#noona.posts

[beloveds-embrace]

(p4 of fae poly 141 x cursed human reader | cw: angst | masterlist)

A day came that none of them expected, even if they should have.

The day when the sky itself seemed to hold its breath, when the very walls of the castle leaned inward in aching dread and condensation dripped like tears over the aged stone.

You stood alone in the center of the courtyard, where the last warmth of the afternoon sun pooled around you like woven silk, threading through your hair and gilding your skin with a soft, fading glow. Behind you, the winter roses stretched in riotous, sorrowful bloom- petals like thousand tiny white fires blazing against the creeping gray of the castle stone. Their scent, sharp and sweet, filled the air so heavily it was almost suffocating, and yet you seemed untouched by it, adrift in a world slowly folding in on itself only in your eyes.

The fae and the creatures of the castle gathered without meaning to, summoned not by any spell but by the deep, instinctive pull of grief- small, winged sprites with trembling gossamer wings clinging to the columns, knot-spirits huddled in the ivy with their glowing eyes wide and mournful. Even the ancient dryads, so rarely seen, leaned from the twisted trees, their hair a veil of weeping vines, their mouths open in silent horror as they watched the terrible unmaking of something precious.

You turned in a slow, uncertain circle, the worn hem of your gown brushing softly across the stone, your bare feet tracing arcs in the thin dust. A frown pinched your brow, delicate and confused, and your fingers plucked mindlessly at the fabric gathered at your waist, the nervous gesture of a child lost in the woods. Your eyes, once so brilliant with laughter and cunning and love, were wide and glazed now, reflecting the world around you as if it were already slipping beyond your grasp- as if you were beyond your own grasp.

John was the first to move; his boots made almost no sound on the worn stones as he stepped forward, each step measured, careful, as though approaching a wounded animal who might bolt at the slightest wrong motion.

He smiled a smile so soft and broken it could have melted mountains, could have silenced the wars of old, had it been seen by any creature less consumed by confusion than you were. His arms opened, slow and steady, offering the only thing he had left to give you: his unwavering love- even if it was the chain binding you now.

"[]" he spoke, yet the words came out muddled to your ears, unpleasant and unwanted. The unshed grief in his tone, thus, escaped you. "There you are."

You blinked at him, once, twice, like trying to clear rain from your lashes, then tilted your head just slightly to the side, like a bird puzzled by its reflection in a mirror.

The frown deepened, and a tremor passed visibly through your frame, so fragile and uncertain that even the bravest of the castle's knights could not have borne the sight without flinching.

"...Are you speaking to me?" you asked. The words were soft, high and frightened- a butterfly trapped against glass. And the courtyard magic, already strained near to breaking, shivered under the weight of said words, rippling outward in a wave that left dreadful silence in its wake.

John’s heart thudded painfully once against his ribs, the force of it staggering him a half step forward, hands reaching out for you, always you.

Johnny gave a short, raw bark of laughter- too sharp, too desperate- as if clinging to hope that this was all some cruel jest, that any moment now you would laugh and scold him for being so easily fooled and pretty starpetals would bloom and everything would be fine.

But when your gaze swung to him, wide and unknowing, that flicker of hope died hard and fast and wretched in his chest, and he clamped a hand over his mouth to smother the wounded sound that escaped.

"You," You said again, voice cracking like thin ice. "You keep saying [], but… but I don't know if that's meant for me."

You stared down at your hands, as if they belonged to someone else, as if they might carry the answer hidden in their lifeline scars and soft, faded calluses. You wrung them together, desperate, helpless, a flickering figure of loss against the gathering dusk, and held your face in them. Your voice dropped then, so low, so broken, that the very stones seemed to lean closer to hear the death knell of hope:

"I… I don't even know what my name is anymore."

The courtyard magic buckled violently inward, like a ship struck fatally below the waterline, and the wind shrieked- a high, keening sound that rattled the stained glass windows in their ancient frames. The winter roses, once so proud, wilted black and sagged against their thorned vines, their life snuffed out as if by an unseen hand.

Because in the world of the fae, names are everything.

A name is the blood and the breath and the bone of existence; it is the song written into the fibers of the soul, the anchor to memory, to history, to self. The thread that weaves a soul into the tapestry of life. And without it, you were not merely lost.

You were unraveling.

The castle mourned deep within its foundations, stones weeping bitter, shimmering tears that ran in thin rivulets along the walls. Will-o-wisps, who had danced so joyfully once in your presence, fell from the air like extinguished stars, leaving behind only fading sparks that blinked out one by one- unable to withstand this tragedy. Even the sun, as if unable to bear witness to what was unfolding, slipped behind a mourning veil of silver clouds, casting the world into a dim, mournful twilight.

Thrain came forward then- mighty, ancient Thrain- and the ground trembled beneath his hooves, each step reverberating through the cracked bones of the courtyard. He lowered his vast, crowned head and pressed it gently, reverently to your frail shoulder, thick fur brushing against your skin; it was an offering, a lifeline, an ancient beast’s desperate attempt to anchor you to this world with the only strength he had left.

You barely noticed, your hands lifting only weakly to tangle in his fur, your eyes staring sightlessly beyond him.

Your men could only watch, helpless and hollowed out.

Johnny pressed his fists to his mouth, biting down so hard that the sharp tang of blood filled his mouth, but it wasn’t enough to ground him, wasn’t enough to stop the trembling.

Kyle, who had spent hours weaving a crown of meadowflowers to coax a smile from you, dropped it from numb fingers, the blossoms scattering at his feet like spilled blood.

Simon turned away from the sight of you, broad shoulders heaving once, a hand braced against the stone wall as if the weight of the moment had finally driven him to his knees.

But John stood very, very still; as though if he moved too fast, too wrong, you might vanish entirely.

He crossed the space between you with slow, reverent steps, falling to his knees before you in the dying light. The winter roses brushed against his shoulders, and where they touched him, their petals blackened and withered, unable to survive the depth of the sorrow bleeding from his soul.

"Listen to me." He begged, his voice rough, ragged, almost unrecognizable from the weight of his grief.

You turned your gaze to him then, confused, and John felt the last stronghold of his heart crumble to dust.

"You are you," he said fiercely, as if sheer force of will might weave your fraying soul back together. "You are ours. You are mine. You are not lost. I don't care what name you remember- your soul knows me. I swear it."

You lifted a hand, trembling, uncertain, and brushed your fingertips lightly through his beard, as though trying to remember what kindness felt like- and then you smiled.

A small, confused, heartbreakingly tender smile.

"I like you." You whispered, so simple.

It was the final blow; John the unshakable, the immovable, the king who had ended wars and torn down gods- folded forward, pressing his forehead to your lap, and wept, his shoulders breaking under the ache.

Not the quiet, dignified tears of mortal men. No, this was the weeping of ancient kings, of gods laid low. Ragged, broken, soul-deep sobs that tore free from him like the very earth breaking open, shaking him down to the marrow.

And all around you, the castle mourned with him: torches sputtered and went out; hearths dimmed to embers, and the very air turned heavy and thick, until even the wind could no longer bear to move. The creatures covered their eyes with their tiny, trembling hands, and the dryads wept openly, their tears falling like pearls onto the cracked stone.

And even Thrain bowed his great head lower still, his breath smoking in the chill air, his ancient heart breaking with yours.

That night, the castle was silent; no music drifted from the high towers, no dances lit the green halls and the stars themselves bent low over the ruined earth, their silver light dim and broken, as though mourning what was slipping away.

And only John lay curled around you in the vast, cold bed, the heavy silence broken only by his shattered voice whispering into your hair:

"I love you," he said, again and again, as if the words might build a bridge back to you even if he damn knew better. “I love you, even if you forget me. I love you, even if you forget yourself. I love you, even if the stars forget to rise. I will cure you, even if I must tear my own love apart and you’d hate me for the rest of eternity.”

And you, soft and small, lost and beloved- slept on, nameless and dreamless, but still, somehow, still wrapped safely in the arms of the man who would carry your memory when you no longer could.

Always.

p5

[beloveds-embrace]

(p5/final part of fae poly 141 x cursed human reader || masterlist || cw: ANGST) peep the chapter title in the masterlist :D

It came as a quiet- one so deep and vast that even the winds forgot to blow.

The castle knew before anyone. It held its breath, the great hearths snuffing down to embers, the stones cooling beneath its bones. The will-o-wisps blinked out, one by one, not in fear, but reverence- so that today, no one will be led astray. The trees along the garden paths stopped their whispering, leaves still mid-quiver, branches creaking as they turned inward toward the heart of the estate.

Thrain raised his head beneath your chamber window.

The stag, so old and rooted in legend no bard had sung his name rightly in an age, stared skyward as snow began to fall. Slow, soundless. Not cold. Each flake shimmered faintly with magic, with memory. With you.

Inside, the chamber was dim and quiet, lit only by the pale glow of starlight seeping through frost-laced glass. The scent of lavender and winter clover hung in the air, soft and faded like a lullaby remembered from childhood. Curtains, woven with moon-silver threads and embroidered with wards to keep the darker dreams at bay, shifted gently in the breeze that wasn’t there. The room itself seemed to breathe slower now, as if matching your rhythm- one long inhale, one longer silence.

You lay nestled deep beneath layers of velvet and fur, of wildflower-threaded quilts and fae-woven linens that shimmered faintly with old enchantments. Johnny had insisted on them each morning, draping warmth around your ever-fragile frame even when spring had melted the snow and kissed new green into the garden paths. It was his way of trying to keep you rooted here- on this side of the veil.

Your breathing was soft and faint. The curse had slowed in its cruel unraveling, tugged back again and again by the desperate, tireless magic John poured into you. Every drop of power he possessed, every ounce of his life force, siphoned away over the years in hopes of buying you another day, another breath, another smile. It worked for a time.

But nothing lasted forever, and John knew that.

He had known before the sun set.

He sat beside you, unmoving, save for the way his hand combed endlessly through your hair- gentle, reverent, trembling. His other hand held yours, your fingers loose and still, warmed only by his touch. Your head rested against his chest, your face tilted toward the hollow of his throat like a child tucked beneath a parent’s chin. You hadn’t spoken in days, not truly. Only murmured fragments- echoes of half-remembered songs, unfinished questions, and once, the name of a star he hadn’t heard in years. You’d sounded so happy… John’s heart had wanted to tear itself apart.

You were quiet now in the way ancient things are quiet. Like a garden gone to sleep beneath snow, like a book with no more pages left to turn.

John whispered stories to you anyway.

He spoke of the first time you met- how he thought you were too stubborn to survive the fae court and too soft to ever bend it. How wrong he’d been. How the court, the world, and even he had been reshaped around your steady, patient will.

He told you how Simon had found you one morning feeding the ghosts of the orchard, and how Kyle still carried your pressed flower charms in his armor. He recounted Johnny’s latest disaster in the kitchens and how you’d once laughed so hard at him you cried- and gods, how he wished he could hear that sound again. He told you all of it, weaving memory into magic and memory again, as if with enough words, he might stitch your soul into staying.

And as he held you, his voice frayed around the edges.

"I love you," he said. Not for the first time. Not for the last. The words cracked like porcelain dropped from too high a shelf. “Still. Always.”

Your breathing, already shallow, paused, and he stilled in turn.

Then, you sighed- just once. A sound as soft and weightless as the falling of a single petal from a long-dead flower, peace in each strand. A sound of release, a breath unburdened.

And then- you were gone.

No thunder nor flash of light, and no violent wrenching. Just absence- the soul's candle guttered in silence.

Your fingers slipped from his. Your warmth, so long faint, faded fully. Your face went still in the most peaceful way, a small smile carved on your cheeks like something ancient had simply returned to the earth it loved. The faintest glow that had always clung to your skina your humanity tempered with magic, your life steeped in love- shimmered once, and then dimmed like a star blinking out.

John did not move.

He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

The grief did not crash into him; it hollowed him, slowly, like the sea does to cliffside stone. He stared down at your face, memorizing what he already knew. The curve of your lips. The flutter of lashes against your cheek. The small scar on your jaw from where you’d once fallen in the Queen’s Gardens.

John did not weep even if several tears tracked down into his beard. His hands, too strong to tremble in battle, now trembled with the soft weight of your body in his arms. He could not weep, for he knew this- this was your peace. He had done his best to find a cure, but- life was not kind.

A low, resonant groan echoed through the castle, neither man-made nor fae.

The very walls- alive with magic older than time itself- mourned you. A wail of stone and a s sigh of timbers. Crystals embedded in the ceiling chimed once and shattered and the lights in the sconces flickered to ash. The wind outside did not howl- but it bent, as if bowing low to the one it had once braided through wildflower hair.

And still, John did not let you go.

He held you through the coming dark, his chest silent but for the uneven quake of breath between shaky breaths, his magic still curled around you like a desperate tether. And for hours, he simply rocked you. As if in this moment, you were still alive. As if holding you long enough might unmake the inevitable.

But death, like magic, answers to no king.

And your body stayed still and at peace.

You had left with no anger in your heart, no hatred nor guilt. You left only love, quiet and worn and fierce- threaded through every inch of the man who now mourned you.

A soul as lovely as yours could never die cruelly.

It simply… drifted home, and John understood that even if he felt something shatter so deeply it echoed across every realm.

You were gone.

No cry and no shudder, just the soft parting of a thread from a tapestry.

Later, it was Simon who walked in first. He did not speak, only looked at John- stone-eyed and trembling, and knelt beside the bed to touch your cooling hand. Kyle arrived moments later, lips parted as if he might beg you to wake. But his voice failed him and so he sat on the floor, pressing a kiss to your palm and weeping quietly into your skirts.

Johnny didn’t believe it.

He shook his head, muttering, “No, no, not yet, not today, she promised she’d stay-” over and over, until Simon caught him and held him still while he sobbed like a child.

The castle keened.

The bellflowers shriveled in their hanging baskets. The ivy browned and curled. The air itself bent with sorrow, and the spirits of the hallways- kindly, playful little creatures- huddled in corners, their small eyes wide with grief.

Outside, Thrain bowed his antlers low and walked slowly through the gates of the high keep. His hooves did not echo and no one stopped him.

He climbed the stairs, impossible though they were for a creature of his size, until he stood in the doorway of your chamber. And all the men- wounded and raw and grieving- stepped aside for they knew.

He had come for you.

With reverence, Thrain knelt beside your bed. He took in your face- still so gentle, still so full of grace, even in death. He pressed his massive muzzle to your chest and for a moment, nothing happened.

Then, with a breath of magic so quiet even the fae barely felt it- your soul slipped free like morning sunlight spilling through an open window.

It rose, soft and warm, radiant with the echo of every kindness you’d ever given. Every time you’d kissed a servant’s brow or sung to the garden or asked a crying will-o-wisp what was wrong. Every time you’d called Thrain your dearest friend, every time you’d held hands with the men, and every time you’d forgiven John with that smile- always that smile.

And Thrain caught your tender soul.

Delicate, light as wind through reeds, and glowing like the first star of twilight. He cradled it in a curl of his antlers, the shadows of your memory flickering through the air around him- your laugh, your hum, your gentle little sighs of thought. He stepped carefully back from the bed.

John sank to his knees, and he still did not cry. There was no breath left in him to do so.

Thrain walked. Out of the castle and through the mourning halls, the bowing dryads, the crumbling roses, the silent sprites. Through the gate, down the weeping forest paths, across the river that had frozen at the moment of your death.

He walked and walked, until no living soul would reach his pace and spot.

And when he reached it, the veils parted for him alone, and he stepped into starlight.

The trees there had no bark, only silver and the roots sang hymns and chants. The sky was soft and black and full of ancient light. Thrain stood at the edge of the great pool of souls, and he bent his head low.

He did not let you fall.

He lowered you with gentleness carved from centuries of patience and pain, until your soul touched the surface of the pool like the caress of a mother’s hand.

And the water welcomed you, for you were a memory that would never die. A memory that caressed the space between his antlers just before he returned alone.

And the men- your men- stood at the gates, waiting, and they bowed their heads as he passed.

And John, still dressed in the clothes he wore when you left him, touched the place in the air where your soul had once lingered and whispered, for the last time:

"I love you."

The castle echoed the words for centuries.

And the world, though emptier, remembered you in everything that still dared to be kind.

“Will you still love me when I forget what love is?”

“Always.”

[beloveds-embrace]

While not my favorite thing in general, I’ve been also lowkey thinking of robots 141 (and the whole taking over the world theme robots have LOL) and their creator’s little apprentice who has the gentlest hands when doing maintenance on them 😩

[beloveds-embrace]

I want you guys to know that the original plan i had for the different take au’s ending was far more evil and sadder and that what you guys r currently reading is very much nicer bc i had fully planned on writing terminal lucidity 😭

[beloveds-embrace]

I love boobs

[beloveds-embrace]

Up to now, how does everyone feel abt the different take on the fae au :D because the next part is the last and i wanna know

[beloveds-embrace]

(a low-effort, self-indulgent post about 141 x sunshine reader with a love for flowers <3)

Moving to a military town had been a gamble. You weren’t military, had no family in the service, and you had no real reason to pick this particular place other than the fact that it was safe, stable, and quiet. The houses were affordable, the people were friendly enough, and you figured you could make a home here. Besides, you were far enough from the base to avoid their early morning drills but close enough to still feel secure.

And it was nice. Really, it was.

The town had its charm. It was small, orderly, and filled with people who were either part of the military or had long grown used to living in the shadow of it.

You just hadn’t expected it to be so… plain.

Everything was muted, designed for practicality rather than beauty. Row after row of beige houses, identical porches, yards that were neat but uninspired. It felt more like a barracks than a town, and you knew you wouldn’t last long surrounded by such monotony.

So, you changed it.

Within a week of moving in, your porch was transformed into a floral wonderland. Ivy and jasmine vines trailed along the railings, hanging baskets, overflowed with cascading petunias, swung from the beams, and the front steps were lined with carefully arranged potted blooms. Roses, marigolds, lavender- anything that could inject some color and life into the dull uniformity of the street.

And the town noticed.

It started small- passersby slowing down, lingering in front of your house, knocking to ask if they can take pictures. Then came the comments at the local market.

“Did you see the new house on [] Street? The one covered in flowers?”

“I thought I was dreaming- looked like something out of a storybook!”

“Oh, that’s her place. She’s always out there, tending to them. Such a sweet thing, always smiling.”

And then came the soldiers.

One morning, while you were watering your newest additions- lilies this time- a group of soldiers on their way to base slowed in front of your house. Their conversation died off, replaced by muttered confusion.

“Didn’t know we had a damn botanical garden in town.” One of them said, adjusting the strap of his gear bag.

“Are those-” Another squinted at your newest arrangement. “Does she change them?”

“She does,” a woman in the group confirmed; you had seen her before, you were sure. “Saw her planting new ones last week. Honestly, it’s nice.”

You smiled to yourself, pretending not to notice as they carried on their way.

But it didn’t stop there.

Another soldier stopped during his run, hands on his hips as he took in your porch. “Hell of a setup.” He commented, glancing at you.

“Thank you!” You beamed, wiping your dirt-streaked hands on your shorts. “Wouldn’t want the town looking too drab, now would we?”

His lips twitched. “Well, you’re succeeding.”

More and more soldiers began to take notice. Some just passed by with lingering glances, others stopped to admire the work. A few even asked for gardening advice- one particularly flustered private admitted he wanted to impress his girlfriend with a flower arrangement but had no idea where to start. You happily helped him pick out a selection, even wrote him a little care guide.

It wasn’t just the passing soldiers, either.

Older women in town would stop by just to chat about your arrangements, some even bringing over cuttings from their own gardens. Parents would pause during walks, their children pointing excitedly at the bright flowers and fairy lights you had strung along the porch. The local baker started leaving small bags of cookies at your door with notes like, Your flowers made my morning brighter!

And then there was Task Force 141, as they’d eventually introduce themselves to you.

The first time you caught Captain John Price standing on your sidewalk, arms crossed as he stared at your house, you thought you were in trouble. He had the kind of presence that demanded respect- commanding, observant, the weight of experience in every movement.

“You lost?” you teased anyways, adjusting a pot of marigolds, and hoping he wouldn’t consider you disrespectful.

Price huffed a quiet laugh, eyes flicking between the vines, the flowers, the fairy lights. “No. Just… wasn’t expecting this.” He gestured vaguely at the floral explosion around you.

“Well,” you grinned. “I refuse to live somewhere that looks like a training camp. You are the soldiers, not me.”

That had been the start of it.

Soap was the next to visit. He showed up a few days later, leaning against your railing as he inspected a cluster of bright yellow sunflowers. “Got any of those that’ll survive my terrible luck?”

You hummed, then handed him a small, sturdy succulent. “Try not to kill it.”

Then came Gaz, who always claimed he was “just passing through” but somehow always found himself near your house. He asked questions- what flowers worked best for balconies? His mum has a love for tending to flowers as well. Did you have any recommendations for someone who had never taken care of a plant in his life?

Regardledd, you happily enjoyed chatting with him, and he left with a small potted fern, promising to send updates.

And then there was Ghost.

Ghost never exactly visited, but you saw him. Once, when you were rearranging your display and muttering about getting new soil, you spotted him standing across the street, arms folded as he observed your work. He didn’t say anything- just gave a barely perceptible nod before disappearing back into the shadows.

But the next morning, a heavy bag of high-quality soil rested against your porch steps. No note. No explanation.

But from what the others had told you of him… you knew who it was from.

The townsfolk had opinions about that, too.

“That group’s been sniffing around your place an awful lot,” Mrs. Holloway, the town baker, noted one morning as she handed you a fresh loaf of bread. “You got yourself a security detail, dear?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I think they just like the flowers.”

The butcher, a gruff man who had lived in the town longer than anyone, grunted in agreement. “Good. Those boys need something nice to look at.”

Even the local barista took notice. “Gaz came in the other day asking if we had any floral-themed drinks,” she giggled, leaning in close to you. “I swear, he’s trying to impress you.”

Ultimately, the town adored what you were doing. Where once there had been dull uniformity, now there was life. People started adding their own touches- small flower pots, window boxes, even a few hanging baskets inspired by yours. The air felt lighter, more welcoming.

And the 141?

They had seen the worst the world had to offer. They had fought in places where beauty was a distant memory, where survival took precedence over everything else.

Yet, somehow, you- sunshine incarnate, with dirt-streaked hands and a smile that could brighten even the darkest day- had managed to burrow into their hardened hearts.

[beloveds-embrace]

Chubby reader x monster!141…. Chubby reader where you are at all-time-low after your ex cheated on you with the woman you had always been insecure of (she was everything you were not), so now you are just done. Done with him, with her, with your terrible work that forced you to come in even while sick, done with life.

So you go to a bar, and intend to fully drink yourself and all your sorrows away. You don’t even care enough to ask any friends to accompany you- they knew. They fucking knew. Calling them friends anymore is just stupid- and you don’t care enough to look around at anyone; you know you aren’t anyone’s preference either.

When a man, big and burly, curling horns and two big ass wings (maybe one of those dragon shifters? You know harpies have feathers, but the rest of your brain is too muddled) sits down next to you, you just ignore him and continue nursing your drink, trying your best to bite back the tears in your eyes.

“That’s enough now, love,” he croons, and much to your confusion, he takes the glass away from you. His voice is rough and rumbling, like thunder. Too hazy, too drunk, you don’t even care enough to get angry at him. No, your eyes fill with tears instead. “No, no, calm down. Let’s get you out of here, alright, little love?”

Another man joins your other side, just as big and burly but shorter than the dragon man who is making you tear up by holding your drink, your source of solace tonight, hostage in his hand. This one is a werewolf, his ears flicking in your direction much like his grin and his tail eagerly thumping to and fro against your chair.

“Sweet lass,” he croons, your teary eyes flicking towards him. You can see his hands clench in the air. Why, why, why- you just wanted to drink away. They are both so handsome, such a shame they clearly don’t like you and are just bothering you for the sake of bothering you, a fat woman in a miserable corner. “Enough tears and enough alcohol, aye, hen? Yer aff yer heid!”

His words are so strange, your tears momentarily pause. “What…?” You wonder outloud, shivering when you feel a warm breath across your neck, warming your skin. The dragon. His hand settles on your lower back, nudging you to get off the chair with them, and you feel like crying again. He probably can feel all the fat there, how horrible-

“Careful there, little love.” Dragon steadies you with two hands when you get dizzy, and with weak hands you try to swat at him, try to move away, but the werewolf is at your other side and keeping you pressed between them.

“S’op… stop callin’ me that,” you mumble. The tears roll down then. “Not- not funny, not at all-“

Two other hands on your back, a tail thumping against the back of your thighs, you are still led outside even as you babble about everything. Your size, your ex, the one your ex cheated, your work, your ex-

You want your damn drink back.

For their part, Price and Johnny didn’t think coming out for a drink tonight would lead to finding their last soulmate. The second they had entered the dinky bar, John had expected to need to puff out a deep, smoky breath to keep his nose clean from all the overwhelming smells and Johnny had prepared to to keep his nose happily pressed into John’s skin.

They hadn’t expected to smell you, something like the smell of stepping into a warm home after spending time out in winter, something like watching soft, golden sunlight stream into the nest room on a morning they spend sleeping in with Kyle and Simon. Like soulmate, like the last link of John’s hoarde and Johnny’s pack, and he has no doubt that you are Kyle’s nest and Simon’s. Simply his. A part of him just as you are a part of them.

Driven so wholly by instincts, seeing you drunk and crying pushing them even more into said instincts, they easily you herd along with them, back to their home. All explanations, everything else can wait until tomorrow. You are so soft to the touch, all tender and squishy, they already think you so perfect. In the back of the car, it doesn’t take seconds before you are dozing off and dead to the world, already so trusting.

By tomorrow morning, Simon would be easily able to track down where you live and get all your items. And also find that shitty ex of yours. John hasn’t yet decided if he wants to thank or beat him.

Watching the way Johnny holds you in his lap from the rearview mirror while he drives, hands squeezing your lovehandles with a low groan, mumbling about how much he already adores you, soft bonnie hen, all theirs- John decides he doesn’t give a single fuck about your ex at the moment. He needs to hold you between his arms and wings, in the comfort of his nest.

Fuck, he might end up breaking more than just a few speed limits.

Part two

[beloveds-embrace]

(dark poly 141 x single pregnant reader, very rushed)

You don’t know when they first appeared in your life. Maybe it was the day at the grocery store when your feet ached, your belly heavy with the weight of your unborn child, and a stranger- a man too broad, too still, lingering in the same aisle as you- offered to load your bags into the car. Maybe it was when you were late getting home from work, the weight of exhaustion pulling at your limbs, and a burly man with sharp, blue eyes and a thick Scottish brogue insisted on walking you to your door, just to “make sure ye got in safe, bonnie.”

Or maybe it was before that, when your landlord suddenly decided not to raise the rent, when the lights in your apartment stopped flickering despite you never calling maintenance.

You don’t know when it started.

But by the time you notice them, it’s too late.

They come in pieces, never all at once. Maybe that’s why your focus never quite catches them when it should’ve.

Johnny is the easiest to trust. He’s warm, friendly, a constant presence that doesn’t seem out of place- until you look back and realize you don’t remember ever properly speaking to him for the first time. He’s always just there, standing behind you in line at the pharmacy, offering to carry your bags when you struggle. He calls you “bonnie” and clicks his tongue when he sees the exhaustion on your face.

“You’re pushin’ yourself too hard, lass.” His voice is teasing, but there’s something firm beneath it, much like his hands on your shoulders. “Should be restin’.”

Then there’s Kyle. He’s the one who keeps showing up at the diner you work at, at first just another regular, but then a fixture in your days. He leaves tips that are too big and stays long after he’s finished his food, asking you questions- small, harmless things.

“How far along are you?”

“Got any family around?”

“You shouldn’t be on your feet all day. You got someone looking after you, love?”

There’s concern in his voice. It feels nice, being cared for, so you don’t let yourself worry about why he asks so many questions.

But you don’t notice the way his eyes track you when you move. The way he listens too closely, storing away every detail you give him.

Simon is a shadow. A presence you feel but never see too clearly. When your apartment door’s lock sticks one night, it’s mysteriously fixed by morning. When your feet swell too much for your shoes, a new, comfortable pair appears in a package at your door- no return address. When you wake up in the middle of the night, you think you hear movement outside your window, but when you check, there’s nothing there.

He introduces himself to you once, silently joining your side when a group of young men had attempted to follow you. You’d been to grateful to consider that he had been following you, as well. And thus, that had been your first meeting as far as you were aware.

And then there’s John. He comes last, when you’re already too exhausted to question why they’re all suddenly in your life.

“You shouldn’t be working like this,” he tells you one night when he shows up at the diner, sitting in your section like he belongs there. He watches you, steady and unshakable, like he’s waiting for you to break. “Not in your condition.”

“My condition?” you scoff, but you’re too tired to be indignant.

“You’re pregnant,” he says simply. “You need to rest.”

You want to rest.

But there’s rent to pay. Bills. A baby coming soon, and no one else to help.

Except, suddenly, there is someone. Maybe more than one person, even if you don’t notice the changes at first because they start so small.

Johnny shows up when you’re struggling with your bags, even when you don’t remember telling him where you’d be. Kyle appears at your work just when you need an extra hand. John tells you he has “connections” when your hours get cut and suddenly, your landlord is more lenient about late payments.

When your doctor’s office calls to confirm your next prenatal appointment, the receptionist mentions your “husband” already checked in about your test results.

You don’t have a husband.

But when you try to ask for details, the woman on the phone just laughs. “Oh, don’t worry- he said everything’s fine. Had a lovely Mancunian accent! You’ve got yourself quite a lovely man, mrs.”

You never get a name, and you don’t know what to do about your suspicions.

And you don’t notice the cameras.

Not when Johnny pulls you into a hug, his hands lingering a little too long on your back. Not when Kyle helps you rearrange your furniture, brushing his fingers against the edges of your walls. Not when John “fixes” your heater, or when Simon sits silently in the corner after he’s given you a teddy bear for your little bean, its eyes beady and gleaming.

But they’re there. Tiny, black dots tucked into the corners of your home. A microphone nestled near the nightstand. A wire running under the couch.

They see you.

They always see you.

You wake up one night to the sound of your apartment door unlocking.

Fear grips you instantly, but before you can move, a voice rumbles in the darkness.

“Shh. It’s just me.”

John. How-?

Your heart is pounding, but he sounds calm. Steady. You hear the door click shut, hear his boots move across your floor, even when you wheeze in fear and press your back against the headboard of your bed.

“You forgot to lock up again.” He says, a quiet reprimand. He was always telling you to do that, but-

“I- I don’t think I did-“

“You did,” he assures you. “Anyone could’ve walked in.”

Like him.

There’s a shift in the air, something heavy settling between you. You swallow hard, pressing a hand to your belly, eyes teary from fright even if he is calm.

John exhales softly, and his face softens. Then, a warm hand rests over yours, heavy and possessive.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he murmurs. “Let us take care of you.”

The words settle into you like a brand, curling around your ribs.

You should say no. Demand what the fuck is going on, why is he here, why them-

But you’re too tired. Too scared.

And his hand is so steady.

[beloveds-embrace]

part two of dukedom!141 . please dont ask why johnny and simon aren't in it and why itss end is so abrupt bc tumblr fucked me over twice while trying to save it 😭😭

You could have never expected this. When you had come to your darling husband with your request, you hadn’t known what to expect at all. But you could have never expected this.

“Are you awake, my Duchess?”

My Duchess. Such a simple thing, even used before, but now it rang so differently in your ears. You don’t want to turn around and face John, but he doesn’t give you the choice.

The hands on your waist, on the hand-shaped bruises lining your hips, gently turn you around on the bed so that your bare chest is pressed against John’s. You believe the quilts on top of the both of you are unnecessary, because you, yourself, are already running hotter than a furnace and you wonder if he feels it.

“John…”

“My Duchess.” He sighs again, leaning down to kiss your neck, the soft skin littered with hickeys. Distantly, you make note of the fact that you are clean and wearing fresh undergarments, as is John. He must have cleaned the both of you after last night…

Last night. Just thinking about it is making you feel even warmer, burying your face in John’s broad shoulders even as he hums and continues to trail kisses up your jaw.

How were you supposed to know that your husband is one, big, jealous bastard who is simply too good at hiding it?

“…I feel as if there has been a misunderstanding, darling,” John had said to you, after Kyle had silently dismissed himself and John had rounded the table to kneel in front of your shocked self. Taking your hands in his, he had stared at you with his full attention. “You have been unsatisfied, and I failed to see it. I apologize, wife.”

“John, what-“

“I feel as if I’ve failed you in general, truthfully,”

“You haven’t! John-“

He kisses the back of your hands, and that silences you. “Wife, have I ever made you feel as if I would not honor your wants and needs?” This time, he waits for you to reply and it takes you a second, blinking down at him.

“…no.”

John’s face twists just so slightly, though you still can’t understand what he’s feeling or thinking. “Then, have I ever made you feel as if I would withhold anything from you?”

“…no, John.”

“Then why go to Graves?” John’s voice lowers to a grumble, his brows furrowing. Such an expression isn’t one you are so used to seeing on him, and you dislike it.

His question makes you pause, biting your lips. You want to close your eyes, ignore the warmth in your cheeks, but you can’t bring yourself to look away from him for long before you are sighing softly.

“I feel so… bereft, John.” You admit softly, squeezing his hands back. “Bereft of love. You treat me so well, all of you do, but it’s just-… I want to feel love, John.”

John observes you for a little longer, then he speaks. “And you believe Graves loves you?”

“…no.” Though it hurt to admit, you were never one to lie or blind yourself. “He doesn’t, even if he says he can. But he is willing to give me affection and that is far more than I could ever possibly ask of you, John.”

You could tell that Graves saw you simply as an ends to a means he never thought he’d have the opportunity to have. But you were desperate, and you didn’t want to bother John, or cause a controversy that couldn’t be easily hidden. You wanted affection, love, fake as it may be.

The way he viewed you was nothing new to you, of course. You were a tool from the moment you were born; a glorified breeding stock, just one fortunate enough to be born rich. You weren’t meant to be anything more than that but here, you had it all. Almost. What little else you lacked you were sure Graves could give, even if you wished it was-

“But it’s not.”

Eyes widening, you look at him and wait for him to elaborate, thoughts drifting away.

“It’s not far more than you could ask of me, wife.” John tells you. He moves your hands open, kissing your palms. “I understand how you see it now. Did you truly believe that I don’t love you? That Kyle, Johnny, and Simon don’t love you?”

On top of your wide eyes, your jaw now slackens, staring at him in silence. But he is truthful; that much you can easily tell.

“Duchess, you are my Duchess.” John breathes out, now pecking the ring adorning your ring finger. “My wife. I adore you far more than that fool could ever hope to adore you. Had I known this was how you felt, I would have fixed it in a heartbeat so much sooner.”

“What do you mean-“ because surely he doesn’t mean that. Surely he doesn’t mean what you think he means, something you hadn’t allowed yourself to even hope for. No, no, you are misunderstanding it-

“Duchess,” John sighs your name so fondly it leaves you breathless, left stunned in front of him. “If it’s love you want, I will give it to you. If it’s affection and intimacy you want, I will give it to you. Not just me- all of us, my Duchess. But should you still truly want Graves,” and here, John’s face twitches again though this time you can see that it practically pains him to say the words. “Then I will personally make sure no matter what happens, he will not hurt you or besmirch your reputation.”

Silnce follows his words as he waits for you. Your hands are now trembling in his grasp, stomach twisting painfully. You don’t dare to hope, to reach out even if he’s offering what you want and more on a silver platter.

“John…” you whisper out, afraid that speaking any louder will shatter this moment. “John. Do you- do you truly mean it? Please, John-“

“I do, I do. I always will.” He says, again and again and again, hands cupping your face now so you can see the absolute truth in his eyes. At last, he stands up. John doesn’t give you a moment to think before he is scooping you into his embrace, a wicked grin now on his face.

“Now,” he practically purrs, squeezing you close to the hard muscles of his body. Your cheeks are warm anew, unable to look away from your husband. “My wife said she is unsatisfied, no? I ought to fix that, don’t you agree, Duchess?”

“O- oh, but you work-“

“Wife comes first, of course. And perhaps we can consider talking about the little baby name list you’ve been hiding, my dear.”

“John!”

"I have so many meetings today," John groans softly, one hand raising your chin so he can kiss you once, and then twice afterwards. He leans down, burying his face right between your breasts, and after a few seconds of contemplation you begin scratching your nails across his scalp ever so lightly.

The sound he lets out alone is enough to reignite heat in your belly. To think such a handsome man now is yours... several handsome men...

"So many meetings," John repeats with a sigh, his beard pleasantly tickling your skin. Big, warm hands slide down your waist, caressing where your thighs meet your ass, squeezing the soft plush. "I won't have time for lunch today with you, my dear. But my boys will take such good care of you, promise."

You just let him caress you as he pleases; there's something so inherently admiring, devoted, in the way he touched you then and now. You feel so loved under his touch, whyever would you pull away?

Still, you do look down at him. "Are you sure they don't mind... me, John?" You can't help but ask, such a nervous and worrisome thing. John wishes you'd put yourself first just once, but they have plenty of time to show you each how much they love you.

"Yes." He replies easily, chuckling. "Darling, I'm afraid you'll have a harder time prying them off. Now up, I believe Kyle has already prepared a bath for you. He just went to get you an outfit for today. He'll be the one helping you today, if you'd let him, of course."

And oh, what a bath he's prepared for you; candles alight, rose petals delicately strewn around and in the warm, oil-scented steaming water, and Kyle's fingers crooked deep in you while he murmurs of what a lovely, perfect wife you are for them <33

dukedom au masterlist

[beloveds-embrace]

Dukedom AU masterlist

all posts related to the main dukedom au and its spinoffs will be here!

original Dukedom au: first part

part two

part three

reputation protection

1. baby fever + 2 + 3 2. lipstick and kisses 3. terms of endearment 4. dolling up 5. simon and johnny find out about graves 6. how did it start? 7. Graves and Reader first meeting? 8. what if reader's baby does not look like john? 9. Genuine fondness between graves and reader? + dark end for graves 10. baby girl 11. mini-reader baby boy 12. more than a commodity 13. post-request 14. does simon need a wife? 15. what is graves like? 16. sick duchess 17. what duchess tries to keep to herself? 18. complications at birth 19. simon and pleasure 20. johnny and pleasure 21. people's princess 22. pregnancy protectiveness 23. some thoughts regarding kings and queens (Check reblogs :3)

24. Northern Duke König wants you + p2 25. Regicide 25. independent duchess 26. ways in which they pursue you

27. Someone tries to take advantage of you 28. snowy day 29. john vs rumors about you 30. pussy enthusiast johnny 31. what if they knew reader beforehand 32. what if you got kidnapped 33. john has a strange nightmare 34. yandere dukedom 35. another yan dukedom concept 36. they want duchess real bad 37. crown prince jealousy 38. boudoir paintings 39. Simon’s nightmare 40. they yearn for you 41. terrible reputation 42. asserting dominance: Kyle & Johnny 43. only one of them falls at first 44. competency kink

Quiet Duchess: specialized interest

duke simon x his wife: size difference

Spinoff angsty dukedom with konig + part two + John's lament

angsty dukedom, no konig + part two(fix-it)

what if konig leaves? + part two + konig returns + his reaction to the prosthetic

duke konig thoughts in reblog + more

taking it too far

they watch, yet do nothing

leaving inc. ale and rudy

running away ft. villager konig

pregnancy

laswell saves reader

duchess' mother

hereditary illness

body possession

raw food

murder attempt

Shirin: the sweet maid

untitled

last straw: kyle & johnny + simon & john + flowers

self-harm & ruffles

existing, not living

[beloveds-embrace]

Big eater Simon “Ghost” Riley who absolutely devours anything you put in front of him. He’s a big man with a ravenous appetite that rears its head the second he’s home and not deployed, no longer forced to choke down the bland, tasteless slop they serve at the base. His hunger isn’t just physical; it’s driven by months of enduring lukewarm rations and craving real food-especially yours. A big, ravenous appetite particularly for your cooking.

It means even more because you come from a culture with a rich cuisine. When you first started dating, you had braced yourself for disappointment, afraid yet resigned that he might react like your exes, coworkers, and so-called friends, who turned up their noses at your cooking and called it: “too smelly,” “too spicy,” “stinky,” “too much.”

But not him. No, Simon pulls up a chair, digs in like the starved man he is, and leaves not a single scrap behind. He polishes the plate clean. And then, with a gleam in his eyes, he goes for seconds. Sometimes even thirds. Always takes care of the cleaning afterwards because you already feed him so good and take care of the apartment when he’s not there, least he can do is wash up the dishes while you sit all nice and pretty and tell him of your days.

“Y’spoil me rotten, c’mere,” he murmurs, guiding you to the worn couch where you both sink into each other’s embrace. He stretches out, pulling you so you’re resting on his broad chest, your ear against the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His hand moves in slow, lazy circles on your back, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the contentment in every relaxed muscle under your body.

“Do I? But you deserve it, Si.” you grin, comfy and cozy,“My lovely man. So I was wondering… about the new oven…”

He chuckles, the sound a low rumble. “Already bought. Should be here in a couple o’ days,” he says, eyes closing but already imagining the happy expression on your face. “Don’t you think that pretty little head o’ yours anymore.” His lips brush your forehead, the faintest touch of a promise. “It’s time t’nap.”

And nap you do, curled in his arms and pure contentment radiating off both of you just like <33

(He’s also a big pussy muncher. Gotta show you how good he can clean more than just his plate.)

[beloveds-embrace]

(A bit more of fae 141 x human reader) part one || masterlist

The court watched you now, far more than before.

The shift had been slow, creeping like ivy through the cracks of an ancient ruin. Where once they had turned away, now their gazes fully lingered. Where once your presence had been an insult, now it was a curiosity, a subject of whispered speculation.

Yet the air remained thick with a quiet, simmering hostility- resentment wrapped in the guise of courtly smiles, contempt veiled behind compliments laced with poisoned edges- even if you were now adorned in their jewelery and etiquettes rather than what you’d always known and been familiar with.

You had expected as much.

The fae were ancient things, creatures of unfathomable beauty and cruelty, and they did not yield to weakness. To humans. So by the Queen Mother’s decree, you had made yourself into something unyielding, something sharp, something that could not be ignored.

Your gowns no longer draped like soft things meant for a mortal princess, but clung like shadows, corseted into something sculpted, something worthy of standing beside a fae king- the newspapers declared. The fabrics whispered as you moved, stitched with thread that shimmered like moonlight on deep water, woven with fae flora that pulsed faintly, petals shifting as though alive- whispered the noble women between themselves.

Your jewelry was no longer mere ornamentation- it was a message. Rings curled into the shape of talons, necklaces draped like spun starlight, earrings tapering into elegant points to mimic the elongated ears of the fae. A tiara rested against your brow, dark metal curling like the antlers of the fae lords, a crown that was neither delicate nor kind nor soft.

And still, the loneliness gnawed at you; because it was not you they saw, not truly. Ans they didn’t care enough to see.

It was a version of you- a creature carved from necessity, shaped by the will of a Queen Mother who would jot accept failure and of a court that would sooner see you broken than accepted

Tonight, the throne room was a cathedral of darkness and gold, high-arched ceilings threaded with veins of living crystal that pulsed like the veins of a slumbering god.

Tonight, they tested you. Again and again- hungry wolves searching for one singular crack to latch their jawn onto.

The wine was rich, dark as garnets, pooling in the bottom of your goblet as you traced the rim with one idle finger. Nobles gathered in clusters, glittering figures in their twilight silks, voices weaving like threads in a tapestry of laughter, whispers, and secrets.

It had taken time, but you had learned how to listen.

A high lord- one whose name you barely bothered to remember- smiled as he spoke, voice laced with condescension.

"You carry yourself well, my queen," he mused, swirling the deep-red wine in his goblet. "Almost as if you were one of us.”

A deliberate insult. A reminder that no matter how you dressed, no matter how you moved, you would never truly be fae. Him, silently declaring his lack of support for you.

You smiled.

A slow, deliberate thing, lips painted the color of crushed berries, dark as winter fruit.

“Then I suppose I have much to thank you for,” you murmured, tilting your head. As you did so, the golden blossoms woven through your “horns” gleamed sharply. “After all, it is your court that has taught me the importance of adaptation.”

The noble’s eyes flickered, and beside you, Kyle let out a quiet hum of amusement.

Across the room, the Queen Mother watched with narrowed eyes. She did not like you, and you doubted she ever would, but she disliked incompetence even more- and in this moment, you were proving yourself competent. Useful.

You had learned well.

But at what cost?

The night did not end there, of course. For every several fae that despised your existence, there’d be at least one another who wanted to pluck each petal of your potential.

The noblewoman who joined your side a while later leaned in, her voice lowered in a conspiratorial murmur, fan flicked out so the movements of her lips and fangs were just for you. "You must tell me, my queen- who do you favor for the next trade council seat?"

Ah. There it was.

You had not been given power (though the Queen Mother had extended a twig of it towards you); you had taken it, grasping it with fingers that had once been ink-stained and weary, now adorned with clawed rings that gleamed under the torchlight. And some had let you. No- more than that. They sought you now, their careful disdain curling into something closer to reverence.

Soon, it will be more than just a few of them. But for now…

You turned to the noblewoman with a small smile, tilting your goblet just so, watching the wine catch the flickering light.

"I have always believed in those who prove themselves," you murmured, just quiet enough to make her lean in, hungry for more. "The court rewards those who are clever and patient. Not those who… speak a little too much."

Your eyes cut across to the nobleman from earlier, his back turned to you.

Her lips curled into a sharp smile. She would think on those words, twist them in her mind until she convinced herself of their meaning. And when the time came, she would vote exactly as you intended- believing all the while it had been her own decision.

A presence loomed behind you before you heard the footsteps. A flicker in the torchlight, the faint shift of the air.

"You’ve been busy, wife.” Kyle’s voice murmured.

You did not turn immediately. Instead, you let the moment stretch, savoring the weight of his gaze as it traced over the elegant curve of your gown, the delicate glint of the fae-wrought silver in your hair. When you finally glanced over your shoulder, your smile was soft and knowing.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

His brow furrowed slightly, and gods- there was something deeply satisfying about seeing that expression on his face, knowing that you had unsettled him. Satisfying, yet lonesome; must you have this distance even from your own husbands?

"You’re weaving yourself into this court," he said, stepping closer, the low rumble of his voice curling against your skin. Dark eyes peered down at you. "Into us."

The balcony railing was cool beneath your fingers as you turned to face him fully. You let the silk of your gown shift, pooling like liquid shadow at your feet.

“I am your wife,” you reminded him, tilting your head. “Shouldn’t I belong here?”

His jaw clenched. You could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy with something unreadable. But he was not the only one watching.

From the flickering glow of the hall beyond, you caught the subtle shift of movement- Johnny’s quicksilver glance, the way his fingers curled against the stem of his goblet. John, seated at the banquet table, expression sharp and attentive. And Simon was a shadow at the edges, silent, still, his head tilted ever so slightly as if studying the edges of a puzzle he had not yet solved.

If only they would simply speak to me…

Kyle, of course, was not the only one with such thoughts, because Johnny had begun to linger.

His presence had always been bright, a thing of warmth despite the razor-sharp edges that all fae possessed. But now, there was something different in the way he watched you.

It started with small things- the way he leaned in when you spoke, like he was trying to catch something unspoken in your words.

One night, when you retired early from yet another endless evening of courtly games and far too much paperwork, he found you in the moonlit gardens, where fae flora coiled and their petals trembled at your touch.

“You’ve changed even more than I expected, lass,” he said, voice quiet. Not accusing. Just… observing.

You did not look at him. “I had no choice.”

A pause. Then, softer:

“Didn’t you?”

You turned then, meeting his gaze, searching for the mockery, the dismissal. But there was none. Only something unreadable, something deep.

And it was that, more than anything, that sent you retreating back into the palace and ignoring the gazes boring into you.

Because if you allowed yourself to believe- to hope- that they saw you- soft, still human despite everything you’ve done to adapt to them- and not just the queen you had become…

You weren’t sure you would survive the disappointment.

(They hadn’t cared before… why now? Should they not be happy you had become like this, hiding your humanity more and more with each day? Shouldn’t they be?)

[beloveds-embrace]

(more of fae poly 141 x human queen reader || Masterlist)

It begins, as all fae things do, with something half-whispered and half-willed into being.

The Queen Mother watches from her high balcony, swathed in robes stitched from starlight and spider-silk, a goblet of elderflower wine in hand, and eyes like knives turned on her sons- indeed, only John may be her son of her own blood, but the other three have been married to him long enough she sees them all the same. Now, she is not subtle in her disappointment, but subtlety is not what’s needed now.

She wants a grandchild.

You are the wife, thus you are the womb. You are also- unfortunately- entirely unconvinced.

Which is a problem.

So the court changes. Just a little. Just enough- and all by the Queen Mother’s hand.

You notice it in the morning, when your tea no longer arrives lukewarm but steaming gently in a mug carved with delicate runes for comfort and staying warm. In the way the wind, once cruel and clawing, now stirs only to brush your hair back like a mother’s hand.

You find moss blooming along the path you take to the greenhouse- soft, lush, easier on your feet when you leave your shoes behind, as you often do. Glowy flits at your shoulder, a small sun in a kingdom that loves its shadows. Thrain trails behind with his antlers lowered, his hooves never once clicking on the stone, for the castle shifts beneath him now. Quiet, respectful for the being its Queen finds comfort in.

You don’t understand the change. You assume it’s the Queen Mother’s doing, for it certainly could not be your husbands’.

And you are not wrong- but you do not see the rest of it, nor do you understand why.

You do not see Johnny kneeling in your study after you’ve gone to sleep, trying to decipher the new system you’ve carved into court documentation like sacred text. He is muttering under his breath, muttering your name, because he can’t figure out how the taxes flow this smoothly without magic.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, frowning at a sheet full of overlapping glyphs and sigils. “How does she even- ?”

He runs a hand through his hair and exhales, defeated. “Nae way queenie’s human. No way.”

He cannot do what you do, and it terrifies him as much as it excites him.

You do not see Simon standing outside your window at dusk, his silhouette caught in the trembling light of a fae firefly swarm. He doesn’t knock. Just watches. He thinks about the way your shoulders sag when no one’s looking. He doesn’t know how to help without breaking something, yet he doesn’t acknowledge that his inaction might be just as cruel.

“She’s always tired,” he says quietly, to no one but the trees that stare at him in silent judgement and accusation. “Don’t think we’ve ever asked why.”

You do not see Kyle trimming the hedge maze into gentler curves he’s the one who shapes the new garden path into a spiral, the human symbol of devotion. You won’t recognize it, not right away, but he hopes that someday you’ll walk it barefoot and feel safe, and the thorns will no longer prick your fingers or get tangled in your dresses.

“Be nice,” he murmurs to the leaves. “If she had something made for her. Not for show. Just… hers.”

And John… he leaves you a book. Not a weapon, nor a command, but a book; a soft, leather-bound thing from the human realm, tucked into your pillow. One you’d spoken about months ago in passing when you were trying to strike up small talk, the kind of memory no one was supposed to hold on to.

But he remembered, and he knows well enough not to tell you it was him who got that book for you, because he knows you wouldn’t believe it the same way you don’t believe any of them.

“She won’t believe it’s from me,” he says to the mothlight above your bed, and Glowy sharpens its light at him, unimpressed. “But maybe she’ll enjoy the story anyways.”

Their attempts feel like guilt wrapped in ribbons, like pity painted gold, so you wear your silence like armor. Your glamours grow sharper and darker, and become even more of what they always wanted you to be: untouchable, mysterious, other. Anything except human.

Not because you want to, but because it is safer.

And they- gods, they don’t know how to undo it.

They, the fearsome four. Masters of strategy, of illusion, of war. A beloved, respected King and his beloved, respected advisors.

They are helpless in the face of your doubt. Fools, all four of them.

Which is why the Queen Mother begins to meddle in earnest.

She speaks in circles at court dinners, drops names of fertility rites and lucky moons. She gives you gowns lined with moonstone and roses that only bloom when kissed by love. She leaves baby shoes- handwoven from frost-leaves- on your writing desk like a curse you make no mention of because acknowledging it is terrifying.

And still, she does not pressure you. Not directly, anyways.

Only… makes space. Opens doors. Makes them walk through them until one by one, they begin showing up.

Johnny brings pastries he says were “extra” but are clearly from the bakery in the fae city you once mentioned yoy liked. He never stays long, just drops them off, scratches Thrain’s fur for the five seconds the great stag lets him before it tries to bite his hand and head cleanly off, and mumbles about going.

“Don’t read into it,” he says, ears flushed, hands in his pockets and away from Thrain’s hungry maw. “Jus’ thought you’d like the wee apple ones. You always looked happier w’ apple.”

Kyle hums near your bath, not entering, but talking idly through the steam about human songs you’d once sung with the will-o-wisps. He doesn’t ask to join. He just exists nearby- even less than the time Johnny had kept you company.

“Remember the one with the moon and the river?” he asks, softly. “They still echo it down the west wing.”

Simon sits on the couch of your office and watches you. Never interrupts. Just… listens. Like he’s learning you all over again, but this time he is paying attention.

“You breathe differently when you’re upset,” he murmurs one day, not looking at you. “Didn’t know that before. I do now. Let me look at that ledger.”

John brings Glowy closer to your chair when you read. Doesn’t speak. Just adjusts the wings so the glow warms your feet, and then he watches in amusement as Glowy hisses at him for his audacity to reposition it like that- yet it eagerly stays in that spot to provide warmth for you.

You glance up, and his eyes catch yours.

“Light-… Glowy was too far,” he says simply. “Can’t have you freezing.”

It is not much- but it is more than nothing.

And still, you do not trust it; love should not come only after loss; love should not bloom only when you have nothing left to give.

But the court begins to whisper. Softer now. Not prey, not little queen.

Yours, perhaps, after all.

And when you wake one morning to find your glamours replaced by simple fabric, soft and real- no magic, no sharpness, no enchanted jewellery, just skin and breath and linen- and none of them flinch, none of them turn away, not even when you catch their stares and look back, unadorned…

You wonder, just a little, if something has begun to change.

You wonder if they see you now.

Thrain noses your wrist, grumbling deep from his belly, the sound happy. Glowy settles into your collar with a delicate fwmp of its wings. The wind, the fae wind, brings you petals instead of thorns.

And beside your pillow- tucked gently against the spine of your beloved book- is a letter, penned in four distinct hands, tied with gold thread and sealed with wax.

You open it with trembling fingers, and inside it reads:

We’d like to take you to dinner. No court. No masks. Just us. At the gazebo. Say yes, and wear whatever you like. We’ll be waiting.

Yours- if you’ll still have us.

[beloveds-embrace]

(poly 141 x fem reader) | Part One

The first thing John notices when he wakes up is warmth.

Not the dry, stifling heat of the hellhole they’d been trapped in, not the sharp burn of pain flaring beneath his ribs, but something softer, something familiar. A small hand curled over his own. The scent of clean linens mixed with something gentler, something yours.

He breathes in slowly, cracking his eyes open against the dim light filtering through the hospital room. The steady beep of monitors hums in the background, grounding him, but it’s you that he focuses on.

You’re slumped over in a chair beside his bed, forehead resting against his arm, your hand wrapped lightly around his own. Even in sleep, you hold on, fingers curled just enough to keep contact.

John exhales, letting his eyes roam over you.

You look exhausted, and it makes his heart ache.

Dark circles smudge beneath your eyes, your lips pressed into a faint frown even in unconsciousness. Your clothes are rumpled, the same ones you must have worn for days. The sight makes something in his chest twist again, a sharp pang of guilt cutting through the haze of medication.

He wants to reach for you, to trace his fingers over your knuckles and murmur your name until you wake, but he doesn’t. He lets you rest, lets you breathe. He knows you need it.

Because Christ, you must have been worried sick. He knows you, knows how much you worry for them on a good day even on the simplest of missions- and he still doesn’t know how long they’d been gone.

The memories are still blurry, slipping through his mind in broken fragments. Pain. Restraints. The weight of his men against him, Ghost half-conscious, Soap fevered and delirious, Gaz barely breathing.

And then-

He remembers you.

A shadow slipping through the chaos. A whisper-soft touch against his face. Hands steady and sure as they undid his restraints, coaxing him back to awareness.

It had to be a dream.

You weren’t trained for that. You weren’t meant for war, for blood, for the brutality of what they endured. You were their sweetheart, their delicate thing, the soft reprieve from the violence that defined their lives. He would rip apart everything in this world if it meant keeping you safe, sound and happy and far, far away from any violence.

So it couldn’t have been you.

It must have been an extraction team. That’s what had happened. Someone must have come for them, gotten them out. That was the only explanation, and the drugs must’ve messed up his mind enough he was seeing you.

But still-

He watches you now, the tension lingering in your features, the way your fingers tighten around his even in sleep, and something gnaws at the edges of his mind.

You had been there, hadn’t you?

The thought makes his head swim, exhaustion weighing heavy on him again, but he keeps his fingers tangled with yours, grip loose but unrelenting. He doesn’t want to let go.

Because for all the horror, for all the pain, for all the hell they’d been through-

You’re here.

Tired. Stressed. But here. And that’s all that matters.

For now, anyways.

The others then wake slowly, one by one.

Johnny first, groggy and confused, grumbling about how sore he is as you smooth a hand over his forehead. Kyle next, blinking against the light, his voice rough when he murmurs your name. Simon takes the longest, his body slow to rouse, but his first instinct is to reach for you, even before he fully opens his eyes.

In return, you are relentless in your care. You fuss over them, checking their bandages with the nurses’ help, brushing your fingers through their hair, whispering soft reassurances. You press ice chips to dry lips, adjust pillows, and coax them into drinking water.

When Johnny complains about the bland hospital food, you leave the room for an hour and a half and come back with something warm and homemade, tucking a spoon into his hand with a firm, eat.

When Kyle shifts restlessly, unable to get comfortable, you climb up onto his bed without hesitation, settling beside him so he can lean against you, your fingers threading through his curls gently and carefully until he sighs and relaxes.

When Simon wakes with a sharp inhale, eyes darting wildly as if expecting restraints, you’re already there, climbing onto the edge of his bed and murmuring soft reassurances into his ear, grounding him with the steady press of your body against his.

When John struggles to sit up, wincing against the pull of stitches, you scowl and press a hand against his chest, forcing him to lie back down.

“You’re pushing yourself too much,” You scold, brow furrowed in concern, arms crossed, your foot tapping on the ground. “You need to rest.”

“I’ve rested enough, love.” He rasps, voice still heavy with sleep, but he doesn’t fight you when you adjust the blankets over him.

You shake your head, lips pressing into a thin line. “Not nearly enough. Please, John.”

The worry in your voice is palpable, thick with something deeper, something almost frantic. John notices the way your fingers tremble slightly when you tuck them under the blankets, the way your shoulders remain tense, as if bracing for something unseen.

He reaches for your hand, squeezing gently. “We’re okay, love.”

Your throat bobs. You nod, but don’t speak, gaze fixed on where your fingers curl around his.

John doesn’t push.

You’ll talk when you’re ready. But for now, you keep your hands busy and full just tending to them.

Anything to keep from thinking about what comes next. What has to come next.

You smooth down the blankets over John’s chest constantly, brushing your fingers over the fabric as if that alone can shield him from the pain still lurking beneath. You press cool compresses to Kyle’s forehead when the medication isn’t enough to dull the ache. You help Johnny sit up when he needs to, spooning broth past his split lip, murmuring praise between each swallow. You lace your fingers with Simon’s when he stirs in his sleep, rubbing slow circles over his knuckles, grounding him even as you feel yourself slipping away.

You do it because they need it; because you need it, too. Because if you let yourself sit still for too long, you’ll remember the blood.

The fear- not of the blood, never, but for them; the way you had to drag them out of that hellhole with your own hands, because no one else would.

Because no one else cared enough to try.

And if you think too long about that- about how close it was and about what could have happened-

About what should have happened if you had listened to the same authorities who dismissed your pleas-

It will eat you alive.

So you focus and pour everything into them. Because as much as you love them and as much as your heart aches at the sight of their bruises, the bandages wrapped tight around their ribs, the exhaustion that weighs heavy on them-

There is still something unfinished, but not for long. Something you have to do:

Shepherd still lives and breathes the same air as them, and and you can’t allow that.

Not after what he did. Not after what he almost took from you.

Not after the endless, screaming nights you spent scouring every lead, chasing every whisper, tearing apart the world with your bare hands just to find them.

So you wait.

You tend. You soothe. You pretend. Because right now, they need you soft; They need gentle hands and quiet reassurances. They need your warmth, your care, your unwavering devotion, the one constant in all of this.

They need to believe that you are exactly the same as you were before and that nothing has changed. That you haven’t changed and reversed.

But soon-

Shepherd will never see it coming. You are keeping a bullet just for him, but he will never see it coming.

In the meantime, you don’t sleep much.

You pretend to, curling up in the chair beside John’s bed, but he knows better.

Your breathing is too shallow, never quite settling into the slow, even rhythm of true rest. Your body remains tense, shoulders stiff, fingers twitching slightly even in stillness, as if your mind is running too fast for your limbs to fully relax.

You’re thinking- plotting.

John doesn’t know what about- not yet, at the very least. But he watches you in the quiet moments, when you think no one is looking, and he sees it. The way your gaze lingers somewhere unseen, sharp and unfaltering, like you’re tracking something just beyond his reach. The way your jaw tightens in fleeting moments, your fingers flexing unconsciously before you school yourself back into softness. The way you breathe, slow and measured, as if bracing.

And it worries him.

He knows the woman who smiles at him across the kitchen table, all warmth and sleepy affection. He knows the woman who hums under her breath when she’s focused, who soothes them with gentle hands, who kisses his temple and tells him to be safe before every mission.

He knows you.

But this- this quiet, this edge-

It’s not you.

Not the way he’s always known you. And that thought lingers, gnawing at the edges of his mind as exhaustion pulls him under. Because something has changed, something has happened- something is different. And he doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t know if it’s something you’ll tell him, or if it’s something you’ll try to carry alone.

And that- that- is what worries him.

Because he can see it in the way your hands still against the blanket you’ve been adjusting for the past ten minutes. He can see it in the way you chew the inside of your cheek, in the way your eyes flicker toward the door as if you’re already thinking about what’s waiting beyond it.

You’re planning something, and you won’t tell him what, and he worries so much for you, for their beloved.

But whatever it is, whatever it takes, he will be beside you even if he doesn’t understand it.

Even if it aches, knowing you are carrying something too heavy for soft hands alone.

Because he trusts you, loves you, and he will not let you bear it alone.

Part Three

[beloveds-embrace]

based on this, in which reader gets herself a pet. human reader x fae poly 141

Masterlist

It arrived on the windless night of a blood moon, when the palace gardens groaned beneath the weight of twilight and the fae refused to speak its name.

Hooves like thunder cracked through the sacred grove- guards scattered, maids screamed, and even the birds took flight. A monster, they had called it. An omen. A curse carved in flesh and antler.

It stood twice the height of a man, its coat the color of grave-ash and bone. Its antlers, sprawling, twisted branches, curved like cruel iron and dripped with a red too thick to be dew. And its eyes- gods, its eyes. Hollow pits of starlight and sorrow, as if someone had scooped the soul clean out of it and left only the husk of judgment behind.

A nightmare. A spirit of the dying woods.

And you- of course, you- had followed the trail of unease and found it standing alone in the frostbitten clearing, still as stone.

Simon was the first of them to find you. The maids had burst into his chamber in a flurry of panic, dresses half-tied, hair undone. “She’s in the gardens- with it!” one had shrieked. And though he would later claim it was the sense of duty that dragged him down the hall and into the trees, it was something more base that curled in his gut.

Fear.

He had thought it might be too late.

But there you were, soft and quiet and terribly unafraid.

The creature loomed before you, its head dipped low, antlers mere inches from your throat- and your hand… your hand was stroking its snout like it was nothing more than a skittish hound.

“There now,” you whispered, thumb rubbing a slow circle just below its glowing eye sockets. “You’re alright. You’re not so scary, are you, sweetheart?”

Simon’s body went taut, every muscle locked as he stepped from the trees, blade drawn, breath like winter in his lungs.

“Step. Back.” he’d have barked- only he didn’t; the words curled up and died in his throat.

Because the stag didn’t move.

Didn’t growl.

Didn’t even blink.

It merely stood there, regal and terrible, allowing you to fuss over it like you were some holy creature instead of a too-small, too-human queen with a ribbon loose in your hair and your gowns flowing freely.

And your voice- gods, your voice- was the softest he’d heard in months. Not the clipped elegance of the court-mask you wore, not the sharp-tongued wit you wielded to hold your place among serpents and silver smiles.

Just you.

Calling the monster a good boy.

The bestest boy.

After that, it never truly left.

The court howled. Lords and ladies twisted their pretty lips into horror, whispering stories of famine and madness wherever a Hollow Stag appeared. It had been centuries since one last walked beside fae- or anyone. But this one did.

It followed you, and you named it Thrain, and Simon wanted to curse you for you did not know that by naming such a terrible thing, you had allowed it close.

He huffed at the guards, growled at the courtiers, and once kicked a sconce clean off the wall when Johnny whistled at you from across the hall.

He tolerated your husbands, but only just.

Simon couldn’t look at it without remembering your hand brushing over death’s brow like it was silk. Kyle swore the thing glared at him every time he touched your elbow. Johnny made jokes, tried to offer it dried fruit, only to have Thrain snort directly in his face and blow his mohawk-braid loose.

But never you.

Never once did it bare its fangs to you.

Thrain was silent at your side, looming like a second shadow in the throne room, ever behind your chair, because no one had the courage or audacity to say it shouldn’t be allowed inside. When you took solitary picnics- because even with jewels and titles and sharpened fae smiles, you were still lonely- he followed.

You’d sit beneath the weeping trees, skirts spread across the moss, fingers tangled in the vines as your voice hummed old, human songs, and he’d curl his massive body around you. His head, crown of dripping antlers and all, would lower into your lap. You’d scratch behind his ears, resting your cheek against the dry velvet of his muzzle like he wasn’t made of nightmare and ruin.

Sometimes you’d whisper to him.

Your secrets.

Your weariness.

The truth you wouldn’t dare breathe to your husbands.

Because even now- even with John’s gaze growing hungrier by the day, even with Kyle’s hand brushing yours too long beneath shared parchments, even with Simon’s brooding presence lurking protectively near and Johnny’s restless, nervous laughter softening when you were tired-

You didn’t know if they loved you.

The human you; the one who had no glamour in her blood, no ancient fire in her bones.

But Thrain did.

And sometimes, that was enough.