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frantic-fiction · 5 months

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Shattered Glass 18+

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Astarion x f!reader

Summary: Astarion finally makes do on a promise.

This is part 2 of Secluded Evening. (Could be read as a stand alone)

Warnings: Smut, MDNI, oral fem receiving, PnV sex, unprotected sex, biting (of course) Astarion being a lovesick fool

Word count: 2.6k

Astarion threw another log on the fire; a flurry of embers took flight, dancing in the cold night air. The rest of the camp had already settled in their tents. You were nestled between his knees about five feet away from the flames. A throw blanket cascaded down your shoulders—a notebook on your lap.

He studies the rapid strokes of your hand from over your shoulder. The rough lines of charcoal were blooming into an identical copy of Laz'eal. Astarion pulled a strand of hair away from your eyes and began to weave your locks into a simple braid. He doesn't have a hair tie, and knowing you, you've lost yours. So, he twists the pieces, and once done let's go, kissing the crown of your head.

You barely acknowledge him, and when you suddenly shove the pencil over your shoulder, Astarion chuckles, taking it from you. He watches you begin smudging the charcoal with the pad of your finger. You're adorable when your art consumes you. Every time, it captivates Astarion.

This was how most of your nights were spent. Not always precisely like this; sometimes Astarion brought a book, and sometimes your hand got too sore to draw, so Astarion read to you as you curled on his lap. But as long as it was spent in each other's company neither of you cared much for the activity.

Astarion adored these nights the most, primarily because he could feast his eyes on your beauty without you shying away or throwing a stupid joke at him to break the tension. You were perfect in every way, and when he opened his heart briefly and confessed the broken pieces of himself and the motivations that led him to you. All you did was look at him with unspoken love and hugged him.

Your relationship became something more after that. Sex was not what drew the two of you together. For the first time in 200 years, Astarion had someone he trusted with his every sense of the word. Someone who wanted more than his body and showed their love for him without words. Someone he wanted to spend every moment of his life with despite the fear that thought causes him.

Astarion thinks he loves you but can't find the words when his mouth opens. He's always struggled with expressing his true feelings, but he wants to try with you. He wants to bear his heart to you and show you all that you mean to him. And with all the trust you and Astarion have established, one thing has become a very big problem.

You have begun to treat Astarion like glass, as if one sexual touch will break him. And frankly, it's pissing him off. Astarion finally has complete control over his body and a partner who he trusts. A partner that can bring him to his knees with a simple giggle and to put it bluntly, gods you were fucking sexy.

He's frustrated, horny, and has no idea how to ask for anything he wants. And for fucks sake, if he wakes from a meditation to have you grinding against his erection again, he just might explode.

In his frustrated musing, he didn't notice that you had placed your sketch pad away. He only noticed when you cupped his jaw and moved his eyes to meet yours. "What are you thinking about, handsome?"

It takes a moment for Astarion to collect himself as he stares at your soft smile. "I was thinking it's about time we get you, my sweet, to bed," he pecks your lips before grabbing your wrist and entwining your fingers. You nod and press a gentle kiss to his knuckles.

Astarion holds the flap open, and you duck inside. Kicking your pants off and into the corner, you unceremoniously plop down into the pile of cushions. You began sharing a tent in the shadow curse lands. Astarion found out pretty early on that nightmares of Cazador were less likely when you were in his arms. And thankfully, you slept better, too.

You prop yourself on your elbows and silently watch Astarion move about the small space, removing his outer clothing. He seemed to be stalling, almost like he was silently debating with himself. Astarion is in his underwear when he seems to come to a conclusion. He takes a deep breath and moves towards you. Kneeling by your feet, you watch as Astarion hesitates, his hand resting softly on your shin. Hesitation is soon replaced with a devilish smirk that stretches across his lips.

"Whatcha thinking about pretty boy?"

Astarion doesn't say anything, just slowly begins to crawl up your body before capturing you in a breathtaking kiss. His knee is between your legs; your hands are around his neck, pulling him flush against your body. You sigh softly into his mouth, moving your hands to caress his cheekbone.

He tongues the seam of your lips, and you are quick to gasp, giving him access to lick deeper. Astarion's hands are caressing up and down your curves, cupping your breast and tugging the metal bars of your nipple rings. His mouth moves to your throat, sucking hard at your jugular.

"W-wait!" You choke out, causing the elf above you to freeze. He's quick to remove himself from you, putting some distance between your bodies.

"Shit, did…did I do something wrong?" Astarion's voice cracks; you've never heard him so unsure of himself. You pant hard but are quick to sit up and fall into Astarion's lap, his arms instinctually wrapping around your waist.

"No, gods no," you sigh, cupping his jaw and pressing your forehead against his. The tension in Astarion's shoulders drops, and he squeezes you a bit harder.

"Then what is it, my sweet?"

That has you pausing to figure out the best way to say this. "What was your plan?" Shit, that didn't sound good

"My plan! Are you serious?" He's already pulling away, shutting off completely when you pull him back tightly.

"No! Th-that's fuck, that's not what I meant, Star," at least he's not trying to run, but he's as stiff as ever. "Astarion, I will be as blunt as possible because I care about you. Were you trying to have sex with me because you felt obligated?"

This isn't what Astarion expected you to say because he can't mask the look of surprise. He opens his mouth to speak before clamping it shut. He does this twice more, but you don't rush him, you push stray curls behind his ear and wait.

"No." His voice is small. He clears his throat before speaking again, stronger this time. "No, I want this, and I would appreciate you stop treating me like fucking glass."

“What?”

You're flipped over, and suddenly, on your back, Astarion's body pressed closely against yours. He ruts against you. His cock was hard, feeling painfully constricted in his underwear. "I appreciate your patience with me, darling, but I need to clarify one thing to you right now."

Astarion licks a long stripe up your collarbone, ending just under your ear. You moan softly, trying desperately to roll your hips up into Astarion. "I have never wanted someone more than I wanted you. So, if it's okay with you, my sweet, I'm going to take the rest of our clothes off, and you're going to finally let me feast upon the sweetness between your legs."

You whine and buck, trying to get anything from Astarion's unmoving body. "Tsk, no, no, my sweet. Use your words." He purred, nipping your ear.

"Please! Yes! Oh gods, Astarion,"

Once the words leave your lips, you're tearing at each other's clothes in desperation. After you are both fully undressed, Astarion shoves you back onto the cushions. You expect him to pounce but he hovers staring down at your naked body.

Astarion's deft fingers grab your foot, and he presses a soft kiss to your inner ankle. A pang of heat flared through your lower abdomen. He kisses up to the top of your calf before giving a playful bite. You release a soft yelp, and Astarions lavishes the bite with his tongue. He slowly moves up to your inner thigh, leaving various bruises in his wake.

You're gasping as he ghosted over the spot you wanted him most. His breath fans over your dripping cunt, and you swear he's about to give you what you want. Then he kisses you. Just one small peck on the public area just above your clit, before he retreats. You cry, and one of your hands card into Astarion's white locks.

“No! Please!”

He begins the same slow ascent up your other leg, paying just as much attention. "Now, as much as I love those beautiful noises you make for me. Remember that our camp members are trying to sleep; you can be a good girl for me, right?" He gazes up between your parted legs, and you nod and swear if he asked at this moment, you would have given him anything.

"I thought so," Astarion purred before licking up the entire length of your pussy. You moan out and swiftly clap your hand over your mouth. Then suddenly Astarion is a man starved.

His hand grips the underside of your thighs hard and pulls you down the bed as close as physically possible. He sucks, and licks, piercing his tongue sloppily at your dripping cunt, and you're a mess of pleasure. Your grind against Astarion's face, his nose rubbing beautifully against your clit. If it weren't for Astarion's hands keeping your thighs parted, you probably would be crushing his head in your desperation.

A low groan rumbles from Astarion's chest, and he focuses his attention, sucking tightly on the bundle of nerves. He slips his first and middle finger into your cunt and curls up, causing you to gasp for air.

"S-star…oh gods!" You cried, and he was ruthless with his assault. Astarion pumped his fingers quickly, the sloppy sounds of his mouth mixed with your muffled moan. Your stomach was coiling with pleasure, and you were embarrassed with how fast Astarion was picking you apart. "I'm close." you whimper, rolling your hips against his face.

Astarion, after a moment, releases your clit. Still pumping you with his fingers, he looks up at you, chin glistening with your arousal, a smug grin lazily plaster on his lips. "Come for me, love, be a good girl."

With the last few slips of his fingers, the coil snaps, and you're falling apart. Eyes unfocused, muscled tight, the silent gasp of ecstasy stuck in your throat. Astarion watches in amazement and arousal as you come apart so thoroughly with just his mouth and fingers. His cock is aching pre, now dribbling down the shaft.

Once your orgasm slows, you feel the immense need for more. And with Astarion still nestled between your legs, it has you moving without thought. You push Astarion back and plant yourself on his lap. You mash your mouth against him, chasing the taste of yourself on his tongue.

Astarion groans and cups the back of your head, deepening the kiss. Your palms roam down his chest, smoothing down his abs until you come to his neglected cock. It's swollen and red, and when you grip it softly, Astarions hisses into your mouth, bucking into your palm.

Smearing the pre-come around, you slowly work your hand up and down Astarion's dick in long, languid strokes. His eyes glaze over, and he moans, head dropping to your shoulder. Astarion's cold hands fondled your breast, and he leaned down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth. He pulls the metal piercing softly with his teeth.

You whine and tug on a fist full of Astarion's hair, rubbing your thumb over the head of his cock. "Fuck, darling." Astarion moans, moving to give your other breast equal attention. Your positive marks will be littering your body for days following. And the thought alone causes you to clench your thighs.

You pump your hand faster, and Astarion meets everyone with thrusts of his hips. He claims your lips again in a sloppy dance of wet tongues. Then suddenly Astarion stills your hand.

"If you keep this up, I'm not going to last much longer." Astarion's pants, nudging your nose with his.

"Isn't that kinda the point, handsome?"

"Not if I want to come apart feeling you clenching around me," Astarion's voice is breathless, and you moan at the thought. He kisses your cheek, then your jaw. Trailing his way to your neck. "Would you like that, my sweet,"

Whatever power you had over Astarion had just turned to dust. You bite your lip and nod quickly, letting Astarion push you on to your back. You part your hips, and Astarion slots right in.

"Words, my love. You do know how much I love your voice." Such a fucking tease.

Linking your arms around his neck, you pull him down, hitching one of your legs over Astarion's hips. "Please…I need you to fuck me."

"Shit…" Astarion groans. Taking himself in hand, he smears his dick with your arousal before filling you agonizing inch by inch.

The two of you let out a collective cry of pleasure, and you feel complete. Astarion pulls out and slams his hips back, ripping the oxygen from your lungs, and sets a steady pace. You clutch at his shoulders, digging your nails into exposed skin. The slick sounds of Astarions pumping in and out of you were depraved and did nothing but fill your lower abdomen with molten lava. Astarion wholly consumed your senses.

The coolness of his lips left lingering kisses on your arched neck. The smell of bergamot and rosemary flooded your nose with each shaky inhale. The saltiness of any skin you could taste. It was too much and not enough all at once.

The scrape of Astarion's fangs graze his favorite feeding spot, and you grab the back of his head. "Yes! P-please…" and soon, the icy pierce of his teeth is followed by the cool tingle of pleasure that flows through your body.

Astarion grunts as soon as the blood touches his tongue. He ruts faster against you, grinding you into the blankets. He has to clamp a hand over your mouth to keep your voice from waking the whole camp.

But what can you do? Nothing. Not when his other hand begins to roll your clit in tight circles matching his thrusts. Your hands trail down his back, legs hooking tightly around his torso. The angle of your hips changes, and Astarion is pounding into the spot that has you seeing stars. You're close, and you try to say so, but Astarion hand is still tight around your mouth.

After a last mouthful of blood, Astarions peppers kisses over the bite. "I know, my sweet, I'm…fuck I'm close to."

His fingers are rubbing your clit faster, and his hips aren't letting up the brutal pace. Your legs are quaking, and you feel like you might faint. You clench tightly around him, and then you fall apart. Suddenly, Astarion's hand is gone, and his tongue is in your mouth, capturing every whimper of pleasure you give. And with a few more swallow sloppy thrusts, Astarion falls over the edge with you, filling you with his spent.

Astarion continue to languidly kiss you, both hands cupping your face like you are the most precious creature on the plane. He barely grinds his hips, feeling the last of your orgasms fade until you are both too sensitive.

And it's like someone cut the puppet strings. Astarion falls limply onto you, blanketing your body with his. You comb softly through his hair, gently pulling out any knots. Astarion kisses your shoulder before rolling off of you.

It is silent for a while as you stare into each other's eyes. Astarions is the first to speak. "I love you," His words were barely above the whisper, and if you weren't staring intently at the man, you might have missed it.

You're speechless. Were you dreaming?

"I still believe you deserve more than the broken man before you. But you've chosen me, and I have felt true happiness for the first time since waking up in my grave. And well-"

You don't give him a moment to finish before you're in his lap and tackling him into an embrace. "I love you, Astarion."

The dopey grin on his face has you breaking into your own. You press your forehead to his, and he hugs you tightly. You don't know what tomorrow brings. But being here, seeing Astarion's smile, and knowing he loves you just as much as you love him. It feels like you can do anything.

Okay, friends, this was just so fun to write. Let me know what ya thought. I swear all the love and support I've received from my last few posts have been so amazing. I'm so excited to show you more!!!

If you liked this, maybe you'll like one of these?

Happy Birthday (fluffy)

Reoccurring Nightmares (hurt/comfort)

Tag list?: @heartfully10

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion #bg3 #reader insert #astarion ancunin #astarion imagine #bg3 astarion #astarion smut #smut

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aidaronan · 1 year

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The years go by. The retail jobs that Steve thinks are temporary keep piling up, but he has no idea what else to do with his life so he just keeps on keeping on.

Until a large tree falls on the lawn of the little house he managed to buy and he gets the quote on removal and the number literally hurts his soul.

He buys a small chainsaw instead. Over the course of a few weeks, he gets most of the branches cut up. He collects some large rocks from down by the quarry and digs out a fire pit in his backyard. On his days off, his friends come over and they sit out back and have a few beers. The pile of wood dwindles. The giant trunk is another story though. His chainsaw isn't big enough for it. Burning it would take forever, and Steve's terrified he'd disappoint Smoky the Bear. He's at a loss.

Until he sees another giant trunk in someone's yard carved into a bear.

He knows what to do then. Not a bear, but something else. Through trial and error, the trunk becomes the rough shape of a woman, the remnants of the branches like a crown on her head. It's not as amazing as the bear he saw, but it's his. He finds he loves the smell of sawdust and the feeling of creating something.

Just like that, Steve realizes what he wants to do. It takes several months and a lot of yard sales, but he scrounges up the tools he needs to start woodworking. He learns to measure twice and cut once. He makes tables and chairs and carves them with art and designs that get better and better the more he learns. Shockingly, people actually buy his pieces.

Even more shocking comes the realization that he's making enough money to do it full time. He puts in his two weeks notice at Melvald's and hands in his assistant manager badge.

He's not sure he's happy, but he is content. It feels good to work hard and actually have things to show for it. It also feels good to work muscles he hasn't used since high school. He carries on for a few years like that, creating and learning and creating some more. Then Eddie Munson blows back into town. Invited back so Hawkins can have their most famous alumnus sing the national anthem at homecoming. Steve's honestly surprised he shows at all. "Can't believe you didn't tell them kiss your hairy ass," Steve says. Because of course Eddie ends up around his fire pit, sipping on Steve's cheap beer like he doesn't have three Grammy awards on his mantel. The years fall away with each drink, reminding Steve of just how much it had hurt when Eddie left. He'd wanted Eddie so bad back then, more than he'd ever wanted anyone. He can feel the echoes of that deep ache across time.

"Pfft. Don't you know all famous people wax our asses now? All the rage in LA." Eddie cuts a look at him and smirks when Steve rolls his eyes, grateful for the lighthearted moment to snap him out of his maudlin nostalgia. "Really though I thought about it, but then I thought it would be way funnier to donate a metric fuckton of money to Hawkins High with the stipulation that it go to the theater and band programs. Kind of bummed they couldn't honor my other request though."

"Which was?"

"My old Hellfire throne. I miss her, but apparently she's not around anymore. Something about water damage."

"Oh yeah. Water main busted a few years back and flooded the theater. I remember that." "Yeah. Had to settle for the promise they'd make a game lounge and stock it with all the supplies a budding young nerd needs."

"That's really nice, Eds."

Eddie shrugs. "I've been known to be nice on occasion. You'll come to homecoming, right? Moral support?"

Steve hasn't been to homecoming in years because he sees the other people who stayed in town all the time, and he has no interest in seeing the people who didn't. He can only answer the same questions so many times. Oh, I'm doing woodwork now. Yep, I still live right here. Nope, still not married, no kids.

He goes though, and he answers the uncomfortable questions. Because Eddie asked him to. Because no matter how long it's been, Steve can't deny that some part of him still...

He says goodbye after, and Eddie leaves again, and Steve tries not to think about that too much in the following days.

He's halfway into the project before he realizes what he's building. He'd seen Eddie's throne quite a few times back when. What he doesn't have memories of, he makes up. He adds his own touches too, making it a throne fit for a rock star, a nerd, a friend.

He carves ornate patterns, he creates scenes of dragons being beaten back by a man with a guitar, crowds of people that could be knights or concertgoers.

It's his favorite piece he's ever done, and his hands are shaking when he dials Eddie's number. He gets an answering machine and stumbles through a message.

"I made you something. I guess it's kind of silly, but it's here in Hawkins if you want it. Or I'm sure you can afford the shipping if you don't want to come. Just, I made you a chair. It's more of a... Well, you'll see. Unless you don't want to... It's Steve by the way." He hangs up before he can embarrass himself even more.

Eddie doesn't call him back. One day passes and then another. Steve tries not to let it get to him. He works on orders and new projects. He enjoys his little backyard oasis. He rents a few movies and thinks they're okay.

He's debarking some wood in his driveway when the rental car pulls up, Eddie stepping out in ripped jeans and an old Metallica tee. "Hi again, Stevie."

"Oh." Steve clears his throat. "The thing's in the garage. I'll..."

Eddie doesn't say anything for a long time, circling the throne, running his tattooed fingers over each little detail.

"You made this whole thing?"

"I did."

"For me?" Eddie looks at him then, one hand still touching the wood like he doesn't want to let go. Even under the harsh lights of the garage, his eyes are such a warm shade of brown that Steve forgets to breathe.

He nods. "For you."

"Why?"

There are a hundred answers Steve could give, but he spent so long not knowing who he was or who he wanted to be. Too long. "Because you'll always be the one that got away. Because some part of me will always want to make you smile no matter how long it's been."

Eddie falls into the throne like he just got the wind knocked out of him.

"You don't have to respond to that," Steve says. "You can just say thank you and take the chair."

"I can." Eddie blows out a breath. "But that would be incredibly stupid considering half my early ballads are about you."

"What?" Unfair. Steve doesn't have a chair to fall into.

"Oh sure, I changed the hes to shes for a while there because..." Eddie waves his hand. "But they're about you, Steve. God, I should've asked you out. I just thought..."

Hearing those words is a lot like seeing that carved bear all over again, something clicking into place that wasn't quite right before.

"Go out with me now then," Steve says. "Or stay in. I've got a frozen lasagna and I rented Contact."

"Steve Harrington? Asking Eddie 'the Freak' Munson on a date? Did hell freeze over?"

"Pfft." Steve takes a step closer toward what he wants most. "Hell froze over in 1986, Eddie. You were there."

Five months and a lot of long distance phone bills later, Steve opens Harrington Woodworking in Los Angeles. That same day, Eddie takes photos for Rolling Stone posing in an ornate throne in his living room. He tells the reporter exactly who made it and what he means. At concerts, he starts singing those ballads the way he always wanted to. More often than not, Steve stands in the wings singing along.

#steddie #fanfic #mine #woodworker steve #rock star eddie #i meant for this to be a drabble but 😂

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dragons-and-handcuffs · 7 months

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Aegon Targaryen ii x niece!reader

If there is anyone Aegon has truly loved in his life, it is you. His niece. Rhaenyra's daughter. Aegon knew you two will be married the moment you were born. At the time he was very young to realize that it was a strategic move by his older step sister and father, but it doesn't mean that his feelings for you have been anything but genuine. Even Alicent knew that if there is anyone who can keep him in the right path, it's you.

Aegon often compares you to a beautiful snowy day. Your hair silver and shining as the snow when the lazy sun rays brush against them. Your presence warm like the fire. Your smile bringing comfort to him always.

You were close to Aegon when you were growing up, or at least you thought you were made to be close with him. To always have his trust and love. Unlike Aegon, you always knew the reason why you two were arranged to be married, and it has always made you feel that whatever you feel for Aegon is not real, it's all part of the grand scheme. Even if you let yourself feel and enjoy him and his presence momentarily, your mother would always remind you of your purpose.

But Aegon was not completely blind. He can see how his beloved niece is always conflicted. He can see how you are stopping yourself from listening to your heart. But he hopes one day you will love him just like he loves you.

The night before your wedding Aegon sneaked into your room, taking you by surprise. "What are you doing in my room at this hour, uncle?" You asked. "What? I can't come and see my soon to be wife?" He just chuckled and threw you some clothes he stole from a servant. "Change into this quickly." He told you as he made sure the door was locked. "Why?" "Because I want to sneak you out of the castle like we used to do when we were kids," Aegon replied. "I want us to be just Aegon and y/n, not some prince and princess."

Aegon couldn't help but admit that even in a servant's clothes you look beautiful. He himself put the hood over your head to hide your silver hair before holding your hand and taking you through a secret passage.

For the night you forgot about your mother's words. You forgot about your purpose. You were just y/n enjoying your last night in the streets of kings landing before getting married the next day.

Your smile, your laugh, the twinkle in your eyes, it was all Aegon could focus on, thinking of himself as the luckiest man alive.

The night ended with you gently pressed against the wall, laughing after you two ran from some guards. Aegon gently caressed your cheek before kissing you. A kiss both of you have been longing for a while now. A kiss you have dreamed of many times but scared to desire it.

The next day you married Aegon in front of everyone, vowing to always love him. You were happy. Aegon was happy. But your smile soon turned upside down when your mother told you to not bear him a child until she is crowned as the queen. A legitimate child of Aegon would cause problems for Rhaenyra and her way to succession.

How can you stay away from the man you love? It would be impossible but to obey your mother you had to. You ignored Aegon, pretended to be annoyed by him or hate him. It was a torture for you. Poor Aegon couldn't understand what was going on. He couldn't figure out what he did wrong. And so he started drinking to forget about the pain. He slept with other women to forget about you. You knew everything and you never imagined it would hurt so much.

You were doing everything to obey your mother until you just couldn't take it anymore. You were beyond frustrated, unable to live your own life or love your husband, unable to see Aegon in other women's arms. You just ran out of the castle with tears in your eyes and mounted your dragon and flew away. The news reached Aegon and even in his drunk state he didn't hesitate to mount Sunfyre and ride in search of you.

Hours later Aegon finally found you, far away from kings landing. The young prince has flown through a storm, the effect of wine long gone, and he is beyond worried. When you heard the flap of the dragon wings you thought it was maybe Aemond, because in your mind there is no way Aegon would be the one to come for you.

When you saw him you just broke down, on your knees, tears running down your face. Aegon ran to you. Despite everything you have done he still loves you. "I can't take it Aegon. I can't take it anymore," You cried as soon as he kneeled down and wrapped his arms around you. "Tell me what happened. I can fix it," Aegon begged.

You just couldn't' hold it any longer and told him everything, breaking both your hearts with each word. "I love you Aegon. I really do but if I choose you I will lose my mother and my brothers," You cried. This is the first time in your life you have opened to him. Aegon just hugged you tightly, letting you cry and feel everything. "I don't desire the throne, y/n. All my life I have only desired you. I have only loved you and I will only choose you. For the first time in your life you initiated the kiss. It was slow and sweet, and full of emotions from both of you. " Make me yours, husband. I only want to belong to you from now on."

Aegon was gentle with you. Kissing you everywhere as you two made love. You were holding and hugging him tightly, feeling a weight has lifted off your shoulders. You have decided to only live your life as the Aegon's wife and the princess, not Rhaenyra's daughter or a pawn.

You two returned to King's Landing together, walked through the halls holding hands. Aegon has promised to only find comfort in your arms and has sent all the other women away.

A year later you are pregnant with his child. You have seen what a man Aegon has become. A true Targaryen prince. And after everything your mother has done you hold nothing but hatred for her. She pushed you to go against her and support Aegon's claim on the throne.

"My beautiful wife," that's what Aegon always calls you. He was right by your side when you gave birth. He became a much better man and an excellent husband.

By the time Viserys died you were a mother of three royal Targaryens, all of them strongly resembling you and Aegon. It's something Rhaenyra is very displeased with. For years she tried to push the agenda that Aegon forced himself on you, otherwise why would you betray her and give him heirs. She refuses to believe that you love him.

You now have a seat at the small council. Your children are loved and even have a great bond with their uncle Aemond. You are pregnant again and the maesters believes it's another set of twins.

But tragedy soon struck when Blood and Cheese happened. It was your children who were the targets, specifically your eldest son but how can you not protect them? You fought the two assassins and lost your own life right in front of your children. When the guards found you were already dead but your children were safe.

Aegon rushed to you and his mind and heart just broke in the most irreparable way as soon as he saw you on the floor. Your eyes still open, your lifeless body lying in a pool of blood.

Aemond rushed in as well. He couldn't process what happened either but he did manage to take the children out of the room.

"My love?" Aegon called you in the most broken voice as he shook your lifeless body. "Wake up, my love. It's me, your Aegon."

His mother, Alicent, stood by the door and was totally helpless. She watched her eldest son cry over you and the more the realization draws in that you are dead the more shocked he gets.

Aegon was crying and fighting everyone when you were getting prepared for the funeral. He didn't leave your side for even a second. His arms and clothes are still stained with your blood.

As your pyre burned Aegon vowed to get revenge and make everyone suffer. He didn't move a single thing of yours from the room. Your jewelry, your dresses, even the last flowers he gave you. If anyone touches anything of yours they would lose their hands.

Aegon did manage to get his revenge. He described to Rhaenyra his last most moments with you as he fed her to his dragon who was also very fond of you. But ge knows nothing he can do or desire can bring you back.

At last it's your eldest son who sat on the iron throne and even claimed your dragon.

When Aegon closed his eyes for the last time he knew he was finally going to see you again. He woke at the same place you two made love for the first time. You were in a white dress, playing with the two children you never got to give birth to. "I was waiting for, my love," you gave him the very smile that always brings him comfort. Aegon finally got to kiss you again, to hold you and feel your love again. "I am never leaving you again, my beautiful wife."

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lokisgoodgirl · 3 days

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A Royal Audience: The Rite

Chapter 1 Masterlist for The Rite is here A link to my full Masterlist is here Summary: (1) You, an Asgardian court nobody, fall asleep in the palace baths and have an unconventional introduction to the elusive Loki Odinson. (w/c 3.7k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Loki x female reader. Smut. Language. Voyeurism.

Water splashes and your legs fly up, floating out into the murk of torchlit water. Bracing against the stone edge, you glance over your shoulder with a blossoming horror. The curved arch reveals the glittering lights of Asgard below; mountains which had glowed with low-afternoon light when you’d settled in the palace baths now cloaked in darkness. Why did no one wake me? It's forbidden for anyone but the Royal family to be in the baths after sundown. And the penalties are severe.

Surely more of a guideline than a rule, you think optimistically as you get your bearings. Panic twists in your chest. Surely Odin can’t imprison every member of the court who dozes off in the hot springs.

Heaving yourself onto the side, you shiver in the immediate chill. The loss of warmth is like the absence of a lover’s touch; leaving their bed on a winter night. You’re surprised you can remember what that feels like. A breeze blows through the atrium as you grasp for the robe you discarded earlier. It sticks to clammy skin, thick droplets seeping though the fabric as you gaze longingly at the towels lined up at the side. No time. But as you flick soggy tendrils of hair from beneath the collar, your ears prick. No. Footsteps. There’s only one doorway to the baths. A security thing. One hallway – in and out. Your eyes dart frantically at limited options. Tall, imposing pillars encircle the room. One of them will have to do. All you can do is pray the guards just take a quick peek around the door. The squeak of your bare feet on the floor fades just as your wet skin meets marble. You cover your mouth, eyes screwing shut. The door swings open, creaking on ancient hinges. “Prepare the oils,” someone commands. A dark, enunciated order which seems to settle in the steam.

A shudder runs down your spine. That voice. Another one replies in hushed reverence, flopping sandals scooting over the marble floor while bottles rattle. “Haste,” the first growls.

You clutch the flimsy robe tighter to your chest. The first time, you might have been mistaken. But as the irritated syllables of that solitary word settle, there’s no mistaking it. Prince Loki. If you were asked to swear in front of the Norns that you’d never envisioned the dark prince as you touched yourself in the dead of night, thought of his forbidden curls twisting through your hair as you rode him, the timbre of his moans as you choked on his cock – you’d be a fucking liar. I mean, who hasn't? But this? This is beyond the pale. Even conjured from your sickest fantasies. This is wrong. This is...a death sentence.

And yet, you find yourself edging closer to the side of the pillar.

Should you announce yourself? Grovel? Retreat out the door with garbled apologies, bowing with your face lowered and begging for your life? Probably.

But it’s too late now. Far too late. And if you’re going to end up in the dungeons, as on some level you always suspected you would, at least this image will sustain you.

Loki Odinson stands all limbs and and length at the edge of the baths. From emerald-encrusted slippers to the crown of dark waves spilling over his shoulders – he’s perfect; unmistakeably royalty even in his lounge-wear. What little there is of it.

White steam rolls above the water, as sheer and flawless as the chiffon robe that moulds to his body. The faint hue of his skin shows through the forest-green material, fingers toying with the tie circling his hips as he casts a scathing glance to the servant whirling a phial of oil between his fingers. “Tis’ ready, my lord” the servant says. The prince grunts, letting the sash fall open.

You hold a breath as the garb falls down the sinewy bulge of his shoulders, deep carves of tricep muscle illuminated in torchlight. You’ve never seen him so close; never had time to admire the stark beauty emanating from every angled inch of him. Without the distracting glint of his armour it’s almost enough to make your eyes water. Glimpses of him had been in passing, a stolen gawk before you bowed you head and he moved quickly through the great hall past the other courtly nobodies.

The luxuriously weaved material slides over his skin, folding and rippling as it drips from his fingertips. It shimmers in low flamelight and he rolls his shoulders back as it drops, abdominals clenching. You clench along with them as the robe pools around his ankles. Your palms sweat against the pillar, fingers beginning to claw as Loki steps into the water. He rakes his hair back, tilting his chin to the ceiling as he puts one foot ceremonially in front of the other. Making an entrance, even without an audience. Or so he thinks.

The servant stands obediently by the bath’s edge, staring ahead as the prince’s thighs flex with each effortless step, liquid lapping around his knees.

As much as you try not to look, sort of, to preserve some sliver of dignity for the god, saliva wells under your tongue. His perfect cock bobs between his legs. It’s true what they say, you think in a daze. His pubic hair is an immaculate shadow. Even his balls are perfect.

Loki sinks down, dipping long hair back in the water before seating himself in the opposite spot you’d occupied minutes ago. Jet hair plasters to his skin like tar, droplets of water clinging to his torso. “Begin,” he mutters with an air of annoyance. The servant complies, pouring the rose-tinted phial into his hand and beginning to massage the god’s scalp.

You watch in utter beguilement as Loki’s head is nudged from side to side, indecent moans of pleasure snaking from his throat as the favoured servant carries out his work. Thin drips of oil roll down the prince’s brow, catching the light. He tips his head back, jawline pointed to the ceiling like the blade of an axe. He lets out a whimper of pleasure.

You press your lips together so hard it hurts as a crease appears in the god’s brow, his eyes shut as the man kneeling behind turns the attention to his shoulders. The oil spreads down the thick of his neck, to the crevices of his collarbone; glistening. “Oh-h, yes…there-” the god growls, a gnawing groan shaking the air. For the first time, you notice the unmistakable heat of arousal sliding between your thighs. Squirming, you think briefly about looking away. You decide against it. In the blink of an eye, Loki’s mood changes like a winter wind. He leans forward, an abrupt tsk punctuated by the wave of a hand. “Leave me,” he demands. The servant looks visibly confused, fingers poised in the air above tense muscle. Loki turns expectantly over his shoulder. “Need I say it again?” he purrs menacingly. It was quietly brutal. You smirk in spite of yourself. Classic Prince Loki, you muse. You never dreamed you’d get to see it in person.

The man shakes his head, shuffling to his feet. He shuffles out the room with little bows and letting the ancient latch clunk into place. Your breaths quicken and the sudden gravity of the situation settles like a boulder in your throat. Frozen, you watch Loki eye the door a moment longer before resting back against the stone with a lazy sigh.

Long fingers run through the slick of his hair while water slops around his nipples. Gods, how you want to pull one between your teeth as you pump his- “Aren’t you cold?” His voice was an arrow. Sharp, targeted, tipped with venom. It’s hit spreads through your body, white noise filling your brain, blood thundering in your ears.

“Aren’t you cold?” he repeats, sterner this time. You realise with horrifying clarity that Prince Loki of Asgard, as eusive and unknowable as faraway galaxies to a mouse, is talking to you. And he’s naked. And you’re definitely spending the next decade in the dungeons. If you’re lucky.

With shaking hands, you step out from behind the pillar. The game is up. But to your credit, you have closed your eyes, one palm shielding them in a last ditch attempt at salvation. “Your Majesty I apologise I...fell asleep in the water, and woke up after sundown- the laws, and you came in...I didn’t know where to go- what to do-please have mercy...” You squint between parted fingers to gauge his reaction, hoping that the last threads of your long-gone innocence are believable. The prince curls a finger to his lips, covering a smirk. “I did not look upon your majesty...” you lie. The god’s eyes run from your ankles to your face, a devious smile playing at one side of his mouth. His lips part, chin tilting upwards, tongue resting behind his upper teeth before the perfect enunciation of, “Liar.”

“I did not look upon-” you stammer, lowering your hand and staring at the floor.

“-Oh, stop it.” Loki says. It’s followed by a melodic chuckle ricocheting around the marble walls. You glance up. One elbow rests on the stone behind him, water rippling against his chest. He tilts his head, raising the other arm out the water. “Never let it be said the God of Mischief is not merciful,” he rumbles coyly. A solitary finger beckons. “You must be cold,” he repeats for the third time, softer. “I assure you the baths are warmer than the dungeon, if that was your intent for the remainder of the evening.”

Each step feels like an eternity as you let yourself be drawn forward by weak flesh. You can’t take your eyes off his, thundering silently into your soul like a sexual storm. “I am not to the dungeons, then?” you ask cautiously. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

He winks, a perfectly timed droplet of oil falling from his chin to the water below with a thick plop. It makes your stomach flip. He stiffens suddenly, raising his palm in a ‘stop’.

“You may leave now...if you wish,” he says. An aura of stiff formality settles on his expression.

This is the Loki you recognise from feast days and speeches which ring around the towering cloisters of the great hall. The palm held upright softens to gesture to the other side of the pool. “Or you may stay, if you wish. Either way, sending such a flower to the dungeons to wilt and wither would surely be a greater crime than the one you have committed.”

He pauses. There’s a flash of pink as his tongue runs over his lips. His gaze drops to your fingers fidgeting nervously with the sash of your robe, still stained with watermarks from its hasty assembly. “Curiosity is only natural, one supposes,” he says.

“I didn’t mean to do it,” you reply quietly.

Loki’s eyes meet yours, one eyebrow rising. “Ah, but you did.” His voice is deeper, wisps of intrigue catching in every syllable. “In my experience, the path paved with mistakes leads to better stories. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You bite your lip. “Your Majesty are you...sure? I’m-” you glance towards the door, hesitating before you met the prince’s waiting stare, “-naked, under this.” Loki’s long index finger dips teasingly into the water, feigned surprise making his brows rise as he watches it sink beneath the surface. The lip twitches again as his digit skims, slow ripples pulsing out from his body. “Egalitarian, wouldn’t you say? Considering your recent education on my own state of undress.” Heat rises in your cheeks, matching the inexplicable confidence beginning to blossom in your belly. Loki smiles expectantly, resting both elbows casually on the ledge.

His lips form a soft o as your robe falls around your feet. You feel his stare roaming your body as keenly as though its his hands. Can he see the translucent sheen of arousal smeared down your inner thighs as you step into the pool? Possibly. Probably.

It’s true what they say about his body, about his temper, about his cock, after all. Why not his powers of perception?

The water licks against your skin, the thrill of this forbidden meeting making every hair on your body stand to attention. Pores tingle against the embrace of heat as you sink beneath the surface, perching on the flat stone seat beneath. The curve of your mounds bob above gently lapping water.

The same spot you’d been in earlier. But now, the view is entirely different.

You imagine that the archway behind you is a beautiful scene. Asgard’s moons would be shining, their light halo’ing your wetted hair against a blanket of stars. And yet, Prince Loki’s eyes never leave yours.

Although ten meters stretch between you, the whisper of his breath seemed to curl against your ear. You widen your legs beneath the water, immediately squeezing them closed again. Your lips purse, stifling a whine. “Your first royal audience, I gather?” Loki asks politely. You nod. This is madness.

Slowly, he shifts. One arm slips beneath the water, then two. His chin dips, observing you seductively from half-lidded eyes. “Why have I never seen you before?” The question hangs amidst the steam rolling over soft ripples.

“I find myself new at court, your Majesty” you hear yourself answer. It isn’t true. But it's better than the embarrassing reality. You're an invisible cog. “Liar,” he murmurs seductively. The corners of his eyes crease with mirth, a wet curl falling down to the side of his cheek. Somehow, your fingers find their way to your clit; hidden beneath the sweet-smelling veil of the baths.

“How can I have overlooked such a jewel in the midst of this grey wasteland?” “Wasteland?!” you scoff. It's bold, a peal of laughter escaping in spite of yourself. “Hardly.” The god cocks an eyebrow. “Despite my hyperbole, the sentiment remains. How did I miss you?”

There’s a moment of silence; anticipation choking the air. A suspicious disturbance begins to swell at the water by Loki’s mid-section and a chill of desire makes you shiver despite the temperate water; imagining those long, elegant fingers wrapping around that long, elegant cock. You began to toy with yourself, sparks of pleasure thrumming through your veins. Your shoulders began to roll in time with the pressure of your fingers. Unmistakeable. Breaths rise and fall in your chest, breasts bouncing lightly at the surface.

He grits, throat working as the straight lower line of his perfectly white teeth flash into view. The swell of water above his groin crests to a flurry; his deep, filthy exhales wrapping around your inhibitions and choking them. All pretence gone, you release the moan you’ve been holding.

Loki breaths out hard, a low ragged breath that seemed to part the steam caressing the water’s surface. “Mmm,” he grunts, neck stiffening. A vein at his throat stands hard and thick, straining as water began to splash against him from his abuse beneath. This is a scandal. You are a scandal. If anyone finds out, you’re finished...and yet. As the prince’s chin points to his glistening chest, wet from the splashback from fucking himself beneath the surface, you find you care not one jot.

His eyes darken, long lashes curled up to knitted brows. Loki’s lips are parted, tongue hovering and forming senseless words between laboured breaths. His cheekbones flash in the low light, soaking hair strewn over his milky skin. And always, his gaze is on you. The lofty, untouchable, inscrutable god that you’ve fantasised about is looking at you as he pleasures himself. Thinking about you as he sits across the water tugging his flawless cock. And if this is the shining, glorious moment which would burn out in a blaze of reputation-ruining glory to ash then so be it. Worth it. His dulcet moans of onanism grow louder, timing with your own. Only once do you tip your head back as you feel climax rear, a growled command of ‘look at me,’ through gritted teeth snapping you forward again.

If you’re ever deigned worthy to feel the prince inside you, have his marble body flush to your own in the throes of passion, feel his lustful praise hot in your ear– just once – you would die happy. But this? This could be enough. “S-so dutiful,” the prince moans, his shoulders juddering as he strangled the words. “B-brave,” he gasps. His brow furrows deeper with one last longing stare at your glistening neck and shoulders as you cum hard, a quiet mewl of his name echoing around the baths. It’s all you can do not to scream. “G-gods,” Loki chokes. Every muscle you can see in his body seems to tense, a thundering roar like ripping leather cascading from his throat. His mouth hangs open, grimacing to the atrium above. In the death of his cry, there’s silence but for the splash of water as the two of you compose yourself. Still flushed from orgasm, you push your hair back. The prince raises the hand that had been pleasuring himself out the water, inspecting a thick, white string that clings to his fingertips. He turns his gaze to you as he sucks the cum from his digits. God he’s fucking filthy, you think. I knew it. It takes every piece of willpower not to wade across the baths and lick it from his mouth. You bite your lip, matching his sultry demeanour and the prince’s eyebrow twitches. Your reaction is clearly to his satisfaction. “This has been amusing.”

He stands abruptly, breath stealing from your lungs as his entire body comes into view again. You aren’t prepared. The god’s cock is still hard. Long and perfectly formed, it’s earlier fairness now replaced with the blush of his work. Above, his abdomen glistens; pearled droplets of oily water running leisurely over muscled ridges. You open your mouth and close it again. Loki smiles. He turns and the toned meat of his ass shifts on his ascent up the short steps out the baths. With a click of his fingers, the robe and slippers he’d discarded are upon him once more. Your stomach drops.

“I didn’t tell you my name,” you blurt as he approaches the door. Prince Loki’s profile slices into view, the perfect arc of his bone structure lined over one broad shoulder in dancing torchlight. His eyes cast down and move to yours with theatrical precision.

“Your name?!” he purrs incredulously. “We must keep some mystery, surely.” And with the swirl of his robe and a thud of the ancient latch, he’s gone.

Loki’s stomach churns, emerald slippers feeling heavier with every step. He feels along the wall, blinking away the dizziness growing behind his eyes. Risky. Even for me. He pauses at the end of the corridor, steadying his breaths. There was something about her. Something which shattered any semblance of decorum he usually clung to in the presence of the court, however strange the situation. Her audacity. Gods, the look in her eyes as she brought herself to climax; pinning him under her gaze like a starving wretch at a feast. He stares at his feet, jewels throwing prisms from torchlight. “Brother?” Loki looks up, immediately rolling his eyes. “Spying on me? Truly you need to find something more wholesome to occupy your time, brother.” “Of course not. I intended to join you.” Loki’s stomach lurches as he notes the robe hanging off his brother’s shoulders, the plush red towels stacked in his glowering manservant’s arms. “No,” he snaps as Thor attempts to pass. The hand pressing against his brother’s chest is still wet, and he has a sudden hope it’s only water. “The temperature is not pleasing tonight. Tepid, at best. Trust me, brother.” “Is that so?” Thor asks, eyebrow rising. If he finds her in there, she’ll be punished. He won’t think twice before running to father like a dog. The thought wouldn’t usually cause him alarm but there it was again, that niggling feeling that greater fates were at play. He studies Thor’s face. "Trust me," Loki says. His brother sighs. “I trust you with very few things, Loki, but the temperature of bathwater is verily one of them.” He waves a hand and the servant scuttles away into the gloom. “In truth, brother, I hoped to speak to you about the Rite.” A hiss blows between Loki’s teeth, eyes darting to the side. “In my own time.” “Your own time?!” Thor stomps forward, making the torches rattle. “You’ve had five hundred years to find someone, Loki. Nine moons; that’s all you have until you must wait another five centuries for the alignment. Don’t you want to secure yourself in the succession? What if something were to happen to father? To me? The people of Asgard must be assured of your suitability.” “The entire thing is a farce. The fact that you succeeded, proves it.” Thor’s face darkens. “Don't speak of our sacred traditions that way. You know they’re in place for a reason.” A snort steals from Loki’s nostrils. “I have no doubts of my skill, I know I could rule Asgard’s people selflessly and with great enthusiasm; why must it be paraded in an inane peacocking which will make the high-lords wilt with inferiority?”

Silence hangs thick in the narrow corridor.

“A fact which makes your refusal to participate even more perplexing," Thor says, narrowing his eyes and yanking the sash at his waist in a way Loki assumes he thinks to be dramatic. "Nine moons, brother.”

As Thor's footsteps die away; he listens for splashing, for movement, for sneaking. But there’s nothing. He steps out the emerald slippers and pads back to the door, turning the handle with a final, furtive glance behind him.

He expects to see you draped nude over the chaise in the corner, or perhaps spread for him at the edge of the baths with hungry longing in your sharp eyes...but you’re gone. Loki frowns and stalks to the pillar which concealed you before. “Borr’s blood,” he hisses under his breath, scanning the room.

And then he sees it; something silken and knotted loops around the balcony pillars, glimmering in moonlight. He realises suddenly that the draping which normally billows in the evening breeze is gone. Loki smirks as he paces to the balcony and casts a cursory look over the edge. The makeshift ladder hangs to the level below. The royal laundry, if he’s not mistaken; the same hot spring source. “Nine moons,” he repeats quietly to the silence, rapping his knuckles against the marble twice before turning away with a smile.

💖Thanks for joining me for this lil journey! 🕯️Tags in comments x Chapter Two will be online Wednesday 12 June.

#loki x reader #loki smut #the rite #loki fanfiction #loki x you #loki x you smut #loki odinson #loki odinson x reader #lokismut #loki laufeyson #loki fanfic #loki x yn #loki x female reader #loki x female reader smut #loki imagine

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lynk-zee · 1 month

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Comfort

Synopsis: In which you’re so busy holding the world up, it’s nice to have someone hold you.

Zayne would be so sweet, noticing immediately that something’s off. He would see the way your hands tremble as you cut vegetables for the stew you both were making. The dark circles under your eyes didn’t go unnoticed either. Worst of all, the light in your eyes have started to dim so slightly. Zayne would not have that. He’d cease his task of stirring the pot on the stove, turning the flame down to a light simmer before gathering you in his arms, burying your face into his chest. He’s known you long enough to understand exactly what you need without uttering a single word. In his strong arms, you let out a shaky sigh, relieved to be held together for once instead of holding people together all day. As your eyes flutter close, he whispers in your ear all the benefits of hugging and how it heals and improves daily life. He’s a doctor after all.

Xavier would sense your change in mood immediately. He’s already fine tuned to your emotions, so he would notice the slightest change in your demeanor before you would. So he’d bear hug you with a cozy blanket, and despite your protests, lift you up and carry you to the couch. Then, he and would enlist the help of the plushie army you created together, shoving not one, not two, but three plushies in your arms to hug. Then he would hold you, in all your blanket burrito, plushie armed glory. It’s sweet. He lets you stay like that as long as you need. You’re his light, his partner in crime, his soulmate. He would do anything in his power to stop you from dimming. Including smothering you in plushies and affection.

When Rafayel comes home to see you huddled in bed, cuddling an artist birb plushie to your chest for comfort… He grabs that plushie from you and tosses it across the room.

Rafayel: Nobody can hold you better than I can!

He proves it by giving you the best cuddles of your life. After brewing you some herbal tea, he gets all cozy and comfortable with you in the bed, letting you melt against him as you try to cope with the pressure of the day. He brushes his lips against the crown of your head, whispering affirmations in your hair while he rubs your back gently. With him, it doesn’t matter if your fire feels like it’s going out. He’ll kindle those flames for you with his burning love.

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upsidedownwithsteve · 4 months

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A soulmate AU: Steve Harrington x fem!reader [5.9K]

THE TIMELINE

"Oh no, you know you know I'd be lying if I said I wasn't dying, For someone I could die for, someone I could try for Fall apart and cry for, go 'head, risk my life for."

-Someone I Could Die For by Lewis Capaldi

II. ROME, ITALY: 49 BC

The roar that came from the bowels of the Colosseum never became easier to hear.

The noise seemed to make the city shake, the streets empty, the market stalls abandoned in favour of bloodshed. The games took place in the summer, when the skies were an endless blue and there were no clouds to tamper down the climbing heat. The sun bore down on the sandy pit of the enormous Amphitheatre and the seats were filled, the doors that had already been closed still surrounded by regretful stragglers who were forced to listen to the chaos from outside of the walls.

Fourteen men had died already, three from the jaws of the lions, two from the bears and eleven from the swords of other imprisoned slaves. The cheering from the crowd made your stomach curl. The floor of the stage was covered in red, the sand streaked with spilled blood and the animals that were bullied back into their cages had their jaws tinted pink.

It wasn’t a joyous occasion, no matter how many people celebrated in the name of their emperor. The leader of Rome was sitting mere seats away from you, dressed in ruby robes that were slung like a cloak over his white toga and his laurel crown glinted with golden beads that sat tucked into the olive wreaths. He was drunk on wine and violence, and your father sat next to him in the royal box, ever eager to please as he clinked his chalice against his kings.

Being the daughter of Rome’s most beloved senator certainly had its positives. You were dressed just as finely as the royalty around you, the fabric that was made to fit your frame swept to the floor and only yesterday, the emperor’s cousin had gifted you a necklace made of the finest gold, inset with glittering emeralds, pretty enough for a princess.

The same cousin smiled at you from across the row, each seat in the royal box made from plush velvet, the high backs ornate and cushioned, unlike the stone carved benches the rest of the civilians were sitting on. You smile back, uneasy but polite, and your father nodded approvingly.

You were expected to marry, you knew that much. You were already considered too old to be unwed and you knew the rest of the court whispered about how you would now struggle to bear a child. But the man that was expected to be your husband wasn’t who you loved. He wasn’t unkind, he wasn’t cruel - not like you’d heard men could be. The girls in the kitchen would tell you stories of how their husband made demands. Shouting each night for their meals, their baths, how their shirts weren’t stitched right, how their beds would lay cold because their wives were too tired.

Some men visited the bath houses, you knew that much. Seeking out a lupa for the night, the ladies that were called she-wolves, with their painted lips and robes that showed so much skin. Some men decided that they didn’t need to listen to their wives at all, you were once told, horror etched on your face. Some men took what they thought they owned.

So no, the emperor’s cousin seemed kind enough. But you weren’t in love with him. You weren’t sure who you were in love with. A dream, perhaps. One that kept returning to you from a young, young age. A dream about a different town, one you’d never been to before. But in your sleep, it felt like home. White buildings and green gardens with tall, tall trees and pretty, ornate gazebos made of stone on the edges of shallow ponds. You were by the sea there, a blue-green ocean that seemed so calm.

Sometimes monsters came, the marble statues that guarded the city came to life and turned your dream into a nightmare. There was always fire and fury, storm clouds and too big waves and a man with skin the colour of death would try and take your hand. But even when the dream turned bad, there was always someone else.

A man, with a blurry face and a mess of almost too long hair. It hid his eyes from you and you could never make out too many details but you burned when you looked at him, you could weep when he touched you. Sometimes he led you through the burning town, his hand clasping your own as you both tried to run and run and run.

Other times, you lay in a bed with him, skin bare and your head on his chest as he murmured the sweetest poetry to you, words that made your heart race. Your dream was encased in white linen sheets, a hazy, soft light that always made it look like early morning and when the man’s lips met yours, you always woke up.

Him. You loved him.

You hadn’t been in love before, but whenever you dreamed of the stranger, you were sure that must have been what love felt like.

“Have some grapes, darling,” your thoughts were interrupted by your father as he thrust a plate of fruit and cheese under your nose.

But the fifteenth gladiator was being dragged through the gates by the armpits, a clawed hammer still sticking out from his chest and your insides turned over at the idea of eating such sweet treats as blood poured from the men in front of you. The emperor’s box was almost nauseatingly close to the fights.

You shook your head before you remembered your manners, smiling politely and murmuring, “I’m quite alright, thank you.” You blew out a breath, shaky and faint.

From your other side, one of the young girls who had been gifted to you on your sixteenth birthday waved a giant fan. A large peacock feather, a huge plume of colours that merely wafted the too warm air back and forth but you smiled your thanks at your lady in waiting, a pretty girl who’d turned into a prettier young woman. She was small and lithe, angular in the face with curls that came to her sharp jawbone and she smiled back.

Nancy, as she’d introduced herself to you a week after she’d arrived at your fathers house, from the Wheeler family of Liguria. She didn’t like the gladiator fights anymore than you did, always murmuring about the rights of the animals and how inhumane it was later in the night as she drew you your bath.

“—from Verona,” your father was saying with a mouth full of provolone. “One of their best, so they say, His Majesty simply had to have him.”

You blinked, frowning in confusion at your fathers words. You hadn’t been paying attention in the slightest and nothing you’d caught made any sense. “Sorry?” You grimaced apologetically and took a few pomegranate seeds from the plate of food in apology for your rudeness. “Who is from Verona?”

Your father rolled his eyes, a sure sign that you’d be lectured in his study later for your lack of respect. “The next gladiator, child.” He gestured to the stage where the soldiers were locking the gates to the tigers, each big cat growling with menace when the men came too close to the bars. “They say he’s unbeatable. Our Highness offered a more than generous helping of coin for his papers but Verona’s general didn’t seem to want to part with him.”

You frowned again. The crowd seemed to be aware of this man and his presence, murmuring and shifting in their seats in anticipation. “If that is the case,” you prodded. “Then how is he here? If the gladiators… owner—” the word left a terribly bitter taste in your mouth and you felt heavy with guilt when Nancy’s fan brushed your shoulder. “If his owner didn’t want to sell him?”

Your father snorted, an unattractive sound that made Nancy wince beside you. “No one tells the emperor of Rome ‘no’, dearest.” Your father shrugged. “The gladiator cannot be owned, if his owner is dead.”

Bloodshed. Always bloodshed.

A man came from the east side gates with chains around his ankles and wrists. You couldn’t quite see him for your seat, not yet, but the crowd above and around you roared, eager for the final fight to begin. The man already looked beaten and tired as soldiers stepped forward to unlock his manacles and you sat forward in your seat for the first time since you entered the Colosseum that day.

He had messy hair, dark brown and hanging just past his chin. It was already damp looking, matted and dirty from being kept god knows where as the emperor's new toy. He was shirtless, his body lean but corded with muscle. He had wide shoulders and a lithe waist, powerful thighs and skin that was tanned from the sun, a sure sign he spent too much time outside, training hard in the Italian heat.

As he moved closer to the middle of the stage, you saw the marks on his body, leftover scars and new slices in his flesh that still looked viciously red. The crowd got louder as a sword was thrown at his feet, a large, heavy looking thing with a bronze handle. Some cheered for the new warrior, hoping for some excitement, while others jeered and booed, already too attached to their darling reigning champion.

The gladiator picked up his sword and the crowd became wilder still, but he gave them no mind. He didn’t put on a show like some of the others, he didn’t flex his muscles or raise his weapon like it was already a prize. His leather loincloth was a deep wine colour, the tan leather pleats looking far from newly made and the material was already streaked with blood and dirt before his first opponent arrived.

Your heart felt heavy for him, as it did for all the others who were forced into the Colosseum - prisoners, slaves and animals alike. You watched the gladiator flex his wrist, testing the weight of his weapon just as the gates in the west cranked open.

Rome’s current champion strode out from the shadows and into the bright sun, his bare chest glinting with sweat and Hargrove held his hands aloft, grinning as the crowds went insane. He beat his chest, his long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and when he was handed his own sword, he wasted no time in running towards the new fighter, the steel blade glinting.

You gasped, moving closer still to the edge of your seat and you couldn’t find it in you to bear much mind to the looks your father and Nancy shot you. It wasn’t like you to take such an interest in the sport, never mind be so heavily invested. You didn’t like to watch the wounded, preferring to close your eyes when the screams began, hiding cowardly behind Nancy’s fan when the blood turned the sandy stage pink and red.

But this new gladiator, he was fast.

He dove at the last second, dodging the tip of Hargrove’s blade and he rolled towards the section where you sat. Dust kicked up from the move, his sword tearing into the wreaths and sashes that hung from the Emperor’s box. You grasped the edge of the wooden frame, peering over the side and down to the stage, hoping to not see blood already.

Instead you found the gladiator looking back up at you, his sword still in his grasp and when his eyes met yours, they widened. Something like recognition hurtled through you, a feeling that sucked the breath from your lungs and you felt dizzy, like lightning itself had struck you from the sky. You thought the man perhaps felt the same, a frown on his face telling you that he felt just as confused as you did.

But before you could consider where on earth you could have possibly seen his face before, Hargrove attacked again, bringing his blade down to where the gladiator's shoulder should have been, if he hadn’t rolled once again.

You were on your feet now, the stares of your father be damned. Your eyes were wide, your heart beating far too fast, like you yourself were on the stage, being hunted for sport. Wood splintered into the space under your nails as you watched the man run, his muscles pumping, his eyes narrowed.

“Darling, are you quite alright?” Your father placed a hand on your arm, more confused than concerned.

“Yes, I just— yes.” You cleared your throat and sat down again, albeit back to the edge of your chair. You could feel the rest of the royal party staring at you. “Where did you say the man was brought from? The new gladiator?”

“Harrington?” One of the Emperor’s councilmen interjected. He pointed a pudgy finger at the brown haired gladiator, who was now swinging his sword with as much power as Hargrove. “Steven Harrington of Verona, best of his breed I heard. His general didn’t take too kindly to the King’s offering and well— you know what happens when his Highness is made to feel upset.”

The metallic clink of the swords filled the arena as everyone held their breaths. Not many had lasted this long against Hargrove before.

“Rumour has it that he didn’t take too kindly to his general being beheaded. Took six men to get him into the back of the cart, even more to make him train. He’s been refusing food all week.”

The idea of it made you feel unwell, a sickly, creeping kind of pain curling around each of your ribs and suddenly you were starving, just as much as you were sure the man would be. But still, I didn’t seem to make him move any slower, it didn’t hinder him in bringing his sword down any harder.

But strangely, every time the new gladiator was struck, every time his knees hit the raw sand, every time he got close enough for you to see him suck in a gasping breath— you felt it too.

It was a battle like you’d never seen before, more vicious than the others from that day, a showdown under the blazing heat of the high sun. No tiger seemed as powerful as Steven Harrington of Verona did. There was something animalistic in the way he moved, all power and lean muscle, a steely glint in his brown eyes that you didn’t dare look away from. He moved too quickly for Hargrove’s blade, dodging and diving as he flung up sand, blinding his opponent and slicing at his legs. Each move was a blur, the stage bleeding with fresh red, the blonde gladiator on his knees.

But Hargrove was ruthless, grappling with the newcomer until they were both wrestling in the dust cloud and the crowd went insane, people chanted and stomped their feet, the amphitheatre shaking down to its very bones. The imperial box quaked with the energy, but truly, you weren’t present enough to feel it.

Your eyes never left Steven’s fighting figure.

The swords seemed to be forgotten, the steel blades rusted with blood, both fresh and new, and they lay in the sand. Fists flew, knees pressed to chests to keep the other down and it was brutal, it was harsh, it was deadly.

You wanted to vomit. You feared you might.

You wondered what would happen if you leapt from your chair, if you let your skirts get torn and bloodied in the mess of the stage, if you threw yourself down onto the sand and begged for Hargrove to take his hands away from the new gladiator's throat.

Would you be punished? Beaten? Locked away? Killed?

You weren’t sure but somehow, all the options felt worth it. You couldn’t watch this man die before you. Not when it felt like you’d already witnessed his death before.

But Steven wrestled himself out of Hargrove’s hold, twisting and tumbling whilst he gasped, one hand clutching at his reddened neck and the other grappling for his blade. He swung it through the air, arching wide, his wounded shoulder ripping with effort it took but the sword landed where the warrior intended it to.

Silence settled over the colosseum, the air still enough for you to hear the surviving champion heave out gasping, heavy breaths. There was blood on his hands, his chest, his face.

His right eye was already bruising, red and lilac coming to the surface of his skin like fresh blooms in spring. His shoulder was a mess, his right leg causing him to buckle slightly as he rose to his feet.

The man turned, jaw slack, his sword falling limply to the ground once more, his opponent still and at his feet. His eyes found yours and time stilled, at least, to you. The crowd erupted, an explosion in its own right, the entirety of Rome cheering for their new champion.

A man you were sure you already loved.

By the time the fight had ended, you felt beaten and bruised. There were no marks on your skin, no blood seeping through your gown, but something inside of you hurt all the same. It felt like something was clawing at your heart, a memory that was banging on the front of your skull, screaming at you to remember.

When the guards dragged the gladiator from Hargrove’s limp figure, he dropped his sword to the sand and spat a mouthful of blood towards the ground at the royal pit. The Emperor merely chuckled as others around you gasped and before you could even hear your fathers protests, you were on your feet.

Steven Harrington was shackled once more, the metal chains clinking around his hands and feet. And as he was led away back into the arches, the gears of gates making an awful protesting noise, his eyes found yours once more.

A burning gaze, too intense to look away from and you could’ve sworn on the gods, on the stars above, that something inside of you tugged sharply. Like the pull of a string, tied in a bow between your ribcage, urging you forward.

Telling you to go.

So you did.

You gathered your skirts in your hands and made your way to the exit of the box, too focused to hear your fathers objections until the guards at the doorway halted you with their spears. The wooden stalks crossed themselves over your chest and you froze, the string tied to your heart pulling tighter and tighter and tighter—

The Emperor was staring at you, with cold eyes and a smile that wasn’t really a smile. He spoke to your father, not you. “Where, my dear senator, is your lovely daughter running off to?” The king turned back to you, brows raised. “Doesn’t she know that more wine will be served soon? My cousin is looking forward to her company.”

Your father stared at you, a stricken expression on his aged face because everyone in the royal box could read between the lines of the Emperor.

You cleared your throat, eyes still trained on the sharp metal points of the spears that were very much in your face. “Forgive me, father - your highness - I was merely hoping to get some fresh air.”

“The sight of all that blood makes her rather delicate,” your father agreed and the crowd of councilmen, generals and their wives tittered in their jewels. “She isn’t one for conflict.”

The Emperor stared at the side of your face, something you could feel despite bowing your head in his presence. You stared at the floor and waited, heart racing.

The royal tsked. “What a pity,” he declared but he waved a hand, each finger heavy with golden rings, and his soldiers stepped aside. “Be back in time for the parade, child, you have company to entertain.”

The Emperor’s cousin leered at you, his wine glass empty, his lips stained ruby but none of it mattered right now, not when you were taking off once more, skirts dragging across the dust and sand, your chest heaving as you tried to navigate your way through the crowd that was already dispersing.

More guards, heavily armoured and with their swords drawn, were too preoccupied with a fight that had broken out between the arches, two lower class men arguing over a coin they found on the ground. Taking your chance, you moved with your head down, your face hidden as you slipped through a door that was normally carefully watched.

The heavy wood slammed shut behind you, the sunlight swallowed whole. Burning torches lit the narrow corridor, a maze of them leading you underneath the Colosseum. The hypogeum was almost damp as you tried to navigate its many walkways, a gasp leaving your throat as you took a wrong turn and ended up face to face with the iron bars that separated you from the animals.

A huge tiger growled at you, bloodied teeth bared in a snarl, the stench of raw meat and faeces hanging in the cool air. You backed away, eyes flickering from cage to cage, each one filled with another poor creature. Lions, bears, a rhinoceros and its offspring, and beyond them, an even larger cell holding prisoners. They all stared at you, men and animals alike, but nothing was spoken.

You backed away, unable to breath, turning on your heel and walking quickly enough to spot the familiar grey robes of the healers used after the battles. You followed, your steps light, and watched him enter a small room. Between the door opening and closing, you spotted the gladiator perched on a wooden table, his head bent low and his face hidden behind his damp hair.

You weren’t sure what possessed you, but before you barged into the room too, both men staring at you from the table where the healer held a ragged cloth to the gladiator’s shoulder.

“Miss, you have no need here,” the healer announced, his voice strict and cold. He narrowed his eyes as he gestured to the door. “This is no place for—”

“My father sent me.” It was a lie, of course. A bold and bare faced one at that. But you stood a little taller and lifted your chin, the emerald necklace at your throat shining in the low light that came from the small fireplace in the corner. “The senate has questions I’ve been asked to deliver. I shall not leave without the appropriate answers.”

On the mantle, beside bottles of acids and other medicinal vials, sat a small statue of the goddess Veratis. Her marble eyes seemed to judge you and your lies and you swallowed down the bitter taste it left on your tongue. But looking at the man - this stranger from Verona - the need to speak to him, to be alone with him, was overwhelming you to the point of senselessness.

The trouble you could be in if you were to be caught in your lie… or worse, down in the hypogeum. This was no place for a woman of your standing, never mind to be alone with a gladiator, both of you unspoken for. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.

“If we may have some time alone?” You added with more authority than you should have held. “Unless you’d prefer that my father leave the Emperor’s side to ensure his orders are fulfilled?”

The healer sighed but placed down his tools. He flashed you a smile that was all crooked teeth, more bite than kindness, but he made his way to the door. “That won’t be necessary, My Lady,” he told you and he left, closing the wooden door behind him.

The silence was a deafening thing. The crackle of the fire was still there, the distant roar of some poor, wounded animal, but whatever was held between the two of you took on a life of its own. It seemed to suck the rest of the world into it until there was nothing left but you and this man. He was staring at you still, brown eyes wide and so familiar, looking as confused as you felt as you stared right back.

It felt too easy to take a step forward, but the warrior flinched. Your next was slower, softer, more cautious. Your hand found the rag that the healer had once held, what little water it had been soaked in was cold, the material harsh. It didn’t take you long to find a new cloth in one of the drawers of the apothecary table and you took your time to warm some fresh water over the hearth.

Honestly, you didn’t know too much about medicine, only the basics that your father’s head servant had taught you as a young child. You found the small bottle of alcohol with ease, plucking it from the shelf and adding it to the warm water before soaking the new rag.

You held it up in offering to the man, still far enough from you that his dirty hair hid most of his face. His tanned chest was streaked with sweat and dust, marred with old cuts and fresher wounds from Hargrove’s weapon, but for the most part, he seemed okay.

“Can I?”

The gladiator lifted his head then, his hair falling away from his cheeks and you took in a sharp breath at the sight of his face. He was handsome, painstakingly so, but over and above all else, he was someone you were sure you knew.

The man nodded, just once, lips pressed together and as you came closer, his nostrils flared and his large hands gripped the edge of the table. His eyes raced across your features, recognition coming to the surface and before he could ask the questions that were clawing at his throat, you lifted the cloth and pressed it to the cut on his shoulder.

He hissed, teeth bared and you frowned, hushing him softly, apologies murmured just as quiet. “I’m sorry,” you told him and gods, he knew you meant it. “I need the alcohol to soak the wound.”

Your heart stuttered when he let you, shoulders tight and back ramrod straight, but his eyes were on your face the entire time you worked. “You’re not a healer,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

His voice rung through you, a deep timber that was hoarse and scratchy, no doubt from refusing to speak since his capture. You hoped he’d been drinking enough water.

You shook your head as you pulled away, dipping the bloodied cloth back into the bucket. “No, I’m not,” you confirmed.

Another swipe at his skin had him jerking in response but the blood and dirt was finally clear of the cut. It would need stitches, you were almost sure of it, but your skills started and finished at the basics.

“Then why are you here?” The gladiator’s eyes were trained on your necklace, a sure fire way to recognise nobility and you were overcome with the urge to rip it from your throat. “Why did you follow me?” He spoke like he already knew the answer.

You were hesitant about it, but you couldn’t stop your hand from lifting to his neck, fingertips brushing two beauty marks on his skin. They felt electric under your touch and you were impossibly warmer now, despite the old cell lacking the heat from the summer above.

“I feel like I know you,” you whispered. Your voice cracked with an emotion you didn’t quite know the name of. “I feel like I’ve mourned you.”

The gladiator looked back at you from behind his damp hair, the long strands matted with his and his enemies blood. He didn’t look as concerned as he should have been at your strange words. In fact, he leaned into your touch, lashes fluttering at the sensation.

“What an odd thing to say to someone who hasn’t died,” he answered quietly. But his gaze roamed over your features and something about being so close to him felt cosmic, it felt like a catastrophe waiting to happen. “I think I’ve met you before,” the gladiator whispered. He sounded reverent now, his own hand shaking as he brought it to your face.

He cupped your jaw, your chin, his rough fingertips trailing over your soft skin and when his thumb dragged across your bottom lip, you gasped and pressed closer.

“I think I meet you when I sleep,” he said and he frowned at his own words, at how confusing he must’ve sounded. “Every night, when I close my eyes. You’re in a garden and then you’re in my arms.”

Flashes of a bed came to mind, white linen sheets and too much bare skin. A man’s chest, tanned and muscled from hard labour, your hands that roamed the expanse of his back. You remembered how he kissed you in your dreams, with a longing so intense it could waken the gods.

Like he had enough love for you that he could end the world.

You could only nod. His thumb was still pushed to your bottom lip, your mouth parted as if you were waiting and his stare was so intense you felt warmer than you had in the stadium above.

Who was this stranger?

And why did it feel like something inside of you was being stitched back together by the sheer sight of him? His touch felt healing, it felt like home. Like it was only made for you to feel. Like he was made only for you.

Above, something boomed. Loud enough to be heard underneath the hypogeum, over the roars of the unsettled animals. If you had been outside, you would’ve witnessed the blue sky turning grey, shades of moody lavender and navy, storm clouds rolling across Rome from seemingly nowhere.

Thunder rumbled, threatening noise, something that made you and the man move closer to each other, like you both knew you were in danger.

That you knew something bad was coming.

“I don’t understand,” you said, eyes blurring. You weren’t sure why you were crying but Steve didn’t seem to question it. He merely swiped away the tears that slipped down your cheeks. “You’re a stranger— we’ve never— we’ve never met.”

Despite your words, the gladiator moved closer, standing from his seat on the wooden table to lean his forehead against your own. Your eyes slipped closed, nose bumping his. He smelled like metal, like blood and dirt and sweat but underneath there was something like fire there, like molten iron, like lavender fields and fresh cotton. Like a daydream, like something you weren’t sure was real.

His bottom lip touched your top one, only just, only barely. A whisper of a kiss, a small insight of something that could’ve been, of something that maybe once was.

Thunder rolled again, louder than before, as if it was right above you both. Even over the din of the crowds above, you could hear the heavy patter of rain that was now flooding the colosseum, the stage soaked. Another warning, something you’d seen before in a dream just before it turned to a nightmare.

“I was meant to find you,” Steve murmured. He had your face cradled in his hands, an overwhelmingly gentle touch despite the dried blood under his fingernails. His voice grew in urgency then, like he knew something was coming. Someone. “I was meant to come here. I can feel it. I understand now.”

“Someone once told me you’d come back,” you suddenly remembered, your voice eager, your eyes wide at the memory. “I don’t know— was it you? From before? From—”

From another life, you wanted to say.

How ridiculous those words were, how silly, how stupid. But there wasn’t any other way to explain. Logic didn’t seem to exist when everything you felt from this touch of this stranger led you to believe that somehow, someway, you’d spend a lifetime together.

Like you were supposed to spend this one with him too. And it didn’t seem long enough, decades wouldn’t make up for the time you’d lost searching for him, for this stranger who only came to you in your sleep. But he was very real now, solid flesh and bone underneath your own hands, brown eyes that seemed warmer than the Italian summer.

You didn’t want to let him go.

“In here, my King,” a voice interrupted. The door was open and the healer had returned, a cold look on his already stern face. The Emperor was behind him, ruby robes collecting dirt from the old floor. Four soldiers flanked him. “I have every reason to believe the Lady sold me lies, Your Highness.”

It happened too quick. Too fast.

The Emperor studied you, Steve’s hands still on your face as you stood too close, ready to kiss, ready to fulfil something neither of you were sure of. It felt catalytic.

“Seize him,” was all the Emperor said, one lazy flick of his wrist sending all four guards at you both.

There was too much movement in the tiny room, bottles of medicinal wares clattering to the ground and smashing at your feet. The table groaned as Steve was shoved into it, his own reactions too slow from his injuries. He grunted and reached for you too late, his hand slipping from your own, fingers barely touching, as he was shoved at from either side.

One soldier shoved the butt of his sword into Steve’s wounded soldier, the other bringing his armoured knee into his bare stomach. The gladiator doubled over, a gasp leaving his chest before he fell to his knees on the stone floor.

“Stop this!” You yelled, urging forward, trying your best to throw yourself into the mix of it all but someone’s arms - another soldier - caught your round the middle. “Unhand him! Your Highness - please - he hasn’t done any wrong, please—”

The Emperor just looked at you blankly before he picked at the jewels around your neck. He tutted, as if it were a shame, a waste. You could hear the shackles being placed back on the man, the low groan he gave as the metal was tightened around his sore wrists.

“He won,” you whispered, your voice low and choked. You were ready to beg. “Please, he won. He doesn’t deserve this—”

“I don’t like anyone else playing with my toys,” the Emperor interrupted. He said it like he was discussing what to have for lunch. “And my dear cousin doesn’t like anyone playing with his.” He motioned to the guards once more. “Take her back to her seat, where you make sure she stays. This isn’t any place for a Lady,” he told you mournfully.

You didn’t get to see what happened to the gladiator as you were escorted out of the room. But you did hear his yells when the door slammed shut, the dull thuds of impact that you were sure were on his already bruised and broken body. You hadn’t even told him your name, or that you dreamt of him too. That during your worst night terrors, he was the one that saved you.

When you reached the imperial box once more, your skirts dirtied from the sand, your face tear stricken, you felt broken. Like you’d been snapped in half, like someone had found that wound Steve had stitched up and pulled it apart again the seams. Like someone had ripped something important from you, half of your heart, perhaps.

You didn’t even notice that it had stopped raining. The skies were blue once more, the sun shining, the only evidence of the sudden storm were the drops of rain that had soaked into the pillow on your chair.

Steve was gone and the thunder was too.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington oneshot

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seravphs · 1 year

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ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — KNIGHT! GOJO x PRINCESS! FEM READER

Gojo has devoted his entire life to protecting you as your dedicated guard. A greater force is conspiring to keep you apart.

wc — 3.7k

tags — royal au, childhood friends, forbidden love, protective Gojo, sneaking around/flouting social etiquette, period drama-esque tension between repressed princess and rakish knight, mutually possessive, title from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

part 1 of the hand which holds the knife

Everyone knew Satoru Gojo was supposed to be yours.

You claimed him the day you knighted him. He wore your colors and answered to your demands. The physical evidence of your ownership was all over him, the way someone would mark a well loved pet. Even the neck of his jacket carried your embroidery like a collar. To anyone with eyes, he was your adored guard dog.

When all of your memories blur into one stream of consciousness, the day you knighted him remains clear. You remember everything, including your father stealing him out from under you.

You were the only one who truly thought he was ever going to be yours. It was part of the promise you had sworn to each other as children, playing princess and the guard with wooden swords and flower crowns.

Looking back, you can see the gears of court machinations turning. It was no simple coincidence that the only heir to House Gojo ended up in close proximity to you, any more than any other of your introductions to sons of highborn houses.

Gojo has no interest in pretending to be a prince. It was boring for him to be trapped in restricting uniforms complete with epaulets. He found more pleasure in protecting you from danger while you preened in your gilded cage, none the wiser through his efforts. Safe and unaware, the way he liked it. You would never have to know how dangerous the world was if he simply destroyed everything in your path before it got to you.

You didn’t understand the way the adults looked at the two of you. All you knew was that you couldn’t bear to be apart from him. You rose each morning looking for him, and went to bed waiting for the minute you’d be reunited again. He was your whole world, your one and only friend. It was his hand that guided you through childhood adventures. He was the sword and shield that had cut down kidnappers and serpents for you.

The first wedge in your relationship comes with his twelfth birthday.

You chase his back through the years, watching it broaden in front of your eyes. His body changes. His voice drops. The first time you hear it after the pitchy squeaks of puberty clear from his throat, you feel the sickening wrench of something in your stomach. It had never mattered before that Gojo was a man, potentially your betrothed.

Now it burns you to look at him. He became gorgeous while you weren’t looking, all long willowy limbs and snow white hair. The women of the court have started looking at him now. They call him the beautiful dragon, after his house crest.

Even though you know reasonably that you can do nothing about this, really, you have no right to, that galls you. You’re a princess. You’re used to being able to deal with things that upset you with little more than a nod to Gojo. But he can’t solve issues that he’s the root of.

The only way to show everyone that Gojo’s devotion belongs to you is to tie him to your side. At twelve, he’s already the strongest squire in the entire kingdom. Better than most knights, even. It’s a clear path to being the greatest knight of his time, throughout all of history, even. He already promised to be your sword when you were children. All you have to do is wait.

Gojo trains and you begin to learn the extent of your royal responsibilities. Study etiquette. Marry well. Become a dutiful wife. Give the king heirs.

Gojo becomes Lord Gojo. He calls you princess now. Although part of you rebels at the idea that he would ever call you anything other than your name, another part of you can’t help the queasy feeling you get when he says your title, low and soft. Like he means it for your ears only. Like princess is just another way of showing how much of him is yours.

Gojo is not usually a proud man because he doesn’t have to be. His abilities speak for himself. But he’s cocky to a fault. He knows the extent of his capabilities, which means he won’t capitulate to anyone. Why would he?

When it comes to you, however, he bends his neck and accepts the collar willingly. The strongest can only be tamed by what he allows to tame him and it’s you, it’s always been you.

Perhaps that’s why things turn out the way they do on the day you knight him.

Or, as you find out later, your father knights him.

It was the day after your sixteenth birthday. Gojo himself had turned seventeen three months and six days before. It was strangely old for a boy of his caliber. He was so talented he could’ve been the youngest knight in the realm, but no one could make Gojo do something he didn’t want to do.

There was no shame in it, either. Everyone knew Gojo was too talented and well-connected for it to be anything other than his own choice. The only heir of House Gojo, he was destined to become a knight even if he did nothing to earn it. And he had done much to earn it.

Winning wars single handedly tended to do that. There were already legends blooming from the battlefield by the time he came home and tossed the unlucky enemy commander’s head at the king’s feat. His bow wasn’t nearly low or respectful enough to be addressed to the king, but he had been lighter-hearted back then, more willing to forgive.

Especially for Gojo, who had cut a killing swathe through the ranks of the opposing army so ruthlessly they began to call him a god of death.

Gojo kneels at your feet, his white head still high. He’s a little too tall for you, even at this angle. Lord Commander Yaga clears his throat. Gojo looks up through the wisps of hair that have escaped to obscure his eyes. They’re piercing, an attractively violent blue.

“I’m sorry,” he says, so low no one else could’ve heard the two of you even if you hadn’t been standing alone on the podium in front of the king’s throne. “Am I too tall for you now, princess?”

“Don’t tease,” you whisper back, flustered despite yourself. The pommel of the sword is clammy in your grip. You’re scared to drop it and accidentally take a finger off with it.

You’re taking too long. It’s making you anxious. You’re distinctly aware of your father’s stare boring into your back. You’ve been sheltered since you were young by your father’s paranoia, but he’s recently begun letting you apply yourself more to your royal duties. You can’t give him any reason to doubt you.

Gojo dips a little lower.

With this change in angle, you can place the flat of the blade on each of his shoulders. It’s your father’s sword, too large and unwieldy in your hands. Standing over Gojo is a strange experience. It’s uncomfortable looking down on someone who’s been taller than you for all your life.

You wish he would stop looking at you like that. His gaze is searching. You feel naked underneath it, even with layers of dresses on. When he says his vows, it feels intimate, like he’s speaking them to you. For you.

Gojo rises, shaking his hair out of his eyes like a shaggy dog. Like this, you’re reminded suddenly of how strong he is. His shoulders are broad underneath his silver armor. Lean muscle cords his legs. There’s an easy, effortless grace to the way he moves - the confidence of a man who has never been bested in his entire life.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. He’s still standing too close. If it were any other man, your father would have demanded he be whipped by now, but Gojo has always gotten away with things no one could. He ducks his head so he can speak directly into your ear - dangerous, even for him. He says his piece fast. “I’ll see you in your rooms, my lady.”

Then he pulls back.

There are thunderclouds gathering across the king’s face, but when you shake your head, your father relents. He smiles and kisses your temple as you climb up the steps of the platform of his throne to return the sword to him.

Years later, you learn that the moment you leave the throne room, your shoulders sure with the knowledge that Gojo is finally secure in your grasp, your father takes up the sword you had held and knights him. Princesses have no authority to confer knighthood. Only kings.

You know your father means well. He loves you. You’re all he has left. If Gojo pushed for your hand to be one that he swears loyalty to first, then your father would have been happy to comply either way. You just wish you would’ve known that it meant nothing.

There’s a sharp rap on your door, followed by two short, one long. A code you had devised a long time ago. You pull open the door and Gojo all but falls into your room. He’s pressed up against you, front to front as he closes the door behind him, tumbling you into your bed.

“Hi, princess,” he says, his breath warm against your neck. You squirm in his hold, feeling heat rush through your veins. It’s getting harder and harder to hide the way he affects you, but you don’t want anything to change between the two of you. Though sometimes, you swear Gojo likes using your title so much precisely because he knows how you react to it.

“We have to stop doing this,” you tell him, like you tell him every time. “It’s inappropriate.”

He groans and pushes away from you. You mourn the loss of contact. “Come on, don’t make me do this again. Who cares if it’s inappropriate? Who says?”

“Dame Zenin thinks we’re too close.”

“Dame Zenin is an idiot,” Gojo says. “You know she only says that because she wants to get rid of me so you’ll look at Naoya. As if you would ever, even if I was gone.”

“Still.”

Gojo grabs your chin in his hand. “You are a princess and I am the only heir to House Gojo. We bow to no one, understand? What right do mice have to judge dragons?”

He’s the dragon, you think. Your crest is the rose. You exist to be judged. That’s the role of a princess.

Gojo sprawls out on your bed. He’s so tall he takes up more than half of it, even though your bed was built to be more than twice your size. His eyes are shut, his long white lashes soft. He looks gentle in repose, almost like a lamb with his coloring.

He’s beautiful. He always is. You want to touch, to hold, to claim. You want to press your ear against his chest and steal the thunderous beat of his heart for your own. You want to press your rouged lips to his neck and collarbones, to mark his body with a muted rose.

Instead, you sit stiff, prim and proper.

He opens his eyes. “Come here,” he says, his arm reaching for you. You let him pull you closer.

As always, he has to reach out first. You can’t allow yourself to take what you want. It’s not in your nature, the way you were raised.

You bury your face into the space between his neck and his shoulder.

“There we go,” he coos. Your face burns with the condescension of it, the way he treats you like an animal that has to be carefully coaxed closer. But he’s not wrong, and that’s why you let him pet you into submission, gently stroking your sides as he tangles his legs with yours.

You were never so affected by him as children. Somewhere along the way, Gojo had become unmanageable to you, and you don’t know what to do about it.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs against your hair. “Where are you going off to in that pretty head of yours?”

“I’m with you,” you whisper against his neck. “I’m always here.”

You’ve spoiled him, you think. When you were a child, you didn’t know any better. Gojo was just Gojo. Letting him stay by your side even as you got older was an indulgence that he now pushes the limits of. He’s never cared about propriety.

“You have to go back to your room now,” you whisper reluctantly. You’re always the more cautious one of your duo. It’s been too long. Someone will become suspicious. For once, you wish you could just let go of your worries, but someone has to check Gojo. If both of you just did whatever you wanted, it’d be the ruin of your houses. This is how it has to be: Gojo pushes and you pull back.

The dim light of the dying candles make his blue eyes appear black. “Give me something of yours first,” he says.

You know what he’s asking for. You climb up from the bed and go into your dresser to search, turning up one of your handkerchiefs. It bears the colors of your house and your careful embroidery.

He kneels at your feet.

“Stop,” you say, trying to pull away.

Gojo presses a kiss to your hand. His lips are soft against the skin of your hand, temptation incarnate. Your fingers tremble lightly in his grasp, torn between wanting to seize him and wanting to run away. The enormity of your desire for him terrifies you. If you ever let him in for one second, you can see how easy your descent would be.

“I’m yours, princess. Don’t forget it.”

With that, he ties your favor around his wrist and finally leaves you to your room, panting like you’d run through the halls. No matter how old you get, Gojo always leads in your interactions. He plays with you, enjoying the way he can make you react to him.

It’s normal for a princess to visit the training yard, you try to convince yourself the next day. There’s nothing strange about stopping by while you’re on your afternoon walk. After all, you should keep abreast of everything within your castle.

Gojo stands in the center of the yard. He’s demonstrating one of his self created drills, a complicated set of maneuvers only he can pull off. In short, he’s showing off while pretending like he’s doing the class a favor by trying to teach them something.

Lord Commander Yaga notices you the moment you set foot in the yard. You should expect it. After all, it’s his territory.

“Attention,” he bellows. “The princess is here.”

Gojo perks up and finishes his final set of movements even faster. He throws his sword carelessly to the side, leaving a young squire scrambling to catch the priceless weapon as he strides towards you.

He’s a little sweaty. You want to wrap your arms around him anyways, but you restrain yourself.

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” you say.

Gojo grins at you. It’s a sharp thing, his smile, hungry and wolfish. “Not at all. I was just thinking of you, my lady.”

You tilt your head at him curiously.

Around you, the men are scrambling to line up into neat little rows.

“I’m picking a squire,” Gojo says. “Would you like to make the decision for me?”

It’s a question that shocks you. You whirl to look at him again, see if he’s joking like usual, but he seems perfectly serious. “I don’t know anything about knighthood,” you tell him the truth.

He moves closer. You’re tempted to step back immediately, but you don’t. You don’t want a sign of discomfort to be misinterpreted and used against him. Besides, you relish the proximity. Seeing Gojo in public feels like dancing on blades. The adrenaline terrifies you, but you can’t stop wanting more of it.

“You may not, but you know people. I trust your judgement.”

A cursory scan of the boys in front of you reveals little. They’re all stiff and proper, their backs as straight as they can make them. Some stand with their arms glued to their sides, others fidget with their swords. Every single one of them is eager for the chance to be acknowledged by the princess. They’re equally hopeful for the chance to squire for the greatest knight in the kingdom.

None of them catch your eye on the first or second passes.

Only on the third, a boy with pink hair smiles at you. It’s such a small gesture. But for a boy who had looked just like everyone else at first, the toothy smile splits his features. It opens him up. He looks kind.

You gesture him forward.

Lord Commander Yaga nods approvingly. “Itadori is a good one, Your Royal Highness. He’s one of the best in this batch. Naturally strong, but just as hardworking.”

“See,” Gojo says. “I knew you would choose well.”

He touches your hand briefly, slipping a white scrap of paper inside your closed fist before he grabs Itadori by the shoulder and hauls him off for further training. Although disappointed, the other squires still look starstruck to be in his presence, though Yaga disperses them all to train themselves soon enough.

In elegant cursive, Gojo has written a time and place.

You shouldn’t go.

You can’t risk it.

All eyes are on you and Gojo as it is. People already suspect the two of you of something unsavory. Courtly love is one thing, but you and Gojo are too close for an unmarried man and a woman. As a princess, your sole purpose is to marry well and bring alliances to your house. You can’t risk damaging your reputation.

But every stolen encounter with Gojo steals your breath away. You sneak through the halls, quiet and empty.

A hand slaps over your mouth before you can scream as someone tugs you into a dark corridor.

You kick and lash out, forgetting everything Gojo has taught you in favor of blind violence.

“Shh,” comes a voice in your ear. “It’s just me.”

You bite him.

He hisses and pulls back, shaking out his hand. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Why would you do that? You scared me!”

“You’re not careful enough, princess. There was a maid coming up on your left that you hadn’t even noticed.”

You sigh and lean into him. You can’t help it.

He laughs. “Are you that happy to see me?”

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll show you exactly how happy I am.”

“Come on,” he tugs you out towards the gardens. It’s dangerous, but you follow him anyway. Being with Gojo is so threatening not despite his strength, but because of it. You rely on him too easily, trusting him to see you safely through any peril. It’s easy to relax when he’s with you, his presence the promise of security.

You expect him to tell you why he called you here, but he’s silent when he tugs you down on the bench next to him.

“Gojo?”

“Here,” he says, opening his hands. A single crushed violet sits on his palm. You laugh, picking it up and raising to your eye. It’s all the more fragrant because it has been mangled, the delicate petals bruised.

Gojo’s mouth lifts in a smile, too. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize.”

“You really know how to win a girl’s heart,” you tease.

“Hopefully I know how to win over her father’s, too.”

You freeze.

“I’m sorry. I can’t wait any longer. I’m going to ask your father to be your dedicated knight tomorrow. Do I have your permission?”

You hesitate, worrying your lip with your teeth, but Gojo understands. Years of watching after you, bandaging your scrapes that you refuse to cry over or avenging your honor after you pretend your pride hasn’t been hurt has taught him a lot. He can see right through you. You never need to hide when you’re with him.

“It’s alright,” he says. “We can wait.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you to be my guard,” you say in a small voice. “I just-”

“I know,” he says. “But I’m the strongest. Who else would your father ask to protect you but me?”

“Do you think he’ll say yes?”

Gojo looks at you seriously. “I’ll get down on both knees and beg him if I have to.”

“Don’t do that,” you gasp.

“I don’t care,” he says. “You’re what’s most important to me. More than pride, more than honor. Can I ask your father for you?”

You look at the crushed violet in your hand.

Who else but Gojo?

You press the flower back into his palm. “I trust you to do what’s right.”

His eyes soften. He leans closer.

“Gojo,” comes a voice. “What are you doing in the gardens this late at night?”

You stiffen. The owner of the voice is drawing closer.

“Do you trust me?” Gojo asks, as cool and collected as ever.

You nod, not trusting your voice not to give you away. He cups your face in his hands and ever so delicately presses a light kiss to your cheek, tilting his head towards you.

“Stop,” he tells the man behind you. “Don’t come any closer. You’ll scare her.”

“A new plaything?” Asks the Lord Commander. “I’m not so scary, am I?”

Gojo notices you tremble harder. He lifts a hand to the back of your head and presses it gently towards his shoulder, obscuring your face even further. “Come here, darling,” he murmurs. “That’s right, what a good little thing,” he says as you press yourself into him. He pulls you over his lap, your legs straddling his waist as he runs his hand up and down your back. “Keep your head down,” he whispers to you. You tuck your face farther into the crook of his neck.

Louder, he responds to Yaga. “The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard is a terrifying man, or so I’ve heard.”

“Just escort her to her room when you’re done,” Yaga says gruffly. “I don’t need to tell you to be a gentleman, do I?”

“No, sir,” Gojo says cheerfully.

In hindsight, you’re still not sure if Yaga recognized you or not. On one hand, he’s known you since you were a child. He watched, a silent guard, as your father raised you. On the other hand, he’s never brought it up to you.

The only other reason you suspect he realized who you really were was Gojo’s induction into the kingsguard the very next day.

#sera writes #gojo satoru x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader

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