#I just think he’d be so loyal in any au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kneelingshadowsalome · 2 months

Note

What about princess reader who falls for Konig? He's a retired royal soldier (Bit of an age gap but I was thinking more like he was so good he was able to retire early) that she saw every once and a while and she does the typical "disguise myself as a commoner so i can sneak into town" routine and he pretends he doesn't know but he used to serve her family so ofc he fucking recognizes her

He tries to be gentle with her but honestly she should just be happy he isn't ratting her out to her family 🙄🙄🙄 (not that she minds)

CW: 18+ MDNI. Medieval AU, forbidden love, mutual pining, virgin!princess!reader x veteran!knight!König. Undefined age gap (reader is of legal age which means she’s "old" for an unmarried woman of this period). Reader is kinda coercive, König is implied to be a virgin too. Bittersweet romance vibes, brooding guy/gentle girl trope, ambiguous ending.

Word count: 6.4 k

You never thought you’d have the guts to slap a knight.

Violence is unladylike, and even if you’re a princess, it doesn’t mean you should force your status down someone’s throat like that. Far less his, the man you were taught to respect and listen to because he’s a man, and older than you.

The fact that he was also an anointed knight didn’t seem as important as the simple truth that he possessed a cock between his legs, and it always annoyed you to no end that this was the reason why men ruled the world. As a lady still unwed, you’re supposed to be afraid of cocks, especially if they’re old and gruff.

But you never were afraid in the presence of your father’s most loyal knight. He was your sworn shield too, and the only time he had been away from your side was when he asked to go on a pilgrimage to some chapel nearby. Said he wanted to seek forgiveness for his sins.

A man like him must have a lot to pray forgiveness for, but knowing that he could split a man in half with that greatsword of his doesn’t stop you from sneaking out one night as you follow him outside the castle walls and into the local inn.

Dressed as a stable boy, you watch with wide eyes how he gulps down three pints of beer and doesn’t turn any dumber from it. His speech never slurs, his shoulders never slump, but when some kitchen wench sits down beside him, your breath gets caught in your throat.

You look at the odd couple for a moment or two, watch how your father’s knight, the secret object of your silly daydreams, finally loosens the strings of his purse and offers the girl a copper coin.

It’s more than you can take, so you shoot up from your bench and march to him. The woman looks up at you with lousy disinterest as you ask the man of your dreams if he’d like to have another pint of ale. Your knight recognizes you immediately, even in your too-big tunic and your uncomely hose, even with that dirty felt hat covering your hair.

And he’s mortified, from what you can tell.

Both your eyes are wide now, and the woman beside him is smart enough to leave. She slides herself off the bench and sneaks past your side, and your valiant knight just looks at you, looks at you, looks at you.

You should be worried that he’ll snitch about your adventures to your father, but right now, all you can do is stare at him like he’s the thief, caught fresh and red-handed. Because he is a thief, and a devil, the worst man on earth when he was supposed to be the best. You snort to let him know how much you despise him—for coming here and bedding women for money when he’s supposed to be a sworn, celibate knight—but what truly hurts here is that he’s bedding someone else than you.

When you march out of the inn, he follows you, even dares to lay his hand on you by grabbing your arm outside. That’s when you turn on your heels and deliver a fat slap on his cheek, lightly stubbled and sweet, something you had hoped to plant a kiss on for many, many years.

“Your grace,” He grunts and rubs his chin, slightly amused. “Have I offended you?”

The slap couldn’t hurt that much, and this man never does amused. Even now, the mirth extends only to his eyes, never to his lips.

“You know perfectly well that you have, sir,” you clasp your hands in front of you, now entirely his princess even though you’re dressed like a peasant.

“My lady,” he bows both in body and in voice. “I truly don’t know what crime I have committed.”

You’ve never seen him so… jovial.

Usually this knight looks like there’s a stick up his ass, that someone pissed in his porridge and shat in his stew, that there’s nothing but hailstorms and calamity in his life.

Were you any more clever, you’d leave him be, but God has made it so that you’re drawn to battered and beaten animals. Of course you’re drawn to him too, lonely and spiteful as he is. This man broods so much you sometimes wonder if he’s the reason why it rains so violently up here in the hills. He probably summons dark clouds above the castle with those ponderous frowns alone – but now he’s looking at you as if he just woke up from the dead and walked into the shy sunshine after a long, harsh winter.

“You… You shouldn’t bed women,” you tell him, and he looks at you even more curiously.

“You shouldn’t pay for it,” you mumble next – unladylike, again, especially when your eyes turn to your shoes and away from that hawk-like, calm stare.

There’s a short silence after that, and you almost turn heel and walk back to the castle from the desire to escape the weight of his eyes. Eventually, he shifts his weight to the other leg and clears his throat.

“I sometimes pay for women to hold me. There’s nothing more to it.”

You raise your eyes to meet his, but the mirth is all gone now. It’s replaced by solemn acceptance, some sorrow you never even knew he had. Yes, he’s always silent and looks a bit pissed, but he’s not heartbroken, no, not your brave knight…

“To “hold you”, sir?”

The sorrow is covered with white lashes before you get to the bottom of it. Something tugs at the corner of his mouth—shame and frustration, probably.

“To hold me. Like a mother would. Is that a sin?”

His eyes search for yours from under dark brows, they beg for your consent as if it mattered to him. They’re quite catching, his eyes; enchanting in their intangibility. You know he doesn’t need your acceptance, nor is he threatened by your disgust. He’s unreachable, untouchable, forbidden—a mountain you can never climb because you wouldn't even find it among the mist. And those eyes see everything but feel nothing: they haven’t taken part in the troubles of this world in years.

…

He evades you for the whole of next week.

Leaves the hall if you choose to dine there, walks away when he sees you at the stables, looks through you if you have the courage to address him. You stand watch by the window every night to see if he slips out of the castle, but it seems your knight has lost his interest in kitchen wenches and copper hugs.

It burns like hot broth in your stomach, the thought of him in some other woman’s embrace. This mighty giant of a knight, kneeling in front of a girl, paying for her to simply put her arms around him.

You’re not sure if you’re childish to believe him and his words. To trust that he truly goes to them just to be held. You’re not sure if you’re the worst lover of poor, crippled creatures for not wanting to let him have even that...

Because you wish to hold him yourself, here, in the softest of all beds. Just wrap your arms around him after you’ve unburdened him of that heavy mail and thick gambeson; you’d help him with anything he needs. Let him sigh against you and have those lines of worry on his brooding face smooth somewhat. Maybe sing a soft song for him to help him sleep...

The thought of him being so lonely that he spends his wage on girls just to have a hug is driving you to madness.

It’s tearing you to pieces because he would never, ever have to pay you to hold him.

It’s forbidden, you know: this love you’ve harboured for years. He’s far below your rank, even as a bannerman, he’s far below you even if he’s taller than the tallest war horse in your father’s stables. He’s older than you too, but that’s hardly the biggest problem: your father took his second wife when he was five and thirty and the maid was seventeen. The match was considered perfectly normal, even healthy, but this would not. This would cause an outrage.

Oh yes, you’re to be wed far away to some sadistic young lord if your father has his way. You’re sure they’re already gossiping about it in the streets: how you should’ve been sold like a horse years ago. How is it that you’re still here, burdening the kingdom with your presence and swallowing up coin?

If they only knew that you’ve fought against every match with tooth and nail, the townsfolk would work themselves into a small uprising. And you’re not against marriage because you like it here so much... You’re against it because the knight who dresses himself in black mail and makes the servants piss themselves with his heavy footsteps alone makes your heart flutter like never before.

Your father would kill both of you if he knew.

And you wonder… What would he do? Your pale, brooding knight?

Would he scoff and turn his head away if he knew you dreamed of him before sleep, would he be appalled to hear that you’ve touched yourself to the thoughts of him? Would he think you a whore…?

You dress differently that night, the night you catch him escape the dull horrors of the castle once more. Boredom oozes out of the walls here, a poison of nothingness and despair. The stones won’t offer warmth, not even during the height of spring, so it’s no wonder that your knight is headed elsewhere for warmth and a mug of ale.

You dress accordingly to see what this toughest of knights is made of: with a brown woolen skirt and a white cotton blouse, you look the part of a kitchen maid who forgot half her garments at home.

People look at you in the streets, but without your usual attire and with your hair styled differently, they wouldn’t know who they’re looking at even if they saw you frolic around like this in court. You know they’re looking at you because you're a half naked woman ripe for taking, stubbornly out at night and dressed so suggestively it’s a miracle no guard rapes you before you reach the inn.

Maybe it’s the royal pride that keeps them away: you certainly look like you haven’t toiled in the fields or shoveled horse dung in your poor miserable life. There’s an air about you, and he notices it too, far before you’ve sat your pretty bum on the bench next to him.

“What are you doing,” he asks with a slightly alarmed voice.

He has that stick up his arse again, sits so straight that you’ve never seen such a ramrod back on anyone. When you set your hand over his, he only blinks.

“One silver to hold you, sir,” you lean to whisper on his skin, the shaved cheek you’ve wanted to kiss for so, so long. “What do you say...?”

He’s still breathing, even if there’s no sound to prove that he is. You can only see it from the rise and fall of his chest, covered by a stained, cream-white gambeson, that he’s breathing. He’s big, even without his armor, big and strong and intimidating, a tower of strength in one man.

“I cannot bed women,” he talks to the stout logs that make the walls of the inn, refusing to even look at you after one quick horrified glimpse.

“Who said anything about bedding?”

“This is a dangerous game, your grace,” he warns with a low purr when you won’t relent.

His voice is parched but smooth, and you smell smoke; delicious smoke from the fire that sticks to the clothes of a person who spends too many hours staring into a fire. You smell ham and earth and leather and sweat, horses and metal, the rusty stench of mail gone bad.

You wonder how you smell to his nostrils – is it something sweet? Fresh herbs and lavender oil maybe, or soft, spun wool, some tangerines and summer wine?

“I’m not your grace,” you tell him, nose now touching the bridge of his ear. “Not in here.”

You see from the turned sleeve of his padded tunic that the hairs on his arm are standing on end. His eyes are closed, and you can finally hear his ragged breaths. Desire speaks in them, or then you’re in over your head... Why else would he sound like that, like he’s already making love?

“One silver, sir, and I’ll hold you all night,” you repeat softly, and he swallows with a dry, open mouth.

“I don’t have such money on me,” he rasps, voice drenched in slow, drowsy want.

He wants this; wants, wants, wants….

“Really? Is my price too high?”

“Far too high for a man like me.”

You breathe a smile upon his skin, the place where his neck meets his jaw. Running your fingers across his wrist, you leave little to the imagination and you both know it.

“You can pay for the room and we’ll see how much you have left after that.”

“Princess, this is–”

“Hush.”

He’s in pain now, you can see it: the sharpness, the distant eagle gaze from his eyes is gone. He can barely keep his lids open, and when you peel the sleeve back with your hand, pet him like he’s one of your cats, press your lips on the spot you know is the most sensitive, he groans.

“You’re going too far,” he whispers, but won’t move. Breathless now, he can’t even speak with dignity. Gone are the distanced grunts and the composure, even the stick in his arse has melted away.

If a touch of your lips and the softest caress can do this to him, what would happen if you straddled his lap? How would it feel to be pressed against him, naked and entwined in a mutual embrace?

“You didn’t say no to that other girl,” you breathe more kisses on his skin. “Am I so horrendous…?”

“You–” he starts, opens his eyes somewhat. “You are teasing me on purpose.”

“You never were the brightest of my father’s knights,” you smile a little laugh in his ear.

He grabs his pint as if that could save him; out of fury or lust, you don’t know. And that’s when your little adventure gets interrupted: someone must’ve had enough of this disgusting display of seduction and whoring.

“Pardon me, lovebirds. The room’s a copper, if it please you,” a tired voice says from somewhere above. “And the ale is–”

“Ja, ja. I’ll pay,” your knight grunts with such annoyance that you’re not sure if he’s mad at you or the poor soul who interrupted you two.

Everyone here must think that you’re here to make some coin on a lonesome, desperate man. And he’s desperate, by God, he’s desperate… But when you walk upstairs and into your room, he takes a dip in cold waters without you knowing anything about it. When the door shuts behind you, your knight is back to the unbroken effigy he was last week, as he has always been.

“You sleep there,” he points at the bed. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“There’s plenty of room on the–”

“One more word from that pretty mouth and I’ll tell your father what you’ve been up to.”

You’re sent to your bed without supper, in your silly clothes, and get to watch how he barely takes his boots off before setting himself down on the floor, back turned to you. The innocent question “You think my mouth is pretty?” only gets an irritated scoff for an answer.

From under the linens, you watch him sigh and slowly turn to stone on the cold floor. There’s a big rug there but it’s barely enough to keep the chill out, and the hearth is cold during late days of spring. You’re warm enough here under your sheet, but you would be warmer if your knight was here with you… Warm body against yours as you both hold each other through the night.

If only he could be enticed here by lying that you’re freezing... His honor would force him to share the bed with you, and your poor knight wouldn’t have to wake up with sore joints. The more you listen to him let out those occasional sighs, the more you want to shake this man. This silly act of martyrdom has to come to an end, now.

Slipping out from the warmth of your bed, you tiptoe to him. You know he can hear you, probably cursing in his mind with that crude foreign tongue of his. Laying yourself down behind him, you snuggle close until your front is glued to his back.

It must pain him to have a maiden leave the comfort of her bed and trade it for the dirty floor, but you wonder if there’s pleasure in the pain when your touch finds him once more. And it’s not just want and lust you feel when you place your arm around him. It’s not motherly love either, although you do feel like you’re embracing a giant child who doesn’t want to be comforted. You know nothing about how lovers touch or hold each other, you’ve never touched a man other than your father, and those touches were never affectionate and warm, those touches were barely there at all.

You wonder if you should be scared: you were taught that men will fuck everything that moves when given the chance. If a man of his size chose to take you here on this floor, there would be nothing left of you. Such an outcome seems dubious, however, when your sworn shield acts like he would rather be anywhere but here.

“Let me hold you,” you whisper when he continues to be stiff as a rock in your embrace. “You don’t have to pay me. Surely you know that you don’t have to–”

He moves, and at first you fear he’s about to rise and dart to the door. Make a run for it and slam it shut because you pushed it too far, his dumb, danger seeking maiden.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he turns around and buries his face somewhere in your neck. He does it so forcefully that you’re almost sent to lie on your back, and you barely catch the naked pain in his eyes before a rough arm snakes itself around your waist and pulls you close.

Warm breaths hit your skin, sending all the little hairs in your body shooting up – were he to move an inch further down, his face would be buried in your tits…

And then come the tears.

You’ve never heard a man cry like that – well, you’ve never heard a man cry at all. You didn’t even know they knew how to weep. It’s like all the tears in the world are reserved for women and children because there’s no wetness even now: your knight cries in thick, dry sobs, shudders that shake the both of you, years and years of suffering sighed through gritted teeth and into your hair.

Slowly, so slowly, you place your arm around him once more. Your hand barely reaches the middle of his back, so vast is this man, now only a crumbling mountain in your embrace. But when you won’t waver, when you refuse to turn your tail and run, he slowly melts in your arms like spring snow.

He still breathes as if in pain, the sounds that come out of his mouth heartbroken and strained. You’re not surprised to see that even his crying is an act of violence; he’s a man inconsolable.

And yet, you console him. Comfort him. Like a mother, you stay and let him cry his fill in your ear as he clutches you, threatening to tear the back of your poor cotton blouse while doing it.

When he’s done, the shakes recede and his body is warm and calm, soft, almost. He pants and swallows, comes down from it with so much shame that you’re sure he has never done this with anyone, not ever before.

And then…

“I beg for your forgiveness, my lady,” he gruffs on your skin. “That was–”

“Shh... It’s alright.”

You caress the back of his neck, sweaty from the toil. He releases the fabric of your blouse only to grab it again in an even tighter fist. The face in your neck is buried deeper, his lips now pressed right over your throat.

“It has always been you, Geliebte... God knows it has always been you.”

You freeze in the middle of his confession, the panting on your skin intolerably thick now. When you swallow against his mouth, he pulls you against him, the body that used to be rigid and cold now like a hot, thick furnace, threatening to devour yours.

“You must know it too,” he whispers. “You must. You’ve seen my torment. Tell me you’ve seen it…”

He’s not demanding more than he is desperate, some dam suddenly being breached by a long-held flood.

If anything, you thought he hated you... You thought you were alone in your anguish, but it turns out he has carried the same soft secret all these years.

And it drowns you for a moment, his want and yours. Hands trying to touch whatever they can, mouth searching yours like he’s about to die if he can’t have a sip. You’ve heard what happens to women who allow themselves to get groped in dark hallways and winding steps; they hardly ever escape a man’s touch with their maidenhood still intact. And yet, this is what you’ve always dreamed of; a hot, blunt, forbidden encounter with this man.

Now that he’s finally on fire for you, you’re not so sure though. What if you’re about to mate with a beast?

“Sir…” you whisper when he plants trembling kisses down your throat. He thinks you’re only moaning his title in the throes of pleasure, and squeezes you against him so hard that a tight little whimper is squished out of your mouth.

“I’m–I’m untouched,” you tell him before he sends his face between your tits, and it finally has the effect you feared and hoped for.

He freezes too, in the middle of tearing down your blouse. A shivering hand releases the fabric slowly, reverently; it rises to cup your face as your flushed knight meets your stare with shame.

“Of course you are,” he hushes upon your lips, strokes your cheek softly. “I cannot bed you. I know. But let me…”

He blushes while searching for the right words. That’s the moment when you start to suspect if he’s ever even been with a woman. What kind of a womanizer would blush when they’re about to make love to a lady?

“Let me make you feel good,” he finally suggests. “I’ve heard… of a way.”

He almost stutters when he says it, and you wonder if this is what he’s prayed forgiveness for. If he’s been thinking about different ways of wrecking you so much that it’s enough to send him to hell…

“And then,” he continues, “we’ll never speak of this again. You’ll become my lady, and I’ll become your sworn shield once more. We’ll be as we always were. As it always was...”

You’re not sure if you like that – returning to your status quo, becoming who you were before clutching each other on the floor like mad animals about to mate. But you nod.

Whatever he wishes to do to you, it must be something good, and you trust him. Even after he showed you a side of him you’ve never seen before, you’d trust this man with your life.

Your valiant knight carries you back to bed, and delivers on his promise. He never undresses you, he never defiles you. He just lifts your ankle to his lips and gives it a soft, reverent kiss, grazes your shin with his mouth before starting to worship you like a pagan idol of old.

You don’t know where he heard about it–at the stables, or the kitchen, at the barracks or the taverns–but the way with which he makes you squirm doesn’t require a cock, not even a hand. His lips are gentle, but his mouth is hungry, and you don’t know how to feel shame when he’s buried under your dress like that. You can’t even see his face when he makes you his, claims you with his mouth alone.

It must be a sin to not take you like a man takes a woman on a wedding night; it must be a sin that it does not hurt at all, what he wants to do to you. But you don’t care. Love is much better and far messier than how they depict it in the songs, and no one ever talks about the noises a man can make when they pleasure a woman.

He groans like a beast, but moans like a whore – it sends a flush of hot blood up your cheeks to hear him so utterly needy and vile. Your knight who barely gave you a grunt as a greeting in your father’s hall now whines with a broken pitch between your legs. His hot sighs drown your own, and you thank Saint Mary and all the angels that there’s loud music and booming laughter downstairs. It’s still there, the dirty tavern, even if you’re being sent to heaven on this bed...

He gives you mercy only after you break upon his mouth with a series of tight cries. Spends a lengthy amount of time under your dress too, licking and kissing you clean.

He doesn’t appear to be in any hurry to get out of there, but when he emerges, he looks like a drowned, happy puppy, this giant, brooding knight… The sight seizes your heart in a flaming hand that you know will never let go: it’s forever engraved in your heart, that drunken, devoted stare. You thought that men had the needs of an animal and that women were put on this earth just for them to have their fill, but when you look at your knight, it appears it’s the other way around... This man has finally found what he was looking for. Between your legs, he just found his Heaven on earth, his Holy Grail.

And so he returns from his quest with a devotion that leaves you breathless. Takes you in his arms like an injured bird, making you feel like it’s summer already, and the world is nothing but songs and tales and long nights of bliss.

“Know that I am yours,” he says. “Until my dying breath and even beyond, I’m yours.”

It’s a pledge, not a statement, and it’s said with so much weight that the vow he swore to your father pales in comparison.

“Sir... You always say such silly things,” you whisper back while lying in a pool of shimmering love, a heaven on earth indeed. Not even anointed, true to their faith knights talk like this… And he just smiles languidly when you raise a hand to brush his cheek.

He looks like another hug could save him, like a simple adoring stare from you is all that is needed to keep him going for another year. It irks you that he’s ready to settle for so little when you’re ready to give him everything he’s ever wanted and more. With what just happened, he’ll live on for a thousand, thousand years, he’ll survive even the coldest of nights – but you won’t.

“I want to make you feel good too,” you tell him, and a flash of fresh panic crosses his eyes.

“Süssling…”

He says it with worry, but does nothing when you send an exploring hand to his bulge. Drawing a sharp breath when you sweep your hand over it, he goes rigid again, this time for reasons other than just nervousness.

You’re younger and therefore more impatient, which means you’re at the strings of his pants in no time. He looks at your greed with a slack jaw and a set of furrowed brows, but never tries to prevent you. It only spurs you on that he’s acting so shy in front of an eager maiden when other men would already be bullying their cocks in your unexplored heat.

“This is madness,” he whispers when you pull out the heavy, hard cock that reminds you of the members you’ve seen on horses and bulls.

Of course the man’s big down there when he’s practically a myth walking… And there must be a way to pleasure him too, some lovely devilry that will leave you a maiden. A virgin for him to take on your wedding night – because you will marry this man, no matter what anyone says. You’ll burn the whole kingdom down before giving yourself to any other man.

You wrap your fingers around him to punctuate it that he’s yours. If he feared you might mirror what he just did to you, he makes no comment about it when you don’t, only whines when his cock is snared by a frail but eager hand.

“Princess,” he warns, slightly out of breath. “I will stain your dress…”

“Shh. Show me how to please you.”

The worry in his eyes is wild and bright, but the way your fingers mold around him leaves no space for arguments. A broken, stiff sigh is punched out of him when you begin to move: if he won’t show you how, it’s no trouble at all to try and find out yourself.

But when your thumb sweeps over the weeping tip of him, he finally brings a trembling hand upon yours. He starts to guide you, adjusts your grip, huffs when you both apply pressure on it. The curious creature that you are, you look down to witness the ugly beauty of it all.

It’s intimidating and rough, the cock in your hand... It looks like a weapon, honestly, a battering ram that leaks heady liquid from the head. Smooth and heavy and ripped with veins, it’s like a too hard muscle about to bludgeon something, and your hand is making it drool profusely. Would that it were inside you, you would be in grave danger, and why is it that you find the prospect so seductive?

His hand is far bigger than yours, and it makes your heart run wild, the way he tries to be gentle while using your grip to get himself off. He can’t even keep his eyes open from the shame, just takes a quick glance at your enthralled face before squeezing his eyes shut once more.

“Look at me,” you command softly, and he obeys – what else can a sworn knight do? – but you can see that the poor man is on the verge of tears. Shaking and panting, he stares at you while fucking himself with your hand, and when you close the small breath of air between you and kiss him, he melts.

The first thick spurt surprises you completely, you even mewl into his mouth when it shoots to stain your dress. You didn’t expect that to happen, at least not so fast… And because this is the first time you’ve seen a man come undone, you quickly leave the panting, moaning mouth and look down.

There’s so much of it, and the release is so violent; it looks and sounds like it hurts because the man is shuddering and groaning as if stabbed. Thick, white pulses of seed coat the brown wool of your dress, but it soaks the semen gladly: there’s nothing left of his cum other than dark, damp stains after he’s done.

And there’s no end to his shame. He pries your hand away from his cock as soon as he’s somewhat composed. Does it with a shaky hand, wipes what little stains of hot, wet seed you have on your palm to his pants, and all you’re thinking about is what it would feel like to have this giant trembling and groaning like that above you, inside you… If you could even take all of that thick, brutal length. If he would be able to move away when inside your heat, if he’d let you hug him again, just hold him close so that he’d never ever leave anymore…

“I have soiled you,” he mutters while looking at your skirt.

“Nonsense. You have only claimed me... I’m yours now.”

“Princess… No amount of silver–”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare.”

You actually manage to kiss him silent. Tears begin to run down his face when you show him where he belongs. It’s the final surrender as he pulls you into his arms and finally drowns you in love – at last, you find yourself under him as he takes what's his. What seems like hours later, he breaks the kiss, only to look into your eyes with full-blown adoration.

“How am I to live without you after this?”

“You don’t have to. Not ever,” you say.

“Princess. If there was any hope for me to have your hand, if there was any hope that your father would give it, I would have carried you away from this place years ago.”

For a while, you fear it’s the fear of sin that burns him. But then you realize it was always only just you.

He looks so anguished now, even more in pain, when all you wanted to do was relieve his agonies. This was only a taste of what he can’t have. You both took a bite of the forbidden fruit but can’t eat the entire thing – no wonder he looks like he’s cast out of heaven he didn’t know even existed.

“Sir, I cannot do this,” you grab his face with both hands now. “Please don’t make me do this...”

He sighs and looks at the mess you just made. He’s broken every oath he’s ever taken, and the evidence is scattered right there between you. The only thing deadlier than this would’ve been if he pumped all of that hot, fluid sin inside you.

“Sweetling,” he laments. “Look at us. You’ve already ruined me. Ruined us both…”

“It’s called love, silly.”

He breathes a short, shy smile, the first you’ve ever seen on him. It’s cute and makes him look young, the quick flash of teeth between unruly lips, the almost bashful, downcast eyes that are not quite ready to meet the full brunt of your devotion.

“Ja,” he breathes. “Ich weiss.”

Then he brings his eyes back to yours, his smile slowly making way for a more serious expression. He lifts a hand to touch your cheek, and you find yourself soaring in the sky like a bird, a phoenix that has risen from the dead. It’s heavenly, the way you both caress each other, here on the lowly tavern’s bed, covered in salt, sweetness and sin.

“Your father will have both our heads if he finds out,” he tells you as if you needed the reminder.

“I pray our heads will never be separated then.”

He snorts a quick smile again. It makes you heady, that you’re apparently the only one who can make this gruesome giant laugh.

“You’re dangerous, princess,” he gruffs. “I knew you were trouble… And yet I curse all the years I left you in peace.”

“I know,” you smile. “Never the brightest one, my love...”

When you lie in his arms that night and tell him about your silly little fantasies, he grows hard again. When you tell him you now have new ones—ones where you’d want to feel him inside you—he looks like a man condemned to death.

The stares he shoots your way make it clear that he’s lost – no matter what he says, he can’t be kept away from you, not anymore. You suppose he’ll forsake even more secret promises and vows before forsaking the pledge he swore to you. Even at the cost of your lives, he’ll come scratching at your door, howling for some quick, hot love in the night, begging for you to give him everything he has denied himself.

And eventually, you grow more serious too. While lying in his arms, safe and tucked away from all the horrors of this world, you play with the leather strings of his gambeson, tugging them and twisting them around your finger like a child.

“There will come a day when they promise me to another,” you whisper, wondering if he’s already asleep.

He promised to never leave your side again, he promised. And still… What will happen when the carriage and horses take you to some distant, hostile kingdom, far away from him? What if you only get this summer together, and then nothing no more?

“They’ll take me away,” you tell him, almost without a voice.

A soft, hearty grumble answers, a man who finally knows what he’s fighting for.

“No one will take you away, sweetling. Not as long as I live.”

#könig x reader #könig x you #medieval au #konig x reader #könig fanfiction #cheesy romance warning

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yeokii · 3 months

Text

⌗ ADORE YOU ﹕이희승 (TEASER)

꒰ synopsis ꒱ all hopes were crushed when you realized there was no way to get close to your crush, choi beomgyu. your advances to get close to him never seemed to work. so, you decided to get closer to his best friend, heeseung, by joining the broadcasting club. but as scripts change, so do crushes, and you end up falling for his best friend instead.

▸ auditions are open . . . !

ㅤ❕MATCHMAKER ── crush bsf ! heeseung x reader

fast forward ⃕ [ genre ] : written, fluff, angst, 90s au, unrequited love

meet the members ! beomgyu, gaeul, jungwon, taehyun, juyeon [more tba.]

warnings 𖧷 [only in this scene] unrequited love, yn kinda uses hee, thats all I think

ㅤhe's a real catch ▹ est. 2OK

⌕ [ archives ] one result found . . . hi (still on hiatus kinda) js came here to post the fic teaser :D (im prolly gna post this after mocks or after my igcses) also ty @yenqa sewlmate for writing the synopsis (ly dookie) send an ask or comment to be added in the taglist !

THE FALL OF NINETEEN-NINETY SIX MARKED A PIVOTAL MOMENT IN YOUR LIFE. Ever since you came into the world, you never really could grasp the concept of love.

You wrapped your head around the myths and tales your mother would read to you every night. You thought that every princess would have her own shining knight in armor. So, after thirteen years of living, where was yours?

Your knight in shining armor, or knights in shining armor, existed within the pages of the comic books you read. You often wondered if they would magically pop out of your books and transport you into their world. Similarly, you wondered whether any of the characters from your adored TV shows would step out and bring you into their lives.

So, it wasn't a surprise when your jaw dropped to the ground as you saw the most beautiful man in your life (well, technically, boy). If the epitome of beauty was a fourteen-year-old boy, it would be Beomgyu.

But it wasn’t just his face that made your thirteen-year-old self swoon over him, it was also the way he acted. You loved the way he conversed, his smooth way of talking at a young age and the way he smiled at you every time he made jokes with his friends. You loved how his eyes lightened every time he’d pull a silly prank.

But the problem was, he never talked to you. You admired him from afar. You never actually had the guts to talk to him, as if. You were content with watching his funny actions from a distance.

There were some moments when you pushed aside your nervousness and talked to him. You remember having butterflies in your stomach the moment you first talked to him. There were times when you both were paired up as project partners for a biology assessment and at that moment, you swore you could’ve worshiped the floor that your biology teacher walked on due to her giving you an opportunity like this.

You knew this was an opportunity to make your move. And you did. You brought him small snacks with little notes on them. Gave him gifts regularly. Maybe even took lessons from your best friend on how to subtly flirt with him. You really thought you had him. Because whenever you used to play out these little acts, you saw the subtle smile on his face. You were so close. It’s like the universe laid it out for you. Gosh, how lucky you were!

Luck. The luck that you thought you had. If luck was a person, you would’ve tackled it to the ground already. Because the day you were about to confess to him was the day he announced his new girlfriend.

His first girlfriend. You doubt you called it ‘love’ since the only thing she cared about was that he was popular and pretty. That’s it! All that girl could get from Beomgyu was his looks and his reputation. You could’ve scoffed at the sight.

Beomgyu was so much more than that. He was loyal, kind, and trustworthy. And she went for his looks. Even though she had him, you felt as if she was missing out on so much. You were partly sad due to them getting together and also due to Beomgyu getting used to his looks.

So, you were practically prancing when you heard the news of their breakup a month later. Did you care that Beomgyu was absolutely heartbroken? Well, yes, but you felt relieved that Beomgyu was finally unleashed from that mean troll's wrath.

And as he got older, he grew more handsome. And God did you love it. When you entered high school he was a completely different person. He had gotten more flirty and way more pretty. He was way out of your league.

Out of the years you were in this crappy high school, you made absolutely no improvement in your and Beomgyu’s relationship. Beomgyu, who kept getting new flings every summer and tons of situationships seemed to discard your existence. One could only say ‘What the fuck?’

Your thoughts swirled, and you had a collection of emotions roaming around your head until your best friend jolted you back into reality with a gentle nudge on the shoulder.

“Are you even listening?” Seori’s voice cut through your thoughts, annoyed, since she had to explain what she was talking about in the first place.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” You blinked, focusing your attention on your best friend.

She sighs, “I was saying that I think Doyoung is going to ask me out.” Seori pouts “Why does he not get that I don’t like him that way, jeez.”

Her ramble about her current boy toy washed out in the background. You were once back in your thoughts until you saw him heading into the cafeteria. Beomgyu entered the cafeteria, his smile widening at something his best friend said.

Lee Heeseung, Beomgyu’s best friend. His ride or die. As long as you can remember, they were attached to the hip. They were basically the package deal. If Beomgyu was the life of the party, Heeseung would hold up his hair while he threw up in the host’s toilet. While Beomgyu was the exact depiction of a social butterfly, Heeseung remained aloof, keeping people at arm’s length. You could only wonder how he dealt with Beomgyu’s outbursting personality.

“Earth to Yn!” Seori snapped her fingers in front of your face which once again, brought you back to reality.

“Sorry.” You sheepishly smiled looking at your best friend's annoyed face. Your friend followed the gaze you had fixed before looking over to her. And her eyes followed the trail of your alleged ‘man’–– Beomgyu.

“Him again.”A sigh erupted from Soeri, having enough of your rambling over your four-year-old crush.

“I’m sorry, alright!” You pouted, your back hunching over the disappointing development between you two which was nowhere to be found. “He’s just so cute, God!”

Your sigh was followed by your best friend. Not long after, your best friend’s fed-up expression converted into a rather eager one.

“I got it!” She exclaimed, her hand hitting your back while she practically screamed. You winced in pain as a few fellow students gave you judgemental stares.

“All you have to do is be close with his best friend, Lee Heeseung.” She slowly said, almost like a mastermind coming up with a villainous plan–well, you would consider your best friend to be some sort of evil criminal.

But this, this opened new angles in your head. It felt like the universe–or more like your best friend–laid it out for you again. Your once unsolvable puzzle showed a new direction, and the missing piece was all in front of you.

Okay, maybe you felt bad that you were going to use Heeseung like that, even looking forward to it. But, you were really desperate. To the point where you would actually be eager to attend Sunday mass just to ask God for Beomgyu to like you back or even spare one glance at you. Well, what could you do?

Out of excitement, you pulled Seori in for a hug with a squeal while giving her a kiss on the cheek which she in return, yelped. “Seori, you’re a genius!”

“Yes, I know.” She laughed a bit, escaping your tight grip on her before wiping the spot you kissed her hastily with her hands.

“I mean, how hard could it be?”

You smiled and your gaze wet up to the boy you loved for most of your life, then slowly to the equally handsome boy.

Jackpot.

adore you tags . @wonsbaer @isoobie @armydrcamers @heegyuwrld @nxzz-skz @txtlyn @enhastolemyheart @positivelyinlovewithjungwon @sumzysworld @eleanorheartschishiya @petalsofink @bluujeans @jvjsssnaa @iamliacamila @m3chigo @oldjws @kyrjnie @heartswonn @aeminju @en-dream @yeahsspider @imstupidcheesecat

tags . @flwoie @zuyairus @bubblytaetae @yenqa @haknom @redm4ri @hanniluvi @haechansbbg @taejaysreads @shinunoga-iie-wa @teddywonss

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diejager · 3 months

Note

just thought of something really funny for the monster cod au. what if reader has a small emotional support dog, and reader is just kissing, cuddling and saying “i love you”s to the dog. do you think the animal hybrids would get jealous of the dog bc of their animal instincts?

Cw: jealousy, tell me if I missed any.

You came with a K9, a big Shepherd and collie mix that you took in after you completed you medic training, a little friend you trained and spent your time with. You two were a package deal, the Task Force wouldn’t have you without Milo, and vice versa. You were assured by Laswell that they didn’t mind K9s in the TF, it was a welcome sight to have an actual dog rather than a hybrid or monster. You took it with stride, Milo by your side at all times and they were never bothered by it, how protective he was of you and how much attention you gave him, but you hadn’t expected to see some grow… jealous of Milo.

You watched Soap and König especially turn green with envy, their burning glare shot towards you fury friend when you kissed his nose and praised him for being such a good boy. He truly was, your loyal and affectionate companion that you nurtured since he was a pup, fighting side by side with you when you were on the field. Soap - sweet Johnny - would shift more often, throwing himself at you whenever you were walking Milo. Rather than simply walking a dog, you walked a dog and a werewolf, a jealous and drooling werewolf that kept rubbing his side against yours, panting and growling out words that you didn’t understand. It was hilarious, seeing how jealousy made Johnny act, his tongue lolling out to lick over your cheek, demanding kisses and praises with his wide and gleaming eyes after you gave them to Milo.

König was as unsubtle about it as Soap was, voicing his envy with nonverbal cues for affection. He would trail behind you, his broad figure so quiet, and tugged at your shirt, mumbling incoherent words until you gave him you attention. He’d stare you down, fluttering his lashes for compliments, whether they were teasing ones or loving ones, he took all and anything you gave him. It was rather… König was less eager than Soap was with praises, but he was more stubborn with it, silent demands and needs for the occasional praise or words of affirmation that you still loved him.

Ghost and Horangi never showed a sign of discontent about the amount of love you gave Milo, but they did towards Soap and König’s unabashed need for it, some slight disgust and growls, snarling at the other for something you truly didn’t understand. Price and Alejandro were… they found enjoyment in your sticky situation, you caught them throwing you a mean grin when you passed them with either Soap, König or both of them stalking behind you. You remembered them calling Soap and König lost pups with heart eyes.

Then there was Gaz and Rudy, godsends, the gentle but logical figures of the team, they would step in to redirect Soap or König’s attention towards them to let you go about your day. If Johnny followed you around, a big wolf drooling all over the floor, scaring others away, Rudy would send his cadejos to herd the big wolf back. If König became your third shadow, his giant figure looming over you and making everyone hesitant to seek your help when they needed needed it, Gaz was there to offer to cuddle up in the couch and let König run his fingers through his wings.

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @thigh-o-saur @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 11 months

Text

Songs That Sound Like Sea-Foam (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Fisherman!John Price x F!Mermaid!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 5.7k

WARNINGS: Blood, abduction, violence, intense gore, death, swords & firearms, angst, hurt/comfort, nakedness, etc.

A/N: Guys, whatever you do, don't imagine Price in a white tunic holding Mermaid you in one arm and weilding a sword in the other. I'm frothing at the mouth.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You sit on your black rocks once more, the darkening sky warning of an oncoming storm that you can feel seeping into your bones. In your loose grip, you fiddle with John’s necklace.

He’d given it to you only recently as a gift, seeing as you enjoyed the shininess of it so much, and you’d taken great pleasure in keeping it around your neck. Out of all of your treasures and trinkets, somehow these measly metal discs had become your favorite. The necklace is smooth under your caress, and you look down at it adoringly, eyes soft and lips curved with delicate affection.

The cove, as always, was quiet above the call of seagulls and the lapping of waves; the whispering ripples from your tail as it sways under the water. You had gotten content with this—the silence. Because you knew it would be filled by the low gravel of an accented voice soon enough; would be swept away by the chuckles you could wring from beard-hidden lips.

John was something to look forward to, and you loved the way he looked at you.

Water hits the top of your head.

Blinking out of your honeyed thoughts you look up to the crying sky as small slaps of droplets slide across your cheeks. Lashes flinch at every motion, and you glance back to the empty cove before lowering the necklace to your scaled lap.

Confusion slithers in like an eel to your heart as your eyes slide over the growing waves. The yawning mouth of the entrance sits abandoned of any small fishing ship.

For three, beautiful, sand-covered, months, John had never missed a day to come and see you. Rain or Sun.

A prick of a sharp fish's spine enters your brain. The rain comes down now in sheets. Lightning and thunder fight, and if you look close enough, the remnants of ancient lightning birds battle overhead with a flurry of black wings and their insatiable need for blood. Yet, still, your eyes stay frozen on the cove entrance as the water rises and rises.

With a thinning of your lips and the violent pushing from the torrent as it swallows your rocks, you clench your hands over John’s necklace and push off your perch with a shove of your palms.

Water encompasses you, scales dull, and fins limp as the general calmness from the encompassing water holds you in a constant sway. Your brows furrow.

Why wasn’t he here? You ask yourself, sinking among the seaweed and the schools of quick fish. Concern mingles with hurt. Do…do you think he’s alright?

Human ways were still confusing to you, even if John had been helping you understand them and giving little clam-shells of information. But they seemed…like violent folk. Angry and selfish, from what John had said about their wars and squabbles. The thought of your fisherman potentially being in danger on land was terrifying to you.

There wouldn’t be anything you could do if that happened.

Your fingers tighten around the strap of his necklace as you stare at the surface, back lightly hitting the bottom of the cove with a puff of sand. Crabs scatter as your tail twitches, your lungs sighing in their own special way.

John can take care of himself, you reason. He’s just a little late is all.

John’s never late. Your face creases, but you stuff the thought down, twisting on your side and bridging the piece of jewelry to your lip—kissing it once as sand digs into your skin. Holding the fisherman's property to your pounding heart, you close your eyes and wait as any lonely and loyal Merwoman would; tail held in close and the reverberations of a rabid downpour above you.

—

You wake up to the darkness of night. Blinking, you sigh to yourself and move a slow hand to rub at your eyes. After a moment of fatigued confusion as to why you weren’t in your cave, you realized why you had been out here in the first place.

John.

Arms pushing you up, your mind fights to wake itself, laced with algae and fatigue. How long have you been asleep? Has the storm stopped? Surely you hadn’t slept the entire day away. You pull the fisherman's necklace over your head as you stare at the sand below you. No fish were slipping past besides one that brushes your tail, which you found odd, but didn’t think much of it.

Shaking your head, you feel sluggish and put the necklace back on with a huff. You worry what John will think of you perhaps missing his late visit and smile slightly in humor.

The fish brushes your tail again.

Scales shimmering, you turn with an annoyed pull to your lips, fins scraping something hard and rough even as it’s saturated by the water of your cove. When you spot it, not only the rope but the shadow of the large hunting ship above you, your body drains of any life that had once lived in your lungs. It wasn’t nighttime.

Eyes widening at the loop that was parading around your tail, you don’t have time to move before it tightens with a force that leaves your mouth opening in a bubbled scream; ruthlessly jerking your body along the seafloor.

Desperately, your hands rip along the rocks and weeds of the bottom of the cove, getting torn and shredded in their soft nature as easily as paper. Your body smacks into every little object with a rattling to your bones that makes you sob. Red saturates the water as you’re manhandled in long and steady intervals back and up.

No amount of rampaging your tail does can break the rope, and with a last-ditch effort as the sandy floor gets farther and farther away, you twist around and tear at the woven cord with sharp nails. Adrenaline pumps, pupils tiny and panicked.

No! No, not like this! You can imagine the pain of it now—the hooks and the ripping of scales from your supple flesh. Even now the tiny ones under the dig of the vice are peeling away in long strings of red to disappear behind you as you’re thrust upward. They’re delicate, don’t these monsters understand? They’re beautiful and treasured and they’re destroying them!

You scream in pain at the pulling of your spine; a large creaking in your muscles.

But as you gain a small sense of feral hope when the rope begins to fray from your grip, the iron net squashes any belief of surviving.

It slams into you as John would cast his own for his prey—but this one is larger and full of cruel, curved, spikes. Is this what your parents endured? What the harpies had meant? The iron sinks far quicker than rope, and it traps you in a dome of hell before you can mutilate yourself out of the maw.

Oh, Gods, it was going to peel your skin away.

True fear pounded in your breast, and with a cry of John’s name from under the water, you watched with horror as the net descended onto you and your bloody wounds.

They drag you above waves and the first thing you do is thrash and wail so loud the seagulls shriek in surprise. There’s crimson staining the waters sloshing at you with combative ease, the violent storm from before now a light slapping at add to your fear. In the wake of open air, the curved spikes dig into your flesh as easily as a unicorn’s horn can penetrate a wyvern’s armor. Skin everywhere is assaulted and peeled to a tautness of bodily torture.

Oh, and your precious tail.

It hurt so badly, like nothing you had ever experienced before.

“John!” You scream as your body strikes the side of the large ship, voice cutting out and leaving a bawling yell behind. Your form was being pulled by steady hoists and barked orders.

All around you can hear laughing—joking. Loud exclamations of approval.

You’re sure they’ve dislocated your tail right at the joint, how could they not have? The ream of their strong arms and ruthless greed. Oh, your tail, your precious, beautiful tail.

Long streams of salty tears fly down your dripping face; arms pushing the spikes away from your neck and face with futile action. The net and rope were your earthly graves.

They slam you to the deck like a fish.

Jerking and slapping around, your arms hit the wood with a bird-paced heart. The iron rattles and keeps you down like a weight.

Brokenly gasping through loud cries, the sudden jeering faces from all around leave your fear all-consuming.

They were ugly—broken teeth and sun-destroyed skin. Eyes that bugged and scars that could be from either a sword or a Strix’s claws. More than likely it was from meager squabbles with crewmates. But you balk back nonetheless, terrified and bleeding profusely.

They were going to rip you to pieces.

Inside your chest, your lungs are rising and falling quickly, and the hands that glide along your form make you want to burn your skin off. They grip at you, yanking you around as your hair gets caught in the gaps between the iron. With nail and tooth your bite and claw, but how many were there? Ten? Twenty?

There’s uproar and more jokes as you fight back; body lifted and spikes torn out of skin as you arch your back and howl in agony. Their hands are not John’s. They don’t caress your smooth skin with reverence or holiness—this is cruelty. This is a sadistic pleasure.

“Isn’t it our lucky day, Lads?!” A high and grating voice bellows out, and finally free of the net, all you can do is cry and flip your tail uselessly along the polished wood as they throw you down. Your vision blacks and slowly comes back—hair matted and skin slick with more than water.

It hurts to breathe too much. Whimpering, your cheek presses itself into the deck as footsteps take someone closer.

“Holy God, would ya look at that down there, eh? A true maiden of the sea,” A thunderous belt of achievement from everyone leaves you flinching, eyes tight shut to try and focus on anything but the excruciating way your skin throbs and gushes blood. “Though we’d have gotten all of them by now!”

Haggard laughs and rotted smiles.

A hand snaps to wrench your face upward, and you yowl and grasp at your head as your delicate strands go tight.

“Now who’s the little beauty we have here?” Whoever this man was, he had no standing on John. On your Fisherman.

Loose skin and an age-rotted tunic, a belt at his waist holding a scabbard with a gold sword and twin pistols. He had only one eye—brown as a pile of mud—with a black eyepatch over the other.

Your fluttering lashes took in a cracked-lipped grin of approval; whether at your battered appearance or the nature of your species, you knew not. But you didn’t like the way he was glancing at your tail as if it was made of gold one bit.

“Lords above, did ya have to be so brash, Lads?” Spittle slaps your face and you fight again with the hands in your locks to get away. The man’s hold jerks your face back and forth until you stop with bile building in your throat. “Wrecked her silky skin, you did!”

Being thrown back, your skull slams the deck before you hurl your guts in a sputtering of air and crimson. Many laugh and kick at your already broken scales. You grit your teeth and refuse to cry out.

“Get ‘er tied up and in the Hold for storage. If the scales are good enough, we’ll peel ‘em tomorrow.”

“Peel?!” Your face whips into a twisted glare, and pain leads to fast anger; wrath, even. The men grow gradually silent at your outburst and the leader comes to a slow stop—his back to you. “How dare you?” You gasp out, hands pushing your body slightly backward until the agony makes you stop with a lip-bitten whine. “How dare you do this to me? What have I done to you and your men? You’re nothing but senseless cowards who shy at something that lives its life differently! Am I only a pile of coin for you?!”

Your blood runs over the deck and seeps into the grain. Staining it with your memory and presence like a ghost that’s not yet dead. Loose scales shimmer and drip red. They were damaged and dull—your flesh was mangled.

The leader turns back and smirks with blackened teeth. “More than a pile, Little Dearie. Far more. And if those hooks had been kinder, the King would have loved a beauty like you in his collection.” A look is slid down your body with a knowing chuckle.

He stalks off and you peel back your lips to say more, but a stained rag is shoved into your mouth instead, shutting up your rageful screeches and any hope of a peep of potent song despite not knowing these devils’ names.

By the time they chuck you in the Hold, body bouncing along the wood, and shut the hatch with a reverberation of wood, you had managed to rip someone’s ear clean off and break another’s arm; but there was only so much you could do. They had bound your hands behind you with a blow to your spine.

Curled up and longing for the sea, for John, you hold the only thing you have left.

Silver discs on a chain, the metal smooth and the only thing now shining. You feel it hit your breastbone and sob as the headache of blood loss begins to set in. Laughter echoes from above your dark prison.

—

John saw the blood in the water before he saw the scales being pushed back and forth on the beach. Caught in that gentle push and pull now that the storm had ceased beyond a light drizzle—bright and reflecting the misty sun; far more vibrant than a fish or a sea serpent. But the blood.

Christ, there was blood in the water.

Blue eyes stare blankly at the sea-foam at the shoreline, red and bubbling, John’s pupils small and the lashes held back even as a salty breeze hits them with a burn. At his sides, his hands slowly close into fists.

Jumping off the side of his ship, the man lands in thigh-deep water, gritting his teeth before he shoves his way to the sand and black rocks of land. He doesn’t know what drives his actions, or why he’s doing this, but with quick hands, he snatches up what scales he can find and keeps them in his palm; mind on fire.

Anyone could see the fury in John’s gaze—a growing hatred for what was just beyond sight. When he has all he’s able to carry, he wades back through the water and gets himself back atop his boat easily with one hand.

Walking quickly and soaked, he pushes aside a small cloth atop a barrel; seeing a gold box hidden under it. He opens it deftly, and while he puts the damaged and torn scales inside, John glances at the expensive and elegant twin cuff bracelets that sit in blue velvet.

When he had been away buying them for you, he should have already been here. Wasted time.

I left her here alone. Knowing what could happen if I did. A growl bounces under his beard, face going red with anger. The two of you had quickly become enraptured with each other—drunk off flesh and touch like non-sentient animals.

And something had taken place while he was away. You were gone, the fisherman knew. The water wasn’t as clear, the fish were terrified, and the blood alone proved this—the scales. This wasn’t an accident.

And it had something to do with that ship he’d seen on the horizon with his narrowed eyes not minutes prior. The Captain was slowly re-taking over the man.

“Fuck!” John curses, teeth bared as he spins and readies his sails. With violent pulls at the ropes, letting the mainsail shift down in a flurry of white sheets, he turns the vessel around in no time at all. It was as if Poseidon himself was pushing the ship forward to that small dot on the ocean line, far, far away.

Deadly purpose bled into his heart, and the early afternoon sun forced him onward with hellfire following at his heels. He re-wraps his gift in the meantime, only taking a single scale from inside and putting it in a small pouch on his belt before walking to another barrel and pausing. This one was older, more sun-bleached.

John deserted the service years ago, but not long enough to forget how the world of men can be. With a grunt on his thinned lips, the brunette rips the top off and grasps inside.

With an experienced hand out came a sheathed Cutlass, the leather of the handle worn and indented to his very grip. It found a place on his belt, and John wasted no time in making the Flintlock pistol follow.

A fisherman he may be, but in his blood John would always be a killer. He knew how to fight dirty and fight well—carve skin and not flinch at the sparks of gunpowder. There was no hesitation as to what he would do to get you back.

In his chest, there was a weight of rage and concern as he glared at the far-off Hunter’s ship.

“What the hell have you done to her?” He growls, beard back and eyes narrowed. His hands clenched and unclenched with loathing.

John’s thoughts go to the horror stories he’d heard about Merfolk and them getting caught in the open ocean, when he’d found you he had been surprised. He felt his heart beat faster when you were around, his blood would spike with love and affection.

It was strange, unheard of, but he can’t stop it now that it’s happened.

No one touched you with their cruel hands and lived.

John didn’t like it, but he hung far enough away from the Hunter’s ship so that the cover of night hid him. Dark stars hung at his head, tunic blowing in the chilled breeze when the waves took him close enough—all was silent. Asleep.

Lantern light slid along the waves, and with deft fingers, John anchored his ship with measured efficiency a small distance away. Looking over the side, the fisherman grunts under his breath and sets his shoulders. Without a single glance in hesitation, he slips silently off the deck into the water.

Immediately, John kicks his legs and resurfaces with a puff from his nostrils, whipping his head to the side to dispel water. Making no sound, the man swims the distance between vessels, hearing the creak of the still and bulky form of the Hunter’s ship ten times his own sitting above him.

“Fuckin’ bastards,” he grumbles to himself and thinks of your condition intensely. His heart hammers even in the clutches of the frigid waters. But beyond the insult, no other words needed to be spoken—the prior Captain was a man of action.

Violent Action.

John wades to the side of the wooden structure, the waves threatening to smash him tight into the hull and skin him against the barnacles, but he braces himself and grabs ahold of the knife at his belt, next to his cutlass. In his stupor to get to you quickly, he’d forgotten that his Flintlock would be completely useless now that it had been submerged in water.

Grunting and trying to remain as quiet as possible, the man sets his blade into the side of the ship into the thin slits available. In his free hand, he takes up his cutlass and does the same. In a feat of impressive upper-body strength that leaves his muscles bunching and tensing—veins visible from the side of his neck—John huffs breaths as he climbs the ship one panel at a time.

He groans and sends the blades back in at opposite intervals, the firm thunk-plunk, thunk-plunk, bouncing off the dark air as the moon shines bright. But no one awakens.

The Fisherman pulls himself up the side of the ship and swiftly ducts behind a pile of large crates on deck to gather himself, wiping his forehead with his arm.

“C’mon Sweetheart,” he mutters, “hold on just a little longer.” Duel wielding both weapons, narrowed eyes look across the open area—the stain of blood all along the wood. Glimmering in the low light catches John’s fiery gaze.

Scales. Your scales. Littering the deck and scattered all over.

If possible, the man becomes even more enraged, knuckles going white over his blades. The man stationed on deck was asleep across the way; leaning back and snoring. John locks eyes on him and hides back a vicious smirk. Quickly sneaking over and staying near the edge of the lantern’s lights, the ragged-looking man awakens to a blade at the base of his throat and a voice in his ear.

“The woman,” John speaks slowly and deeply, accent rolling out. The watchman tenses in his grip, but John grits his teeth and grits out, “Where the fuck is she?”

“W-woman?” Usually, the brunette could paint himself a patient man, like a flag fluttering in a breeze waiting for the next bout of heavy winds without care or concern. But this was different.

By God, if these pathetic fortune-seekers had hurt you even in the slightest bit…

John presses the blade harder to the man’s throat, thighs shifting in agitation, glaring at the far-off water beyond this stranger’s shoulder.

“The woman.” Blood falls down the blade edge, crimson. A tiny whimper. “The one that you stole away like an fucking animal.”

“The fish?” The tone was incredulous but with a snarl the voice continues, whispering pitifully out in fear over the night’s silence. “She’s in the Hold! I swear it, Sir, on God’s green earth I do—”

John slits the man’s throat and takes his leave before the body drops, blood spraying into the air with a garbled cry.

—

You don’t sleep so much as you fall unconscious from the lack of blood. Inside your head, your brain is fuzzy and light—everything swirling like a jewel’s many faces reflected onto a wall. The rocking of the Hunter’s ship, while something you should be used and accustomed to, made you sick at times until only the watery bile that fell from your lips hit the wood.

At some point, you’d given into the call of nothingness at the lack of seawater and the violent shivering of your shoulders. Your tail had gone completely numb.

Everyone knew that Merfolk needed the sea to survive—you couldn’t live without feeling its loose arms around you for long periods, pulling you in and filling your airways.

This was torture.

But whoever was ripping up cloth at your limp side was muttering you back into the darkness of the Hold.

“I’m right ‘ere, c’mon, Love. Open your bloody eyes.” Hands pressed to your face, tilting it and hissing before a thumb slid along the swollen skin of a cut. “I’ll rip them to pieces…mark my word. They’ll not live through this.”

It sounded like…

Gripping at your binds and gag, both items slipped away right before the larger cuts on your body were suddenly packed with strips of rough material. Occasional whispers of words and curses wafted out.

“...J-John?” Your voice is rough, shattered, but at the same time you manage to force open an eye.

Tight blue eyes meet yours immediately, and his voice softens to a painful degree as he addresses you. “That’s it, atta girl. Just keep focusing on my voice, then, yeah? Come back to me, Sweetheart.”

Tears well your ducts, lips quivering.

John was curled over you and had ripped up the bottom of his tunic to make strips of bandages to try and stop the bleeding. He came for you, gruff voice and large frame, all.

“How are you—” Your voice breaks into body-shaking coughs, but that doesn't deter the man. He carefully puts a hand forward and tilts you into his arms; head resting on his chest. Your ears twitch to the sound of his heartbeat, loud and fast. You cling to it like a lifeline as those calluses graze your skin once more.

How was he here?

“What have they fucking done?” John’s voice is dark and volatile, his hand stroking your matted hair. “What did they do?”

He’s not so much asking you as he’s asking himself. You breathe in a wheeze, not noticing the crimson staining John’s clothes—none of it his or yours in the slightest. The other men on the ship weren’t the Fisherman’s priority, only you; always you. But whoever had been in his path had met the unfortunate end of being on the opposite side of his blade.

When he’d found you like this….it was like his entire chest had fallen still. His eyes wide with horror and fear.

John had never felt something that visceral before, except when you hadn’t been in your cove.

“Oh, my Beauty.” Chapped lips press to your forehead, breathing you in as arms curl around you. “Let me bring you home.”

You shake and cry silently into his neck, weak hands coming to grasp at his neck.

“They’re going to take my tail.”

“No,” John’s answer is immediate and firm, pulling you closer until you might slip into his skin. “No, they’re not doing a damn thing to you. I promise, Love, not a single person will ever touch you again, you hear?”

You burrow into his neck, this fisherman’s flesh soft under your force. Hands keep you to him, and with another kiss on your cheek, they tighten and gently move you into the clutch of his arm.

John looks down at you with great distress, eyes flickering over every sign of abuse and hurt. The men whose throats he’d slit in their sleep deserved to be awake and see the blade descending for their neck, he thought.

“I’m going to lift you, Sweetheart, eh?” He grunts to push aside the hatred in his tone, not wanting to scare you. He gazes around the Hold and at the low ceiling—the insistent rocking from the waves just outside.

You suck down greedy breaths and nod slightly, shaking in his arms. John’s eyes crease in sorrow but has no option but to continue; the both of you can’t be here when the remaining men wake or discover the bodies.

Your Fisherman frowns but does what he’s able to both quickly and effectively lift you, your tail hanging limp and dripping blood from the fins. When you tense and whine, John shushes you quietly.

“Hush, now, it’s alright. It’ll all be over soon, I’ve got you. I’m taking you back home if it’s the last thing I damn-well do.” Your teeth grit with held-back pain, every movement was agony and to think made it worse.

Home? Home wasn’t safe anymore. Like taking a knife to the heart, the thought makes the torment all the worse.

John holds you in one arm, head under his ear and rubbing against his beard as his muscles strain to keep you right to him with his torn tunic and blood-freckled skin. In his free hand, he wields his Cutlass and exits the Hold slowly, eyes surveying the scene.

The scores of bodies were only a fraction of the men of this ship—only one side of the crew’s quarters that ascended up to the deck. John knew the anatomy of a ship well, certainly one like this.

His only question was why such an unsavory bunch was living on a King issued hunting vessel in perfect condition. Was the bastard hiring pirates for his extermination game?

“If I ever get my hands on him…” John shuts himself up as someone groans in their sleep from the far wall.

He glares in the general direction and puts his body between yours and the straight direction that he walks—sword parallel to the ground and knife at his belt as a backup. Ready and wound for a fight.

“You..you came for me?” You ask softly as John carries on, your blood leaving a crimson trail behind the two of you; your mind is loose to all except the way your Fisherman’s thumbs run circles in your rent scales, fingers gripping under your tail joint which aches and hurts. His bicep is curled at the small of your back.

John carries you like you weigh nothing.

“‘Course,” the brunette's eyes slide to yours, true honesty and firmness behind his words. You flutter your lashes at the fatigue in your body and his feet speed up, speaking into your scalp and nuzzling his beard into you. “No one messes with my girl.”

“I’m not a…girl, John,” you remind, softly.

The smirk on your head gives you strength, fear steadily draining like contaminated liquid.

“No,” he whispers, “no, not quite. You’re something far more lovely, aren’t you?”

Your heart swells, tears dripping down your cheeks once more before lips slide them away with brushes of a kiss. He carries you up the stairs quickly, sword at the ready.

Lantern light makes you squint, hands tightening around John’s neck.

He hums to you, a small melody that you can latch onto to help focus—it keeps your mind working as everything else falls away. John’s warm flesh and his lungs, the sound of his pulse.

He came for you. No man would do that besides him—no specimen of any species. No one except John.

Your Fisherman.

You’re halfway to freedom, feeling the sea air on your flesh and longing for the depths of untouchable waves. You peek from John’s neck and blink delicately, what little scales still intact shimmering, and fins aching for water.

“John,” he begins to pick up his pace, but still glances in attentive question. “I need to be in the water. I can’t go long without it.” You already felt a bit stronger by just being by the open sea. The man nods and you smile deeply, face twisted. You kiss his cheek deeply. “You have my thanks, Fisherman.”

His tight expression gradually loosens with care and love. “Doubted me, then?”

“Perhaps only a little,” he kisses your lips, cheeky smiles peeling his beard.

“Well, we’ll have to fix that, eh?” The man’s face is lit by lanterns, stars like a crown above his head that illuminate the small scars and the sheen of sweat like a portrait of a good man.

Perhaps humans were truly more magical than you had been taught to believe, for no mortal man would do this for anybody.

In the midst of him carrying you over to the edge of the ship, he’s only three feet from the drop when the familiar sound of a Flintlock hammer being clicked back hits his ears. You feel John lock up, and your eyebrows crease in confusion; not common to the model of metal and wood.

Looking over his shoulder, you strangle down a raspy gasp.

“John—”

“I know, Love.” He whispers, turning slowly with his sword at his hip. The stranger with the eyepatch has his weapon leveled with the brunette’s chest. “Easy, let me handle it. Keep focusing on me.”

“A thief in the night!” The leader calls, and alarm from below deck start to rise in question at the noise. John grits his teeth and his stance widens. “Thought to make off with my prize, did ya? I’ve not seen you before on this ship.”

“Hell,” John grits out, loudly now that he’s caught. You burrow deeper into him and he shields you, voice hot with rage. “Save me the fuckin’ monologue. She isn’t yours—to own or bloody take.”

As he speaks he points his cutlass in the leader’s general direction, holding it aloft with a strong and pale arm. The leader smirks, and soon the pound of rushing feet enter the deck—men holding weapons and clubs. You make a noise of tension and John tries to shift you farther into his grip even more.

Your tail hangs and brushes the deck, gaining some feeling back to it gradually.

The leader laughs. “What that creature is, Mate, is enough gold for a whole moon’s time in rum and pleasure.” His single eye falls on you as the crew gets closer, crowding in and yelling.

John shuffles back and snarls like a boar, pointing his sword’s tip from one chest to another.

“Keep your bastard eye off of ‘er, you prick. Find your score elsewhere. She’s coming with me.” So sure he sounds that you yourself believe it. Your chest swims with pride.

The crew closes in, but jumping at this stage was dangerous. The ones with firearms could aim in the water before you both could get away and John didn’t know if you could swim still. Your fins were torn and tail flinching with damaged nerves.

Eyepatch barks a vile laugh, “...I think he loves the beast!” John’s body winds even farther and your eyes slip to the side of his red face. He grunts stiffly, hair damp. Everyone follows in their amusement, mocking the two of you. “I knew that necklace around her neck meant something.” Your body stills and you glance down at John’s gifted silver. Blue eyes flash to the same, but as if suddenly realizing the nakedness of your top surrounded by such brutes, your Fisherman pushes on the back of your spine to shove your chest into his own with a panicked look. You grunt in surprise, but let him. “No greedy Mermaid would bother with a trinket like that! A piece of rubbish metal. It means something to her—and I’ll bet that something is you, Thief.”

Me, greedy? Your eyes narrowed into slits. If you knew his name, you’d sing his death song in an instant. Your Fisherman’s face goes stiff, knowing the predicament the two of you were in. There was no way he was giving you up.

But himself…

Tiny lids narrow on the arrogant leader.

“Do you trust me?” John whispers to you, suddenly, as all sides were surrounded and the water just as dangerous as the deck.

Face creasing, you say, confused and worried, “Of course.”

“...Then forgive me.”

He throws you from the side of the deck, and whirs to run his blade through the nearest man.

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ghouljams · 9 months

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Medievall au Konig…

King of a neighboring kingdom, who is declaring war. The king and queen, parents of Ghost’s princess, offer her hand in marriage as a peace offering. inviting him over to shortly court/get to know the princess, but falls in love with her lady in waiting? (or any type of servant/help type worker)

God this is dangerously close to my cursed king König from my novel and I am for REAL holding myself back here. This isn't going to be König's new medieval au, but I wanna see Ghost sweat and I love causing the princess pain. So I’m using my cursed König here, because I love him, and also because he’s just a little fucked up, and also also because he is just... incapable of loving the princess lmao

You hate this.

Your maids have spent all day preparing you to meet a man that could become your husband. A king. You pout as they scrub you with perfumed soaps, rubbing scented oils into your skin and hair until every nook and crevice if you is soft and sweet. It's truly the most extensive bath you've ever had, and all you can think of is how badly you don't want it to end. The same with your makeup and your hair, all the primping and poking takes far longer than you would've liked, and yet far shorter than you need. It's miserable, and your maids are too chatty, too excited. They don't leave you alone long enough to cry.

Your parents, well your mother, have planned a rather elaborate dinner to introduce you and the neighboring King. You desperately want to kick and scream, throw things and make a mess until someone takes notice of your misery and puts a stop to it. Your maids tighten the strings of your dress, fix your necklace until it sits just right on your chest, spritz you with perfume, and tip your tiara until it catches the light with the sparkle of tears in your eyes.

"You look beautiful m'lady," your lady in waiting smiles, squeezing your shoulders tight in an approximation of a hug. It's not a comfort. You feel like a horse being trussed up for the market. You say nothing, you think she gets the idea. She's always been a good friend to you. "Maybe he'll be terribly rude and ugly, and the King will kick him out before the meal is over," she suggests.

"One can only hope," you mumble.

Ghost isn’t waiting for you outside your quarters door. Your eyes dart around the hallway, past the knight that offers you an introduction. He should be here, why isn’t he here? He wouldn’t leave you if something important didn’t come up, something must have happened. You turn to your maid, confusion stealing away your anxiety for the moment.

“Where’s Ghost?” You ask her. You hardly have a spare moment to feel sorry you’ve ignored this poor knight who you’re sure is his stand-in.

“Orders of the King,” The knight tells you, “I’ll be your guard from now on.”

Your heart falls. They’re really serious about this. You wonder if your mother put up a fight, if she was the one to suggest it. It feels like a betrayal of the highest order to look at this knight and tell him.

“I’ll be in your care.”

When all you want to do is throw a royal fit and tell him to get Ghost or get out. You suppose you could. You could go back into your room and send word you won’t be attending anything. Be a true royal brat. You shudder to think what would become of you if you did. Without Ghost to protect you, there’s no telling how quickly you’d be dragged from your quarters. Placed in front of your royal guest kicking and screaming, what a first impression that would be.

It feels like a funeral procession walking down the hall towards the formal dining room. Your feet hardly want to carry you, but you can’t run with an unfamiliar knight at your heel. For all you know he’d chase you down under your parents orders. That was the one thing you never had to worry about with Ghost, perhaps you took it for granted how loyal he was to you and only you.

You stop in front of the heavy wood doors. You don’t even get a moment to collect yourself, barely get a squeeze of your hand from your lady-in-waiting before the guards on either side open them. Immediately your worry over Ghost is replaced by anxiety for yourself.

The doors open, the guests at the table stand, and you look up, up, up, at the man you assume is your neighbor King. The height of him, the sheer mass of musculature and masculinity frighten you. You thought Ghost was tall, does this fucker come from a land of giants? The King tips his head to you, and you dip into a low curtsy. As well trained as ever.

"König," your father smiles, a ringing rising in your ears as König stares you down, "this is our daughter, Princess-" You wish you could say he at least seems interested in you. He doesn't. His eyes look bored at best and disdainful at worst. You wish you could say more but the lower half of his face is masked. You'd wonder what that was about, if you weren't so terrified that this man was going to take you away, he doesn't even seem to want you.

The man, König, has an air of violence to him, madness almost. An air you find infecting your mind even as you walk to your seat. The proximity to him doesn’t help the feeling that if any man would be the hand in your death it would be him. You can hardly imagine what a marriage to him would entail. How cruel could he be, when you couldn’t even sense a spark of warmth from him.

You knight pulls a chair out for you, and you sit, moving on pure instinct. König's eyes slide off of you to touch your maid as she leans to speak to you. You barely hear her over the ringing in your ears, your breath coming short as you stare at your place setting. Did you leave your heart in your room? It feels like you must have, you hardly think it's beating.

You feel like every muscle in your body is pulled taught, tightening to keep your skeleton from shaking. You can’t think against the rising wave of dread that settles over your mind. Your vision is so fuzzy, and the crown on your head is impossibly heavy. The weight of awful responsibility. An animal raised for slaughter, that’s all you are, all you’ll ever amount to. Another bargaining chip in your parent’s pocket to be thrown on the table in front of any unwed king they find important enough.

This is worse than an interview with a nobel. There’s no need for a formal meeting between you and a king. If he likes the look of you he can take you. There’s nothing more that needs to happen to make you his. A wedding is a formality. You’re sure that giant of a man has never heard ‘no’ in his life, and even if he had you’re sure that no didn’t last long. Where is your gentle knight? Why do you have to be doomed to a nightmare when so many other girls get to be loved?

Someone touches you. No one is supposed to touch you. You jerk away, the world snapping back into focus with a rush of sound and color. You maid crouches next to you, your hand between hers, concern clear in the furrow of her brow. You look around the table, the startled expression of your parents, König's wide eyes. Your lady in waiting swipes her handkerchief over your wet cheeks silently. Are you crying?

"I'm sorry," you smile at the other people seated at the table, "I'm just- just so excited at the prospect of marriage I suppose." Your lady- your friend fixes König with a sour expression, still dabbing at your makeup. You glance at your mother to try and pick up the conversation, maybe salvage this torture. She isn’t looking at you, her eyes set on König. Her expression is placating, her smile as warm as a crocodile’s. Political, just like you are supposed to be.

The air in this room is stifling. Your parents love you, but they care about you only as far as you’re useful to them. Despite your mother’s previous words, a king is too good a deal to pass up. Just like a princess throwing a tantrum in the middle of the night is too disgraceful to mention in the morning.

“She’s not usually like this,” your mother tells König, her voice sweet, “she must be nervous in the face of a man so…” König raises a brow, despite the full plate of food in front of him, he has yet to remove his mask, “handsome.”

You shove off your maid’s fussing, your skin crawling to be touched by anyone. You’re going to be sick. You hardly mutter an ‘excuse me’ before you’re running from the room.

#cod x reader #x reader #könig cod #könig x reader #könig call of duty #könig fanfiction #könig #knight!ghost #medieval au #even tho he isn't in this lol #it is Ghost's story #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #könig mw2 #konig cod

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merakiui · 1 year

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Absolutely love the possessive ex Scaramouche ramble in tags, please feed us more of that.

Gladly!! :D

(cw: yandere, extremely toxic ex scara, modern au, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, stalking, coercion, obsession, forced marriage, violent/suicidal threats, manipulation, mentions of intoxication/alcohol, implied self-harm)

The two of you were what everyone calls ‘high school sweethearts.’ You met him in the cafeteria when the both of you were first years. Despite the scowl etched on his face, he looked lonely sitting all by himself while everyone was finding tables, old and new friends gathering in groups. He’d ignored you, even scooting further away when you’d attempt to move closer. Even though he seemed so averse to you, you remained, silently eating your lunch. Neither of you said anything, but you did introduce yourself. He scoffed under his breath.

You started to sit next to him for every lunch, and he continued to give you the silent treatment. You never pressed him for conversation, instead choosing to enjoy silence while you ate and admired him from the sidelines. He never looked at you, always facing forwards and toying with his chopsticks, bending them so far until they were ready to snap. Eventually, he seemed to grow accustomed to this routine because many weeks into the semester he turned to address you.

“Why do you always sit by me? Don’t you have anyone else to bother?”

“Maybe. But I don’t think anyone’s as mysterious as you are.”

“‘Mysterious…’ Yeah, whatever.”

That seemed to be the catalyst because, as sardonic as he was, he’d begun talking to you. And it wasn’t long until he started to warm up to you every lunch until the both of you were exchanging lighthearted banter. Your friendship would only grow from this point onwards until, at the end of your first year during a study session to prepare for finals, where you were both pulling an all-nighter at your house, he’d asked you out. And you said yes, and the both of you had gone from best friends to lovers within the span of a year. The both of you were each other’s first partner, so it made doing things as a couple even more exciting because neither of you had any experience with dates or holding hands or kissing.

Kuni wasn’t a bad boyfriend. In fact, he was very loyal and sweet. He’d stand up for you if anyone was being rude to you or scrutinizing your relationship with hateful eyes. The two of you were nearly inseparable. When you weren’t spending time together in school, you were out doing things together. And when you couldn’t meet up in person, you’d text or call, sometimes talking late into the evening about all sorts of things. You were so immersed in him that you failed to notice the red flags slowly raising over time. But looking back there were a few notable ones.

He never invited you to his house. In fact, you’d never even met his parents, whereas he’d been to your home so often that your family practically became his own. He hadn’t mentioned anything about his family, and if you tried to suggest going to his house for dinner so that he could introduce you to them he was quick to change the subject. For a while you’d push this, more curious than concerned, but eventually you’d drop it when it became clear that he wasn’t going to divulge anything on the matter. That had stung, but you snuffed those feelings in favor of focusing on other aspects of your relationship.

The second red flag was just how clingy he became when the both of you were in your third year, having been together for two solid years. You never noticed it before because you loved him, but when friends had pointed out how attached he seemed—and it was to rather unhealthy levels, according to their observations—to the point where you were the only person he’d ever formed a bond with while at school you started to see the cracks in what felt like the perfect relationship. He’d text you every single day, at every single hour, all the time. He’d call you nonstop, even more so when you didn’t immediately pick up.

The third red flag coincided with the second. When you couldn’t make it to your phone, he was quick to blame himself and those around him for being responsible for your deteriorating relationship. Did I do something wrong? Are you mad at me? Did those guys bother you again? They probably told you some stupid shit about me, right? Don’t listen to them. Hey, you’re not mad, right? Call me back. I need to talk to you. Just text me when you can, okay? (Name), please don’t leave me. I’ll fix whatever’s wrong. Just promise you’ll stay. Messages of these kinds were what you could expect to receive from him. He’d fluctuate between self-loathing to loathing those around him within seconds, shoving blame onto classmates who’d bully him for being that “weird emo kid with too many piercings” and anyone else who tried to, in his words, “come between you and me.”

By the end of your third year, you started to fall out of love. He was so very dedicated to this relationship, evidenced by how much effort and care he’d put into it, but his clingy behavior was stifling. You’d lost some of your own friends because he chased them away, and it felt like you couldn’t do anything without him breathing down your neck. If you wanted to go anywhere with a friend or two, Kuni had to be there to accompany you. If you looked at another for too long, he’d think you were cheating. If you didn’t text or call him at certain times, if you failed to pick up, or—Archons forbid—you left him on seen, he’d spiral.

Kuni had this habit of sounding dangerously self-destructive when he feared you were being unfaithful or he thought you were going to break up with him, which meant you’d have to sit on the phone for hours convincing him that you loved him, that you’d never leave him, that you’d always be here for him, that you were sorry for not responding, that he needs to calm down and please, please, please don’t do anything rash. Those phone calls were always so stressful. You cried a lot; you’d beg him to put the knife away when he’d threaten to use it on himself, on you, on anyone who might try to take you from him. And, after a few hours of this, he’d be back to his usual self, as if a switch had been flipped. You could hear his adoring smile in his voice when he spoke, when he’d lovingly whisper into the phone, “I’m happy you’re mine. I love you so much.” And you’d shakily parrot the affirmation, too frazzled to say or do anything else.

One of your best friends Rosalyne, who you’d befriended in the midst of all of this, had been so supportive the minute you spilled the truth to her. Kuni hated her the most because she wasn’t afraid of him. Because she’d shut him down when he tried to pull you away from her. Because she wouldn’t approve of any of his toxicity. Rosalyne would take you on shopping sprees, brunch dates, and jogs at the local park. She was plenty of good to outshine Kuni’s bad, and the more time you spent with her the clearer your head would become. The both of you had plenty of sleepovers together, and she let you rant your heart out while she listened. She’d tell you to break up with him, but you’d agonized over how terrifying that would be. You couldn’t bear to tell Kuni the truth—that you wanted to separate because things had turned so rotten—because you were so scared. Scared of him and what he might do.

Scared that if he really did take a blade to himself it would be your fault. He told you that a lot. That it would be your fault if he did anything. That his blood would be on your hands. You believed him every time.

By your final year, you’d already had a plan for university outlined and you’d started applying to a few in advance. You never told Kuni about any of them because you worried he might apply to each one in hopes of going to the same school as you. And when there was the dance for the graduating class and Kuni had asked you to it, you’d told him you were going with Rosalyne and a few other friends as a group. He didn’t like this, as expected, but you’d been so sick of him and his behaviors that you snapped and spilled everything to him. You’ll never forget the look on his face when you told him that you were done with the relationship and that you never wanted to see him again.

He looked as if he could lunge at you and tear you to bloody ribbons at any moment.

You graduated single and so very refreshed, and your summer had been filled with friends. Kuni didn’t message you at all, which was surprising considering you were certain he’d spam you relentlessly after the break-up. But he never did. In fact, you never saw him again. Graduation had come and gone, and now that you could recover from such a terrible relationship he was becoming less of a burden for you. For a while you were anxious. You kept expecting to receive a phone call or to see some news about Kuni, but neither ever came. Rosalyne told you to stop thinking about him. It would only make you even more paranoid and that wouldn’t do your mental health any good. You were so grateful to have her in your life, but most importantly you were glad Kuni failed to scare her away.

Now you’re a second year in college and things have only gotten so much better for you. You and Rosalyne still keep in touch despite going to different schools. She’d gone to a university in Snezhnaya, while you enrolled in one in Sumeru, and you’ve blotted Kuni from your mind. You’ve made a fresh group of friends while attending classes: criminal justice major Shikanoin Heizou, creative writing major Kaedehara Kazuha, musical therapy major Venti, botany major Tighnari, and so many more wonderful people who have all welcomed you into their circles.

So when Venti drags a familiar face to your usual weekend outing, which is really just a retreat to the forest for drinking and smoking, creeping cold settles into your bones. He looks awkward with Venti’s arm slung around him as the more bubbly of the two drags him towards the bonfire, where you sit with the others roasting marshmallows for s’mores, and it’s a look that is so uncharacteristic on him. What’s even weirder is how friendly everyone greets him—as if they all know him—and you’re completely lost when they turn to you and ask if you’ve met Kunikuzushi.

“No,” you lie through your teeth, forcing a pleasant smile and extending your hand for a stiff handshake, which Venti snickers at. “No, I’ve never met him before.”

Apparently, he’s in one of Venti’s classes—it’s a course he’s taking solely because he needs the credits. Tighnari knows him because they usually work the same shifts at the campus café. Kazuha knows him from his linguistics and philosophy classes. Heizou’s ate with him in the dining hall plenty of times now and they’re also taking the same psychology class. It feels so genuine and yet so fake at the same time. Too perfectly manufactured to be a mere coincidence. But you do your best to push past these suspicions, and when he sits across from you, smiling at you and saying how nice it is to meet you, the warping flames paint his face in devilish shadows. That’s what you think he is when he acts like a completely different person from how he was when you dated: a devil who’s good at being kind and outgoing, noisy and abrupt, and always so foul-mouthed, but in a way that makes him charming. Your friends are so enthralled. They love him and his sense of humor. They love his quick wit. They love how fun he is. And suddenly weekends spent in the forest aren’t so enjoyable.

You do your best to overcome your doubts. For a few months you’re on edge. How he even found you is a mystery. Surely he wouldn’t stalk you and enroll in the same college just to get revenge or…whatever vengeance he wants from you. But when he treats you to coffee, when he brings you and the others pastries every other morning, when he invites the lot of you to study at the library, when he tells the funniest stories while crossed and everyone’s giggling like schoolgirls it really feels like he’s…healthier. Like he’s turned a fresh page in his life and is starting anew. Like he’s changed for the better.

Perhaps he just doesn’t remember you. You’ve changed your style over the years, so it’s possible he’s simply forgotten your image and can’t place memories to your name. Eventually, after soothing yourself with these theories, you begin to accept his presence in the group. He fits in so flawlessly, as if he’s a missing piece to the puzzle, and you can’t believe you’re admitting this, but you like this version of Kuni. He’s confident, not cocky. He’s kind, not rude. He gives everyone space. In fact, he rarely texts frequently in the group chat. And he’s funny! He’s so funny. You don’t think the Kuni from your past was ever as funny as the Kuni who regales everyone with lighthearted stories of how he once took in a stray cat that turned out to belong to his neighbor or how his old job had the strangest customers.

Maybe he truly did change. Maybe all of these coincidences really are coincidences. Maybe it’s for the best that you leave the past in the past.

Finals season looms, and the group hasn’t had time to meet up outside of class. Venti has tried to persuade everyone to come study at his apartment. His roommate won’t care (yes, he will. Xiao hates it when everyone gets blackout drunk and he has to wake everyone come morning), but if you’ve known Venti long enough you’ll know there is no studying that happens at these study sessions. This is probably the reason why he’s had to repeat a year.

With everyone’s schedules packed with academics, it’s difficult to find a time where everyone can get together to study. You think you might just be better off studying on your own, but Kuni’s message of you wanna pull an all-nighter for these lame af finals together?? accompanied with a photo of snacks and coffee, any thoughts of studying alone instantly vanish.

This is how you find yourself in his dorm, sprawled on his bed while he sits on the floor, whacking your dangling feet when they get too close to him. His roommate Albedo is currently out tutoring a few students at the library and won’t be back until much later, so it’s just you, Kuni, and a pile of textbooks and notes. You’ve hung out with Kuni a few times and he was great company during each. You’ve also fallen asleep in his dorm before, when you’d come over to binge a show the both of you enjoy, and you’d lost track of time and had slipped into a dream halfway through the marathon. You’d woken the next morning with Kuni looming over you, grinning deviously and holding an uncapped marker. He’d leaned down and whispered, “You drool in your sleep,” and you’d swatted at him and groused about how you were sleeping so peacefully when he just had to ruin your sleep (and your face) with his antics. And then there was that time when you were so drunk at that one party and you could hardly stand, he’d been there to help. He even stayed with you for the rest of that night, offering his assistance when you became nauseous or needed water or a snack until you passed out.

Despite your initial apprehensions, you consider him a friend. He’s no one nearly as close as Rosalyne or your other friends. He’s just a mutual friend, someone you’ll spend time with when you feel like it, but you don’t truly need him in your life. That, and part of you still struggles to trust him after all of the stress and unhealthy obsession he subjected you to.

“Kuni,” you whine, lifting your head from the textbook. “Can you get me some water? I’m thirsty.”

“Do I look like your maid?” he snaps, immersed in organizing his notes. “Get it yourself.”

“I’m picturing it now and you’re in a frilly dress and—”

“Forget I asked.” Setting his notebook down with an exaggerated sigh, he crosses the distance to the mini fridge and withdraws a bottle of water.

Grinning, you slide off of his bed and reach for it with a grateful hum. He smirks and takes a step back, holding it away from you.

“Seriously…”

Rolling your eyes, you lunge for it and he side-steps you with the practiced grace of a cat. You brace yourself against the wall and swipe at him. Again, he dodges, unscrewing the cap and shaking the bottle teasingly.

“I think I’ll take a sip for myself. All of this studying has left me so parched.”

“No fair! That’s mine!”

“Is it?” He pulls it away from his lips to observe the bottle and feigns surprise. “That’s weird. I don’t see your name on it.”

“Look closer!” you exclaim, but just as he’s about to humor you you pounce, tackling him to the ground—there’s a beanbag cushion that breaks your fall—and the water spills all over the both of you in the midst of the tumble. A slew of colorful words stick in Kuni’s throat and your laughter rings out melodiously. You seize his wrist and hold it down while reaching for the bottle in his other hand, where there’s still some water left. He struggles halfheartedly, relinquishing the bottle with a disinterested scoff, and you pull away from him to down what’s left.

While crushing the plastic bottle into a ball, you notice something on your palm—the palm that had grabbed Kuni’s wrist—and it takes a minute before the skin tone-colored substance registers in your mind.

Concealer.

You peer at him and notice that he’s cradling his arm, and confusion sprouts.

“So funny,” he spits with a hollow laugh. “You owe me a new beanbag if this one’s ruined.”

“Hey, hold on. What’s with the—”

“Forget it. You got your water, so let’s get back to studying. Or do you no longer want to be a perfect student?”

Without thinking, you grab his arm as he’s standing and when you look at his forearm you can see where the water’s started to wash the concealer away. Curiously, you scrub at it while he tries to yank his arm away, but when you unearth a dozen scars littering his wrist and climbing the length of his arm that creeping cold from before returns.

And suddenly you’re brought back to those phone calls—the ones where he’d threaten suicide and murder—and you stumble back as if you’ve been burned, half-expecting to hear those threats once more. Kuni’s staring at his wrist, his features twisted in grim disapproval, and for a moment you think he looks…hurt. Or maybe that’s sadness you see. Whatever emotion it was, it doesn’t linger because a quiet chuckle slips past his lips, and the sound is so very frigid it has your blood crystallizing.

“It really hurt when you said you never wanted to see me again.” Kuni peers down at you, and his eyes that had once been so bright and filled with light are dull and dark. “But nothing hurts more than loving you.”

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but the words won’t come. You’re rooted to the ground, horror slinking through your body and rendering you immovable. Your heart is in your throat, pounding so loudly it’s practically a drum, and a cold sweat washes over you.

“Each time I found myself hating you, I thought it was odd because I love you so much. I can’t possibly hate the one I’ve loved all this time.” He scowls. “But loving you hurts. Loving you feels like chewing glass and drinking poison. Loving you isn’t fair because while you moved forward with your ‘friends,’ I was forced to stay behind and pick up the pieces of what was left of you. So for every moment I couldn’t stand you, I tallied it on myself so that I’ll never forget the times I loved you so much I hated you.”

This can’t be happening, you’re thinking, curling your hands into trembling fists. He changed. He changed, right? This isn’t the same Kuni from before. This isn’t…

“And when I saw how well you seemed to be doing without me, I hated you even more.” Without warning, he’s grabbed your arm and hoisted you up. You open your mouth to scream, but no sound comes—not that anything could when he’s pulled a switchblade from his pocket and poised the pointed tip at your jugular. “You have poor taste in friends. Those guys suck.”

Tutting, he shakes his head at you like a parent might when scolding a child, and says, “Do you know how fucking tiring it was pretending? You think I care about pastries and stupid campfire stories? You really think I’d ever want to associate myself with that sorry lot?”

“K-Kuni, please let go of me. I… I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were—I’m sorry. So please just…”

“And then the first time you see me after all these years apart and you had the gall to lie to my face! ‘I’ve never met him before.’ Bullshit. You just didn’t want any of your loser friends to know our history, right? Because you’re ashamed to have known me, right?”

“That’s not it! I… I was just—I didn’t… I was… I just…”

“I… I… I…” he mocks, shoving you down onto the beanbag. It dips under the sudden weight, and you sink further into it when he points the blade at you. “Stop tripping over your tongue. I should be the one near tears! You cast me aside and then forgot all about me. You abandoned me when I needed you most.” His voice cracks at that last sentence, and your heart skips erratically.

“That’s not what happened! We needed space. I needed space. You were being too—” You stop yourself, unsure of how to phrase it. Too controlling? Too dangerous? Too scary?

“Lucky for you, I’m willing to overlook these past...slights.” The blade twirls effortlessly in his grasp, and you heave a relieved breath when he’s no longer pointing it in your direction. “Marry me and we’ll forget all about the past. We’ll start over.”

His demand almost stops your heart altogether. You stare up at him, mouth agape, and mumble a disbelieving, “What?”

“You heard me.” He seems to soften with his next words, and for a moment he looks and sounds like the Kuni who hangs out with you and your friends. The harmlessly fun Kuni who always takes such good care of you. “You’re the only one I’ll ever love, so let’s get married.”

“K-Kuni, I can’t... I really can’t...”

Within seconds the blade has found itself on his wrist, pressing into delicate flesh. Not enough to cut, but if he applies more force you’ll definitely see blood. You choke on a horrified gasp.

“What was that?” He raises his brow at you, challenging you with a calm smile.

Your mind reels in an effort to conjure a plan. What can you even do? If you take the blade from him, will he turn his anger on you? Will you have to wrestle him into submission? And if you do manage to get out of his dorm, will anyone believe you? He’s painted himself in such a pleasant light. Your friends love and trust him! So what can you say? And if there isn’t any solid proof, no one will even entertain bringing the authorities into this mess.

“I’m waiting, (Name). Are you really going to make me add another tally? Do you really want me to hate you again? Oh, but maybe I should start marking you! We can add a slice for each time you failed to love me. That way we’ll both look like used cutting boards.”

You need help, you want to say, but the words escape you.

Instead, you nod hastily and say breathlessly, “Okay, yes! I’ll marry you!” Swallowing your horror, you glance at the blade as it’s lifted from his skin. Thankfully, there isn’t a cut. “I... I’ll marry you, Kuni. So... So please don’t hurt yourself. Please.”

It feels like you’ve been strangled for an eternity, so when he finally pockets the blade the air in your lungs returns and you collapse against the beanbag, chest rising and falling in short, panicked breaths.

“Good.” He bends down to your height, grips your chin with cold fingers, and forces you to meet his adoring stare. “We’ll look at rings tomorrow. Or maybe you’d prefer bracelets instead? I can be flexible but only for you, so you’d better be grateful.”

You swallow rising bile and nod. “T-Thank you.” You’re not sure why you’re thanking him when he hardly deserves it, but it feels like the right thing to say to ease the tension.

Kuni’s eyes sparkle, no longer a void of endless darkness, and when he leans in to capture your lips in his your heart sinks. You really can’t run from your past, can you?

#genshin chit chat #yandere-romanticaa #yandere scaramouche #scara says he needs you but what he really needs is a therapist first and foremost #adding heizou into the mix!!! he probably takes notice of your change in behavior #and confronts you one on one to ask if everything's okay #and he looks so concerned and his voice is so soft and so you break and spill everything #and he nods while he takes in all of this information before offering to help #he knows the law (he's studying it after all!) so he can help you #but what heizou doesn't tell you is that the law might crush one evil person but it can easily protect other evils :)#especially him who is oh-so-honorable and sweet #you'd never know he wants to be more than just friends #and that he has a journal detailing your every move #but also i like the idea of heizou being a genuine friend and the two of you grow closer while trying to find ways to get scara caught #and taken away from you for good #but yan!heizou just hits so deliciously orz #also also!! adding in rosalyne~~ she went to the same uni as kuni (in snezhnaya)#but when he finally found out where you were he transferred #and rosa only realized they went to the same school when she found out from ajax (who also attends the same uni)#kuni probably worked part-time as a hospital receptionist before he transferred schools #and he's pretty sure the doctor there is a serial killer or he's just on the border of criminally insane (this is dottore after all)#(me looking at every way i can insert each harbinger into this au >:D)

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pix3lplays · 6 months

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can i request argenti x reader arranged marriage au? :D thank youuu ehehe

Of course! Thanks to @yarnnerdally for giving me a starting point!

Cw! Sharing a bed and stuff, nothing super suggestive

-Argenti: Arranged Marriage-

This man would commit himself to an arranged marriage if it meant saving lives. Imagine. Your planet is on the brink of collapse. Their relations with the Knights of Beauty is…Shaky at best…so you really have no choice but to agree to enter an arranged marriage so the Knights will agree to try and save your planet. Argenti isn’t afraid to volunteer, people’s LIVES are on the line, and if he doesn’t like you…it doesn’t matter. It’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make. He meets you. The royal representative of your home planet. You exchange pleasantries. And you already have this FEELING about him. Your knight in shining armor…Argenti. He introduced himself by getting on one knee and kissing your hand, calling himself the Knight of Beauty that was here to be your husband, and that he’d vow to stay by your side until the bitter end. And that he was quite happy to make the acquaintance of a beautiful soul like yourself. AND that he apologized that you must be arranged into marrying him, but he would do what he could to make you happy.

You learn pretty quickly that your new husband is a unique man. He has many, many flowering plants that he brought with him to plant in your gardens. He spends much of his time tending to the flowers. He even speaks to the flowers, gently, softly, telling them about how wonderful and interesting his new partner is…things like that. He loves to take you for strolls in his garden, introducing you to his plants, occasionally plucking one off a bush or tree, and by the time your done with the tour of the garden, he’s made you a lovely little bouquet of beautiful flowers. Your first night spent together he offered to sleep on the floor, or in the other room, whatever made you feel more comfortable, like he couldn’t imagine the possibility of forcing someone he was arranged to marry into sharing a bed with him. When you assure him that you’re comfortable sharing a bed with him, he hesitantly removes his armor and slides into bed with you, but he doesn’t try to touch you or make any sort of move on you. He’s a gentleman that way.

And. You got to see the BEAUTY of Argenti in the morning. An absolute MESS of tangled, long red hair. It was his first time sharing a bed with someone too, he hadn’t even considered you seeing him in such a state. He’s. Pretty embarrassed. But you assure him you still think he’s plenty beautiful, even with messy hair. And it’s…pretty fun to just lay in bed watching your husband at the vanity trying to tame his hair. You almost feel like you’ve known this man for a long time. Almost like you were meant to marry him… As an arranged marriage husband, he tries to give you space, tries to give you some freedom but. A part of him does hope you’ll stay loyal to him.

For a while you spend your time touring the different cities with the Knights of Beauty, quelling the problems each city was facing, while establishing that you were married to Argenti now, a Knight of Beauty, assuring the people that the nights were here to help. When you finally do get time to yourselves, he tries to be a good husband to you. Asks you how you felt about the day, if you need anything…things like that. He loves to hold you in his lap and rest his chin on your head, just listening to you talk.

(Some angst ideas to consider: you already have a lover when you’re forced to marry Argenti. Or you aren’t happy being married to him, but he catches you trying to run away.)

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #Argenti #Argenti x reader #hsr Argenti x reader #honkai star rail Argenti x reader

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mondaymelon · 1 year

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— 𝘀𝗮𝗴𝗮𝘂: 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗰𝗼𝗹𝘆𝘁𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆? ♥

:feat~ diluc, childe, kaeya, zhongli x gn!reader:

(warnings~ obsessive behavior, cult au!)

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ (open!) : @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside

DILUC is just about as dedicated as they come.

And while his schedule is tightly packed, he spends every free minute he has by your side… Just listening to your voice energizes him more than any amount of rest will! No matter what has happened in the hours prior, everything, all worries, just seem to wash away when he faces your holy presence!

You are a pure, perfect being in his eyes.

Every breath, every step you take, should be heralded as a gift.

The only thing stopping him from abandoning all of his duties and staying with you for every waking second is… well, you, who insists that he has to do his work too. And if he disobeyed that order, you’d be upset at him, and he certainly can’t have the creator like that! If you glared at him… told him that you despised him… well, Diluc might as well just die.

Because he lived for you, and if you found him useless, then that was just what he was. He was what you determined he was.

And that fact almost reassured him.

“Diluc… you have to make sure not to overwork yourself.” His head is in your lap, eyes blissfully closed as you comb your fingers through his fluffy red hair.

“Right now, I feel better than I ever have, my savior.” ♥

Blissfully loyal CHILDE.

Who trails after you all day, every day, wanting to help you in any way he can! It was your voice that spoke to him, comforted him in his darkest times, it was you, the miracle who saved his existence. He doesn’t even want to imagine what’d he be like if you weren’t there for him… Most likely still, cold… with noone to bury his sorry corpse.

So now, he has to repay you, no matter what. He can’t just take your kindness for granted!!

After all, without you, he wouldn’t even be here. So, he’s dedicated himself to you, his life, his love, to do something, anything to benefit you.

It doesn’t matter if the other fatui members and cultists think ill of him - because they don’t matter. All that matters is you, you who is always on his mind.

“Childe?”

“Yes, my majesty?”

“I don’t know what’d I do without you.”

His eyes widen, just by a fraction, and his steady breathing hitches.

Has his heart stopped? Was this the afterlife? How come he couldn’t hear anything anymore?

“...I…” He can barely utter a word, and it’s less than a whisper.

“Is it so selfish that I want you all to myself?” ♥

Overprotective KAEYA, who can’t stand it when other cultists try to take his place.

And why should he stay silent? He has to make sure his position by your side will never change, otherwise, you might tired of him!

His flirtatious side hides his more desperate one - desperate for your attention. Your affection - your shy touches. He wants you, all of you.

But he can’t be so selfish and hasty. After all, the Savior has blessed millions and earned countless devout followers, and he’s just one of many.

Still, a small part of him has hope.

Hope that maybe, just maybe, he’s special to you.

He could be that greedy, at least, right?

The greed that fuels his racing, aching, heart whenever he’s by your side, listening to your beautiful voice with a love-sick smile.

“Kaeya, don’t you ever get tired of following me around? You should have some time for yourself… am I being a bother…?” You sheepishly glance at the blue-haired man whose walking next to you, shoulder brushing against yours.

“Never, for as long as I live, will that ever happen.” ♥

Unwavering ZHONGLI, who will follow you to the grave and beyond if you will it.

For you, he’d do anything.

And that’s no understatement.

Ever since the death of his past lover, he had grieved, conspired against the heavens, let hatred run amok in his heart. He had directed his sorrows toward you, set his sharp gaze to you, and sought to seek revenge. Sought to seek answers.

Why had she died?

What had she done wrong?

Why did you have to take her away from me?

But all of his troubles seemed to dissolve when you descended. It was as soon as he saw you in person, eyes glittering with unspeakable knowledge and the air of absolute fragility - as if one misspoken word could fracture you, forever.

And since that day, he had sworn to repent. Sworn to be by your side until the end of time.

“Zhongli, why do you always act so indebted to me? You’re free to act more comfortably, if you like.” You glanced at his form as he poured you a cup of tea. The man only smiled in return, before staring up at you with his seemingly golden eyes.

“You are my savior, and you deserve to be treated as such.” ♥

(a/n) inspiration is back along with a bailu theme yippeeeee yeah so im not sick anymore hehehasfadgdg

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ohbo-ohno · 9 months

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scene in that conqueror ghost au where he sends his best hounds into the forest to find the runaway princess <3

cw for noncon sex & rough sex & just lots of fear and anger

when she hears the hounds start barking and baying she doesn’t even think, just runs. sprints through the woods, tearing her feet to shreds and kept moving purely due to adrenaline. she’s seen ghost’s beasts tear a man limb-from-limb and play tug of war with his arm, she’s terrified to think of what they’ll do to her.

she’s tackled to the ground without any warning, sent flying and slammed to the dirt floor with a shout. there’s something heavy and hot panting on top of her, something she holds her arms over her face to try and hide from.

but it’s not a hound, it’s johnny.

johnny, who’s been her most loyal confidant and her best friend since she learned what those things were. johnny, who she’s been a little bit in love with for as long as she can remember. johnny, who at the last minute decided not to run away with her. johnny who decided he’d rather stay with her parents’ murderer, their people’s conqueror.

he’s angry and upset, his face gone red with exertion and his veins bulging from his neck. he’s panting nearly as harshly as she is when he locks both of her wrists in one hand, lifts her off the ground when he pulls her up so she’s hovering mid-air.

barks in her face, just like the hounds she can still hear hunting. “why did you do that? why did you run? you know we can’t protect you out here, you know it isn’t safe, i’ve told you a thousand times! what if someone else found you? a rebel or a raider would tear you to shreds. we’re supposed to stay with ghost, you know that. he keeps us safe.”

she rears back as far as she can, screams, “how dare you! you were supposed to run with me, you swore to protect me! you’ve betrayed our kingdom, our people, and given in to that evil brute!”

johnny’s snarl is loud and almost all anger. he slams her back to the ground without any care for her head, flips her onto her stomach when she cries out and can’t see much more than black spots in her vision.

“ghost keeps us safe,” he spits again, hand heavy on the back of her neck and keeping her forced into the dirt, one cheek squished as she desperately glares at him in her peripheral. “he’s good to me, and he’d be good to you too if you behaved. why can’t you just listen to him? he gave us everything.”

“he took everything from us-“

“not from me,” johnny’s teeth click in the air right by your ear, sweat dripping from his forehead to yours. “he taught me how to fight, how to truly fight - how to protect you. he gave me bedchambers, pillows stuffed with feathers not straw. he gave me you. how could you leave him?”

she can only bite back a sob at johnny’s words, hardly able to believe what he’s saying. “he killed my parents.”

there’s a silence, long and heavy, and then -

“maybe they deserved to die.”

she lets out a true cry at that, loud and high and all grief. she tries to struggle, can’t do more than wriggle in the dirt.

“how could you say that?!” she heaves, eyes screwed up as she desperately tries to get some sort of hold in the dirt, tries to slam herself back into him and get him off.

he’s saying something, but she’s too worked up, to lost in her cries and her panting and her pounding heartbeat, to hear him.

she goes still when he gets a hand around the bottom of her torn and dirtied skirts, can hardly believe what’s happening when she feels cool air against her thighs.

he presses against her bared behind, the thick leather of his pants smooth.

“j-johnny-“ she tries, voice hardly more than a whisper as she feels his other fiddle with his pants behind her. “johnny, what’re you-?”

“hush,” johnny says harshly in her ear, tone closer to command than comfort then it’s ever been before. “ghost gave me you. i gave myself to you, but he gave you to me. how could you run away from that?”

she cries out when she feels the best of his manhood slide between her thighs, starts fighting with a renewed vigor.

“stop, stop, you can’t-!” she tries to kick him, tries to roll from underneath him, even resorts to throwing her head back and trying to hit him. she makes no progress, just gets a growing pressure against the nape of her neck that forces her to the dirt, forces her down. “johnny, get off of me!”

“you ran from me,” johnny spits in your ear, and you recognize his tone now. it doesn’t happen often, but sometimes johnny will work himself up so much, become so enraged or impassioned about something, that he’ll begin to cry. he’s always hated it but she’s loved it, loved the vulnerability of her favorite knight, the proof of his humanity.

his voice is a little bit teary now, tense with anger but wavering too.

“you ran from me,” he repeats. “why, princess? I’ve given you everything. i thought you liked me.”

“i do,” she gasps. “i did - but if you put your cock anywhere near me i swear to you that will change. i will never again even look you in the eye.”

a small whine sounds over her shoulder, then a louder growl.

“that’s not true,” he rumbles, teeth locking onto her shoulder for just a moment, pulling away when she cries out. “ghost can make you. we’ll go back home and ghost will show you why it was stupid to run. he’ll fix all of this.”

she shouts and screams a little, continue to kick and squirm as he rearranges her skirts and ignores her completely. he tucks the bottom hem into the back of her neckline, never taking his dominant hand from her nape.

when he lines the head of his cock up against her dry entrance, she screams in fear instead of anger.

“no, no, nonono, johnny, stop! please, please, i’ll tear, you can’t-!” she heaves a breath, coughs on the exhale. “oh, please don’t, johnny, i can’t- i can’t take it.”

there’s a sound over her shoulder, something between a whine and a coo, and she thinks maybe she’s talked some sense into him. maybe he’ll even let her up, let her go-

she shouts when two of his fingers slips into her, bone dry. the sensation is uncomfortable, even the slight stretch a sting. he’s silent as he grinds his palm against her clit, doesn’t speak as he slowly works her body against her.

she cries, tries to fight every hint of unwilling arousal. but she’s never been able to fight johnny, never really been able to say no to him, and her cunt begins to leak around his digits. he slips another in, locks his teeth onto the meat of her shoulder and gnaws while he stretches her.

she continues to cry, little hiccuping breaths that make her sound like a child with a scraped knee, not a woman being brutalized by the man she trusted most.

eventually, he decides she’s ready. he pulls his face away from her skin, pushes himself up to stare down and her cheek further into the dirt in the process. she whines again when she feels him line back up at her hole, unable to speak with the way her face is squished.

she nearly screams when he sinks in. johnny isn’t as large as ghost but he’s not small, either, and he never takes his time entering her. there’s hardly a heartbeat between his tip forcing itself into her hole and his sac resting against her thighs.

he pants in her ear when he’s buried inside, ignores her whimpers and gives her a small kiss to the cheek. it only makes her cry harder, makes her squeeze her eyes tightly shut and pray this ends as soon as possible.

he’s rough when he fucks her, as he always is. ghost always says johnny’s too needy to take his time, that if she wants him to be softer she should spread her legs more often, let him rut more regularly so he doesn’t need to beg for a release before it’s given.

she always glares at that. they both know it’s not her who decides when her legs are spread, but it’s just another idea that lures johnny away from her side and to his.

they’re both nearly silent while he fucks her. she whines a bit at every thrust, air forced out of her and her head too pinned to do anything about it. he groans when she squeezes involuntarily, loud and long like he’s seeing God.

the hounds continue to bark, but they don’t sound any closer.

it doesn’t take him long to come, planting himself deep inside of her and dumping his cum. his moan is loud, comes straight from the soul and nearly rattles her bones.

his free hand, the one that’s held a bruising grip throughout the fucking, slips down her stomach. she whines again when she realizes what he’s doing.

“shh,” he soothes, the thumb on her neck stroking in soft circles just as the fingers over her clit begin to. “i have to make you feel good too. those are the rules.”

she squeezes her eyes shut with a sob, goes limp beneath his hold. those are the rules - ghost tells them that unless he says otherwise, they’re each to come once before johnny pulls out of her.

she tries to fight the climax, finds that she’s too tired, to heartbroken, to keep it from pulling her under. johnny talks her through it, she can hear and feel the rumble of his voice, but she has no idea what he says.

he only pulls out when he goes fully soft. his fingers stroke over her swollen cunt for just a moment, but obediently back away when she closes her legs.

he helps her stand, helps her lay her skirts flat. they hold eye contact for a heavy moment, both of them angry for their own reasons and unwilling to back down.

she breaks first. “please,” she rasps, glancing away from him and flushing at the crack in her voice. “please let me go, johnny.”

he makes a sad sound, wraps his arms around her shoulder and waist and tugs her beneath his chin. “this is why we need ghost. i can’t teach you properly, he’s the only one who knows how.”

she sobs into his skin, the familiarity of the hug mixed with his horrible words sending her mind reeling.

“don’t worry,” he tries to soothe. “it’ll be okay. ghost will make it all okay.”

he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as he is her.

he doesn’t let go of her hand for the entire walk back to the castle. he doesn’t speak to her, and she doesn’t speak to him. the tension between them is thicker than it’s ever been, both so sure of their convictions against the other.

ghost is waiting at the castle gates when they arrive. johnny pulls her along even more quickly, seems to almost forget about her entirely when he sets eyes on ghost.

“ghost,” johnny says on a sigh, tentatively smiling as he stops just a foot or so away from the man. “i got her. see?” he gestures over at her, like she’s not the only other living thing anywhere nearby.

ghost’s smirk is evil to her, a mean curl to his lips that promises nothing but cruelty and punishment.

he steps forward until he’s nearly chest to chest with johnny, curls a hand around the nape of the man’s neck and softly taps their foreheads together.

“i see that. you did well, good boy.”

johnny fucking melts, goes loose in ghost’s grip and needs to be held up for a moment. “i didn’t run away,” he reassures, a little desperate tinge to his voice. “didn’t even think about it, not for a second.”

“hush,” ghost soothes as johnny’s volume grows, kneading at the back of his neck. “i know, pup. you’re too loyal for that, huh? you know exactly who you come home to every night.”

johnny nods, tucks his face forward into ghost’s chest and lets out a happy noise when he’s allowed to burrow as closely as he wants.

the princess’ hand is dead weight in johnny’s palm, slick with sweat and going cold as she stares with wide eyes at ghost.

it’s so much worse than she thought, she would never have imagined johnny was so twisted up in ghost’s web already.

“now,” ghost rumbles, running a hand through johnny’s sweat-slick mohawk. “how will we treat our little wayward princess a lesson?”

she raised her chin high, steels herself against the mockery in ghost’s eyes and tells herself that whatever he does, she will not cry.

he only smiles at her. he reaches out with his free hand, grips her firmly by her trembling chin and pulls her forward until she’s shoulder to shoulder with johnny. he ducks lower, until they’re on eye-level.

“i will break you princess. you’ll learn to kneel, to obey, just like my dog has. you can fight it all you want, but we both knows there’s one way this ends.”

she bites her tongue against a retort, puts all of her energy into not letting a single tear fall past her waterline.

ghost rumbles another noise, one that’s comforting to johnny at the very least, the knight burrowing further into his king’s throat.

the princess is tugged forward until ghost can wrap his other arm around her, tuck her into his chest so she’s nearly sandwiched between the two of them.

she takes a deep breath, she closes her eyes, and she does not cry.

#the amount I typed in second person instead of third is almost embarrassing #bo writes #my tumblr app closed JUST as I finished it and I almost cried until I saw it say “restore draft"#conqueror ghost au

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hamsterclaw · 1 year

Text

Dragonfire

Lord Namjoon commands the dragon riders of Mount Halji, he's authoritative and respected, a fearless warrior, celebrated for his prowess on the battlefield. So why aren't you afraid of him, damnit?

Pairing: Namjoon x F! reader

Genre: Fantasy AU, smut, a spin-off from the Royal Pain AU

Rating: 18+

Word count: 7.3k

Warnings: Sex, Namjoon mounting everything in sight

Namjoon’s watching from across the room as she greets guests at the banquet. She’s striking, not only because she’s beautiful, with her dark hair and lovely eyes, but also because of her bearing. There’s pride in the way she holds up her head.

When it’s his turn to greet her, he bows, low, and kisses the hand she offers to him.

‘Good evening, your highness,’ he says.

He can feel her eyes on him, his black armour, the mark on his hand signifying his status as a dragon rider.

‘Lord Namjoon,’ she murmurs. The way her tongue flicks over her full bottom lip, the spark in her eyes, makes his blood warm.

Then she’s letting go of his hand, stepping away gracefully to greet the next person, and Namjoon’s left with the faintest scent of lavender, tantalising and sweet.

When she reaches the end of the line, she looks straight at him, like she’d known he’d be watching.

She inclines her head just slightly, but it’s enough.

Blood hot, lust thrumming through his veins, Namjoon follows her out of the banquet hall.

***

Namjoon’s tired from his night with the beautiful and lusty princess of Ijil, and it takes him longer than it should to realise that his armour is missing.

Even worse, his sword is gone.

He storms out of his chambers, looking for Jimin and Taehyung. He’s heading for the stables when he sees you.

His first impression is of softness, which is ironic given you’re staggering under the weight of his armour. His sword swings from your hip, he doesn’t even know how you managed to attach it you.

‘Stop,’ he commands.

You glance around, looking for where his voice came from.

Namjoon doesn’t know how you could possibly miss him. He’s always been tall, and of recent years, his build has filled out, a byproduct of wrangling Styx, his bonded dragon.

He still feels a thrill of pride when he thinks about her. Styx, with her midnight black scales, her wingspan wider than any others in her clan. She’s a magnificent beast, fiercely loyal, with the instincts of the finest warrior in battle.

He snaps out of his reverie when he realises you’re limping away, dragging his armour with you.

‘Stop!’ he commands again.

He catches up to you easily. ‘Where are you taking my armour and my sword?’ he demands.

‘Didn’t Jimin tell you? I’m your new squire,’ you tell him, like it’s a done deal.

Namjoon’s flabbergasted.

‘I’m a dragon rider, not one of those fanciful royal knights,’ he scowls. ‘I have no need for a squire.’

‘The dullness of your armour tells a different story,’ you have the audacity to say.

‘It’s black!’ protests Namjoon, not sure why he’s arguing with you but unable to stop himself.

‘You’re a disgrace to Styx,’ you mutter.

Namjoon realises he’s walked with you all the way to the stables.

Cursing, he lifts his armour off you, and you sigh, relieved.

‘It’s very heavy,’ you remark. ‘No wonder you’re so muscular.’

Namjoon stares at his sword, hung carelessly around your shoulder.

‘How are you supposed to be my squire if you can’t lift my armour and sword?’ he mutters, more to himself.

You’re already gesturing to a small area you have set up with a scrubbing brush and a bucket, a polishing cloth and a tin of oil.

‘Leave it with me,’ you say airily.

You frown at his sword. ‘Sweet mother of Jaesu, how old is this blood? It’s caked on.’

Namjoon scowls. ‘I’ll be back in an hour to collect it for a sparring session.’

You wave an arm at him, muttering something that sounds awfully like ‘Lord Jimin’s armour is pristine.’

Namjoon decides to pretend he hasn’t heard you.

***

When Namjoon returns, Taehyung’s leaning against the wall, chatting to you.

‘Did you know about our new squire?’ Namjoon asks.

‘I’m right here,’ you announce, bright, chirpy.

Namjoon ignores you.

‘She’s very good at mending clothes as well,’ Taehyung replies, smiling at you.

Namjoon’s forced to turn to you when you push his armour into his arms.

‘I only do mending for selected people,’ you say, haughty, like he’d shown any inclination to ask.

He’s about to snap a retort when the Princess of Ijil arrives.

Namjoon bows deeply.

You drop into a surprisingly graceful curtsy.

She eyes you.

Namjoon’s already stepping in front of you when you say, ‘I’m the squire to the dragon riders of Mount Halji, your highness.’

‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ she says, dismissive.

She turns back to Namjoon.

‘Do you have time for a quick catch up in my chambers before you set off back home?’

‘Of course,’ Namjoon replies, admiring the way her skin glows in the late morning sun.

She flicks her gaze over his shoulders, gaze meaningful.

‘I can help you mend that rip in the seam of your tunic,’ you say, helpfully, calling everyone’s attention to it.

Namjoon narrows his eyes at you, then turns back to the princess.

She’s already walking away.

***

‘Oof,’ you remark, holding up Namjoon’s tunic. ‘What’s this stain?’

Namjoon’s gaze flies to you.

‘Just kidding,’ you say, chuckling gleefully.

‘Are you ever quiet?’ Namjoon asks, exasperated. ‘Being a squire is a serious task.’

‘She’s a very good squire,’ Jimin says, emerging from the stables with their horses in tow.

‘Thanks, my lord,’ you say cheerfully.

‘You don’t call me my lord,’ Namjoon observes, tetchy.

‘I’ll call you it, if you can tell me my name,’ you say, smiling at him.

Namjoon realises he doesn’t know your name.

‘You didn’t tell me your name,’ he complains.

‘You didn’t ask,’ you shoot back, merrily.

‘Is everything a joke to you?’ snaps Namjoon.

‘Ignore our grumpy commander,’ Jimin says, giving Namjoon a quelling look. ‘He gets cranky when he’s tired.’

Jimin hands you the reins to your horse. ‘Need anything before we set off?’ he asks, offering you his knee to help you mount.

You shake your head, seating yourself. ‘Thank you,’ you tell him.

Namjoon mounts his steed and sets off, nudging his stallion into a brisk canter.

He doesn’t look back to check on you.

***

The first hint of trouble is a rustling in the trees overhead.

Then, firebolts rain down.

Namjoon’s about to urge his steed into a gallop when your horse, spooked and less battle-worn than all the others, rears up.

You land in an ungraceful heap on the forest floor and immediately get up, dazed.

A firebolt grazes your foot, and you lift an arm up over your head in an attempt to protect yourself.

Taehyung and Jimin are up ahead, turning back to help, but Namjoon’s the closest to you.

‘Get your horses away!’ shouts Namjoon. ‘It’s fire demons!’

He turns his steed, Thunder, and speeds towards you.

You watch him approach with wide eyes.

Namjoon reaches down and plucks you off the ground.

You land, hard, on the front of his saddle, face planted in the breastplate of his armour.

‘Hold on,’ grunts Namjoon. He leads Thunder towards a clearing he noticed earlier, to another route that will take you both to the edge of the forest, away from the fire demons.

For once, you appear to have no snappy remark at the ready.

You wind your arms around his waist, holding on tight, and Namjoon’s stomach flips unexpectedly when you press your face into his chest.

He leans forward on Thunder, urging him on, you soft and pliant between his thighs, and gets you both the hell out of there.

***

It’s late afternoon, the sun filtering through the trees, and you’ve yet to catch up to Taehyung and Jimin.

Namjoon stops by a brook to allow Thunder to drink and dismounts.

He lifts his arms to help you down.

You place your hands on his shoulders trustingly, and Namjoon’s stomach does another curious flip.

He wonders if he drank too much arabica before leaving Ijil.

You stay for a moment like that, pressed against him, arms up, face tilted to his.

‘Thanks for saving me,’ you say.

‘You’re one of mine,’ Namjoon says. He doesn’t think he’s saying anything but the truth, but you look pleased about it just the same.

He looks around. ‘It’ll be dark soon. We should set up camp around here.’

***

Namjoon lets out a sigh.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, barely concealed impatience in his voice.

‘It’s cold,’ you complain, even though he can barely see you under the mound of blankets you’ve stolen, including his own.

Namjoon rolls his eyes. ‘Live with it,’ he says, unsympathetic.

‘They say body heat is good,’ you suggest.

Namjoon scoffs. ‘Is that an attempt to get into bed with me?’

You’re quiet, he almost thinks you’ve fallen asleep when you say, ‘we’re not technically in beds.’

Namjoon thinks it’s dark enough that he doesn’t have to hide his smile.

‘Come here then,’ he says, gruffly.

‘No thanks,’ you say rudely.

Namjoon reaches over and yanks you into his arms, blankets and all.

‘Just shut up and sleep,’ he advises, when you open your mouth.

Your mouth closes and you nod.

You’re asleep in seconds.

***

When he wakes, too hot, you’re already up. For some reason you’ve wrapped him in blankets, even though he runs hot all the time, a byproduct of his bond with Styx.

Namjoon fights his way out of the blankets and rises, stretching and yawning, rolling the stiffness out of his muscles.

Footsteps make him straighten up and turn around.

You’re bright and freshfaced, holding out a mug to him.

‘Made you arabica,’ you chirrup.

‘Thanks,’ he grunts, accepting.

Your eyes fall to his bare forearm.

‘You’re burned!’ you say, sounding genuinely worried.

‘It’s nothing,’ Namjoon says, amused by your concern over the tiny burn. You should see the scar on his side from the last dragon battle.

You’re rustling through the leather bag you carry near your hip.

‘Let me put some salve on it,’ you say.

Namjoon sits and drinks his arabica whilst you fuss over his arm.

‘You’re aware I’m a dragon rider,’ he can’t resist teasing you, but he lets you rub salve into his arm anyway.

He can’t deny it feels soothing.

He realises you’re looking at the dragon rider mark on his hand.

‘Pretty,’ you say. Your thumb rubs over it, a quick smooth swipe, and then your hands leave his skin.

Namjoon doesn’t think anyone’s ever called him pretty before.

Big, yes. Tall, certainly. Ruthless.

Not pretty.

To hide his discomfiture, he stands. ‘We should get going,’ he says, brisk.

You’re already heading to Thunder.

You stop in front of his enormous steed and look to him for a leg up, as though you’re expecting him to kneel before you like Jimin did.

Namjoon mounts Thunder, then holds out his arms for you.

You reach up, trusting like you were yesterday, and Namjoon’s stomach flips again.

It’s definitely the arabica, he tells himself as Thunder falls into an easy canter.

***

Namjoon says, grumpily, ‘stop wriggling.’

‘It’s just, the hilt of your sword keeps poking me,’ you complain, wriggling more, another smooth movement that makes him grit his teeth.

You look back at him just in time to catch him clenching his jaw.

‘It’s not my sword,’ Namjoon growls.

Your hand on his thigh makes his muscles jump.

‘Something in your breeches —-‘ you trail off abruptly.

‘It’s just the friction,’ Namjoon says, as your whole body stiffens between his legs, against his chest.

You don’t say a word.

‘You’re my squire. I don’t think of you lustfully,’ Namjoon continues.

You’re still silent, ramrod straight against him.

‘I prefer women who are —-‘

‘Beautiful and curvaceous,’ you fill in for him, describing the princess of Ijil.

‘Less annoying,’ finishes Namjoon.

You suggest, ‘I can ride behind you, if my ass is too tempting.’

Namjoon snorts a laugh. ‘And press those pretty breasts into my back?’

You look down at your chest thoughtfully.

Then you quip, barely stifling your laughter, ‘want me to polish your sword, my lord?’

‘Silence, wench,’ growls Namjoon.

Your laughter is equal parts infuriating and infectious.

***

You both catch up to Taehyung and Jimin at the gates guarding the dragon rider enclave on Mount Halji.

Namjoon takes a moment to savour the familiarity of it. He was born to be a dragon rider, the latest progeny of a long line of Eosulian warriors.

He was fourteen when he bonded with Styx, a lanky, graceless teenager with no idea what the hell he was doing. There was more than one surprised reaction at the unlikely combination of the studious teenaged Namjoon and the most fearsome dragon in the clan.

It’s been a while since anyone’s looked at him and Styx with any incredulity.

These days, Namjoon leans into his powerful build, his broad shoulders and chest, the lean muscles of his thighs.

Underneath he’s never stopped studying, learning, trying to better himself.

You nudge his chest with your shoulder, and he realises you’re talking.

He’s quite pleased with how he’s managed to tune you out.

You’re much more easy to tolerate when you’re on mute.

Namjoon allows himself a moment to admire your piquant little face.

He’s almost smiling when your voice manages to break through.

‘Plain?’ you ask.

Namjoon frowns, and obligingly, you repeat yourself. ‘Heading to the plain?’

He nods. He’d automatically guided Thunder in the direction of the plain, where he knows Styx will be waiting for him.

Namjoon stops and dismounts, instinctively reaching up to help you down.

It’s funny how he’s got used to doing that so quickly.

He faces North, and within moments, there’s a change in the air.

Styx lands noiselessly before him, sleek and so beautiful his skin thrums at her proximity.

Namjoon bows, and her massive head dips low to the ground in response. In two steps he’s mounted her, feeling at home in the way he never did in the vast Royal Palace of Ijil.

Something makes him look towards you.

You’re watching him and Styx, unmoving, hands clasped.

Namjoon doesn’t realise what he’s going to say until the words leave his mouth. He’s never invited anyone else to ride with him on one of these journeys before.

‘We’re reacquainting for the bond,’ he tells you. ‘You can come, if you want.’

He can sense Styx’s assent, but she lowers her head again, as if to show you, too.

You approach tentatively.

Namjoon holds out his arms to pick you up, and you say, ‘wait. Would you prefer tits or ass?’

Namjoon, to his surprise, can sense Styx’s mirth.

‘Just get on, and be quiet,’ he grumbles. He lifts you in front of him, locks his thighs around yours and pulls you tight against his chest, and then you’re off, gliding through the mountains of South Eosul.

***

Namjoon looks up as you enter the courtyard where he and the other dragon riders are combat training.

You march past everyone and head straight for him.

‘I need your muscles,’ you announce, without context.

Namjoon mops sweat off his brow and waits.

‘I’ll help you,’ Taehyung volunteers.

Namjoon stops him with a look.

‘What do you need help with, squire? And why is it so important that you’re interrupting our training?’

You frown. ‘The merchant down by the market is a swindler and a scoundrel,’ you tell him.

‘A swindler, and a scoundrel,’ Namjoon teases, amused by your vehemence.

You stare at him. He can almost see the smoke coming out of your ears, the way you’re vibrating with rage.

‘Fine!’ you burst out. You stomp away. ‘I will take care of him myself.’

You’re walking so fast you’re most of the way to the market before Namjoon catches up with you, even with his longer stride.

‘I’m sorry I teased you,’ he tells you.

‘I’m sorry I interrupted combat practice,’ you reply immediately.

You sigh. ‘I needed cloth for your jackets for the Harvest banquet next month. This merchant’s got the best supplies, but all the cloth he’s delivered is less than what we bargained for. Less than what I paid for.’

You’re getting worked up again, indignant. ‘How dare he try to swindle us?!’

Namjoon falls into step beside you. ‘It could be a genuine mistake,’ he says, trying to be reasonable.

You snort in disbelief.

Namjoon accompanies you to the stall, a little worried about how you’re going to approach this.

The merchant bows as you both approach.

‘Can I interest you in the new silk taffeta I’ve imported from Seldinia?’

‘No, but you can interest me in the remainder of the order I put in last week, of which only half has been delivered,’ you say, firmly.

The merchant eyes you narrowly. ‘Which order is that? I’m afraid I’ve completed all the orders from last week.’

You’re apoplectic. ‘Surely you have a ledger!’

You step around the table displaying his wares as he sighs and opens a worn ledger.

‘There!’ you say triumphantly, pointing to an entry that takes up half a page.

The merchant elbows you away from the ledger, making you step back.

Namjoon’s not sure how it happens, all he knows is one second he’s watching you and the next he’s got his forearm to the merchant’s neck, holding him up against the pillar.

The merchant’s looking at his dragon rider mark, spilling apologies.

Namjoon takes a moment, letting the rage recede.

You’re unharmed, you hadn’t even flinched when the merchant pushed you.

So why is he so goddamn incensed that that asshole had the audacity to touch you?

You can hold your own.

So why does Namjoon want to grind this man to a pulp?

He grunts, lets the man down, and he scuttles to do your bidding.

You wait until you’re both walking away, cloth tucked in a basket over your arm, before you turn to him.

‘What?’ snaps Namjoon.

You put your hand on his arm. ‘Thanks for ——‘

You pause, searching for the right phrase.

Namjoon lifts the basket off your arm.

‘Thanks for helping,’ you say carefully.

You seem to not know what to do with your arms now that he’s taken the basket, so you clasp your hands demurely in front of your chest.

‘No problem,’ Namjoon replies.

You keep sneaking glances at him as you walk, until Namjoon sighs.

‘What?’

‘You look quite dashing when you’re angry,’ you tell him.

‘Is that why you’re always vexing me?’

You nod. ‘That jaw clench you do.’

Namjoon glowers at you.

‘You’re doing it right now!’ you point out, delighted, skipping alongside him.

Namjoon says, ‘Quiet, or I’ll make you carry this,’ nodding to your basket.

‘Pfft,’ you scoff. ‘It’s nothing.’

You give him a sideways look. ‘Especially after I’ve got used to carrying your sword .’

You waggle your eyebrows meaningfully and nudge him between the ribs, like he wouldn’t get the innuendo otherwise.

Namjoon turns away so you can’t see him biting back his smile.

***

Namjoon answers the knock at his chamber door with a brisk, ‘come in.’

You take two steps into his chamber, eyes fixed on his chest.

‘My lord,’ you say, bowing. ‘You look very well indeed. That material suits you.’

Namjoon finds he’s distracted by your own appearance.

Has your body always been this lovely shape? And surely you’ve done something to your hair, too.

‘My eyes are here, my lord,’ you say, but you sound more amused than vexed.

‘You look beautiful,’ he tells you.

‘Thank you. Did you call me in here to seduce me with your sweet words and broad chest?’

Namjoon rolls his eyes.

‘I have something for you.’

You look suspiciously at the black bangle in his outstretched palm.

Namjoon says, ‘hold out your wrist.’

You hold out your hand, palm up, and Namjoon fastens the slim black band around your wrist, securing it with a tiny key.

You lift your arm, admiring the way the onyx gleams in the light as Namjoon threads the key along the silver chain he always wears around his neck.

When you speak, there’s a softness in your voice Namjoon’s only heard a handful of times.

‘What’s this for, my lord?’

‘The merchant at the marketplace,’ says Namjoon. ‘He changed his tune when he realised I was a dragon rider.’

He shrugs. ‘You don’t have a dragon rider mark, but I want people who deal with you to know that you have our protection.’

You’re standing so close to him he can feel the warmth of you, smell the fresh scent of your hair.

You look up at him, and he braces for whatever smart retort you’ve thought of.

Instead, you say, very sweetly, ‘thank you, my lord, that’s very thoughtful of you.’

Namjoon opens his mouth to speak, but you’re already speaking again.

‘Thank you for my shackle.’

Namjoon stares at you, speechless.

‘Shackle?’ he splutters, incredulous.

‘It goes round my wrist, it fastens with a key that you wear around your neck. It’s a shackle,’ you say, nodding.

Namjoon glares at you.

‘Aaaaa there’s that sexy jaw tick,’ you say, beaming at him.

Namjoon sets his jaw and ushers you out of his chamber.

‘Ooh, you look like you’re about to turn me over your lap and paddle my bottom,’ you say, chuckling merrily.

‘Maybe I will one day,’ Namjoon threatens.

‘I’ll look forward to it,’ you say, looking positively thrilled at the prospect.

Namjoon slams his door in your really rather pretty face.

****

Namjoon’s near the end of his speech to open the Harvest Banquet when the doors to the Great Hall open.

‘The Princess of Ijil,’ announces the herald.

Namjoon remains standing as she crosses the room, beautiful and resplendent in a gold gown that matches the brocade embroidery of his jacket.

She raises a hand, and Namjoon automatically leans down to kiss it.

She smiles at him, skin burnished gold in the candlelight, eyes full of promise, and Namjoon feels that familiar heat pool low in his groin.

She takes the seat next to his like she belongs there, and on any other day, Namjoon would be proud and honoured to have her by his side.

Today, though, his attention is divided by you, sitting in between Jimin and another dragon rider, Mingyu.

You’re chatting to them merrily, more than a little tipsy, judging by your bright eyes and the way you’re letting Mingyu lean against you.

Namjoon doesn’t realise he’s glowering at you until the Princess says, coyly, ‘I’ve come all this way, and you haven’t so much as complimented my gown, Lord Namjoon.’

He turns reluctantly from you. ‘How remiss of me,’ he says, politely. ‘You are very beautiful, as always, your highness, and we are privileged to have you in our midst.’

A burst of laughter and a round of applause erupts from your end of the table as Jimin leaps up, gracefully, to catch a tray of mead on the verge of tipping over.

Namjoon watches as Jimin deposits the tray safely on the banquet table and twirls you around triumphantly.

Jimin is his second in command, and has saved Namjoon’s ass more times than he can count. He’s a gifted fighter, instinctive and merciless when he has to be.

It’s also vaguely annoying that he has the face of an angel and a physique sculpted by the gods.

Namjoon tears his eyes away from you in Jimin’s arms.

He turns back to the princess.

***

Namjoon’s heading to his chamber after dinner, wondering where you are and why he cares.

If you’re with Jimin, you’re in safe hands.

Jimin likes you more than he does.

Namjoon stops in front of the looking-glass by his bed, staring at his reflection.

Does Jimin like you more than he does?

He slips his jacket off, starts unbuttoning the white silk shirt underneath.

There’s a knock on his door.

Namjoon cracks it open, an odd burst of warmth blooming in his chest when he realises it’s you.

You hiccup and reach out, curling your fingers into the open placket of his shirt.

The tips of your fingers are cold, and Namjoon realises just how much he wants to warm you up.

He’s reaching for your arm to pull you into his chamber when you both hear approaching footsteps, an entourage.

The Princess of Ijil.

Namjoon’s distracted for an instant, and when he looks back at you, you’re giving him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

His hand closes around nothing.

The Princess of Ijil reaches his chamber door.

And you?

You’re gone.

***

Namjoon has to admit, you’re quick.

By the time he’s made his excuses to the princess and tried to follow you, there’s not a trace of where you might have gone.

It’s only when he passes the stables and hears Thunder whickering and stamping his feet that he finds you, sitting on a groomsman’s stool in a corner of Thunder’s stall.

You give Thunder an accusing look that makes Namjoon bite back his smile.

Namjoon looks at you, at the petulant way your lower lip is pushed out, the bottle of potent mead in your hand, and says, gently, ‘want to go for a ride?’

Before you can come up with whatever terrible innuendo he knows you’re capable of, he’s saddled and mounted Thunder, and is holding out his arms for you.

You give him a curious look but it doesn’t stop you from letting him lift you up into the saddle in front of him.

You settle back into his arms, between his thighs, against his chest, like you belong there.

Namjoon leans forward, urging Thunder into a gallop.

The cool night air is like a balm on his brow, and for the first time Namjoon decides to let himself enjoy how you feel in his arms.

He thinks you’re trying to say something to him, but it’s lost in the wind as the fields of Mount Halji speed past.

He’ll ask you later.

***

Namjoon beds Thunder down in the small barn and heads to the tiny farmhouse.

He finds you standing by the door where he left you, waiting for him.

He lights a lamp, holds his arm out to you.

You say, ‘wait.’

You set the mead down on the wooden table and step up to him, hand on his chest, going on tiptoe.

Namjoon stays perfectly still as you press your lips to his.

It’s sweet, chaste, and yet it makes him want to push you against a wall and take you right here.

You pull away.

‘Just wanted to check if you’re a good kisser,’ you say, breathlessly.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow at you, tilts his chin.

‘Am I?’ he asks, like he doesn’t care what you think.

‘Yeah,’ you say.

‘I’m good at a lot of things,’ he tells you.

‘Stop showing off,’ you chastise.

You squeal as he chases you into the bedroom.

***

Namjoon’s trying to take it slowly but you’re writhing under him, rubbing against him in all the places that he likes, and god, he’s so hard he can’t imagine there’s any blood going to the rest of his body.

He can’t think .

You’re kissing his neck, tongue flicking against his skin, and Namjoon groans at the pleasure of it.

‘I didn’t know you were so sensitive, here,’ you note, a purr to your voice that makes his eyes close.

You grind your hips against his, arms splayed around him.

Namjoon’s got no idea how you managed to get on top of him but Jaesu, he loves the view. He already knows he’ll never get tired of taking the weight of you.

Namjoon raises his head, trying to kiss you as you’re pulling away, and you press your hand to his lips.

‘Look at you, my big dragon rider,’ you taunt. You roll your hips against his cock, still covered in the dress pants he put on for the Banquet, pulling another grunt from him.

‘You like being under me?’ you ask.

‘I’d rather be in you,’ Namjoon tells you, honestly.

He runs a hand down his torso, cups his length. ‘Get these off and I’ll show you.’

Your eyes meet, and the heat in his gaze makes you visibly shiver.

Then you’re undoing his pants.

Namjoon lifts his hips to help you slide them down.

His cock brushes your parted lips, and quick as a cat, you open your mouth and take him in.

Namjoon’s fist clenches in the silk of your dress as you take him deeper, tongue flat against the underside of his cock.

‘You unman me,’ he utters.

You look up at him, mouth full, eyes wide, and he groans at the sight of you.

‘Do you like this?’ you ask, pulling back, lips swollen, stained with the stickiness of his seed.

Namjoon reaches down to cup your cheek. ‘I want you on top of me, love,’ he tells you.

He never knows if you’re going to do what he says, but to his relief, you wriggle up to sit on his chest.

He reaches out, undoes the ties fastening your gown carelessly, enjoying the way it falls open under his hands.

He tugs it up over your head, leaving you in a chemise so gossamer thin he can see the outlines of your pretty breasts, your hardened nipples imprinted against the fabric.

Past the length of your torso he can see between your legs, and, he realises he can feel the dampness of your arousal on his own stomach.

You’ve wetted through his shirt, and Namjoon doesn’t think he’s ever been more aroused.

Your mouth opens, and Namjoon shakes his head.

‘Look what you’ve done,’ he tsks, his voice husky, low.

You open your mouth again, and again, he shakes his head.

‘You and your smart mouth,’ he says. ‘You’re so wet you’ve ruined my shirt, and I’m so hard I hurt.’

He hisses as you roll your hips over him. ‘What are you going to do about it, my love?’

You’re moaning at him, and he laughs harshly. ‘You want my cock? Do it yourself.’

‘Or do you just like talking with that smart mouth,’ he taunts. ‘Can’t follow through?’

Your eyes flash at him, and then you’re bracing against his chest, taking him in hand, lining him up.

Your eyes flick to his, and Namjoon stares you down. ‘Shy?’ he asks, voice mocking.

‘No,’ you gasp, as you lower your hips onto his pelvis, taking him in increments.

Your hand tightens on his arm. ‘Too big,’ you murmur, breathless.

Namjoon has to take a breath when he’s in all the way. You’re wet, and warm, and he can already feel his pleasure starting to coil out from his shaft, sending tingles across his groin, making his balls tighten.

You’re moving on him, thighs flexing as you ride him. Namjoon has the loose thought that the definition in your thighs is probably from carrying his armour around for months, because he’s never seen you do any other form of exercise, then you’re leaning forward on his chest, murmuring in his ear, and his thoughts evacuate his head again.

Fuck, you’re beautiful when you come.

You cry his name, and Namjoon cups your ass, helping you move on top of him, wringing every last bit of pleasure out of you until you’re limp on top of him.

He waits, hard and throbbing inside you, until you look up at his face.

‘Did you think we were finished?’ he asks.

There’s a spark of something in your eyes at his challenge.

‘I did, actually,’ you say haughtily.

You make as if to move off of him, and as always, Namjoon’s amused and outraged by your audacity.

He grips your thigh, admiring the mark his fingers leave when he lets go.

You’re watching him carefully.

‘Should have known you’d like that,’ you remark.

‘You know,’ Namjoon says thoughtfully, pulling you underneath him, thrusting once, experimentally.

You wait for what he has to say.

‘I like you better when you’re not talking,’ he says.

Your squawk of outrage turns into a moan as he starts to move, his cock sliding in your slickened cunt.

‘Yeah,’ he says, as you moan. ‘This is better.’

He seals his lips against your own and fucks you until you’re crying out and coming on his cock.

***

Namjoon’s awakened by a pounding on the door.

He stumbles to the entrance of the tiny farmhouse and is greeted by Jimin, dressed in full battle gear, thrusting his armour at him.

‘Halians,’ Jimin says grimly. ‘They’re en route to the Hold.’ He pauses, meaningfully. ‘The Princess of Ijil is still within our Gates.’

Namjoon’s pulling on his armour, methodical. ‘The dragons?’ he asks.

‘They’re all in formation,’ Jimin says.

He looks up as you walk into the room, dressed in Namjoon’s shirt from last night.

‘Ah,’ says Jimin, unsurprised. ‘Tell me later if I need to defend your honour to your brother.’

You laugh. ‘Seokjin can’t talk,’ you say, and Jimin grins.

‘Don’t I know it,’ he agrees.

Namjoon doesn’t have time to unpick this conversation right now.

He tightens his sword and says to Jimin, ‘Let’s go.’

‘Wait,’ you say.

You step forward and pull him down into a kiss.

‘Stay safe,’ you say.

Namjoon casts a look at your pretty face, wishing he had the time to appreciate how good you look in his shirt.

You’re already stepping back.

‘Look after him, Jimin,’ you say.

Jimin nods. ‘I always do.’

The laugh you both share at his expense makes Namjoon scowl.

***

Jimin grew up with Namjoon, and he’s been analytical, an overthinker, for as long as he’s known him.

Namjoon was the friend who always used to get caught when they played dragons and wizards, the kid who was busy trying to strategise when what he needed to do was run.

He made up for it by becoming quicker, stronger than anyone else. So then he didn’t just win at games, he annihilated his opponents.

He’s fought alongside Namjoon in countless battles against the Halian army, and there’s no doubt that Namjoon’s brilliant strategising has saved their asses many a time.

It’s just that, Namjoon’s so damned serious all the time. He wears his responsibility as commander on his shoulders, bears the weight without complaint.

When he started sleeping with the Princess of Ijil, Jimin had realised he was in real danger of losing his friend to a life of power seeking and political manoeuvring.

That’s where you came in.

Jimin’s known you for years, he’s friends with Seokjin, your brother who’s currently making a name for himself in the vast plains of Daljeon.

He’s always liked your sense of humour. Like Seokjin, you cloak your inner steeliness in jovial banter. Also like Seokjin, you’ve been blessed with a face as pretty as Jimin’s own.

You’d been at a loose end when Seokjin left, and Jimin had quickly realised that your personality was the perfect foil for Namjoon’s seriousness.

He’d watched in amusement as you ran circles around Namjoon with your quick wit, and had relaxed after he’d seen the way Namjoon had consistently chosen to laugh with you rather than flatten you.

Today, though, Namjoon’s not laughing.

They’d returned from a skirmish with a Halian sub unit at the border of Eosul to find the farm cottage empty.

A search of the Hold has so far, not revealed your location.

Namjoon looks up as the doors of the Great Hall open and a messenger comes in carrying a package.

Namjoon tears it open and stops dead as pieces of onyx fall out.

He looks at Jimin, jaw set. ‘It’s hers. I gave it to her the night of the Banquet.’

Jimin’s already grasped the messenger. ‘Where is she?’ he demands.

‘It’s from General Dei of the Halian army,’ splutters the messenger. ‘That’s all I know.’

Namjoon moves so quickly the messenger’s against the flagstone wall before he finishes his sentence.

‘Tell me where she is and I’ll spare your life,’ he utters, voice low and deadly.

One move of Namjoon’s hand toward the hilt of his sword yields the information they need.

Then Namjoon’s running, heading for Styx on the plain.

***

Namjoon glances over at Jimin as they approach the caves where you’re being held.

‘I’m worried, Jimin,’ he confesses.

Jimin places his hand on Namjoon’s shoulder, drawn taut with worry.

‘She’s the only bargaining item they have, even the Halians wouldn’t be stupid enough to harm her knowing you’re on your way.’

Namjoon’s gaze is dark. ‘I’m more worried about what this is going to cost them,’ he tells Jimin. ‘I’m angry.’

His fists clench. ‘I’m really fucking angry right now.’

Jimin says, carefully, ‘This isn’t a reason to start a war.’

Namjoon laughs, short, humourless. ‘I don’t want a war,’ he agrees.

He sets his jaw as they reach the entrance. ‘I want a massacre.’

You’re against the back wall of the cave, flanked by Halian guards.

General Dei’s standing by. ‘Lord Namjoon,’ he says, inclining his head in greeting.

Namjoon, imposing in his battle armour, gives the General a look that has the guards behind him shifting nervously.

‘I know you wanted a negotiation, General,’ Namjoon says, ‘but I don’t negotiate when one of my own hangs in the balance.’

He draws his sword. ‘Release my squire.’

***

In the clamour of battle, Namjoon has a direct line of sight to you, and sees the moment you flatten yourself against the wall to avoid a wayward strike.

He’s by your side in moments, cutting you loose, pushing you behind him.

‘It took you a while,’ you point out. He can’t see your face but he can hear the smile in your voice.

‘I’m sorry I left you,’ he says, tucking you under his arm, cutting down two Halian guards in a swift movement.

He heads for the entrance of the cave, where Styx is waiting to dispense with any Halian guards who manage to get past Taehyung and Mingyu.

Jimin emerges a moment later, sheathing his sword, breathing hard from exertion.

He draws you into his arms, raises an eyebrow when Namjoon doesn’t let go of his hold on you.

‘I’m taking her back to the Hold,’ Namjoon says.

Jimin murmurs, ‘and the rest?’

Namjoon helps you onto Styx, jaw tightening as he takes in the rope marks around your wrists and ankles.

He can find no mercy in his heart for anyone who’s tried to hurt you.

Honestly, he can’t even trouble himself to look.

He turns to Jimin.

‘Let them burn.’

***

You awaken so quietly Namjoon’s got no idea how long you’ve been watching him sit by the window.

You clear your throat.

‘You’re beautiful,’ you say, the words heartfelt.

Namjoon looks at you, at your skin coloured in the hues of the rising sun, at the sincerity shining in your eyes, and thinks that you’re the beautiful one.

He comes to sit on the bed next to you.

You clamber into his lap, face close to his, legs either side of his waist.

‘Thank you for coming to get me,’ you say.

‘I’m sorry I let you get taken in the first place,’ he replies. ‘Did you get hurt, my love?’

He’s looking at the mark on your wrist, where your bangle was.

You catch the direction of his gaze.

‘It didn’t hurt apart from that I didn’t have anything to show I belonged to you,’ you tell him.

Namjoon lifts your wrist to his lips, kisses over the bruise marking your skin.

‘I can take care of that,’ he says.

He moves his mouth further up your arm, sucks your warm skin, laves the new mark he’s left with his tongue.

You’re breathing faster now, watching him intently.

Namjoon tugs the shirt he put on you apart, presses his lips to the warm curve of your left breast, and sucks.

You make a pretty sound, and he does it again, suctions his lips over your softness, admires the lurid colour of the mark he’s made.

You’re shifting your hips slightly, moving over his thigh.

Namjoon flexes his thigh between your legs, and you whimper.

He dips his head again, this time to your other breast, coaxing your nipple out from under his shirt. He licks over your nipple, and to his pleasure, you let out another pretty moan.

You’re still moving your hips over his thigh, more boldly now, grinding harder with each pass.

Namjoon keeps up a steady pace laving your nipples with his tongue. He takes your breast into his mouth, lifts a hand to tweak your other nipple, and you gasp.

He can feel your wetness on his thigh.

His free hand lands on your thigh.

‘Ride me,’ he utters.

‘Namjoon,’ you gasp.

Namjoon can tell by the raggedness of your breathing that you’re close to your release.

He flexes his thigh again, helps you drag your hips along, laps at your nipples, and with a cry of his name you come.

Namjoon pulls you onto the bed, slides his hand onto your bare hip under his shirt and admires the view.

Your breasts look so pretty covered in the marks his lips have made, nipples taut and slick with his saliva.

There’s wet between your thighs, your cunt glistens with your release, and Namjoon’s never seen anything prettier.

His cock, already hard and aching, swells even more as you pull him down to you.

‘I want you, Namjoon,’ you plead.

‘You have me,’ he replies.

He settles himself between your spread legs and pushes into you.

Your back arches as he slides in, slow, giving you time to adjust.

He can feel your hands on his back, one near his shoulder blade, one low on his hips, urging him on, and Namjoon doesn’t want to hold back anymore.

He sheathes the rest of his manhood within you with another push of his hips, groaning at the pleasure of it.

He can feel the walls of your cunt fluttering around his hardness, the rush of slickness from you coating him.

You’re so wet, so warm Namjoon finds himself without words.

He starts to move, and you cry his name so loudly he stops, worried he’s hurt you.

‘Don’t stop,’ you reassure him, teeth on his earlobe. ‘Jaesu, don’t stop.’

Namjoon drags his cock from you and enters you again and again, going deep with every thrust, hard the way you seem to like.

He rolls his thumb over the swollen bud between your legs, and you buck your hips against his, chasing your pleasure.

You’re tightening deliciously around him now, clamping down on him like a vice, and Namjoon’s close himself, leaking into you with every thrust.

He strokes between your legs, dips his head to lap at your nipple, and then you’re coming again, gasping his name.

Your pleasure drags him over his own edge, Namjoon manages another thrust before he’s coming, spilling his seed into you with an intensity that robs him of his breath.

You’re pulling him down onto you now, arms around him. Namjoon has just enough awareness to move slightly so you’re not taking his full weight as he collapses onto the bed, tangled up with you.

***

When he stirs, you’re up already, but thankfully not any more dressed than you were.

You’re looking at him in the looking glass by his bed.

‘I like these marks you made on me,’ you announce, nonchalant.

‘I’ll make more,’ Namjoon says.

He rises from the bed, drops to his knee before you.

‘On my legs?’ you ask, looking down at him quizzically.

‘If you want.’

Namjoon reaches for your hand, looks up at your face seriously.

‘I vow fealty to you, in this kingdom and beyond,’ he promises you. ‘I will protect you to my last breath.’

‘Well,’ you drawl, with the familiar quirk to your lips he’s grown to love, ‘we’d better make sure you live a very long life then.’

#namjoon smut #namjoon x reader #namjoon fanfic #bts smut

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