me back. I wipe the fog from my glasses and walk in.

“Liz, what took you so long?”

Agatha’s skin is entirely red from the hot bath, but she hasn’t yet wet her hair. I can’t help but sigh, she’s going to insist that I wash her hair. It’s nearly been two months since she last asked for this, I had almost hoped that she had forgotten that I said I’d be willing to. I move behind the bathtub and prepare the soaps.

“Forgive me, my Lady. I was engrossed in my work.”

She pouts, because she can’t help it. I keep my opinions to myself.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anymore! Now that you’re here, wash my hair! … please.”

I knew it.

“You’ll have to wet it yourself, my lady. I wouldn’t want to appear to be drowning my mistress on the off chance that someone stumbles into your bathroom.”

With a huff, Agatha sinks beneath the steaming water, giving me another opportunity to remove the fog from my glasses. She childishly breaches moments later, splattering both myself and the floor with her bathwater. Every day it grows harder to suppress my annoyance with my mistress. Each interaction is just another trial from God, sent to test my patience.

“Close your eyes, my Lady. We wouldn’t want it to get into your eyes.”

I lather her scalp and begin the laborious process of cleaning her unmanageable amount of hair. Agatha has been famously opposed to it ever being cut. Trimming it to remove the splitting ends has been a battle enough her entire life, the other maids have told me. She’s made a personal enemy of every salon’s proprietor and all of their employees within fifty miles, and now none will ever assent to seeing her.

My mistress sighs with contentment as I work on her. She purrs like a cat when my nails scratch her scalp and mewls pathetically when I move on to more of her hair. There’s some wordless protestation when I wipe my glasses for a third time, but it’s easily resolved with a bit of pointless fawning.

“Alright, it is finished, my Lady.”

She sinks back underneath the water. I have to wait for her to resurface before I leave, lest I provoke another outburst. It won’t be long, as she can hardly hold her breath above water, let alone below it. When she surfaces this time she doesn’t intentionally splash as a seal would.

“If that’s all, I’ll be taking my leave now, Lady Agatha.”

I’m struck by how wounded she looks as I move to leave. With a sigh I turn around and set my glasses on the vanity, as it seems I might be in this teakettle of a room for quite some time.

“Is there something wrong, my Lady?”

There’s a pause as she thinks over my question. She’s clearly troubled, it’s written all over her face.

“What do you think of that Harker bastard, Liz? And you have to answer honestly! Or else!”

It’s now my turn to spend a moment thinking. By all measures he’s an upstanding young gentleman, cordial and polite at every opportunity. He gets along well with all of the servants in our estate, myself excluded, and he’s absolutely filthy rich, so it wouldn’t be beyond him to provide the lavish lifestyle that Agatha insists on.

But despite knowing all of that, I simply cannot stand the man for more than five minutes at a time. His posture is stiff and bent all at the same time, he never knows when to stop joking about with people, and his tireless pursuit of Agatha, despite her obvious intolerance of his existence, makes me wretch. If I were her mother, I would make it clear in no uncertain terms that he is to leave my darling Agatha alone and never show his face in my house again.

“Hmm. Well, in all respects he’s a wonderful gentleman who any young woman would be delighted to marry.”

I can feel my mistress burning holes through me with her glare as I begin my evaluation of her suitor with the same uncritical praise that she’s doubtless heard dozens of times already.

“But, I personally would resign as my Lady’s personal maid if you were to accept his proposal. I cannot stand to share a room with the man, and were it not my duty to ensure he felt safe and welcomed in this estate, I would have denied him entry long ago.”

Agatha looks visibly relieved to hear such a scathing opinion of Mr. Harker. After I finish speaking, she steps out of the bath without warning and wrings out her hair. I nearly stumble as I go for a towel to give her so that she can cover up. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen her fully naked before, so I suppose she must not mind at anymore. I excuse myself to her chambers to help her dress and do her hair after she finishes drying herself.

She’s returned to her silent plotting once she exits the bath, and wordlessly allows me to dress her, not putting up nearly as much of a fight as I’m used to out of her. I prefer her like this, a nice pretty doll for me to dress and groom. I’m almost shocked not to hear any complaining as I do her hair up into a partial crown braid, but she’s within in her own internal world now. The Day of Judgment itself could not rouse her now.

Once she’s fully prepared for the day she gracefully dances out of her room, stopping to offer me a mumbled thanks for dressing her. She’s likely off to let the staff know her particular requirements for tonight’s dinner. I’ll be following her during the late afternoon, but time has flown, and I’m finally allowed one of my breaks, so I go off to the kitchen to have myself a meal.

The cooks are all abuzz about Lady Agatha’s meal request for tonight. Against her parent’s paltry resistance, she’s asked that they prepare all of the most expensive meat they had on hand, and that they were to make enough to feed the entire staff. Nobody is quite sure what awful prank she’s going to play on Mr. Harker, but they don’t care. Wine, bread, cheeses, all are fair game to the staff tonight, so Agatha likely has their entire support.

It’s already late afternoon when Anthony leads Mr. Harker into the foyer. He looks dazzled by the chandelier when I greet him on behalf of Agatha.

“Welcome to the Rosewood Estate, Mr. John Harker. At present, my Lady Agatha is preparing for your meal with her. Forgive her absence; she’ll be with us shortly. Until then, it would be my honor to entertain you.”

My voice breaks his fascination with the crystal chandelier and he laughs nervously.

“Uh, haha, yes, very good. You’re, wait, don’t tell me, I remember your face, uh, you’re Elizabeth! Right, yeah Lizzy, the uh, maid that’s always joined to Aggie’s hip. That’s splendid, I could use your advice.”

I wince when he calls my mistress ‘Aggie’ with such familiarity. Where does he get off thinking that he can use a pet name she despises when she’s done nothing but ignore his telegrams and letters for months? I offer a silent prayer that whatever Agatha has planned will rid us of this vermin for good.

“I’m flattered, Mr. Harker. Not only do you remember a humble servant like myself, but you think so highly of my opinion that you’d ask for my advice. If you would give Anthony your coat, I’ll guide you to the sitting room, where it’d be my utmost pleasure to answer any questions you may have.”

Mr. Harker’s face lights up with an awful juvenile smile as he hands off his filthy longcoat to the coachman. I lead him to the sitting room, opening the door for him and he immediately takes Agatha’s favored seat. His posture is positively uncouth as his miserable form seeps into the chair.

“Should I have a servant put on some tea, Mr. Harker?”

“Tea? No, can’t stand the stuff. I only drink coffee. Lizzy, you wouldn’t believe how rough the journey here from London is, but after months of silence, my beloved Aggie has finally seen sense! Everyone told me that she’d never respond, uh, that she’s always going to be unmarried but I sure showed-”

I can’t bear to hear anymore of his blathering, so I cut him off.

“I’m as pleased as anyone else is that my Lady has finally graced with you an invitation to our humble estate, Mr. Harker. If you would forgive me speaking above my station, what did you intend to ask me about?”

His surprised expression at my directness fills me with equal parts pride for silencing him and anxiety for speaking over a man.

“Uh… right, right, so you know Aggy better than anyone else right, Lizzy? I mean, uh, of course you do. I’ve never seen her without you by her side, uh, so, in your opinion how do you think it’d be best for me to uh, spring an engagement on her?”

Die. I want him to die right now.

“Lady Agatha has always hated surprises. I’m sure someone who cares for her as deeply, as you yourself do, would understand that instinctively. She’s also quite sharp, trying to trick her into saying yes would only put yourself in danger of one of her infamous rejections. Were I in your position, I would be upfro-”

“Ha! Upfront? You’ve got to be joking around with me, right Lizzy? I’ve always uh, been upfront with Aggie about my intentions and it hasn’t gotten me anywhere. Honestly, were I a more cynical man, I’d think she’s uh, preparing to embarrass me like she she did to Georgie, and Percy, and Willy, and…”

He trails off getting quieter and quieter as he lists a number of Agatha’s potential suitors that he personally knew. I take the moment to breathe, trying to quell the seething rage I feel after being so sharply cut off by a dimwitted half-common fool who asked for my advice, then decided he knew better instantly.

“Yes, my Lady has discerning taste. But not one of the unfortunate men you listed were ever personally invited to a private dinner with Lady Agatha.”

Mr. Harker looks up from the fingers he was counting his former rivals on, genuinely shocked at what I had just said.

“Wait, uh, really?”

“Yes sir.”

“You’re not pulling my leg, are you Lizzy?”

“This is not the proper time to make jokes, Mr, Harker.”

The smile that appears on his face on hearing this turns my stomach.

“Splendid! Right, uh, sorry for doubting you Lizzy. You’ve been so helpful. Uh, take this as a sign of my thanks.”

He shoves a crumpled wad of banknotes into my hand, then returns to Agatha’s chair, somehow spreading himself in a less dignified way than before.

“Sir, I can’t accept these, I haven’t done anything for you.”

I gently set the money onto an end table nearby Mr. Harker. It stinks like he does. I’ll have to wash my hands once I have some time to myself. When he speaks again, his voice is in a lower tone.

“Oh Lizzy, you’re so humble, I insist. And uh, just between you and me, uh, Percy said the reason why he stopped pursuing Aggie wasn’t because of all of the drinks she spilled on him or the kissing some other man while he was watching or any of that. Percy’s a good-natured chap after all. You could probably cut off his leg and he’d thank you.”

“Forgive me, I’m not sure I understand-”

“He said it was because uh, whenever you’d look at him, he’d uh, feel the chill of the grave. So, uh, if Agatha does become my fiancee, I’d like to have a good uh, you know, relationship with you, Lizzy.”

I notice that I’ve been clenching my fists in my lap during this entire conversation. I relax myself, and give him a halfhearted half-smile.

“Whatever my Lady desires, I will make so. If she truly does wish to marry you, Mr. Harker, I’ll gladly serve you with her.”

“Brilliant! We’ll be thick as thieves in no time, won’t we, Lizzy?”

As if Lady Agatha has any intention of spending one more moment of her precious time with this imbecile after tonight is through.

“I’d imagine we would be, sir.”

Another maid opens the door to let us know that dinner is ready to be served. Harker gets up right away, boundless energy pouring out of his every step. I follow behind and over his shoulders I see Lady Agatha. She’s done her own makeup for this dinner, and though it’s competent, I still wish she had given me the opportunity to do it for her. Even so, at this moment she is the pinnacle of grace and beauty, her dress flowing like water with each step she takes.

“John, it’s so very good to see you tonight. I trust that Liz was a satisfactory substitute hostess while I was making myself presentable?”

Her voice rings out clear and wonderful as church bells, contrasted to Mr. Harker’s boorish mumbling.

“Uh, yeah, Aggie, she was an uh, a great hostess. You uh, look pretty tonight. Uh, Lizzy said it would just be the uh, two of us dining?”

“Yes, I’ve had my staff prepare the meal beforehand so that it can just be the two of us alone, John. I’m quite proud of what my chefs have waiting for us tonight.”

Agatha offers her hand to Harker, which he takes, not even kneeling to kiss it, and then pulls her into the dining room. The doors close behind them and I rush to the washroom to scrub his scent from my hands.

It’s been nearly thirty minutes as I wait alone by the door, hands red and raw from the washing. The air stings. All I can here through the polished oak are polite murmurs as the two eat and chat, though try as I might, I can’t discern the direction the conversation is going.

Doubts begin to eat away at me while the minute hand crawls iota by iota across the clock face. Did Agatha actually have feelings for Mr. Harker that I simply hadn’t noticed? Was this not going to be a prank of hers? Without being able to hear, anything could be going on behind those closed doors. I fall to my knees and offer another prayer to whatever saint can be bothered. Ask God on my behalf to kill that man on the spot.

As I strain my ears I hear a glass shatter and a slight scuffle. I ignore it dutifully, if I am needed then she will come ask for me. Then a dull thump as something hits the floor hard. It is none of my concern, my imagination must be overactive. Then a strangled, gurgling scream. I disregard my station and throw open a door to see if my Lady is safe.

Within the dining hall I see my lovely Lady Agatha on top of a fallen John Harker, her face pressed against his neck and hand covering his mouth. He’s gripping the tablecloth with one hand and clawing desperately at the air with another. The red wine is all over the floor and my Lady’s dress. Harker’s eyes dart towards me and he forces out another gagged scream.

I begin to apologize for my intrusion and turn to leave, when I catch from the corner of my eye thick crimson pool oozing from Mr. Harker’s neck. There’s a tearing sound as she looks at me from atop the bleeding man. She looks up at me and spits out a chunk of his flesh. A jolt of envy courses through me.

“Oh Liz. Right outside my door. Ever my faithful dog. Did you hear that scream and get worried that John was attempting something improper with your master?”

Harker had sunk his teeth into Agatha’s hand, hard enough to make her bleed, but the light is already beginning to leave his eyes. I come to my senses enough to speak.

“What in God’s name are you doing, Agatha?”

She smiles far wider than she’s ever done before, showing off all of her perfectly straight bloodstained teeth. Her voice remains even and tempered, as if she were speaking to her parents or another noble. I’m beckoned over by her free hand and I approach warily.

“John was just blathering on and on and on about his life and how he’ll treat me if we were to get engaged and about his work in the city and all of his terribly boring friends and it was so mind-numbingly dull.”

Her voice is excited and lilting as she continues, but she isn’t talking past me. All of her attention is on me now.

“You know how I get when I’m bored, Liz. I started to look at his neck instead of his face. When he gets excited did you know one of his veins throbs just a little? I got to wondering what it would feel like if I were to sink my teeth into it and then before I knew it-”

She laughs clear and innocent as a church bell. It brings a smile to the corner of my face despite the circumstances.

“I was on top of him ripping out that throbbing vein with my teeth!”

Blood has started to seep into the edges of her dress, the floor is slick with Harker’s life. I get closer to her, and she wrenches her other hand out of his mouth. I kneel beside her and she rests her head on my shoulder.

“And it felt so good, Liz, the heat of his blood pouring into my mouth, the feel of my teeth cutting through skin and muscle alike, the terror in his eyes as he realized that I was going to kill him.”

Agatha lets out a dreamy sigh, running her uninjured hand over the chest of Harker’s corpse. I glare at it. It’s still too much affection for him, from her.

“And the struggle, he bit my hand, you know. How improper of him, he’s meant to be my suitor.”

She takes my cheek with her unbitten hand and turns my head to look her in the eyes. I ask instinctively.

“Is there something you require, my Lady?” My Lady Agatha kisses me on my lips, the bitter iron taste of Harker’s blood fills my mouth, my cheeks reddening from the directness, the impropriety of it. I feel my heart quicken when her tongue meets mine and at this moment I forget about the dead man beside me, the stains to my clothes, and every thought about what I should do now.

The kiss ends abruptly, and I’m still left reeling from the intensity of the situation. Agatha stands and present her injured hand to me. I wrap it with a napkin to staunch the flow of blood. The same smile is still on her face.

“Now Liz, I seem to have made a mess of my dinner. Could you clean up for me?”

#longform tag #maid #yuri #this one is edited and refined from a draft from 2021 #lottie had plans to make it a serial but the motivation never manifested #anyway! enjoy it as a short story its a little violent near the end but if youve read lotties other work #you know what youre signing up for tee hee

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pingo1387 · 1 year ago

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something i noticed recently is that everyone in laios's party, former and current, is an outcast or otherwise isolated in some way

laios: left his family/village and the army in a "you can't fire me i quit" kind of way, was all alone until he reunited with falin, with whom he was again separated when she was eaten

falin: shunned by the villagers for her innate magical ability, had no friends at school until she met marcille, and was (unwillingly) left behind when she was eaten

marcille: socially isolated growing up for being half-elf

chilchuck: lost his wife due to his unwillingness to communicate and apparently never tried to win her back, lost support from many half-foots who saw his union organizing as a money-making scheme

namari: thrown out of her clan for her father's crimes

toshiro: kicked out of his home and not allowed to return until he could bring back "something interesting" (or possibly a wife), seemingly didn't have any friends before joining the party outside of his assigned bodyguards/governess

senshi: last survivor of his own adventuring party, lived on his own for over fifty years and never fully integrated into orc society despite sharing knowledge with them and coexisting peacefully for some time

izutsumi: izutsumi

#dungeon meshi

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tovibeornottovibe · 1 month ago

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Oh, It Had To Be You, Didn't It? - Prologue

Nyx Archeron x Vanserra!OC

Seren meets her father in her study to discuss an interesting invite from the Night Court. Nyx keeps sending her crude messages and driving her to drink her father's good whiskey.

warnings: swearing, suggestiveness, Nyx being a rake because he grew up in Illyria, enemies to lovers hehe, Eris managing to be a loving father, smokehounds being adorable, Seren is her father's daughter

series masterlist | general masterlist | Prefer Ao3?

Five miles. That’s how wide the Forest House is from north to south.

An endless, sprawling rabbit warren of interconnecting corridors and cavernous rooms, digging underground in forgotten passageways. Unknown creatures are said to roam them, burrowed in the roots of the great oak tree they say became the first foundation, cut by a Vanserra whose only legacy is his name and this place. Wings have been blocked off, new ones opened, built one on top of the other, precariously balanced and connected only by the grace of the High Lord and his boundless power. East to west, it takes two hours and eleven minutes to cross.

Seren knows this for a fact; she checked.

She had discovered many of these dark corners as a child once the civil war had been won, her father crowning himself after years and years of scheming, and yet more of outright fighting which kept her and her mother on the run for the first years of her adolescence. They were and still remain an escape. A never-ending means of getting herself lost, of feeling as though she were somewhere else, until long-suffering governesses and guards would come to find her in the bowels of her family home.

Once, she told her father she planned to catalogue all of the hallways and rooms that no one had stepped foot in for centuries. He had laughed from behind his monstrous, dark-oak desk as she sat on the floor of his office, cross-legged with a smokehound puppy sleeping in her lap. “A noble effort, little star,” he’d said, the scratching of his quill against parchment pausing so he could meet her determined gaze, “but not even I managed that. The Mother knows I tried.”

In one of these formerly blocked-off wings, one that had supposedly once belonged to a princess of Autumn in the days of the High King, Seren had made her own place. Vines and ironwood ivy had taken over this corner of the House, weakened the walls and hidden the magnificently high ceilings of the library and leisure rooms. Over years of slipping away here, of burning away the damage as a means to learn control of her powers, Seren had discovered old things. Paintings. Weapons. Instruments of music and of despair the likes of which had not been seen or used since before her grandfather had taken power. All of them, she had attempted to restore, or else understand, as attentively as possible.

Her study is her favourite room in the House, even above her grandmother’s orchard that’s tucked away in a glade behind the ballroom. It is intensely hers and hers alone, far from the bustle of the throne room and her parents’ private quarters, where she had spent much of her childhood and where her brothers still lived. Maids do not venture here on her orders; dust knows it is not to settle on the surfaces in her presence. Only trusted guards of her own legion may step foot in her halls, and they are invited into the study only if she allows it.

The furniture is rich, styled in mahogany and Autumn velvets. The hearth heats the room when she enters, an effortless way to expend power from within the well inside her. She conducts meetings here, the walk either short or intimidatingly long depending on the message she wants to send. Either way, guests find themselves benefitting from the soft leather of the chairs and glasses of fine liquor. If she likes them enough, she might even let them peruse her bookshelves, so long as they stay away from the warded section where she keeps rare, ancient copies of unique tomes she found either in the House or elsewhere.

Behind her desk, she pours herself tea, steeped in cinnamon and star anise, then ruins the delicate balance of flavour by adding a sizeable measure of whiskey. In front of her, written in neat, practiced handwriting and realised in midnight blue ink on a scrap of paper, hastily ripped and sent secretly, are the words: You know, I think I prefer you in your pretty, little nightgown. It is signed with no name and has no wax seal, but Seren knows who it’s from. Nyx Archeron is as insufferable as he is lecherous.

She takes a sip of her tea and relishes the burn of the alcohol as it goes down. There is another note, which arrived merely moments after the first and landed right in the palm of her hand. It reads: Not, of course, that I mean to take advantage of any of your vulnerable moments for my own pleasure. That would be rather sick of me, wouldn’t it?

It’s not even a subtle jab. He means to suggest that she twisted his arm when they entered their bargain, but she would argue that a favour in exchange for saving his life is a more than fair trade. Perhaps he simply feels threatened by the idea of owing a Vanserra something. Perhaps he regrets that he lives only because she permitted it. Seren doesn’t care which is true, if any. Their arrangement benefits her and that’s what matters.

Earlier, they had met once again, only this time in the Day Court. Seren had been visiting Lucien on behalf of her father to discuss, among other things, the state of the Spring Court—now thoroughly recovered from the High Lady of the Night Court’s reckoning—and Tamlin’s wedding, which her whole family has been invited to. Rumour has it, and this is what her father sent her to confirm, that there will be representatives from the Night Court in attendance too. Just as her favourite uncle opened his mouth to respond, Nyx appeared in the gardens, seemingly also seeking him.

Seren knows that he’s been training with Helion to hone the spell-cleaving power that was passed on from his mother. In fact, he is so involved in it that her own grandmother (who lived with her mate in Day very happily) is familiar with him. When she went to see her in the morning, she’d said that he was rather agreeable, pleasant company to keep. Seren had scoffed and asked what she had put in her tea to give her such delusions. Her grandmother had tutted with a soft smile on her face and said, “You really are your father’s daughter.”

People say they look alike, Seren and her grandmother. The same untameable, red curls. The slopes of their noses and the curve of their faces. These things, too, she shared with her father, but Seren retained the wildness to her spirit that they say her grandmother had before Beron took it from her. Even still, Seren has her mother’s eyes, blue flecked with green, and the delicate, textured hands of a healer.

Nyx seems only to notice the physical aspects of her figure, so when he says he prefers her in her nightgown, he means because it allowed him to see the bare skin of her thighs, rather than them being hidden under skirts like they were today. Every time she sees him, he scans her, looks her up and down without restraint and finds entertainment in the fact that it annoys her. He did the same in the gardens, even if he attempted to hide it for Lucien’s sake. Seren is undecided about whether his behaviour is unique only to him or whether his Court encourages that kind of disrespect—though she has never seen him look at another female like he looks at her. She is equally undecided about whether or not it makes her as uncomfortable as it should.

She takes another sip of tea.

They had traded barbs and insults unashamedly until Lucien forced them apart. Unwittingly, Nyx answered her question and let it slip that he’d be seeing her in Spring at the end of the month. Whether or not his parents will be there, he didn’t say, though Seren suspects not. The grudge between their families has shaped Prythian since the war with Hybern, and her poor uncle has found himself entangled in the middle of it. All she has learnt about inter-court diplomacy, she has learnt from his impressive skill at playing both sides. Her father calls him a Vanserra through-and-through for that, however reluctant he might be about it.

Quiet tip-tapping against the wood floors breaks her from the memory, and instinctively, she burns the notes in her hand, sending the ashes to the fireplace. Though bred for stealth, smokehounds make themselves known if they wish, so it seems that this one in the corridor outside her study doesn’t mean to surprise her. Moments later, she hears the steady, confident footsteps of someone outside her door, for if there is a smokehound in the House, her father is wont to be nearby.

His knock, both relaxed and sharp at the same time, comes just as she hides the bottle of whiskey in the bottom drawer of her desk—after all, she did steal it from him not so long ago—and she drains her teacup before she tells him to come in, lest he scent liquor in the air.

First, the smokehound, Astrid, pads in, her tail wagging as she comes over to her, looking for affection. Satisfied with tender pats on the head from Seren, she goes off to curl up by the fire. Her father shuts the door behind him with a click.

Resplendent as ever, he looks every bit a High Lord, every bit the male her mother looks at with such reverence and love, in brocaded crimson and golden embroidery. It’s the same embroidery which adorns her own forest-green dress. The fire makes the copper in his impeccably-styled hair glint.

In him, Seren always sees herself. When she was learning how to be a courtier, how to establish herself in the Courts of Prythian, she emulated him so closely that even the rhythm of their breathing matched. She aimed to prove herself his heir to everyone else, even if he himself says that he has never doubted for one moment that she is. The magic, he says, doesn’t lie.

“‘Afternoon, father,” she says idly, leaning back as he sweeps in and sits in his usual chair to her left. Many hours they have spent together in this study or in his office, pouring over documents and events, while her mother lounged and interjected with a fresh perspective, or else held one of her sleeping brothers to her chest to soothe them late into the night when they were small. Still, he looks as though he belongs behind the desk, in control.

His eyes bright with amusement, he crosses his legs, takes in the empty cup of tea on her desk, and says pointedly, “Evening, Seren. It’s gone eight o’ clock.”

She flicks her eyes over to the clock on the mantelpiece which still reads a few minutes past four, only to notice that the second hand has stopped moving, ticking endlessly around the eleven o’ clock mark. Softly, she swears and rubs at her eyes. Though it’s perpetually autumn in her Court, not even a High Lord can circumvent the lengthening and shortening of the days which comes with the natural seasons. It’s still light outside, so Seren had assumed it was still sometime in the late afternoon.

“I didn’t mean to miss dinner,” she sighs. Her mother hates it when she does, even if she’s away on official business. Her brothers hate it even more so.

“You never do,” her father says, momentarily distracted by Astrid huffing as she shifts, then he tilts his head, nodding to the teacup, “though it’s perhaps for the best you didn’t turn up to the table drunk.”

For that, she shoots him a glare. Admittedly, it was a pitiful attempt to hide from him. She didn’t even pour more tea to obscure the lingering smell of whiskey in the room.

“I’m not drunk,” she says, and it’s true. It takes more than a knuckle of alcohol to even get her tipsy, courtesy of the need to endure tedious banquets and galas.

“But you are drinking,” he says, more of a statement than a question, even if he means to ask why. He adds wryly, “And drinking my whiskey, no less.”

She opens her mouth to reply, no doubt with some biting, witty comment which would make her father laugh, but the appearance of another note, landing directly in front of him, kills the words on her tongue. Before she can even think about grabbing it, her father snatches it off the desk with precise elegance and reads it. Whatever it says, it only takes him a few seconds and, with a quirk of his brow, he offers it to her.

“Do I want to know who that’s from?” he asks, his tone dipping into a kind of paternal protectiveness she hasn't heard for a long time.

Seren scowls at him in a way that makes her feel like she’s a teenager again and plucks the note from his hand. This one simply says: Ignoring me? and she can almost hear Nyx in that smug, drawling tone of his that makes her skin crawl. He’d have his stupid smirk on his stupid face and play with his stupid hair, flare his absurd wings and ruin her day. His particular brand of arrogance grates on her tirelessly.

Of course, none of that shows on her face. She learnt from the best that putting your emotions on display is more likely to make you vulnerable than any physical threat, and her father would approve of her restraint, even if her mother finds it upsetting to have her own daughter hide her feelings.

“If you want to rule one day, little star,” her father had told her as she sat on his shoulders and they picked apples from the trees in the orchard, “never let anyone know what you’re truly thinking. It is better to be three steps ahead than on a fair playing field, whatever your mother might tell you.”

There’s a reason her mother isn’t High Lady and it has nothing to do with tradition: she doesn’t want it, doesn’t enjoy playing the game, but Seren does. She enjoys being good at it.

“An unwanted admirer,” Seren says, glancing at her father before plucking a pen off her desk. Though perfectly legible, her informal penmanship is nothing like Nyx’s. She scrawls: Do you have nothing better to do? and sends it back to wherever he is in a wisp of smoke.

“Hence the drinking, I would presume,” her father says, casually flicking his wrist towards the fire, dulling the flames slightly so Astrid doesn’t overheat in her sleep, “I daresay you don’t entertain admirers very often, and certainly not unwanted ones.” That protectiveness is back in his voice, so firm that she’s starting to think something else might be on his mind and he’s using this as a distraction.

“This one is rather useful to keep around,” she replies carefully as the note reappears. This time, her father makes no attempt to grab it, but he instead watches how she reacts, if at all. I’m multi-tasking, it says, then added at the bottom, written at an odd angle, I’d be much less bored if you were here in your slinky, silk pyjamas.

Immediately, she burns this note too and turns to her father as though she hadn’t. In his ever relaxed posture, there is the slightest, fleeting tension in his shoulders.

“What’s bothering you, papa?” she asks, her voice gentle.

In an instant, the heir and the High Lord vanish, and in their place are father and daughter. The masks they wear are but a game, a sparring match to keep each other sharp, and they both know when to drop them.

A warm laugh rumbles in his chest. “Am I so transparent, little star?”

She shrugs, a smile playing on her lips. “You must be slipping in your old age.”

“Are you and your mother conspiring to make me feel ancient this week? She told me I had a grey hair the other day.” Even as he grumbles, the love he holds for the both of them comes across in waves, but in all honesty, they aren’t anywhere close to conspiring. Between all the meetings, paperwork, and managing to get at least a few hours of rest, if not sleep, Seren hasn’t seen her mother or her brothers past rushed meals and quick conversations in the corridors for a week or so. Frankly, she misses them.

“Great minds think alike, it seems,” she says, laughing at the way he shakes his head at her even as her keen eyes assess him, “but that doesn’t tell me what’s troubling you.”

He hums roughly. “Sometimes,” he says, “I forget how perceptive you are. You’re more like your mother than you realise.”

That’s twice now he’s mentioned her mother in a matter of minutes. “So, it’s mama, then,” she presses, leaning forward, bracing her forearms against her desk as she absent-mindedly moves her teacup to the end of the desk and out of the way. “If you’re about to tell me she’s pregnant again—”

“No. No, nothing like that.” The relief that wracks through her is undeniable. As much as they all adore having additions to the family, Etienne’s birth had been so troublesome that she and her father had stayed up all throughout the labour, with him in the room with her mother and Seren outside, asking for updates from any healer who was unfortunate enough to get in her line of sight. Truly, she had thought her mother was going to die. Luckily, her natural healing abilities had kept her from the brink, even if using them exhausted her. “She wrote to Elain about visiting her in the Night Court.”

“... Oh.” Seren sits back, a frown on her face. “I wasn’t aware they were close.”

It’s hardly a natural alliance to cultivate, but Seren’s mother is like that.

“They aren’t,” her father says, “but they are equally interested in medicinal plants, so they’ve been exchanging letters.”

“Which you were aware of, I assume?” she asks, already trying to work through how it could possibly work. Perhaps some kind of official visit? But it’s wishful thinking to suggest that her father might be allowed into the Night Court, let alone Velaris itself so… “Ah—” the realisation dawns on her, “—Elain already responded.” Her father nods. “And you can’t go with her so you want me to go instead.”

“Precisely.”

It’s… doable, but not without issues. The Night Court always finds a way to make things difficult, and it’s entirely possible that they might deny her mother access to their city because Seren would be accompanying her. She isn’t antagonistic towards them per se, certainly not like her father is, and she has a reasonable amount of respect for the power they possess, even if the way Rhysand and Feyre run their Court irks her to no end, but she isn’t in their good books either. She is still her father’s daughter, after all, and none of their brood of children let her forget it. Not that she would want to.

And then there’s Nyx. A politician wrapped in Illyrian leathers with a bargain tattoo to match hers on her upper thigh. A petty, pretty rakehell who gets so needy for attention that he deigns to send her notes about the nightgown she was wearing when he caught her up one night during the last High Lords’ Summit. A general pain in her neck, to be polite about it. He’ll be delighted to learn he can piss her off in person too. The idea of sleeping under the same roof as him, in his own city, makes her shudder a little.

Seren settles on saying, “I can see that getting complicated very quickly. Even just security-wise, not to mention anything else.”

Her father hums his agreement. “I’ve read the letters. Elain says she cleared everything with Rhysand already.”

Interesting…

“The perks of being married to the Shadowsinger, I suppose,” she murmurs, tapping a gentle rhythm against the arm of her chair with her fingertips. “You don’t like it either, do you?”

“No,” he says, “but your mother wants to go. I think to see the city more than anything else.”

Seren lets out a sigh. “How cultural of her,” she deadpans. “And who would be winnowing us there?” Neither of them had ever seen Velaris, and winnowing to unknown places requires some kind of anchor. Like when Seren accidentally winnowed to Nyx in the moonstone palace, which she has since learnt from her father is atop the Hewn City.

“Feyre, apparently.”

Of course. Because it most definitely isn’t unbecoming of a High Lady to be ferrying people from one Court to the other. Seren supposes the alternative, that is, Morrigan, is uniquely opposed to stepping foot in the Forest House.

“When?” she asks incredulously, resigning herself to the fact that this is happening.

Her father huffs. “Next week.”

Seren distinctly feels a headache coming on.

Wordlessly, she grabs the teacup from the end of the desk, reaches down into the drawer and retrieves the bottle of whiskey. She catches her father’s brow raise in response. She waves her hand and another cup clinks onto the desk in front of him—one with yellow flowers painted onto the side, taken straight from her grandmother’s china set that they keep in a cabinet in what used to be her solar. It gets put out when they have afternoon tea. “It’s necessary,” Seren says, pouring a knuckle of liquor for him, then one for herself. She taps her cup against his and knocks it back one, which earns her something between a scoff and a laugh. Then he does the same.

“I’d been wondering where this vintage had disappeared to,” he says, clearly pleased that, even though she’d stolen it from him, she had picked a good year to drink. She and him have the palette for those kinds of things. Even still, he takes the bottle and vanishes it before she can squirrel it back into her desk drawer. “Ask next time.” Though his tone is stern, it lacks any real warning.

Seren gives him a two-finger mock salute and has the sense to look sheepish regardless. “I’d better go find mama then,” she says, standing, stretching out her stiff muscles. I definitely need to take more breaks, she thinks as her shoulder pops.

Astrid lifts her head at the sound, huffs when she realises it’s nothing to be concerned about, and goes back to enjoying the warmth of the fire. “She sleeps more these days,” Seren notes, nodding down at her, catching her father’s eye as he too stands and glances at the smokehound.

“She’s getting old,” he says. Footsteps light, he crosses the room and fusses her softly. Astrid rolls into his touch, but not much. “And spoilt. I’m loath to move her.”

Seren smiles at the sight. Her father, her strong, scary, scheming High Lord of a father, totally undone by a dog. The hounds have always been his soft spot, and he passed that onto her too. “Don’t then,” she replies, “you know you can come and sit in here anytime you like, papa. It’s your house. You don’t have to wait for me to be around.”

He gives her a look. “This is your study,” he says. “You deserve privacy.” The privacy, she knows, he never had when he was heir.

“Okay,” Seren concedes, “I’m giving you permission to be in here when Astrid wants to warm her bones.”

He hums a laugh. “That sounds reasonable.”

When she goes to shut the door behind her on her way out, Seren lingers for a moment. She decides to leave it ajar; her father can close it when he and Astrid go.

At this time of day, her brothers are probably in bed, or close to it, and her mother is most likely in the library, taking a moment to relax. As much as she might hate to disturb her, Seren absolutely needs to speak with her. And afterwards, she thinks she’ll sit with her for a little bit, pick up a book. It’s been a while.

So, she strides off in the direction of the library to find her.

#nyx archeron #nyx acotar #nyx x oc #nyx x reader #nyx archeron x reader #nyx archeron x oc #acotar fic #acotar fanfiction #eris vanserra #eris is a good dad we love that

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