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gaysindistress · 10 days

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Allies or Enemies - two

disclaimer: credits to original creator/poster of image/gif. found on google/Pinterest

pairings: Dragonborn!bucky x f!reader

Summary: The reality of her cruel world is more evident than ever before when her stepfather sends her to her death under the guise of diplomacy. Y/n, the expendable daughter of a scared king, must find a way to secure her own protection among the Dragonborn and she will do that by whatever means necessary.

Warnings: nothing

Word count: 3k

series masterlist | one

taglist: @blackbirdwitch22 @alyeskathewave @learisa @screechingfangirlaf @unaxv @oh-gods-its-a-dragon

When one thinks of a binding ceremony, several things are sure to come to mind.

Maybe this is a ceremony similar to a human marriage where the couple declares their intent to love and cherish each other for the rest of their days. Maybe this is a ceremony similar to a knighting where a squire completes the final stage and takes the vow to become a knight. The possibilities are endless to be completely truthful but yet what this particular binding ceremony entails is nothing that I could’ve ever imagined.

Pepper takes great pleasure in telling me every detail of the Dragonborn ceremony as she cinches my corset and stabs sharp pins into my hair, bundling it into the tightest updo that she can manage.

“You are not to speak to the knight unless necessary. Conversation is considered improper amongst their kind. You are not to create any sort of relationship with this knight. A relationship outside that of diplomat and guardian is considered improper.”

She spares no detail as she paints my face in the palest fashions possible and dresses me in a blood red velvet gown. My shoulders are exposed thanks to the heavily beaded neckline that sits across my chest and constricts my movement.

I detect the faintest hint of a smirk as she whispers into my ear that this ceremony will forever bind my soul to that of a Dragonborn knight and the process is usually quite painful for humans.

“You will wear their mark and it will cause you great pain if you leave sight of the knight. They will be able to sense your every emotion so it would do you well to learn how to control your emotions.”

When she draws back to look upon her masterpiece of human terror in the vanity mirror, I see the pleased look upon her narrow face and suppress a shiver. She gives me a thin lipped grimace before spraying me with an awful smelling perfume.

Coughing and fanning away the offending the scent, I demand to know what it is and receive no answer but that grimace.

As if to add insult to injury, the dreadful woman forced me to wear satin slippers in the same hue as my dress. The cold from the winter storm that rages on outside seeps into my bones as she marches me through the palace. It’s started to numb my toes, causing me to stumble over myself and fall to the ground. Pepper spins on her heel to snap at me but something stops her. Her angry green eyes quickly turn to fearful ones as she tears them away from me and fixates on something behind me. She takes a step back from me and straightens her back, quickly assuming the dutiful advisor persona.

A clawed gauntlet appears to my right and offers itself to me.

‘They’re not like us’ begins to play in my head over and over again as I stare at the hand of my newest captor. The owner clears their throat and the chanting in my mind ceases. Stealing a fleeting glance up, I realize that this is not the same knight that I was close to in the battle room only hours earlier. There are no distinguishing differences between the two but something screams to me that this is not him, the one who promised me safety.

“You look beautiful, my lady,” the knight’s hoarse voice rumbles through his helmet as he helps me to my feet. This is not the other one who asked about the ceremony but instead one who had stayed silent.

I force myself to swallow my emotions despite the dam that they’ve created in my throat and mumble a quiet ‘thank you for your kind words’.

The knight lets out a thunderous chuckle that vibrates my body as well as his. “They are the truth, my lady. Kind words are lies told to assuage weak minded individuals and we do not make a habit of lying in Devora.”

“You should address her as your highness, she is not a lady. Regardless we will be late, your highness,” Pepper says in a clipped tone. Her face has grown as red as her hair but the knight pays her no mind and keeps his attention solely on me.

“Thank you…for your honesty then.”

With his helmet in place, I can’t see his face but there is an air around him that tells me that he’s smiling at me. My mind begins to wonder once more and I find myself imagining what it might look like. What might this knight look like beneath his helm of duty and beauty?

“You may leave. I will escort her from here,” he tells Pepper who balks at the suggestion.

“It is improper…” she begins but he cuts her off.

“Leave.”

She looks to me as if I could be the voice of reason and finds no such thing. I tell her as gently as I can that she needs not worry and we will follow shortly. Her sharp eyes cut from my face to our still joined hands and she turned up her nose before finally taking her leave.

The seconds it takes for her to disappear down the hall feel like they span over centuries but once she’s gone, a sigh of relief escapes me.

Another rumbling chuckle comes from the knight. “What a foul woman,” he muses while moving my hand to rest on his arm and starts to walk, “Is she always in such a miserable mood or does she reserve such behavior for guests?”

“I think she reserves it for me but otherwise her mood is always rather miserable. Maybe it’s the lack of sun here in York,” I suggest as I try to not marvel at the feeling of the warm armor beneath my fingers.

“Ah yes the sun. It is quite dark and dismal compared to Devora but I don’t suspect that the lack of sun is the root of her issue,” he almost whispers to me before moving the conversation along. “I do not mean to be rude but are you wearing perfume?”

I look at him quizzically as I nod my head.

“Did you choose it?” He asks as his voice grows tight and he stiffens beside me.

“No, Pepper did, why? Is something the matter with it?”

His body language is stiffer than it was moments ago and he seems to shift agitatedly beside me.

“It’s rose scented,” he states.

“And?”

It takes him a moment to answer but eventually he does, “Dragonborn have exceptional senses of smell but roses are the one scent we can’t handle. It will make us very ill.”

Instinctively I tense beside him and stall us. His clawed gauntlet comes to rest on top of my hand in an act of reassurance.

“But so do not worry though, my lady. I know that it was not you who chose it and it will not hurt any of us for the time being. It’s more of something to keep in mind,” he tells me in a low voice before he continues, “What did she tell you of the ceremony?”

I attempt to apologize but he has none of it and asks his question again. I rely as much as I can remember. At the end of my rambling, the knight laughs whole heartedly and even clutches at his chest.

“Do not fear it, my lady. It’s common amongst our people so I assure you it will be painless and quick. Stéphanos has performed it many times. What pepper has told you is incorrect but it is not my place to tell what your relationship with your guardian will be. I will allow him to answer any questions that you may have.”

“My guardian,” I half say to him and to myself when we begin to walk again, “who is to be my guardian?”

“I cannot say. It’s not my place.”

“What can you tell me?”

“My name. It’s Samuel.”

“And who is Stéphanos?”

“He is our leader.”

“And the other knights?”

I’m met with silence.

‘It appears his long winded speech has found its limits’ I find myself thinking as we continue our stroll towards where I assume the ceremony is. Pepper thought it best that I didn’t know where it would take place so that I couldn’t run away beforehand. I desperately wanted to scream at her that there was nowhere for me to go, not when Dragonborn freely roamed our halls and hid in the ancient trees that surrounded the palace.

Much to my surprise we are nearing the gardens and are met by the other knights. Samuel lets go of my hand and guides me to take the hand of another knight. When he greets me, I recognize him as Stéphanos. He does the same as Samuel; places my hand on the croak of his elbow whilst keeping it there with his own.

“Good evening, Stépahnos or shall I call you Sir Stéphanos? I fear I do not know your people’s customs in regards to formality.”

“Stéphanos is just fine, my lady but if you wish to tutored in our ways then Natasha,” he tells me as he presents me to the one knight that I have yet to meet, “will do they. She has agreed to tutor you in any way that you desire. She will also be your guardian should anything happen to the other.”

The female knight bows her head in respect but otherwise stays silent. I go to ask him about the final knight, the one who promised me safety only hours ago, when a shrill voice calls out my name. Satin slippers slap the stone beneath our feet as my mother races towards us.

“Oh my dear child!” She nearly shrieks and comes to a halt as soon as she spots the knights who now surround me. Her sorrowful eyes make a sharp path from my face to where my hand rests on Stéphanos’ elbow. “My dear I had wished to speak with you before but I was…otherwise engaged. May I see you for just a moment?”

“Perhaps after the ceremony, your highness,” Stéphanos interjects before I can.

Her face scrunches in annoyance, “I believe I was speaking to my daughter, not you.”

“And I believe that the ceremony is about to begin. Your conversation can wait until it is finished,” the unnamed knight, my guardian to be, speaks up for the first time. His voice ricochets through the room like thunder through a forest, shaking the leaves of dust and cobwebs of the palace. His presence is even more powerful than his three comrades combined as he steps to the other side of me. His clawed gauntlets find their place on his onyx long sword, a silent display of dominance and bravery towards the queen.

Stéphanos mutters something in Draconic to himself. While I know that the strange words that fall from his tongue are in his native language, I do not understand it. During my father’s reign I learned to recognize the language through passing conversations but I was forbad from learning it. Draconic is an ancient language that is sacred to them; anyone who’s not a Dragonborn and is caught speaking it, is sentenced to death immediately.

My mother gasps at the knight, clearly offended that he would dare to speak to her in such a manner. Normally I would’ve expected her to lecture him and demand that the guards remove him from her sight but something tells me she won’t. Whether it be because there are no York guards present or the knight’s bold actions, she makes a displeased expression and huffs instead.

“Very well. I shall find you before you retire for the night,” she tells me in a cutting note as she skirts around us towards the garden doors.

Once she’s gone and the doors have closed, the knight turns to Stéphanos and says himself to him in Draconic before signaling to Samuel and Natasha. The three nod to their leader and follow after my mother.

“Ready, my lady?” Stéphanos asks me when we’re alone.

‘No I’m not’ I think to myself but I have to be. I have to be ready for this.

So I give him a polite smile and tell him that I am.

A dull knife is often more dangerous than a sharp knife because you do not expect it to hurt you. You are lulled into a false sense of safety by the blunt edges and do not take the proper precautions to keep yourself safe.

The knife that Stephanos is holding gleams in the moonlight as he stands over the knight and I, quietly chanting a Draconic prayer. Our scenery is reflected in the metal blade, painting a rather grim affair; a broody knight being bound by duty to a forsaken princess in a nation that is weak and desperate. Between the reflections of us, I can see that the blade has been sharpened to the thinnest edge possible. A part of me is grateful for this as it slices through my flesh and blood beads from my palm without the faintest hint of pain. I do not feel the usual sting until well after the cut has been made and droplets of my blood have been poured over a small pale white stone ring.

When the sting does race through my nerve endings and communicate with my mind that I’m in pain, the stone has absorbed my blood and allowed itself to become a marbled mess of sanguine white.

When the hiss that follows my pain finally slips past my lips, I’ve been instructed to close my eyes so that my knight can don his ring. Once again too distracted by everything around me, I fail to do as I am told in time and catch a glimpse of lustrous white scales that I was not meant to see.

When I’m told to open my eyes, my hand is clutched to my chest and those scales are nowhere to be seen. In their place is a black clawed gauntlet with a necklace dangling from it. Stephanos mutters more Draconic over the necklace before instructing a servant to take it and place it around my neck. Even without doing it himself, a rush of heat unlike I’ve ever felt before overcomes me when the necklace takes its place against my sternum. One brief glance at it tells me that it’s the twin to the knight’s ring; a pendant of a white and red stone set in a delicate silver frame. Stephanos continues in Draconic and I continue to stare but this time at the knight’s hand where I had seen such familiar white scales.

“Are you alright?” I hear through deaded ears. The dryness in my eyes tells me that I’ve been staring for too long and I attempt to blink it away without success. Stephanos’ head is bent towards me as if he were trying to get on my level but no matter how low he might bend, it still would not matter with how tall the horns on his helmet are.

My brows pinch together in confusion while I try to piece together what’s happening. My mother’s soft cries and Anthony’s false reassurances do not reach my ears nor do the hushed conversations of Samuel and Natasha. The night’s song of gentle wind gusts and songful owls passes me by as do the creaking of ancient trees and vexing toads. All that I hear is the sound of my own blood pounding and my breath hitching as the world rushes past me. All I feel is that burning heat from my sternum racing through every vein and into every cell in my body.

All I feel is him.

What’s more cruel than being forced to endure a confining and uncomfortable form is doing it while listening to the ear splitting shrieks of humans. All around me humans are screaming and panicking as if the princess has suddenly and tragically died. With her motionless body cradled in my arms, I can hear her heartbeat as it pounds in time to my own but neither the queen or her cowardly husband are willing to listen to me. Somewhere behind me Natahsha and Samuel are keeping the weeping royals contained while Stephanos kneels before me.

“Tell me.”

“Her body wasn’t strong enough to handle the binding but she will be fine. Her heartbeat is steady and her breathing is returning to normal. She will need rest,” I state before being interrupted by my own intrepid thinking. Between my focus on the ceremony and maintaining my human form, I hadn’t noticed the utterly repugnant smell of roses. My body wishes to throw the princess and put as much distance between her and I as possible but I cannot. The most infuriating part is that I would’ve been able to only minutes ago for it’s the ring that I now wear that refuses to let me do so. The twin stones will not allow me to put her in harm’s way nor will they let her do the same to me. They will keep us close to each other whether we want that or not in order to maintain both of our safety.

Stephanos whispers my name, snapping my attention back to him. “I suspect we will need to leave for Devora sooner than planned. Can she travel?”

His words are followed by the sound of a hysterical queen demanding our heads for harming her daughter and several ill equipped guards coming to her aid.

“She might not have another choice.”

#bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #marvel imagine #bucky barnes fanfic #dragon x reader #dragon bucky x reader #dragon x human #dragon au #dragon Bucky imagine #allies or enemies bucky x reader

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sassyfrassboss · 4 months

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I wonder if Meghan thought her marriage with Harry would not go as well / would be worse than it ended up. And that her initial plan was to divorce Harry (rather than leave the BRF together) and keep her fame and title Diana-style. But Harry ended up being good-enough for her purposes (not to mention hero-worshipping), so he was slotted into her plans.

So I know many people feel differently about their marriage, which is okay because we are all allowed our own opinions no matter who disagrees.

I am firmly on and will remain firmly on Team Divorce.

When Megxit was announced and they were back in the UK, Meghan went to the National Theatre for an unscheduled visit. While on her way out she was walking with both of her hands splayed out on her thighs while walking. Weird right one would think? Normally people don't walk that way. However, when you looked closer you could see she wasn't wearing her engagement nor wedding rings.

We believe this was a warning to Harry that he better get her what she wanted or she would divorce him. I think that at the Sandringham Summit, the reason Harry only wanted to meet with TQ was he was sure he would be able to convince her to give in to his demands. That's why he is so bitter his father, brother, and their staff were in attendance. He wasn't going to bully his aging grandmother anymore.

I do think though that he was able to get financial support for a period of time and Frogmore Cottage. Two things Meghan more than likely wanted. They were also given security until the end of March which I have a feeling Harry convinced Meghan he would be able to change the minds of his family to grant it full time between January and end of March.

Honestly, if COVID hadn't happened and Meghan had been able to sign deals with companies that only wanted her, I think she would have dropped Harry within the year of them leaving. However, COVID did happen and all of the billions of dollars they expected to be deposited into their bank account the second they landed in the US never happened. Instead they were left scrambling for income and a way to stay relevant.

When Netflix and Spotify approached them it wasn't Meghan they wanted, it was Harry. She must have realized at some point she wasn't getting the deals she thought she would. Eventually it had to come to light that she needed Harry to keep her relevant and afloat financially until she could hook a bigger fish or she could find some miraculous deal on her own.

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stairswarning · 2 months

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Stirrup to Stirrup (Rowdy Yates/Original Female Character)

Rawhidefandomweek late entry, day 4:

Free choice / droversona/ self-insert

Read on AO3 here!!

The sun was blistering hot on her back as Ida stormed out of her home, a singular bag in hand. They aren’t gone yet, she kept repeating in her head, a hopeful chant, they aren’t gone yet, they aren’t gone yet…

Step by dusty step led Ida out of her small, backwards town and towards the safety of freedom.

The safety of men who had no money or power to trap her.

The safety of wild land and barely-contained steer.

The safety of mister Gil Favor’s herd.

She was going to march right up to him and ask that he take her on, no, she would demand it. If he wasn’t in that dusty field by the large magnolia tree, then she would just track him down some other way. Probably by standing on the one hill in a six mile radius and looking around, but that still counted as ‘tracking’ in Ida’s book.

Her dark, short hair tangled under her hat and stuck out in every direction; her long, house skirt dragged in the dirt and ripped along the edges on the sharp stones buried in the dry dirt. Good, she thought, let it get destroyed. Let the old me die in the dust.

She could still smell the cattle, even from the opposite side of the hill blocking the town. Good, they hadn’t left Goodsprings yet. He would have to take her on, then, if only just to save another strange woman from her unfortunate circumstances. Ida had seen him do the same thing not three days prior, bringing a troupe of young women - who had been abandoned by one of their husbands to die in the wilderness - into town to live out the rest of their days in peace.

But Ida did not associate her town with peace. Her parents arranged a marriage for her with the creepy, leering man who ran the general goods store. They claimed he would bring in good money, and Ida’s mother suggested she would only have to suffer physically until she bore him a son. That would not do. Not while she still had breath in her lungs and will enough to move her body. A cowboy’s life would suffice, especially with that as the alternative.

Fear and anxiety left her body as she approached the chuck wagon, the bright, hazy day casting a magical glow over the cow hands laughing over a poorly cooked meal and a game of cards where they all cheated. mister Favor stood at the center of it all, watching over the men like he did his cattle. Ida approached with the most confidence she could muster, nearly tripping over her ripped skirt hem in the process. She strode to the top of the hill and cleared her throat loud enough to draw the boss’s attention.

Mister Favor looked shocked to see her– they had only met once before, when the new ladies to town introduced themselves at the cramped old saloon just a few days prior. He had no reason to believe the town would need him again so soon, and on that he was right. The town didn’t need him, she did.

“Mister Favor,” Ida stood tall at the edge of their makeshift camp, her arms relaxed at her sides, her chin raised. She cannot show weakness. “I would like to inquire about a potential opening in your team, as it were. I saw one of your hands run off with the three lovely ladies, so I would like to fill that space, if you would permit it. Sir.”

The formal address was tacked onto the end of her thought hastily, although she could barely think with all the eyes locked on her. Some of them seemed to think it was a joke, but others, most particularly the tall ramrod that always found himself near mister Favor, just looked… curious.

Mister Favor took a steadying breath before replying, “the cowboy life isn’t for just anyone, especially a woman like yourself,” he smiled to himself, “did your folks tell you you needed to work more hours at the general store? Why are you really here?” The men chuckled, the tense energy diffused by the idea of Ida’s wants being so banal.

“I want my own life, mister Favor,” she refused to cry, refused to turn back, “they wanted to marry me off to the old man that runs the general store, I couldn’t do it, he’s been after me all my life, if I stay in that town I’m as good as dead.”

Mister Favor’s eyebrows shot up. “He’ll kill you?”

“No. But every year I live tied down to that man with no freedom, no sense of self, no ability to do what I desire– that is a death of attrition, no matter how long or short I live.”

The men had fallen silent again. The scout - Pete? - cleared his throat. “We do need more hands, mister Favor. That boy that ran off barely did any work in the first place.”

“Yeah,” the ramrod finally found his voice, “and she can lift a lot. I saw her carry a huge sack of flour from one side of town clear across the other. She can handle herself.”

“Rowdy, I’ll judge the situation myself for now.” Mister Favor snaps, which shut him right up. Ida’s glad for it, it gave her time to think: When did the ramrod, Rowdy, she corrected herself, see her carry that flour to the Bennett’s? The cowboys only ever went to the saloon, and mister Favor stopped by the general store only twice. Ida, for one, thought that every man in the town was too preoccupied by the lovely newcomers spinning tales and performing piano trios to see anything else happening around them. Apparently not.

“We don’t accept women on, usually. You need to understand that, miss…”

“Ida.”

“Ida, yes, well…” Mister Favor sighed, rolling his head from side to side, “do you know how to ride a horse?” Ida nodded. “Alright. You’re on. Rowdy’ll teach you the rest. Wishbone, get her some pants and a work shirt, will you?”

“I’ll be right on it, mister Favor!”

Wishbone, the scraggly cook, shuffled over to Ida and gestured her over to the covered wagon. She tensed up. Thankfully, he seemed to notice and understand why.

“Don’t you worry, Mushy’s just around the corner, and he needs to be told what to do every five minutes or else he goes braindead. This’ll be quick, I promise.” There was something in his eyes that spoke to a greater honesty and truth than Ida could possibly know. And so, she went.

The days passed. Each mile they rode away from Goodsprings was like a weight lifting away from Ida’s heart. The horses got spooked too easily, the nights were filled with bugs and harsh rocks poking at her spine, the cattle were loud and smelly and the cowboys were the same.

It was perfect.

What she couldn’t understand about the outfit was Rowdy. He was tall, lean, confident and headstrong. But somehow, he didn’t have a woman or seem to care too much about them. Every man on this team had something wrong with him that explained their lack of a girl back home–Mushy’s simplemindedness, Pete’s closed-off nature, Wishbone’s bullheadedness, Quince and Scarlet being too attached at the hip to care about women, Jesús’s superstitions, mister Favor’s need for control–so Rowdy’s perfection confused her even more. There must be something else wrong with him, a small part of Ida’s brain nagged, Pete complained about his womanizing, that must be it! He moves from woman to woman too quickly! Even though he hadn’t even so much as mentioned a woman in my presence, there must be something wrong with him… He couldn’t possibly be the strong, sweet cowboy I know him for…

Even with those thoughts running through her head, she couldn’t stop looking at him, day in and day out. His bright smile, his loyalty, his seriousness when it came to his work. She decided to distract herself with reading whenever she wasn’t too busy pushing a few beeves back into line. She only had three books with her, in her haste to leave her childhood home: Crime and Punishment, Pride and Prejudice, and a battered old copy of Hamlet.

Mushy caught her reading Crime and Punishment by the fire late one night, back pressed to an old tree and and knees up, cradling the book and her mostly-eaten dinner.

“Is that a book? I didn’t know you could read, miss Ida!” Ida could hear Wishbone’s groan of disapproval through the chuckwagon. She chuckled.

“Yeah, Mushy, have you heard of this book? Crime and Punishment?” He shook his head. “It’s about a man who commits a terrible crime because he thinks he’ll do good things afterwards, but he only succeeds in hurting himself further and going nuts.” Mushy’s eyes seemed like they would pop out of his head, but Ida seemed to have drawn the attention of some of the other drivers.

“There’s books like that?” Quince asked, Scarlet also looking intrigued at his side.

“Well, yeah, there’s books about all sorts of things, fellas,” Ida couldn’t help but laugh, “do you want me to read it aloud?”

The fire crackled in the tense silence around the fire. The men made eye contact with each other, and then with the dust beneath their feet. The young woman could tell the men wanted to say yes, but something was holding them back. mister Favor and Rowdy sat opposite of her, and despite her intention of avoiding Rowdy, her eyes found him regardless. Rowdy gave a small smile and encouraging nod, as if to tell her that she had full control of the situation. She decided to break through the silence with fully artificial confidence.

“Well! I bet none of you would stop me if I started over from the beginning and read out loud - for no particular reason - towards you all. Correct?” A murmur of agreement rose from the men. That answers that question, she supposed. Ida thumbed through the pages back to the beginning, cleared her throat and began, “On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. bridge…”

The day finally came, three months after she started with mister Favor’s crew, where Ida realized she should learn to use a gun. Not just for hunting, but for threatening people and for gun battles.

She learned this useful lesson in the half-second before being shot by a rogue cowboy who was jealous of mister Favor’s success, and probably also because of his disdain for women with jobs outside the home. Not a very useful time to learn it, but thank the great Lord above that the man was a terrible shot and only ended up nicking her upper arm.

The raucous of the saloon immediately afterwards was worse than the bullet– Jesús and Pete could barely hold Rowdy back from decking the man and ripping him apart, a chair got smashed, Ida heard a gunshot from somewhere, but all she could see was the blood seeping between her fingers clamped over the bullet wound. It took mister Favor’s booming voice nearly shaking the rafters to stop the commotion, and even then Rowdy didn’t stop.

“Get over here, you coward! You think you can shoot a woman ‘cause you’re mad with mister Favor?? Huh?? That seem like anyone else’s business but yours and his?”

“Rowdy-” Ida inched towards the man, a blood-covered hand reaching for him. He couldn’t see it though, he was still focused on the man he was reducing to a quivering leaf.

He tugged an arm out of Jesús’s grasp and stumbled forward to grab the man by his collar, “I oughta rip your damn arms out for hurting Ida like that, you think you’re going to leave this town alive?”

“Row-”

“You ain’t seen mean yet, you whelp!” His fist drew back in Pete’s grasp, but a bloody hand stopped him before he could hit the man.

Ida’s voice was barely a whisper, “Rowdy,” and it was her hand, gentle against his fist tightened in the man’s shirt that brought him down.

“Oh gosh, Ida, I-I, I guess I went–” his eyes focused downwards on her arm, his hands releasing the man without fanfare and he collapsed to the ground with a satisfying thud, “show me where it hurts, I can help, I swear.” The pain of the wound was nothing compared to the zap of electricity when his gray-blue eyes locked onto hers, especially after he crouched down a bit to be at her level to look at her wound.

Ida was hit with the sudden desire to Kiss The Man.

She should not Kiss The Man, especially with such a large audience at such a high energy.

She wanted to Kiss The Man very badly, she found, as he wrapped his long fingers tight around her arm to staunch the bleeding for a moment. She bit her lip as hard as she could to stop herself from kissing Rowdy square on the mouth, and it barely worked.

Thankfully, Jesús jumped in with great advice, “Let’s get Ida back to camp, yes? Then we can get her better.” That seemed to break Rowdy’s focus enough to let Ida breathe, and she was soon rushed out of the saloon and onto a horse. Nobody would listen to her protests that she wasn’t hurt that badly, not enough to whisk her away and hem and haw over her condition. Something in her wondered if this concern was an attempt at convincing her to stray from the cowboy life, but it felt less like the control of her parents from her youth, and more like caring. Something had happened in the scant months she had worked with the cowboys, and whatever it was, she was grateful.

Wishbone was tightening the bandages around her arm when mister Favor ambled over to the chuck wagon. He cleared his throat several times and kicked his feet through the dust. There was something he had to say that he didn’t want to– hopefully it wasn’t a, sorry, you need to leave, you suck at this, kind of talk.

“You, ah… Should probably take some pistol lessons. Real soon, hopefully. After your shootin’ arm heals up, of course.” He nods to himself, “Rowdy will help you out with that, so you can ask him more about that later, okay?”

Ida nodded. She noticed the tips of his ears were red. Her eyebrows furrowed. Was that really it? Gun lessons?

But her unasked questions were answered when mister Favor walked away, towards an irate Rowdy tapping his toe and rolling his eyes. Understanding bloomed over her mind. Rowdy chewed mister Favor out for not teaching her gun skills earlier, did he really care that much about her? The idea warmed her heart something fierce, and the desire to Kiss The Man bubbled up her throat and almost escaped, but she was able to tamp it back down. For now, that is.

The gun lessons started a few weeks after the saloon incident. Mister Favor had been uncomfortable with Ida coming back into any town afterwards, but she reminded him that they faced more danger with the beeves every day over some idiot with an itchy trigger finger. Thankfully, there wasn’t an idiot with an itchy trigger finger – outside of their outfit – within fifty miles, where they were currently traveling up to Sedalia. It was just Ida and Rowdy at the southernmost point of the bed ground, a few types of guns lying on the grass.

“Alright, we’ll start with a pistol, okay?” Rowdy started, picking up the pistol and double-checking that the barrel was empty. He handed it to her, and the metal of the grip was still warm from his hands. “You’ll have to put your right hand against the grip, like,” he gestured vaguely, “like this.”

“Rowdy, I have no idea what you mean by that,” Ida couldn’t hold back her laugh, his face scrunched and all his wrinkles showed up, which just made Ida laugh harder. He looked so handsome with that look on his face, and she could feel deep in her gut that she had fallen too hard, she would never recover from this love.

“Well, I’ll just show ya, then,” Rowdy leaned into Ida, wrapping himself around her back and gently cradling her hands in his. She felt the heat of his chest against her back in a long line. It felt safe, and also a bit hot in both meanings of the word– summertime in northern Texas was nothing to scoff at, even at dusk.

His hands shaped hers into the way he wanted, and Ida was excited to realize that it felt comfortable to hold the pistol in her grip. Rowdy let go of her hands and let them fall to his sides. His comfortable weight was still pressed against her, which gave her the confidence to take aim at a tree far off and pull the trigger.

The gun clicked faintly, but all Ida could hear was the huff of breath against the back of her neck. The urge to turn around and Kiss The Man was overwhelming, but there was still one thought that stopped her from the simple motion: she needed this job too badly. If she Kissed The Man and he didn’t reciprocate, or if he only reciprocated for so long, then Ida would have to find a new job. She would probably get left in the next town and be forced to make friends with the corrupt politicians and strange rich folks. Either that, or she would be forced to ride drag until the dust kicked up from the beeves choked her.

Ida stepped away from the peaceful warmth of Rowdy’s body with a small smile. She just needed more time. Then, maybe, she could take the chance. She turned to him and nodded towards the ammunition.

“We ready to kick this up a notch?”

More months passed. Men joined and left the outfit as drives started and ended, but a few faces stayed. Ida felt she was stuck with these silly men ‘til the end, but the thought of that didn’t make her scared as it might have before. It warmed her heart, that she chose these men and they chose her.

The one thing she hadn’t trusted the men with was her birthday. They knew she was in her early twenties, but that was about it. Seasons came and went, demand for beef rose and fell, and still no one knew Ida’s birthday. She claimed it was so they didn’t know exactly how old she was, and so they didn't make her a terrible birthday cake that she had to pretend to like. She knew it was something deeper, her fear of trusting, her fear of being known. Of being loved and cared for.

One clear spring day at the end of a drive, Ida found herself sitting on a grassy hill somewhere near Sedalia. The air was fresh, the dirt damp, and she was alone with her thoughts and her copy of Hamlet. She had put her book aside a while ago, content just watching the clouds floating by and listening to the robins and bluebirds calling. Her eyes fell shut into a peaceful sleep.

A shadow over her face interrupted her peace, and with annoyance Ida cracked one eye open to yell at the sonuvabitch who thought bothering her was more important than getting drunk in some hole of a bar. The face that greeted her was wrinkled, sweet, and had bright gray-blue eyes that struck her to her soul: Rowdy. Her face cleared in an instant.

“Rowdy! Sit down, it’s so comfortable here,” she patted the grass beside her. He listened, sitting down with as much grace as a newborn duck. Ida chuckled, patting his leg. Was it just her imagination, or did the tips of his ears go red?

“Uh, miss Ida, I had something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Ida let out a world-weary sigh. “What did I tell you about calling me ‘miss’? You really don’t have to, we’re friends, right?” She lifted herself up to sit cross-legged next to Rowdy, bumping her shoulder against his. “I know you respect me, and I respect you, but I won’t be calling you ‘mister’ anytime soon.”

Rowdy put a hand to his chest, his jaw dropping open in mock offense. “I’m a respectable sir, Ida, I would appreciate you addressing me as such. Also, I will need a useless tight suit with a collar that buttons up to the throat, since I am such a fine gentleman,” joy danced around his bright eyes, and Ida couldn’t help laughing and leaning further into Rowdy. Her forehead rested against his shoulder and the tremors of his laughter echoed through her.

“Seriously, though, Ida, I uh, have something for you.” Something about his tone made her giggles disappear. Ida pulled away from Rowdy, looking him in his eyes. He, however, was looking off at the white fluffy clouds along the horizon. He squinted, and Ida had to stop herself from tracing his crow’s feet with her fingers.

“Alright, are you dying or something? Am I dying?” She left a hint of humor in her voice, leaning into Rowdy’s line of sight to try and draw him back into the conversation. He shook his head absently.

“No, no, it’s not anything like that, it’s just…” He pulled his hat off and rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand, “can’t a man be shy for once in his life? Boy, this shouldn’t be this difficult…”

The red tinge spreading over his cheeks and down his throat pulled at something primal in Ida, and the desire to Kiss The Man reared its appealing head back into her consciousness. She decided to wait. If she opened her mouth now, she would act rashly. She would compliment him too sincerely, or grab his hand too firmly, or beg him to stay with her forever.

“It’s been a year since you joined the drive, so I… well, me ‘n the guys, got you something. For it. Your year with us.” He dug around in his side bag for a moment, and pulled out something rectangular wrapped in old newspaper and bound in twine. His long fingers brushed against Ida’s as he passed it to her.

It was hefty, and Ida had a feeling she knew what it might be. She peeled the wrapping back as gentle as she could, undoing the twine and setting it aside to use again. The paper fell away to reveal a new copy of The Odyssey. Ida held the book close to her chest and glared at the now-grinning Rowdy.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You did, you bastard!” She smacked his arm a few times, breathlessly laughing, “you got me a book, you all care too much about me.”

“I think I might care too much, Ida. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” his face became serious, his eyes locked onto her own, his brows drawn in tight, “you’ve been the only gal for me, this past year. The rest of the crew thought I’d move on, but I haven’t. I won’t.” He leaned closer to Ida.

Her hands found themselves against his lean chest, and the fear she had held for so long about Kissing The Man seemed so distant, now.

“You’re important to me, you know that, right? And I want to be important to you. Can I be important to you?”

“Oh, Rowdy, I’ve been crazy about you since the day we met. Don’t beat around the bush, tell me what you want from me.” Ida knew she was teasing him, but there was always something so beautiful in his coy smiles.

Ida didn’t have to wait for words– Rowdy pressed his lips to hers firmly, and it felt like something shifted inside of her, as if the beast of desire had finally settled down in her heart. She pushed against him, nearly climbing into his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck.

There were only small pauses for breaths and lingering kisses around his mouth, face, throat, and Ida could not get enough. She pressed her mouth against Rowdy’s Adam’s apple and felt him swallow. The motion was far more erotic than she expected it to be.

“Ida, we, ah, should maybe hold on a moment,” His hands pressed further into his spine, which betrayed his true thoughts about stopping their impromptu necking session.

“Why, you getting too excited?” Ida glanced around. “There’s a stream downhill we can wash ourselves off in afterwards, right as rain.” That made Rowdy choke, and his fingers tightened against her sides.

“No, but I think you’re making things worse for me now. It’s just,” Ida pressed a kiss under his jaw, “ah, I told the outfit to check up on us fifteen minutes after I came over here, just in case I ruined things.” Ida nipped his earlobe.

“You ruin things pretty often, but this was not one,” Ida leaned back, admiring Rowdy’s blown pupils and rumpled shirt, “well, maybe not letting us have more alone time ruined it, but you can always make up for that later.” She patted his chest, rolled off of him, and recovered her new book from the damp grass.

“Really? Starting that book now?” Rowdy sounded upset, but the anxious energy in his fingers and still-obvious tenting in his jeans showed Ida it was just embarrassment. She smiled at him.

“I have to get ahead if I’m going to read this out loud to you all later tonight, but I can sit in your lap while I read if that makes you feel better,” a saccharine grin painted her face.

“...You menace.”

“That doesn’t sound like a no, Rowdy! You’ve started this relationship, and now you’re all in. You can’t take it back now!”

Rowdy looked down at his hands. His wrinkles grew as his smile did. “I’ll never take it back, Ida. Not ever.”

The breeze blew past the two of them, and the long grasses whispered a sweet song. The call of the robin echoed in the field.

“You both decent yet?” A hesitant voice called from some ways away, “Or do we need to come back?” The sounds of immature cowhands making obvious jokes followed. All Ida could do was nuzzle her head into Rowdy’s side and be grateful she had found her safety and her freedom in such a rambunctious group of men.

#stairs posts #rawhidefandomweek #i adore rowdy yates and i adore my new oc ida #i created her so i didnt have to figure out how to not say (y/n) all the time. but now im attached to her #all these men are idiots and i love them #also pls be gentle im only on season 1 so i just met jesus #i think my characterizations are pretty ok but just know i still dk who clay is. also i just met jesus but i would die for him in an instan #no. i would LIVE for him. him and his horse whispering skills #clint eastwood #rawhide

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foreveranevilregal · 8 months

Text

Encantober Day 7: Storm

Well. The day had been a complete disaster. Everything had started out wonderfully; all the wedding preparations had gone according to plan and, miraculously, even Pepa’s weather was holding up. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, the sun was shining almost as radiantly as Pepa herself, and it was going to be a beautiful wedding.

Until Bruno walked in.

Pepa was pacing back and forth, trying to burn off the nervous energy. Nothing had gone wrong. Yet. She knew better than to expect something in her life to go off without a hitch. Her stomach was doing somersaults. But it felt like, for once in her life, the bad feeling was going to be proven wrong. Nothing in the world could possibly ruin this day for her.

She should’ve known better than to underestimate her bad luck.

Bruno was standing off to the side, just observing, the way he always did. He rarely involved himself in things. But this was Pepa’s wedding day, and she’d be damned if she let her only brother just stand there and watch instead of participating.

“Bruno.” She marched right up to him. “What are you doing?”

He shrugged noncommittally. “Waiting for the wedding to begin?”

Pepa sighed, exasperated. “Bruno, there are still things that need to be finished. The decorations aren’t done, and the chairs- why aren’t you helping the rest of the men with the chairs? Go help!” She demanded, shooing him towards the chairs.

Bruno whistled lowly. He looked Pepa up and down, then glanced up at the crystal-clear sky. “Looking like rain, huh, sis?”

Pepa put a hand on her heaving chest to calm herself. “What?”

Bruno offered her a sympathetic (or was it pitying?) look. “Is it gonna rain?”

“Rain?” Pepa began to panic. It couldn’t rain today, of all days. Not now, at the start of her and Félix’s life together. Bruno should know better than anyone about bad omens, and he had summoned the worst of all. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, the sky darkened. “No. It can’t rain today. Not today.” She wrung her hands together, pacing and muttering prayers for the rain to just wait until tomorrow, please.

“It’s kind of looking like it’s gonna rain.” Bruno pointed out, his eyes drifting upwards uneasily. “Hey, wait- where are you going?”

Picking up her skirts, Pepa fled. Raindrops began hitting the cobblestones next to her. Somehow, she made it into the church and tried to calm her erratic breathing.

Thankfully, the ceremony was always going to be held inside the church. It went as smoothly as anyone could expect. Except her mantilla fell off in front of everyone and she had to pick it up and drape it back around her shoulders. Then her hand shook as she lit her candle. Luckily the candle that symbolized their unity stayed lit, unlike in the many nightmares she’d had leading up to today.

These slipups left her feeling a bit embarrassed, but Félix had kept beaming at her. No matter what anyone said to her afterwards, at least he would be there to comfort her.

Finally, the ceremony was over, and everyone exited the church…to a scene of total chaos and devastation. Debris was strewn everywhere. Bits were still tossed about by the wind. The cobblestones gleamed from the rainfall that had soaked them, judging by the little rivers flowing to lower ground. And the sky…the beautiful blue sky had darkened like night had fallen several hours early.

The bubble of hope Pepa had held in her chest popped. How…how could this be? When she’d been getting ready, everything was so beautiful. Not a single cloud in the sky, let alone…whatever this had been. Everything had been fine, until…until she talked to Bruno. Her eyes blazed furiously. It was all his fault. He’d mentioned rain, and then this happened. Up until then, there had been no sign of rain. It had to have been a vision. How else could there have been such a terrible storm on that sunny day?

Stupid Bruno. He had to pick today of all days to deliver bad news. Here, Pepa; why don’t I portend your marriage with a lovely storm? That’s a good wedding present, right? No bad omens here. Just here’s what I think about how your marriage will turn out. No big deal.

Feeling lightheaded, Pepa ran back into the church, seeking refuge from the storm inside her mind. She ran up the aisle, crushing flower petals as she went, tearing down the flowers decorating the pews. It didn’t seem right for the decorations to be so beautiful when the wedding had been so awful. When she got to the front, she ducked into a side room, closing the door behind herself.

Was the wetness on her cheeks from the rain or her tears? She really couldn’t tell. Nor could she tell how long she’d been inside there. Darkness surrounded her; she’d forgotten to bring a lamp. Cursing under her breath, she tried to smooth out her dress as best as she could without being able to see. Maybe it was better that way. She probably wouldn’t like what she saw.

Suddenly, the door opened. Julieta stood inside it, haloed by light from the church. “Pepa?”

“Julieta.” She tried to keep the quaver out of her voice, wiping the tears off her face. “What are you doing here?”

Julieta laughed incredulously. “It’s your wedding day, Pepa. Surely you didn’t think no one would notice you missing?”

Pepa scoffed. “They’re probably having a better time without me. Without the weather witch who ruins everything.”

“No one has called you that in years.”

“Whatever. It’s not like anyone cares I’m gone.”

Julieta raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Are you sure no one cares? Because I can think of someone who cares very much and is confused about how he ended up alone on his wedding day.”

Pepa choked back a sob. “He’s better off without me. I ruined everything. In case you haven’t noticed, a hurricane passed through town. That wouldn’t have happened if he’d married someone else.”

Julieta sat down next to her. “Yes, there was a hurricane. But the man is crazy about you, Pepa. He’d move the earth for you.” She took Pepa’s hands in her own. “Where is all this coming from?”

Pepa shook her head, unable to speak through the tears. “Stupid Bruno,” she blubbered.

“Bruno?” Julieta asked, confused. “What does Bruno have to do with any of this?”

Pepa huffed impatiently. “Everything was perfect until he showed up and told me it was going to rain. What kind of a vision is that to tell someone on their wedding day?”

Julieta nodded slowly, absorbing this information. “Ah, I see. Pepa…you know Bruno isn’t the best at talking to people. I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“What he meant doesn’t matter.” Pepa crossed her arms over her chest, wringing out a bit of water from the dress. “He made it rain on my wedding day. He ruined everything.”

Julieta frowned. “He’s not the one with control over the weather.”

“Well everything was fine before he showed up,” Pepa retorted. “How else do you explain it?”

Julieta opened her mouth to speak, then shook her head. “Okay, so…it wasn’t the best thing to happen,” she said diplomatically.

Pepa barked out a cynical laugh. “You can say that again.”

“But it wasn’t the worst either,” Julieta persisted. “Pepa, do you know what’s going on outside?”

“I was trying not to think about it.”

“Let me tell you. Outside, there are musicians playing and a crowd of people dancing in the rain. There’s also a family waiting to celebrate a wedding they’ve been planning for ages, and a groom missing his bride.” She held up a finger, preempting Pepa’s protests. “Stop. Have you seen the way he looks at you? There is nothing on earth that would make him choose anyone but you. When he looks at you, that’s what love looks like.”

Pepa groaned, burying her face in her hands. This whole ordeal had exhausted her. She didn’t have the energy to argue with Julieta right now. All she could say is, “People will talk.”

“They might.” Julieta wrapped her arm around Pepa’s shoulders. “But today doesn’t have to be a complete loss.” She tilted her head towards the wall. “Listen. The rain is over.”

Pepa sniffled miserably. “Finally.”

“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what comes after the rain.” Julieta smiled warmly.

“Mud?” Pepa guessed, confused as to where Julieta was going with this.

“A rainbow, Pepa.” Julieta squeezed her in a hug. “And I’m sure it’s beautiful.”

A small smile appeared on Pepa’s lips. That sounded nice. “A rainbow,” she repeated faintly.

Julieta stood up, holding out her hand towards Pepa. “Let’s go see it.”

Sure enough, the colors arcing through the sky were brilliantly vivid. But they paled in comparison to the real rainbow in Pepa’s day, who was waiting for her by the door. He offered her his hand and said the two most wonderful words she could imagine.

“Let’s dance.”

#pepa madrigal #julieta madrigal #bruno madrigal #madrigal triplets #encantober #storm #foreveranevilregal writes #pepa and julieta #pepa and felix #writing encanto #writing pepa madrigal #sliding in for a photo finish

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ironychan · 4 months

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A Little Human (as a Treat)

Part 1/? - Un Voluntario

Part 2/? - Un Escursione

Part 3/? - Una Complicazione

Part 4/? - Una Famiglia

Part 5/? - Una Aiutante

Part 6/? - Una Ricerca

Part 7/? - Un Confronto

Part 8/? - Un'Emergenza

Part 9/? - Una Speranza

Part 10/? - Una Sera

Part 11/? - Un'Interruzione

Part 12/? - Una Fuga (Prima Parte)

Part 13/? - Una Fuga (Seconda Parte)

Part 14/? - Una Conseguenza

@dysphoria-sweatshirt @writer652 Man, I'm gonna miss this story when it's over. Only one more part to go.

Back in San Giuseppe, Officer Ippolito led Signorina Mulino and Signora Macarello back to his home, then asked them to wait while he cautiously opened the door and peeked inside. There'd been no chance to really explain the whole situation to his wife before he'd run off to see if he could dispel the angry mobs, but that wasn't his main concern. Amalia wasn't the type to panic. What Ippolito was worried about was whether any of the neighbours had noticed who his guests were.

It turned out he needn't have feared. He poked his head inside and found what looked like a reasonably ordinary social gathering. Amalia was serving coffee to Graziano, Ruggero, and Antonio, while Signor Giglioli sat on the sofa petting Tortetto the cat with one hand while the other held a bag of ice against his right eye.

Ippolito breathed out. “Okay, ladies,” he said. “Come on in.”

Amalia was startled to see him arrive with more people, but rose to the occasion as she always did. “Selina!” she first greeted the French pastry cook. “How nice to see you. And your friend...”

“This is Felicia Macarello,” said Ippolito. “She's Tony's wife.”

Antonio, sitting between Graziano and Ruggero at the kitchen table, nearly split his coffee out. He quickly put the cup down and got to his feet.

“Felicia?” he asked, wide-eyed. “Is that you? I told you not to come looking for me!”

“Of course I came looking for you!” the woman in blue replied, marching up to him. “I kept thinking about you all alone up here not knowing what you were doing, and I was afraid you might... oh, my cod...” she said suddenly, covering her mouth with her hands. “I have seen you up here before! You've been in the Patisserie with your friends! How long has this been going on?” she demanded.

“I've seen you, too!” Antonio realized. He took her hands. “You're always in that pastry shop! I thought you were just Signorina Mulino's friend.”

“I am Céline's friend,” said Felicia. “Who are these men you're always with?”

“They're my friends I see on Thursdays!”

“Your friends on Thursdays are humans?” Felicia looked around the room and shook her head. “Why didn't you ever tell me?”

“Well... I thought you were scared of the surface,” Antonio admitted sheepishly, “and I didn't want you to be worried about me going up here. Why didn't you ever tell me?”

“I thought you were scared of it!” she replied. “My parents told me you'd been up there once and something awful had happened. That's why I didn't like you at first, because I thought they only wanted me to meet you because it would keep me in the water!”

“You're kidding,” said Antonio. “My parents told me that you were scared of the surface. You've been coming here all this time?”

“I've known Céline since I was fourteen,” Felicia said.

“I've been hanging out with the guys since I was about the same age,” said Antonio.

There was a long moment of silence.

“Are you telling me that all this time...” Felicia began.

Her husband winced, bracing himself.

“... that all this time we could have been coming here together instead of sneaking around?”

Antonio nearly fell over with relief. “I... yeah, I suppose I am,” he admitted.

Again, there was silence.

“Amalia,” said Antonio, “is there any more of that coffee for my wife?”

“Of course!” said Amalia happily – she, too, was relieved that they were not about to witness the implosion of a friend's marriage. “Do sit down, Felicia.” She offered a chair. “It's lovely to finally meet you! Antonio mentions you from time to time and I always did wonder why he's never brought you by with him. Is it true you have a prizewinning garden?”

“Why, yes, it is. I'm very proud of my crinoids,” said Felicia, sitting down. “You told them that, Tony?”

“Of course I did!” said Antonio.

Felicia smiled and motioned to Signorina Mulino. “Céline, come and meet my husband.”

“A pleasure, Monsieur Maquereau,” said Signorina Mulino.. “I've heard so much about you, I feel like I know you already.” She shook his hand, then looked around for a place to sit, only to see that they were out of chairs. “It's got quite crowded in here. Shall I go see what's left over in the bakery? If somebody can come with me, we can bring another chair or two, as well.”

“Oh, yes, please!” said Felicia, standing up again. “Didn't you have extra raspberry éclairs?”

“Yes, Signora Maggiani never picked them up,” Signorina Mulino replied. “I wonder if she got caught up in the whole monstres marins affair.”

“I wouldn't mind a raspberry éclair or two.” Graziano stood up. “I'll carry the chairs.”

“We'll be right back,” Signorina Mulino promised, and she and Graziano bustled out.

Ippolito shut the door behind them, and heaved a sigh. Ruggero was okay with this, then, Amalia seemed like she could handle it, and the Macarellos weren't going to fight... when he turned around and listened to the couple's conversation, they turned out to be comparing notes about people they knew in town and things they'd tried. For the first time that night, things seemed to be going well. He hoped it would keep.

Miles away, at the bottom of a cavern off the coast near Portorosso, things were far less serene. Wedged in the door of the Donzellas' old home, Ciccio could only listen to people shouting above him and hope that nobody was getting hurt. He was getting very tired, feeling like he would just fall asleep at any moment, but he fought to stay awake for fear that if he nodded off he would deflate, leaving Ercole and Silvio with nowhere to hide from the squid.

Then, over the thud of his heartbeat in his ears, he began to realize that he couldn't hear the yelling anymore. He listened very hard for a moment, trying to figure out if it were actually quiet now or if his ears had just swelled shut the same way his eyes had. Then he heard a voice right behind him.

“Silvio!” It was Signora Donzella.

“Junior!” her husband joined in. “Are you in there?”

“We're here!” Silvio replied. “Ciccio, it's my parents! You can deflate now!”

Ciccio hadn't been sure he knew how to do that, but when he heard it was okay, he almost involuntarily relaxed at once. Water rushed out of him, and within moments he was no longer stuck in the opening. He tipped over backward, and drifted like a leaf to lie on the warm stone of the cavern floor. His skin felt like it had been stretched like a blown-up balloon, and it wasn't snapping back right away. Instead, it was hanging off his arms and legs like clothes that were too big.

He was able to open his eyes again, although they wouldn't focus very well, and the first thing he made out was the Donzella family above him, embracing as they reunited.

“Mom! Mom! You should have seen Ciccio!” Silvio was saying excitedly.

“Darling!” Giorgia replied, kissing him on each cheek over and over. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine!” Silvio replied. “Where'd the squid go? Did you kill it?”

Ciccio decided he didn't care where the squid was. It wasn't here, and that was the important thing. He shut his eyes, intending to go to sleep right there, but then he heard a tremulous voice asked, “are you all right?”

He opened his eyes again and looked up, and saw Ercole hovering over him, looking a little worried.

“I dunno,” Ciccio replied. He'd obviously never done anything like that before, and didn't know what the consequences were going to be.

Ercole took Ciccio's hands and pulled him up into a sitting position, then held him there while timidly poking his head out of the doorway. In the cavern above them, various sea monsters were cgreeting each other, congratulating and thanking the three kids who had evidently done something heroic, and making sure the Donzellas weren't hurt. Among them were Atinnia and Giordana Trota, and it was to them that Ercole called out.

“Hey! Trota family!” he shouted. “Down here!”

“Ciccio!” Giordana darted down and grabbed Ciccio by the gills to give him a big kiss. “What happened?”

“He, uh... he inflated himself and plugged up the door so the squid couldn't get us,” said Ercole, sounding sheepish. “He saved our lives.”

“A hero!” Giordana exclaimed, and kissed him again.

“You're alive!” exclaimed another voice. Ciccio was almost too tired to even turn his head, but he did, and found the three kids – Luca, Alberto, and Giulia – swimming closer. They looked overjoyed to see him, and Ciccio was pretty happy to see them, too, as they surrounded him. If they were back, then hopefully that meant they'd found...

“Is your cousin okay?” he asked Alberto.

“Flavia? She's fine,” Alberto assured him.

“She's spending the night at my place,” Giulia added. “I'm gonna stay with Luca's family. You can change back in the morning... as long as you have somewhere to stay.”

“Yeah, there's not much left of the Donzellas' barn,” Alberto added.

“I don't think the Donzellas will want to be bothered again,” Signora Trota agreed. “Francesco and his friend can spend the rest of the night at our place if they like.”

That startled Ciccio enough to open his eyes wide. “Huh?” he asked. “Aren't you mad at me?”

“Not at you, no,” Signora Trota told him. “I'm still very upset with Giordana, but I'm not angry with you.”

“Who's this friend of yours?” asked Alberto.

“Oh, he's...” Ciccio tried to look around, but all of his muscles were sore. What from what he could see, however, Ercole seemed to have vanished. “Where'd he go?”

There was really only one obvious place a person could have hidden, and that was in the Donzellas' old house. Luca went ahead of the others and peered into the space, lit only by glowing algae that grew around the cooking vent. By that light, he could make out the shape of a sea monster sitting on the floor with its arms folded over its chest.

“Don't come any closer,” a familiar voice barked.

Luca stared. “Ercole?”

“Did you say Ercole?” asked Alberto.

“Stay outside,” Luca ordered his friends. Both Alberto and Giulia sometimes went out of their way to make trouble where Ercole was concerned, and Luca's gut told him that now was not the time for that. Once he was sure the others would stay put, he slipped into the living space for a better look.

The figure was sitting under what had once been the Donzella family's dining table, and as Ciccio had noted early, was immediately recognizable. Ercole in any shape was lanky with big feet and a big nose, and he had the silly little barbels in the place of his attempt at a moustache. The sour expression on his face was also instantly familiar.

“What happened to you?” Luca wanted to know.

“It's Ciccio's fault,” huffed Ercole. “He pricked me with one of his spines, and it turned me into an ugly, smelly sea monster! I think he did it on purpose. But you're here now,” he added, “so get on with it and change me back.”

Luca certainly hadn't known that Ciccio's venom would do that, and he doubted Ciccio had, either. It had surely been an accident, but that left a number of questions, the most important of which was how to do what Ercole had just asked.

“I don't know how,” said Luca.

“What?” Ercole's eyes went wide in terror. “Ciccio said you had a magic book!”

“Yes, but we only wrote down the one spell,” Luca explained. “That tells us how to change Ciccio and Flavia back, but I don't know about you.” Would he change back when they did, or would Luca and Alberto have to make another trip to the Library of the Deep for more information? “Anyway, Flavia's already gone to bed. We'll get her and Ciccio back together to change back in the morning.”

“So I'm just supposed to spend the night down here?” Ercole whined. “Do you know what kind of a day I've had? I got stabbed in the hand by a poisonous spine number one, number two I turn into a sea monster, and number three before I could even try to get out of the water, this giant sea monster drags me off to help rebuild his barn! A bunch of horrid bratty children decided to teach me to swim by torturing me all afternoon, I got tangled up in seaweed...” he'd begun holding up fingers to count off his misfortunes, but now he'd run out. “My sweater is ruined, I had to help the Trota family make dinner like I'm some kind of servant, everybody's telling horror stories about giant squid, I find out you three have wandered off on a jolly little holiday and I can't even change back yet, Signora Donzella fed us bugs and made us sleep in the barn, and finally the giant squid turns out to be real and it attacks us! This has been the worst day of my entire life, and now you want me to sleep down here in the dark and cold at the bottom of the sea?”

Luca could hear snickering behind him, and suspected that Alberto and Giulia were lurking in the doorway in spite of Ercole's instructions. He raised a hand to his mouth to hide his own smile. It didn't sound like a very fun day, but it was hard not to think that Ercole kind of deserved it.

“Flavia and Ciccio haven't had very good days, either,” said Luca. “I think you can handle it. Do you want us to tell your parents where you are?” He didn't want to go back up on land and have to go knock on their door, but it was polite to offer.

“No!” said Ercole, and grabbed Luca by the shoulders. “You can't tell anybody, not a single soul, do you understand?” He looked over Luca's shoulder. “You two, I told you not to come in here!”

Luca heard more giggling.

“You cannot tell,” Ercole repeated. “I would be a laughingstock. Worse! People would treat me like a sea monster!”

“And that would be awful, huh?” Luca couldn't resist asking.

“Yes!” said Ercole, without a trace of irony.

There were several ways Luca could have responded to that, but after a moment, he deliberately chose the one that Ercole least deserved. “All right, we won't tell a single soul,” he promised. “Right, guys?”

He looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, Alberto and Giulia were there looking in, along with Arturo and Silvio. All four of them were grinning.

“Aw, come on!” protested Giulia.

“Look at his face!” Alberto agreed, grinning.

Luca glared at them.

“Oh, fine,” Alberto said. “We promise. Right?” he turned to Giulia as if hoping she would disagree.

“Yeah, whatever,” she said.

“Good,” Ercole said, letting go of Luca. “You all, get out of my way,” he ordered, and wriggled out of the cavern between the children.

Outside, Ciccio was leaning heavily on Giordana's shoulder with his eyes shut, possibly already asleep. His stretched-out skin was hanging off him, although it looked like it was already starting to shrink back into shape. It would probably be fine by morning. The rest of the crowd that had gathered to deal with the squid was beginning to disperse. Those who were still here were yawning, eager to resume their interrupted sleep.

The Donzellas were still there, and to the surprise of Luca and the others, Signora Donzella came up and gave Ercole a hug and a kiss on each cheek. “You, too,” she told the startled boy. “Thank you for looking after Silvio. If there's any way we can repay either of you, please let us know.”

Ercole almost raised an arm to wipe the kisses away, like a child who'd been embarrassed by his mother in public, but managed to resist. “Ah... it was nothing, Signora,” he managed.

Signor Donzella patted Ercole on the back, too, and then they allowed him to leave with the Trota family and Ciccio. As soon as their tails vanished through the cavern openings into the dark water beyond, Alberto burst out laughing.

“He's a catfish!” he wheezed. “Of course he is! Sad little whiskers! Oh, man, that's great! We're gonna need to get a camera!”

“That's not nice,” Luca told him.

“He's never been nice to us,” said Giulia, who was also giggling.

“That doesn't mean we should be as bad as he is,” Luca said firmly. “Now later, when he's mean to us again, we can point out that we were nice to him when we didn't have to be.” Not that Ercole would be at all chastised by that, but it would make Luca feel better.

Now that the emergency was over, however, sleepiness was taking over again. Daniela rounded up the kids and made sure all of them were okay, then escorted them back to the house. When they arrived, Luca could have taken off his human clothes and put on the seagrass trousers he used as underwater pajamas, but he didn't bother. He just curled up on his shelf and was asleep sounding within minutes. When his father returned with Nonna Libera about twenty minutes later, he didn't even wake up.

Giulia and Alberto stayed awake a little longer, snickering and trading catfish jokes, but they soon nodded off, too. It had been a long and tiring day for everybody.

It was past midnight when the mayor arrived in San Giuseppe. The woman currently on duty at the police station directed him to Officer Ippolito's home, where he knocked on the door and was let in to some kind of small party. People were sitting around a table enjoying drinks and snacks, and a game of cards was in progress.

“Mayor Armellino!” said Ippolito, getting to his feet with a smile as if welcoming the Mayor to the gathering. “You made record time! I think you know everybody here. Graziano and his sister run the Museum of Piracy, Ruggero is a furniture maker... you might not have met the Macarellos. Here!” He gestured to a couple who'd been chatting with Signorina Mulino, the French pastry maker. “This is Antonio and Felicia. They have a farm out in the middle of nowhere but they come into town once a week. You know Selina Mulino, and I'm sure you've met Pasquale Giglioli, the confectioner.”

“Ah... hello,” said the Mayor, doing a double-take as he noticed Signor Giglioli had a rather spectacular black eye. “What happened to you?”

“I got into a bit of a fight,” Giglioli replied. “It was nothing.”

The Mayor looked around the room again, confused. This did not match Ippolito's own description of a town terrified of weird scaly creatures crawling out of the sea to assume human form. “Uh... so what was all this about sea monsters?” he asked. “I went to the police station but the girl working there was asleep at her desk...”

“Well, yes, about that.” Ippolito laughed nervously and looked around at his friends, his gaze met with sheepish smiles and the sound of throats being cleared. “It seems... it seems like what we've had here is a case of mass hysteria,” the officer explained.

“Of what?”

“Mass hysteria,” said Signor Giglioli authoritatively. “Have you ever heard about the time they thought they had witches in America, a couple of hundred years ago? Some girls got ill and a doctor said they were under a spell, and everybody panicked and executed several people for sorcery before they came to their senses. I'm afraid we've had something similar here. Somebody saw something they didn't understand, jumped to a conclusion, and the next thing you know everybody's going mad.”

The Mayor stared at him. “You're telling me you brought me all the way here for mass hysteria?”

“We didn't know it was mass hysteria at the time,” Ippolito said. “That's how mass hysteria works. You only recognize it once it's over.”

“One he figured out what was going on, the Officer got everybody calmed down,” Signor Giglioli added.

The Mayor stared at them for a moment, looking from person to person for any sign that this was all some kind of absurd practical joke. Ippolito's guests looked uncomfortable and embarrassed, but nobody was laughing.

“Would you like a raspberry éclair, Monsieur le Maire?” asked Signorina Mulino.

He shook his head. “I'm going to bed,” he declared, and turned and walked out.

The door closed behind him, and eight people, who'd been doing their best to look cheerful and relaxed, breathed out in unison.

“What happens if he finds out it's actually true?” asked Antonio.

Ippolito shook his head and sat back down again. “I guess we figure that out when the time comes.”

Flavia woke the next morning not sure where she was... there was a blanket that was unusually heavy on top of her, and the light streaming in was brighter and yellower than seemed natural. Then she realized she was holding on to Giulia's soft toy duck, and remembered that she was on land. She sat up, yawning, and found that Leonardo was asleep on the floor with a blanket and pillow he'd found somewhere. Flavia swung her legs over the side of the bed and reached to shake his shoulder.

“Papa Leo?” she asked.

He opened his eyes and smiled at her, then started to sit up but stopped, wincing. “Oof! My neck!”

“Are you okay?” Flavia asked.

“Yeah, just... never sleep on a hard floor on land, Angelfish. You'll be really sore in the morning.” He managed to sit up, and rubbed the back of his neck, turning his head from left to right to try to stretch out the sore spot. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” said Flavia, “but I was really tired. My legs hurt, all down the back.”

“That's because you're not used to doing so much walking,” Leonardo told her. “I bet Luca had the same thing his first few days out of the water.”

Papa Leo gave her instructions for how to wash up and brush her hair, but when Flavia tried it she got the comb stuck, and it turned out to hurt way worse than accidentally pulling on a fin when grooming. Fortunately, her father heard her squeak of pain and came to help her untangle it. Then he had her sit on the bed so he could do the brushing himself, very gently. This felt nice, and Flavia shut her eyes and enjoyed it. She'd seen and done a lot of fun things on land yesterday before the problems started, but this just might be her very favourite.

After that, they went downstairs for breakfast. This was nothing fancy, just focaccia with salt and cups of cappuccino, but it was lovely to sit and eat with the sun shining in warm on her back. There'd been times yesterday when Flavia had thought she would never want to get out of the water again, but right now she kind of wished she could stay longer.

They were half done eating when there was a knock on the door. Signor Marcovaldo went down to answer it, and let in Alberto, Luca, and Giulia, who came running upstairs in a thunder of bare feet on the boards.

“Buongiorno!” said Giulia happily, bursting into the kitchen.

“Flavia!” Luca said. “You are never gonna believe what happened in the sea last night!”

“Ercole turned into a catfish!” Alberto said.

Flavia had been about to greet the three in return, as soon as her mouth was no longer full, but she didn't know what to make of this announcement. Especially when it immediately prompted an argument.

“You said you wouldn't tell!” said Luca.

“Flavia doesn't count,” Alberto replied. “We promised not to tell anyone in town, but Flavia doesn't live here!”

Giulia rolled her eyes. “Ercole's not even important,” she decided. “When we got in the water, we found out there was a giant squid in town!”

Flavia swallowed quickly. “Really? I've never seen one! What did it look like?”

“It huge!” Alberto told her. “As big as Uncle Massimo, and it had this one tentacle with a flashing light on the end!”

“My Mom helped fight it!” said Luca.

They described the fight and how they'd built a giant squid lure to trap it, and how after it fled some of the neighbours had tracked it down in the ravine and killed it. Its corpse was now apparently in the reef the sea monsters used as a community gathering place, where people could come to see and figure out what precautions they were going to take to keep such a thing from happening again. Flavia was listening, wide-eyed, to this story when they heard a second knock.

This time, rather than bring somebody up, Signor Marcovaldo called from downstairs. “Bambini!” his voice boomed. “Your friends from San Giuseppe have brought your bicycles back!”

“Oh, good!” said Giulia, and ran downstairs. Luca was right behind her. Flavia paused to finish her mouthful and then followed, and Alberto came last, after snatching up a piece of leftover focaccia to stuff in his mouth.

Several people were waiting for them in the piazza just outside the Pescheria door. The first one Flavia saw was Perla, who immediately ran up to give her a hug. Flavia hugged back, grinning.

“I've got your clothes upstairs!” she told her new friend. “I'll give them back to you.”

“I forgot all about them!” Perla said. “Thank you!”

Behind Perla, were her father, Grandmother, and Signor Giglioli – the latter sporting a big black eye. While the others greeted the Pepitone family, Luca warily approached the confectioner. “Are you all right, Sir?”

“I'm fine,” Signor Giglioli assured him. “It's not the first time I've taken a knock from some jerk trying to hurt people for no reason.” He went and opened the back of the truck they'd arrived in, and pulled the first bicycle out to give back to them. “Here you are. We managed to convince the Mayor that it was just everyone panicking over nothing, and he's upset but he's not going to do anything about it.”

“Thank you very much, Sir,” said Luca.

“I'm going to keep letting everybody know you're harmless until they finally get it through their heads,” Signora Pepitone announced. “It's really the least I can do.”

“We probably shouldn't go back for a while, I'm guessing,” said Giulia.

“Depends on how long it takes,” said Roberto. “I did meet the Macarellos... they seem nice. Very ordinary sort of people, if you ignore the fact that they live under the sea.”

“That's how sea monsters are,” Giulia nodded.

Flavia realized that now she had an opportunity to ask Perla for her address. “Do you want to be pen-pals?” she asked. “I've never had one before, but I promise to write at least once a week.”

“Yes!” squealed Perla, then looked puzzled. “Wait, you have mail under the water?”

“Not under the water, but my Nonna Sofia has a house on Procida where we can get mail,” Flavia explained. She looked back at the Pescheria door, where Leonardo was standing watching this reunion with an unapologetic smile on his face. “Papa Leo, can we give her Nonna's address?”

“Of course we can, Angelfish,” said Leonardo. “That sounds like a wonderful idea. Does anybody have any paper?”

Signor Giglioli offered some, and the two girls traded information. Meanwhile, Luca, Alberto, and Giulia checked their bicycles and found them not damaged, and thanked Signor Giglioli and the Pepitones once again for bringing them back.

“I hope you come back someday,” said Perla. “I want to show you Papà's fancy pigeons.”

“Maybe I can. It'll depend if Ciccio wants to trade again,” Flavia replied. She turned to Luca and Alberto and asked, “did Ciccio have fun yesterday?”

“We didn't really get to ask him,” said Luca apologetically. “He was really tired after puffing up to keep the squid out.”

“Oh... right, yeah, you mentioned that,” said Flavia, wilting a little. If he'd had to protect a friend from a giant squid, Ciccio had probably had a terrible day. He'd probably never want to do this again, which was okay, technically... but Flavia really would have liked to see those fancy pigeons.

“Maybe we can talk him into it anyway,” suggested Alberto. “Come on, let's go get him. Thanks again, Signor Giglioli!”

“You're welcome,” Signor Giglioli replied. “Just make sure you spread the word about my gummy sea monsters.”

Giulia took the bicycles into the yard to keep them safe, and her father made more coffee and brought it out to serve to their guests. Meanwhile, Luca and Alberto went charging back into the water to go get Ciccio and Ercole. Flavia sat on the steps that led from the piazza to the beach and looked out at the sun glittering on the waves.

Leonardo came and sat down next to her. “You eager to go home, Angelfish?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Flavia. While she would like to do this again someday, to see the pigeons and to let Papa Leo brush her hair... being back in the water would feel really good.

#pixar luca #luca 2021 #luca paguro #alberto scorfano #giulia marcovaldo #ercole visconti #fanfiction #a little human (as a treat)

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widowshill · 4 months

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Hadestown starters, if I may?: “ lover, you were gone so long ”? please and thank you!

HADESTOWN.

She was different than he'd left her: there was pink gloss at her lips, silk on her skin, and dangled there around her neck diamonds sufficient to weigh her down — to drag her into the sea. Pearls were the Collins jewel of choice for their brides: drug up out of the water with the rest of their profits and purgatories. Not so for Devlin. That expensive throat may as well have been personally adorned by his hand, a foot and a pocketbook in distant mines afield. Roger swept her hair aside and kissed her — delicate, there on the vein beneath the corner of her jaw.

Lilacs. If he doubted then the scent of petal-skin reminded him, filling the cab of the Pontiac as if she herself had bloomed in the first breath of summer. The herald of warmer days, lilacs; and now Victoria, too, on the first train whistle of the season. The flowers waited for her, the sunshine and the sea breeze, right beside him on that platform. She was here, for a little while; his for a little while. And he buried himself in her, in the skin of her throat perfectly preserved in memory, and made only now and again the idle noise of contentment, or petulant hum at the string of diamonds in his way.

“Roger, let’s go in.”

He pretended, delightedly, that he hadn’t heard, and reached back to unclasp the necklace, letting it fall to expose the hollow of her throat. Vicki caught it without complaint but gave her half-hearted protests as he kissed her there again, again, as if he hadn’t eaten since she’d gone. Empty stomachs, empty hands: he took her in his arms to lay her back against against the seat and she laughed, beautiful, musical at his ear.

“Not in the car!”

Odysseus was wrong, he thought, not to listen to it. Rocks be damned.

He pulled back just enough to look at her — at that smile he had put there, at the flush on her cheeks from the heat of the sun, from the heat of the air. The way she looked at him, the same way she looked at the stars when she first came home. Roger brushed a thumb across her cheek.

“I missed you,” he confessed, hushed. There was too much packed in the empty syllables, and his words strained.

“I missed you,” came her echo, equally sparse.

He leaned down to allow himself just one more, but paused at the first touch to long-awaited mouth. She didn't taste at all like he remembered. She didn’t taste like Vicki. She tasted like Burke. Phantom Lucky Strikes under her tongue, in the back of her throat, on her teeth. Roger’s brow furrowed with the jar of memory misaligned, but he said nothing, giving only a doting kiss to the tip of pert nose before he withdrew. So she’d started smoking. It was cold, even on the asphalt isle, in the winter time — they all of them had their vices to keep the body warm.

Despite her earlier protests, Mrs. Devlin lingered on the passenger side for a few minutes longer, busying herself with fixing her clasp, with straightening his tie, as though there were anyone to see them on the short walk up the drive, as if perhaps the newness of the house demanded she be equally pristine — fine bright stonework that set off ice blue tailoring, all done in the meticulous sculptor’s hand of the American dollar. She’d grown up since last summer, even: glittering like the jewels at her throat, having been formed in six months of marriage, of Fifth Avenue, of the company of her charming oil tycoon. It wasn’t all that long ago she’d been Miss Eyre in green wool, in his house, not Burke’s; but in the measure of things there was a greater distance between then and now than weeks and days and something so transgressible as time.

Roger watched her fingers as she smoothed the ends of her hair. Twenty-three. She’d have just turned twenty-three: yes, that’s right – her birthday was in March. He hadn’t sent her anything, he supposed that was cold of him, but he had no doubt that she wanted for very little. She just wanted …

His fingers curled, then flexed. “I’ll get your luggage,” he announced, and she swallowed down whatever it was she was thinking to say, drowned in the click of heels to fresh pavement, and the slam of the trunk. Roger was as good as his word – better – a cherry Tourister in each hand as far as the threshold, where they waited while she fussed with her keys. He remained still as she pushed the door open; still, even as he felt the brush of her hand.

“Will you stay for a while?” she asked, all innocence, lip gloss, summertime, Lucky Strikes. Vicki met his eyes again, so directly he'd long forgotten to breathe. “I’ll make you a drink.”

#i decided this is at the beginning of barnabas summer and wanted to play with roger's vampire motif and it may have #taken over the hadestown-ness. ah well!#tortoisesshells #➤ roger collins & victoria winters & burke devlin. ┊ to know how it ends‚ and still begin to sing it again.#➤ meme responses. ┊ boo !#➤ answered. ┊ Collinsport 4099.#i metaphorically counted all my pores individually 50 times writing this idc. idc i'm posting it.

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foxymoxynoona · 1 year

Text

To Kill A King (Chapter 10)

Banner and linebreaks by the talented @awrkives

Summary: What’s more charming than Prince Seokjin? Nothing, obviously. Except maybe the rotating palace guests who each smile and bow and charm in an attempt to hide their true motives. Fortunately Seokjin has a close circle of friends (well, servants) who watch his back and endure his humor and help him navigate the tumultuous seas of heartbreak, love, and an arranged marriage, not necessarily in that order. If only they had helped him keep a closer eye on his bride-to-be’s handmaiden, who arrives with her own agenda… or maybe it would have been better if he had noticed her less? One thing is certain as this royal drama of the heart plays out: there are many people competing to kill a king.

Main Pairing: Prince Seokjin x Female OC Genre: Historical Fantasy World, political conspiracy, romance Rating: 18+ Content Warnings & story tags: includes explicit sex (mxf, fxf), possibly graphic violence/injury later, love and sex triangles or uh quadrangles?, sort of e 2 l, sort of bodyguard trope, sort of arranged marriage, a lot of plotting murder (it’s literally in the title), maybe character death, grief, pining, angst, love, oral (f & m receiving), I don’t know everything yet as the story is long and still being written

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NOTE: check out the Character & Setting Cheat Sheet for a refresher on who's who

His father hadn’t come to the ball at all. Seokjin felt simultaneously relieved and offended. He’d thought his father was just in the side rooms and gone in search of him, eager for a break from the young women vying for a turn with him on the dance floor. And also to let some of the alcohol settle in his blood after he’d nearly come to blows with Namjoon. It wouldn’t have gone that far. He’d thought about taking it that far, but it had only been a thought, because he had asked Mindeulle to dance and Namjoon had suggested he ought to dance with his own betrothed more and his sister less, obviously a jab that Nasimiyu had not dance with him again since the first two sets.

But suddenly Nasimiyu had swooped in like a phoenix, taken him for a dance, and then spun off again to be swallowed by a cloud of young women. His head spun from it, he was so relieved she’d asked him to dance. That had to mean he wasn’t fucking it up too badly, right?

He wanted to let their dance linger and let the alcohol work its way out so he went in search of his father, as if that had ever once cooled his head. But he didn’t find him at any of the gambling tables like he had expected to, not in any of the lounges at all. A chance encounter with cousin Zselyke confirmed: he hasn’t made an appearance yet.

It was an insult. It was offensive. It could be taken as a slight against Nasimiyu if anyone noticed. It was offensive to him too. Zselyke was clearly offended. King Donggun loved a party, so why hadn’t he come to this one? Seokjin had half a mind to march up to his father’s wing and demand an answer. He’d never missed any of Seok-ho’s parties. Wasn’t Seokjin good enough?

He didn’t want an answer to that.

Instead he stuck to the shadows as much as his shimmery white costume would allow and climbed all the way to the third floor in pursuit of sugar to soothe. He passed a brawl being broken up by guards on the way and couldn’t decide if it was better for things to start breaking down this late in the night –did that mean people were having fun and would talk about it for ages to come?-- or worse –were people bored and overly drunk? And the Nasimiyu element of course, did she like a proper party or a wild one? He would have guessed proper until she wore that… How was he to know either way though when frankly he hated all types of parties?

He passed on the glass of sugar champagne, handing it over to Hoseok.

“Are you about done with the party? You’ve done well so far, I’m very impressed,” Hoseok praised. His current babysitter. Jimin had left his side earlier –to dance with Dulce, as a matter of fact. For some inexplicable reason. Taehyung had danced with her. Jungkook had danced with her. Yoongi was the one he wanted to have a dance with her, if that was the path to seduction! He knew the kind of fun Taehyung and Jimin got up to after these parties, Jungkook too. They didn’t need to drag sweet Dulce into that debaucherous filth. If she had wanted to go then… then that was a different matter but she didn’t. He felt sure of that after how shy she’d been in the porn closet.

“Speak of a demon and a demon shall come,” he muttered with amusement. Or meant to mutter. Apparently he said it loudly enough to be heard because Dulce looked up from the table. Instead of her soft brown eyes he was met with that ghastly skeletal mask. Had Nasimiyu been afraid of competition? Did she have a dark humor? Did she find this sort of thing appealing and it was just a side of Nasimiyu that Seokjin hadn’t seen yet? Why had she dressed her handmaiden as this instead of a butterfly or a flower or a fluffy animal like most of the other women here?

Realizing she might think he meant she was a demon (all right, he’d meant that a little, but not sincerely), he hurried to correct, “You finally found the dessert table? You’ve been too busy dancing, I noticed. I didn’t know you danced at all.”

“I’m… adequate.”

“Do you enjoy it? Dancing?”

“Do you?”

“Not really,” he admitted with a grin as he grabbed a small silver plate to pile with treats. The table overflowed with them –cakes, cookies, pies, parfaits in little crystal glasses. Guests appeared to have been shattering them when they finished; glass shards sparkled on the floor like a sea of knives under the flickering glow of the dimmed chandeliers up here.

Catching himself, he added, “But my betrothed does, so now I do.” He habitually searched for the sparkle in her eyes that he had begun to suspect was amusement but again, nothing but that metal mask. “And so do you, even though you won’t admit it. You’ve danced too much to deny it.”

“I was asked.”

“You can tell my friends no.” He wasn’t sure if she’d danced with anyone other than his friends, actually. But he considered now how close Taehyung and Jimin had been standing to her, whispering something, as he followed Nasimiyu to the dance floor. How close to her Jungkook had stood when he’d asked for the dance. How close Taehyung had held her earlier for that first one. He felt compelled to add, “Please understand that you can. You are under no obligation for anything stupid they might suggest. You can say no to anything and if they bother you a single hair further, let me know and I will handle it.” She gave a slight bow of her head, a slight curtsy, and looked back to the table.

Did that mean Jimn and Taehyung had not propositioned her for anything more?

She looked up at a shout behind them, followed by a crash and the shatter of glass. Someone screamed fire! as a candleholder was knocked off the wall but before anything even caught, someone else had stomped it out. It was just a bit of drunken chaos and yet Seokjin stepped closer and in front of Dulce out of instinct. He looked around but didn’t see any guards within reach to throw the drunk revelers out. All he had to do was glance at Hoseok who nodded,

“I’ll handle it.”

To keep Dulce from worrying, he nodded towards the table, “It’s quite a spread, isn’t it?”

“Is your cook friend the one who planned this?”

Ah, asking about Yoongi? That was… good. Great!

“Not this part,” he admitted. “He doesn’t like sweets much.” He didn’t know why he’d said that, it wasn’t completely true. Yoongi didn’t like them as much as he did maybe but that was a different bar. “I think the food is the best part of a ball. What about you?”

“This is my first ball.”

“Oh. Right, of course… you just look the part, I forgot…” She lifted her glass of wine in her free hand from the table, and in turning profile he could see how long her dark hair reached, all the way to the small of her back. The ends curled starting around her shoulders without the braid, and her black dress made it more obvious there was a brown hue to her hair; it caught the candlelight like embers glowed in the strands.

“No wonder you braid your hair,” he mused. “It’s so long, it must get everywhere. Doesn’t it strangle you while you sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Then why let it grow so long?” She looked up at him, or her mask did, and he lamented, “Ah, it’s a real hassle not to be able to see your eyes to know whether you’re amused or angry. Don’t cut your hair, you don’t have to do what I say, it just seems impractical.”

“It is.”

“Yes but you’re beautiful. Not everything has to be practical. If you cut it now I’ll cry and shave my head in penance,” he corrected himself. He didn’t think that things had to be practical. Why had he said that to her? But she always seemed so efficient, so practical, no room for opinions or fun, not even a celebration of her own beauty –and yet she let her hair grow long. Braided and out of the way usually, but long. What did it mean? What did it tell him about her? He wanted to understand her.

She was just looking at him –well unless her gaze was elsewhere, but her face was turned up to his. His inability to read her made him suddenly uncomfortable, and he grabbed a tiny tart from the table and shoved it into his mouth. It was more delicious than he had expected though and his amazement was sincere.

“Oh, by Royal Decree, you have to try this,” he said, holding one out to her. But her hands were full with the wine glass and a plate, and even he could see that if he set one single thing on the plate, it was going to overbalance. Which filled him with an instant and embarrassing warmth, to realize she had loaded the fuck up with desserts. It was like she thought she’d never get to taste one again. She loved sweets, it was so obvious, there wasn’t a single way she could deny it now. None of the delicate eating of the ladies either. It was endearing, he was so charmed, he was so happy to see her eating well.

So happy, in fact, that he forgot himself, and held the tart to her lips. He fed her. He fed his betrothed’s handmaiden a small tart. Probably surprised, she bit it from his fingers; the transferral left a glob of raspberry filling on his thumb which he quickly sucked away with his tongue. There was a drop on her lip as well and he was so flustered by this point that he reached out to wipe it away. Her tongue darted out to catch it first. His thumb brushed her tongue.

“Ha! I’m not a pastry, sweet as I am,” he blurted out in an attempt to smooth it over. He yanked his hands away and blindly grabbed something else from the table. A cream-filled puff pastry that he grabbed too strongly; his fingers sank in, popping cream all over his hand. “Ah, huh, I suppose this is more than I should lick off in decent company… um…” He stood there, helplessly with his hands covered in cream.

Dulce set her plate and glass down, lifted a napkin from the piles tucked in among the desserts, and wiped at his hands. Even dipped it in her glass –which he now realized was water, not wine. And he, like a lump of fool, just stood there and let her clean his hands, like he was a helpless toddler who’d never eaten a puff pastry in his life.

Then, without commenting on it at all, she folded the towel up and set it beside her glass on the table, and took another raspberry tart from the serving dish. As if none of that buffoonery had happened.

“These are very good.”

Instantly he crowed, “Ha! An opinion!”

“On tarts. Nothing more serious.”

“Why not?”

“Opinions in a maid are... impractical.”

“Ok, let’s agree, something doesn’t have to be practical to have value. Take, for instance, my face. Fierce on a battlefield? No. Feeding the poor? Only looks. Impressing my betrothed? Not even.” Ah, he shouldn’t have said those. His jokes were running away with him. But more than that, mentioning his betrothed felt awkward right now.

“You’re wearing a mask.”

“Hm?”

“You’re wearing a mask,” Dulce reminded him.

“Everyone is. Didn’t you notice?”

She didn’t say anything, just looked up at him. He smiled, not only because he’d made a funny joke, but because it was one of those jokes with depth. Everyone had masks. Not just at a masquerade. Every day. There were few who weren’t wearing masks, pursuing some agenda, concealing some motive, performing a role they hoped they could fool people into believing they were good enough for. It was a profound thought, and he wished someone like Namjoon was here for him to patronize with it.

“Yes.”

He looked down at her bronze shield and considered too that masks could look like many things. He felt most himself wearing pajamas in his bedroom, or his glasses disguise into the city. When did Dulce feel most herself? With her hair braided or undone? She suited even this fancy performance. No wonder probably nobody suspected she was actually a maid. She didn’t look like a maid or act like a maid. She looked striking like this. Maybe she’d been born into the wrong life, and she should have been at balls like this all along. Maybe she was happier like this.

“I’m very observant.”

Her comment cracked through his thoughts and laughter bubbled out.

“You spoil me with your jokes,” he laughed. “What a treat. Will I get one for every tart I feed you?”

“Do not feed me more tarts.”

Oooops. Yeah. He should not be hand-feeding any woman anything, but especially not his betrothed’s handmaiden. Not that anyone would recognize her. He didn’t recognize her. He hated that mask. He wanted to rip it off and see what her expression actually showed, even when her reactions were so subtle you had to look close and doubt you saw anything. He had the sudden impulse to ban masks forever. Wouldn’t this party be better if he could actually see the response to his attempts at charming?

Not that he was trying to charm her! No, obviously not! And even if he had been, she wasn’t charmed by him, she was humoring the future husband of her lady. She was just standing there, gaze hidden behind the fingers of death.

“You know, I have a pair just like that,” he said, suddenly reaching up to touch one of the hands. She flinched. He hadn’t seen her flinch before, she was always so unmoved. It compelled him to hurry and clarify, “Skeleton hands I mean. Except mine aren’t bronze or gold or anything special. They’re just bones.”

“In your… hands?”

“Yes, exactly.”

He held his hands up as if to show her. And even though he couldn’t see her face, he could feel her confusion as she lifted her hands. Relaxed, fingers spread, palms up like a surrender, the pairing with the death mask and her captivating dress of shadow, she looked like a vision of beautiful death. She was going to haunt his dreams like this, he was sure of it. He couldn’t believe Nasimiyu had wanted her to wear something so low cut but she must have paid for and approved this costume.

“Ah I see you have a pair just like it,” he joked, flustered by the stupid bumbling of his own dumb brain. “We are the same, you see. So much in common. So may I have a dance?” The words rolled off his tongue without thinking, or maybe thinking of the dance he hadn’t asked for in the city, the dance that really wasn’t appropriate for either of them to take now, the dance that ought to be allowed only here, only now, because this was a masquerade and nobody was themself. No one was a king or a prince or a princess. No one was a handmaiden. They were all just masked bones.

Still, he had not in his wildest dreams expected her to actually rest her hand in his, palm up like she’d never held a hand or accepted a dance before, and say, “All right.”

He spent the entire walk to the dance floor expecting her to change her mind. Or for one of his friends to materialize and steal her away, but Hoseok was the only one he’d seen and Seokjin had thrust Dulce’s plate at him to hold so she wouldn’t lose her desserts. Or maybe he himself should have been the one to realize maybe this was not the best idea. It would bring attention to her that she didn’t want, and if she was recognized, the gossip would be a nuisance. They’d squash it. But Nasimiyu might be angry. But Nasimiyu had danced with so many people tonight, it wasn’t like Seokjin was keeping track. What did it matter? Surely if she had even an ounce of possessiveness in her, she’d prefer he dance safely with her unassuming handmaid than some noble woman actually out for interference. She was the one who had dressed Dulce like that and brought her here! He was duty-bound to look after Dulce.

“Lots of waltzes tonight,” he mused as they took up space on the dance floor. He hadn’t considered she was much smaller than many of the noblewomen he typically danced with –certainly shorter than Nasimiyu and Mindeulle. It meant a much more comfortable position for his arms as he lifted her hand in one and pressed the other to her back. Her hair tickled his fingers and palm and he didn’t know the proper thing to do about it. It felt overly intimate to touch her hair.

“It’s my favorite dance,” he added. And because he felt comfortable with it, added, “Because I can look good doing very simple things.” She didn’t smile but he didn’t expect her to. Her hand was light in his as he pulled her into motion, doing his best to be mindful of her skirt, which flared out much further than Nasimiyu’s.

He started with simple steps in case she wasn’t as practiced, because why would she be? She had looked elegant dancing with Taehyung and Jungkook but maybe they were just better leads than him. But she flowed easily through a spin he sent her alon, with the pleasant discovery that he didn’t have to worry as much about bashing in her face with his elbows because she was shorter and because those skewers were a sharp reminder to lift his arm high enough.

“You could kill someone with that mask.”

“Hm?” Her simple remark caught him off guard. He hadn’t expected a response, certainly not an airy one of confusion. Was the dancing difficult for her? Was she concentrating? He wished he could see her face to know for sure –or at least know if it was something that showed on her face.

He fumbled the step, thinking too much. He quickly tried to recover, brace both of them for the impact of her running into him. But she didn’t. No collision occurred. Her step merely adjusted and continued as his had done, even though they were dancing backwards now.

“Um.”

She must realize they were backwards as he awkwardly laughed and tried to figure out how to fix it.

“Ah…” He went for it and did another wrong step. She followed. She shouldn’t have been able to follow it, it wasn’t proper dancing, she couldn’t read his mind. …. Could she? No. But he was reminded of her climbing the rope ladder with so little effort.

“Are you sure you aren’t part cat?”

“Why do you ask that? I’m just following your lead.”

Yes, to a fault. She followed him so well he wasn’t even consciously thinking of leading anymore. He stopped worrying about mistakes as he realized that she just adapted to them anyway. It was unreal. He hoped Hoseok was seeing this because he’d be amazed, and also probably a little pissed because they were definitely doing a lot of wrong things.

He couldn’t help it, he began making mistakes on purpose. It didn’t make her stumble. When he spun her out and let go, she simply took a step forward like she fully expected he would tell her what to do next, and while that was what a dance partner should expect, it felt like an odd trust to him right now. When he started to turn her one way and instead shifted to the other, she shifted her weight and flowed right through it. He couldn’t stop grinning, it was so funny to dance badly with her like this.

“Are you trying to make me fail?” she asked.

“You dance like no one I’ve ever seen.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted.

“You don’t know these steps? Ah, that’s because I’m making them up just for you.” He slid her to the right and to the left and then pulled her backwards by her waist. She even went like that, blinded to any danger he might trip her with but trusting he wouldn’t. Not even Nasimiyu had extended him that courtesy; she’d been easy to fall back into step with because she never wavered, but it did leave him flat-footed to catch up a few times and when he’d tried to pull her back like this she’d simply stayed in place.

“And you match every one,” he grinned. “Isn’t it fun to make up our own steps, One Two? Ha. one two, turn,” he said, turning her. “One two, turn.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I think you like being spun,” he countered, taking a wild guess because her lips twitched every time he did it, her hair and skirt fanning out behind her. “Do you like the rush? I imagine it’s a rush but no one has ever spun me.”

She suddenly dropped her hand to his waist and planted her foot and swung him around her as the post. And it was a rush, both the speed of the swoop (not at all the proper time for the music) and the joy of how remarkably wrong it was. He laughed and spun her back, seizing the lead again and stepping her quickly through another pair so they wouldn’t get stuck in one place. He slid and she followed.

“Don’t make it harder for me. I already shouldn’t be here,” she complained.

“Admit it, you’re having fun,” he teased. “Let’s see how fast we can go, if you trip just grab on and I’ll lift you.”

“Wait–”

But he took off with her in his arms and she didn’t hesitate as they bolted up the side of the floor in more of a foxtrot than slow waltz. It was chaotically wrong for the music. He felt like he was playing. It shouldn’t matter! They should be allowed to break the rules of dance at a masquerade, especially this late in the evening.

They skidded to a stop, her skirt festooning around them both, and he laughed, “Admit it, you would have–”

“Ah, thank you, beautiful stranger,” Nasimiyu cut in, sliding right up to them. She glanced down at Dulce with an expression Seokjin missed because he was too shocked that Dulce’s blood red lips at curled up into a smile, he swore on his life that they had. It was instantly gone, so fast he almost doubted it, but he was sure. Nasimiyu’s smile felt like a sharp poke as she asked, “Mind if I cut in?”

Admit it, you would have enjoyed dancing at that wedding. We shouldn’t have been in such a rush to get back. We should have just followed the joy for as long as it would carry us. You would have smiled, wouldn’t you. You would have laughed. Maybe there was cake at the end of it.

“Yes, of course, Princess.” Seokjin knew he sounded clipped but it was only an awkward transition. It was just a dance. He didn’t need to feel guilty. He didn’t mean to sound annoyed. He was drunk, not disappointed. Dulce smoothed it over; she took one step back and evaporated, like she really was made of shadow and fluff.

It was Lidmila who had actually trapped Namjoon, and probably she didn’t realize what she had done because it was awfully clever. But she’d stepped forward at just the right moment to block him in, and Nasimiyu took the opportunity she saw to lean in on his other side so that he bumped her when he stepped back.

“Lord Namjoon,” she drawled, looking up and away, disinterested. “I wasn’t sure you’d grace us with your presence tonight.”

“I… I gave my word,” he pointed out.

“And that means something to you?”

“Of course it does.”

“Oh. I also thought you had given your word that you would take the ball seriously, but you don’t seem to be.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve been here for hours.”

“Yes.”

“Dancin, drinking, socializing, not even sneaking off to the lounges to–”

“Hide from the women?” she teased.

He was red-faced and sweaty but she didn’t assume it was a credit to her; he seemed slightly drunk, or maybe just winded from dancing.

“I’m not hiding from anyone.”

“And yet you come to a masquerade in my honor and you don’t even say hello, much less give me an opportunity to turn you down for a dance.”

“Oh. Well… hello.”

She leveled a look at him that earned a bashful grin as he lifted his hand to rub the back of his neck. If he was trying to avoid flirting with her, it was a bad move to rub his neck like that; he must know what a gesture like that signaled to a young woman. Not that she cared, but… Mindeulle said he didn’t know what he did but Nasimiyu thought he couldn’t be that stupid, her little sister just had too much faith in him.

He looked like he wanted to leave but Lidmila stepped to the side to set her empty glass down, accidentally blocking him in again. Bless her as an agent of fate!

“Hello. And?”

“I’m afraid I cannot ask you for a dance however,” he admitted, “honored as I would be.”

She was both shocked and thrilled by his blunt dismissal. She said nothing, merely arched her eyebrow, curious if he would really stick with such a strong turn down when they had been sociable up until now.

“Because… I promised Miss Lidmila’s mother I would ask her for the next dance.”

“What?” Lidmila squawked, not the least bit ladylike. She turned a face of absolute horror to Nasimiyu, but Namjoon grabbed Lidmila’s arm and dragged her away.

There was no way Lidmila didn’t actually want to dance with Namjoon, not after the longing looks Nasimiyu had seen all the girls toss his way. Which meant that look of horror must mean she feared she was interrupting something, interfering, she knew she was being used as an obstacle by Namjoon and didn’t want Nasimiyu to think so– which meant she was noticing Nasimiyu’s attention leveled at Namjoon, harmless or not. And if even Lidmila, pretty little bird-brain, noticed, then others must be. Certainly Mindeulle, who maybe had meant her earlier explanation as a warning.

Fuck.

Nasimiyu still wanted an explanation about that, or to see what else she could subtly glean from Mindeulle about this previous betrothal. But in turning to find her and not look at Namjoon pulling Lidmila onto the dance floor even though the previous song was still going, she noticed a very peculiar sight.

Her little shadow of death handmaiden was dancing rather ridiculously with the royal prince of Yeonhalbi.

Nasimiyu didn’t feel the need to explain her thoughts or feelings. Namjoon had rejected a dance with her. Seokjin wasn’t trailing after her. And Dulce was dancing with a prince. She had dressed Dulce so beautifully to please herself, not anyone else. Certainly not the Prince, who was smiling too big, he looked like a fool. Or maybe she, Nasimiyu, looked most the fool of all, standing here beside the dance floor with no present partner.

It took only seconds to interrupt Dulce and Seokjin’s dance and claim him as her dance partner instead. She wondered if Dulce had hoped she was coming to claim her. But right now she needed to be seen on the arm of the royal prince, the man who was going to marry her, the man who already made clear he placed her above all else.

“Are you enjoying the ball?” she asked as the music changed to a quadrille. Boring! Such a boring dance! Why were the dances at this ball so fucking boring?! They settled into formation with three other couples. One of which was Namjoon and Lidmila. Even more boring!

“My only complaint is not to dance with you more often,” Seokjin answered quickly before she took a turn around the man next to her. They moved all the way around the circle and now she wondered if his answer had been a joke about this kind of dance, in which partners were traded. Namjoon said nothing as he handed her around to his other side. She turned her nose up, not wanting to speak with him either then, if he was such a brat he couldn’t have a single dance with her.

She found herself back at Seokjin’s side and he quickly asked, “Are you enjoying yourself?” She stepped into the circle, back near the other ladies, and swayed side to side with a hand in Seokjin’s and a hand in Namjoon’s. Which meant Namjoon had switched the order. Must have, because he and Lidmila should be a couple further.

“Very much so,” she assured Seokjin, pulled back to him for a turn in his arms. Anyone watching would have remarked on how she beamed at him, she was certain.

She bit back her groan as she did the fancy footwork, the stupid hops, for everyone moving around in a circle. This was the stupidest dance. She was going to strike it out of fashion. If she’d realized it was a quadrille, she wouldn’t have agreed to it. Her tits bounced painfully with so little support as they pranced together into and out of the other couples.

The figures changed and suddenly it wasn’t Seokjin’s arms around Nasimiyu, it was Namjoon’s. She tried to look nonplussed as he walked her through the same steps Seokjin just had. But when he pulled her close for the slow circles, he sighed,

“Please don’t be offended, Princess. I just want to remain respectful.”

“Dancing with me is disrespectful? Who, pray tell, are you disrespecting right now then?”

She didn’t get an answer; she was handed off to next in the circle. Stupid, stupid dance! It made her furious. Namjoon’s rejection made her furious. Seokjin’s delicate outfit made her furious. Dulce dancing with a royal prince like she had any right to made her furious. Mindeulle watching them from the side of the dance floor made her furious. Lidmila not putting her foot down and just telling Namjoon no if she wanted or telling Nasimiyu yes if she wanted made her furious!

She’d had too much to drink, she knew that to be true. She held her drink well, so she knew no one else suspected that such hot feelings were running through her veins with all the wine. She felt flaming right now, bright, and she needed something more than this boring ball to amuse her. The music was too slow. The dances were too slow. Time was moving too slowly, she was going to be stuck in this uncomfortable courtship with Seokjin forever at this rate.

The song ended but Nasimiyu threaded her fingers through Seokjin’s and leaned close to kiss him –not indecently, just a soft kiss like she adored him most in the world– and asked,

“Can we go somewhere else? I’m tired of dancing.”

“Ah… yes? Yes, of course, where would you like to go? We can–”

“To my room,” she whispered in his ear, then pulled away and tried to look innocent. “Is it too soon?”

Even with his mask on, his slack look of surprise was obvious. He was gobsmacked. For a brief moment she thought he was going to lock his knees, clench his pearls, and run away. Instead he shook his head, dislodging a thought, and pressed his hand to her back.

“Yes, of course. Your wing will be much more private for a rest.”

That was not what she meant and she wondered if he misunderstood or was only pretending to, because Lidmila was hovering close and Namjoon was only just behind her. Nasimyu didn’t know where Dulce was but it didn’t matter. She could find her own entertainment tonight. It was time to move things along here.

At first people kept trying to intercept them. Nasimiyu was done with it. The further from the ballroom they walked, the more done with the whole thing she felt. At home she had enjoyed balls so much and this one felt like she’d been bounced around a cage with ony a few people she enjoyed. The attention wasn’t the right kind. The music was wrong, the food was wrong, the fights were stopped too quickly, the fun people tossed out. There was no entertainment!

“Nasimiyu, are you all right? Are you ill?” Seokjin asked, working to keep up with her stride.

“I’m very well, thank you. It’s been a lovely ball.” Her heels clicked and she lifted her skirt to keep from tripping on it in her haste.

“Would you like me to fetch your maid–”

“No I would not like you to do anything with my maid,” she snapped.

“I…” He nearly tripped on his feet. “If you– are you upset– I did not mean to insult you by dancing with– I thought you intended her to blend in and that you would feel better about her safety knowing–”

“I’m not upset about it,” she assured him after letting him ramble for a moment. He was indeed flustered and she didn’t know if it was the topic or the fast pace after a dance. If he had such bad stamina, this would be a quick night.

But a quick night still secured the image of them leaving together in everyone’s minds. A quick night still put him at ease about their engagement. A quick night could maybe still give her a relief she desperately wanted right now. He’d better!

They reached her wing but when Seokjin took a step towards her sitting room, she grabbed his arm and pulled him to her bedroom on the right.

“Nasimiyu.”

She gestured and the guards pushed her door open. Good, more witnesses to Seokjin following her inside.

“Nasimiyu,” he said again, holding out his hand. She took it but only to pull him close to kiss. She crashed her mouth to his, only to laugh when their masks clashed.

His gentleness surprised her as he carefully worked her mask off, untying it by her ears and lifting it off the hooks along her hairline. She hadn’t expected him to know how to get it off. His calm was so heavy it slowed her down too. She undid the ties at the back of his head and tossed his mask to the side.

He looked so serious and concerned. She didn’t know what to make of that when she just wanted to fuck already while her blood was still hot.

“We don’t have to rush anything,” he told her. “My dancing with anyone else is no reflection on my devotion to–”

“Don’t you want me? Or do you have some principle to wait until marriage?”

“Of course I want you,” he breathed. “And I… um– I don’t have any personal rule about waiting until marriage to–”

“You have experience, don’t you?”

He hesitated before nodding, lips pinched. Clearly afraid of her response to this. Thank fuck. She had no desire to be pawed over by some virgin.

“Maybe your last betrothal?”

His eyebrows raised and he ventured carefully, “What do you know…”

“Next to nothing except that Namjoon had some hand in– Lord Namjoon had some hand in taking what was yours.”

“Ah, well…”

“He won’t this time.”

“I’m relieved to hear that,” he said with a crooked grin that affected her more than she had expected –more than not at all. “Ah… if you want to know more, I can–”

“I don’t. And I don’t want you to ask me about my experiences either, it’s private. But I’m not some wilting flower either, Seokjin. If you’re to be my husband and we’re as good as married, I don’t see why we have to wait until we’re actually married to seek each other out. Does that shock you?”

“N-no.”

“Then if you want me, I’m yours to take. Do it now.”

Only a brief hesitation preceded him reaching for her, crashing his mouth against hers. It was too much lip and not enough caress but Nasimiyu leaned into it anyway. He wasn’t so bad, was he? She didn’t love him but he wanted her and his hands were firm against her back. He had danced adequately. She could begrudgingly admit he was handsome and that he kissed better than she had anticipated. His lips were very soft.

“You’re shedding,” he murmured, sliding his hands along her jaw. She didn’t want the touch, it was overly romantic, it felt too loving, and she leaned away anyway in shock at his words. “Diamonds,” he clarified. “Gold.”

“Let’s not make a fuss of undressing. You do yours, I’ll do mine, or we’ll never get out of these things.”

She meant it to be serious, blunt, but he laughed.

“Don’t miss any of those things in your hair. I don’t want to die on our first night.”

“Poo, are you so easy to kill?”

“I’m weak to you.”

She turned away so he wouldn’t see her annoyance. She strode to her vanity and pulled off jewelry like water beaded to her skin. She worked the sun rays out of her hair and unfastened her shoes and let the cape fall carelessly to the floor..

“You’ll have to undo–” She broke off as she turned to call for help. He’d shed clothing much quicker, vest and shirt gone, boots gone, only his tight silk britches in place. Straining, she noticed. His broad shoulders were more toned than she had anticipated. More surprising were the outline of his abdominals. She had expected a thin, noodly prince, not lean muscles.

His mouth hung open, eyes lidded as he carefully undid the catches on the back of her dress. She watched him in the mirror, bemused at his concentration, wanting to think something mean but it was hard to be unkind when someone looked so reverently at you as he did, pulling the sleeves off her shoulders and tugging the dress down to her feet. She had little on beneath so when she turned, it was nothing but panties and naked gold-flecked skin he looked up at.

“My god you’re beautiful,” he murmured, warm hand sliding up her leg as he stood.

“You aren’t going to make a joke of it?”

“No.” He didn’t have to lift her chin much to kiss her. She felt the admiration in the embrace of his lips. He didn’t stop as her fingers worked at the front of his pants, undoing the hidden button and tugging them down his hips. She wondered if he was going to be shy about nudity, he seemed like the sort.

He stepped away and pulled his pants clean off, red-eared, red-cheeked, chest flushed, but not hiding his half-hard cock. She couldn’t remember ever finding a cock attractive but at least it was large and looked healthy.

“That will do.”

She meant it seriously, sexily, but he laughed and looked to the side, shy once again, “Ah, yes, well… I’m hoping so. You would say it like that…”

It annoyed her for him to be shy now. This didn’t have to be some sentimental thing just because it was their first time. If he was hard, he could just get on with it, and she waited for him to grab her and do so. He had no charm about it, no guile, there was nothing teasing in his look of admiration as she slid her hands up her chest to cup her own breasts.

“Well?”

“Right. Uh… do you want to, um… I don’t have a condom with me, you see, so we can–”

“I don’t care about a condom, Seokjin. You’re to be my husband in a few months anyway. If you get me with child before then, lucky for you.” It would stick, she’d see to it, but she could flatter him with empty words, sure.

“I…” He blinked at her.

“Come on, then, aren’t you going to touch me at least?”

He drew close but looked like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands suddenly.

“I thought you said you’ve done this before.”

“I have but… ok, I’ll kiss you first…”

“Then do it. You’re going to make me think you don’t want this.”

“I do,” he assured her, sliding his arms around her. “I do, Nasimiyu, I want it very much.” He kissed her harder and stepped backwards with her towards the bed, his cock pressing between them impossible to ignore. Probably he wanted her to grip it but she didn’t yet. She didn’t feel like handling that right now; if he wanted release, he was going to have to earn it.

He pressed her down into the bed with more kisses. It was all right when they were on her mouth but she was impatient with them anywhere else, which he seemed to quickly pick up on. She let her legs fall apart until he reached down to tug her panties off. He looked like he was moving through water, every action was so slow. At least he looked like he admired what he saw. He better!

“I can be a lot to take,” he said, giving her what ought to have been a smug look but was just sheepish.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“I want to make sure so I’ll warm you up first–”

“You don’t have to narrate to me, just do it.”

She assumed he meant with his fingers. Why not? Every man before him had only ever meant that. But after the next kiss, he ducked suddenly lower and the next kiss was between her legs.

“Oh!”

“Is that ok?” he asked, looking up at her through eyebrows, expression serious. He was never this serious. He was much more handsome when he was serious.

“Yes. I just didn’t think– it’s fine. Get me off that way and I’m sure I’ll be ready to take you.”

“I think so too,” he agreed, but now he did sound smug, which annoyed her. She wanted to snap at him but worried anything she could say would just sound stupid while he was licking her like that. His tongue wasn’t as good as Dulce’s . Neither were his fingers. But he seemed eager to please and when she closed her eyes and just let him do what he wanted with a few commands here and there, she found it carried her right up to the edge.

“Yes, there you are, there you are, just let go,” he murmured and she realized he was watching her face. Awful.

“Shhh,” she complained, “You’ll ruin it–” She broke off as his mouth latched onto her again, sucking without any seeming break to breathe this time. His tongue flicked her clit finally one time too many and she orgasmed with a gasp, fingers digging into her own thighs.

“There you go, princess– ah, shh, sorry, I’ll shut up…” He interrupted his own talking. It was unnatural for him to be so quiet but it's’ what she wanted lest he make any of those ghastly jokes. Especially right now as she grasped at this first orgasm, trying to lose herself and the whole evening into it. Just all right, nothing shocking, but it was nice and she was just relieved it had happened. A part of her had worried she might not be able to orgasm with Seokjin with how much she generally disliked him. Thank fuck for alcohol and his adequate tongue and finger work.

His fingers worked her open further as he slid up to kiss her, expression still so serious, like eating her had been some religious experience for him. Quiet in the bedroom after all, hm? That was probably for the best with him, though she preferred Dulce’s energy and authority.

“I’ll give you a minute to recover,” he told her. “Or… or that can be it.”

“That better not be it. And I don’t need a minute.”

“Ok–”

“You know how to actually use that or do you just get by because it’s big?”

“I’m sure you’ll let me know,” he chuckled.

“Shh –ohhh.” She hated her own voice. She hated her own moan. She hated how good and snug and filled she felt as he sank into her. She hated that this annoying man had such good dick and she hated that his stroke game proved much better than his dancing. Fuck, the stretch was delicious.

“Is that ok?” he asked, eyebrows upturned.

“Don’t coddle me like that. Just…”

“Just?”

“Just fuck me.”

“As you wish.”

He curled over her and she closed her eyes and thought maybe we can make this work after all…

This evening was taking a strange turn. Dulce wandered the late hours of the ball, fuzzy with some strange mixture of confusion and anger and… and… whatever else. She was simultaneously too drunk and too sober.

Seokjin asking Dulce to dance was strange.

Her agreeing was strange.

Her enjoying it was even more strange.

Nasimiyu interrupting their dance in an obvious pout that she was not being included was not surprising at all, but Nasimiyu kissing Seokjin the second the dance ended was strange.

Nasimiyu leaving with Seokjin was strange. She had that slant to her body. Dulce knew that slant well. But… could this really be the night? Probably Nasimiyu would part ways with him before she got to a bedroom. Or stop before it got too far. She despised the man! She had made it excruciatingly obvious tonight that her attention was trained on–

Lord Namjoon. The very man who approached Dulce outside the lounges. Also strange. And bad timing. Dulce was not in the mood to deal with anyone right now. She wanted–

“Wine?” Namjoon offered, handing her a glass. She eyed him warily as she took it. This wasn’t the wine that had been served around earlier though; it made her eyes water as she lifted the glass.

“What is this?”

“It’s wine. Eh, strong wine.” He knocked his glass back, then shuddered and shook his head.

Lord Namjoon, whom she had never spoken to in her life, approaching to get drunk with her, strange. What bizarro world had Prince Seokjin spun Dulce into?

Maybe Lord Namjoon didn’t know who she was. That suddenly made the most sense. He thought she was just some mysterious cast-off stranger floating around the party, and that was why he gestured for her to join him in one of the lounge rooms. And Dulce went because why not? That’s all she was right now.

“Do you like the music here?” he asked her as they settled on a sofa he had cleared with a gesture. The act made him feel predatory and while she wasn’t nervous in the slightest, she was suspicious. What was she going to learn about this mysterious man who Nasmiyu’s parents had been so concerned about?

Oh. Recalling that put her even more on her guard. She had not done a good job of distracting Nasimiyu from this man, that was true, but it was also impossible. To keep her away would only make him more alluring to Nasimiyu. She wanted things she couldn’t or shouldn’t have. She didn’t want the things thrust upon her, like a perfectly good prince, or a life of wealth and privilege, or–

He was looking at her, waiting for an answer, so she answered vaguely, “I suppose.” She wasn’t listening to it much at all, some man on a piano. The room had dimmer lighting and the smell of sex on the air, burned by candles along the walls and copious alcohol flowing. People spoke low and close to each other. The young women had said people fucked at these parties and Dulce suspected it started in here. Was this the sort of man Lord Namjoon was? And did he know whom he had brought in here?

“I’d ask you to dance but I don’t think you enjoy it any more than I do,” he admitted. “Did your lady know you were here before she interrupted your dance? She must have paid for your costume.” Well so much for that theory then.

“Yes.”

“Hm. To what end?”

“Hm?”

“Why did she dress you up and send you to a ball, but not at her side?”

Dulce didn’t answer and thought he must be an idiot if he expected her to. Maybe he didn’t because he continued,

“She’s clever. Possibly one of the most clever women I’ve met and I’m sure she was up to something. Were you meant to distract the Prince so she could spend time with me?”

“Your ego must be a great pride to your–”

He let out a noisy sigh, “Fine, it’s not that, I’m reaching. I’m just worried. I don’t want to cause any complications for their engagement but I think by giving her space she views it as a challenge.” Dulce said nothing since that was precisely true. “But if I don’t give space, Jin thinks I’m a threat. It really wasn’t my fault what happened before.”

“I’m a maid. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But you’re also close with her.” He tipped back the dredges of his wine. Not much a sip and savor sort, this Lord Namjoon. “And you’re right, they’ve left together, so maybe I was worried for nothing.” He sighed and looked around. “I hate these things. I don’t enjoy dancing. I don’t enjoy gambling. I can’t even dance with someone without it suddenly being a thing people are gossiping about, and after the whole debacle, that gossip will be enough to sink me… It feels like everyone’s always watching me.”

The man was either paranoid or an egomaniac. He was popular, that was true, but Dulce didn’t think it was in a negative way. Was he just trying to manipulate her sympathies right now?

“Sorry,” he chuckled, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I’m horny and lonely and spilling my thoughts to…” He looked at her and clearly rolled his eyes at himself. “A ladies’ maid.”

“No one knows who I am unless you keep announcing it,” she pointed out, emboldened by the masquerade and unconcerned right now if he thought she was rude or out of place. He was the one who’d pulled her into here.

“That’s true. No one in their right mind would look at you and think you’re a maid. Isn’t that funny? You’re easily one of the most beautiful women here and you spend most of your days, what, scrubbing the princess’ laundry? How many social levels are between us but anyone who sees us right now will just think I’m trying to win favor from a beautiful stranger and probably they’ll doubt I deserve the attention you’re giving me.”

She sipped her wine. “I’m not interested in flattery.”

“All right, then I’ll skip it. Do you want to fuck? If you’re so sure your lady has no feelings for me and won’t be bothered?”

It was slimy. It was well done. Dulce looked at him and genuinely couldn’t tell if he was manipulative, opportunistic, or just an asshole.

“And what of my own feelings?”

“Ah, is your heart taken by another?” he sighed dramatically. “Maybe by the prince’s valet? Or Taehyung, who he stupidly keeps around here?”

“Why is it stupid?”

“Nevermind. Tell me, who has your heart, mysterious lady? Which man? Or, not a man? Perhaps your very own lady?”

“I thought you were supposed to be intelligent.”

He gave a short huff, “Yeah yeah. Not right now. Right now I’m… bored. My sister already went to bed so I don’t even need to watch out for her but the night’s too early to go to bed since I dragged my ass all the way here and put this stupid costume on. Can’t go to the afterparties without besmirching the good Kim name.”

“There are many women here I’m sure you can seduce.”

“Yes, but none as beautiful as you. None as motivated to keep their mouths shut about it. I have a reputation to maintain too.”

“One that doesn’t fuck maids, I gather?”

“One that doesn’t fuck anyone. And I suspect you’re the sort who isn’t going to tell her lady who she fucked either, right?”

“I am conveniently close to power for you.”

He rolled his eyes, “Ah, it’s fine then. I guess you really are in her confidence if you think someone can use you to get to her.” Damn she hated people like this who twisted their words around you. Dulce was clever but she could also recognize when she was mentally outmatched.

“I don’t think she’ll be pleased with you for going after her maid.”

“Yes but I don’t need her to be pleased with me, you see? You’re discreet. Someone sees us together right now, tomorrow they won’t know who I was speaking with. But it’s good if people see me leave with someone. Ah, I may have gotten into a bit of trouble with a– nevermind.” Dulce couldn’t tell, did he just naturally want to share or was he stringing her along to manipulate? It wasn’t going to work. She wasn’t interested in him. Not that she was interested in anyone! But Namjoon, Taehyung, Jimin, they were all interchangeable to her. Any one of them might fuck her and it might be good or it might not, she didn’t care as long as it served some purpose. She didn’t have any purpose to fuck Namjoon other than relief, if she allowed it, which she wouldn’t.

“Forget I said anything,” he grinned at her, and settled back against the couch with his arm along the back of it. Close enough that if she tilted her head, she could stab his with her skewers. “Am I making you uncomfortable? I can leave.”

“No, it’s fine. You act as a good barrier to others.”

What purpose could fucking Namjoon serve? She doubted this opportunity would present itself again. She could still meet up with Jimin and Taehyung later, or just go down that path another day. They seemed casual about it; it was good to know she might have an easy time fucking information out of them without much preamble.

“Well. It’s good they’re getting closer anyway,” Namjoon said. “Isn’t it? Both our lives get easier once they’re married and in love.”

“Why does yours?” she asked. Then quickly added, “Mine is unchanging. I serve no differently.”

“Because I think she’s going to be an amazing queen. She’s… bright and inquisitive and curious. She hears out my ideas. You serve a remarkable woman.”

“Who is in bed with her betrothed right now.”

“Yeah, which one are you jealous of?” he laughed. The surge of rage blinded her for a moment and had she less control, she might have lashed out. Instead she remained still as he chuckled to himself and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, I understand your position. Who you want doesn’t ever matter. Ideas are more important than some sexual gratification, right? The world can be better and those of us willing to take up that task have to stay true to it. Nothing I believe in is worth throwing over for an… entanglement. That was true before. That will always be true.”

He was rambling. Did he really want to fuck or was he just looking for someone to listen to him? That seemed in line with what she had seen of him so far. A devout scholar all the unmarried girls pined for who was in fact undersexed, what a trope.

“Sorry,” he laughed suddenly. “It’s just always running up here.” He tapped his head. “Hence the… proposition.”

“So you’re confident enough to believe you’ve caught a betrothed princess’ eye but in practice not above pursuing a maid–”

“That makes me sound sleazy, huh? Suppose I thought you might be in a similar state as me. Frustrated and– anyway, I’m not looking at a maid right now. Masquerade, right?”

Dulce eyed him from the side of her mask. He was a noble, likely to be selfish. Probably he thought he was getting something to blackmail her with out of this –but with who, Nasimiyu? Nasimiyu might be mad but hey, she’d encouraged Dulce to fuck for information. It was part of the job. It’s not like they were a couple, after all. Nasimiyu was a princess currently fucking her future husband. Dulce was just an assassin masquerading as a maid masquerading as a mysterious noblewoman for an evening. And if Nasimiyu did get a little jealous, well… so what? She had Seokjin to comfort her. She’d wanted that comfort so badly she couldn’t even let Dulce finish her dance. And why had the prince asked her to dance in the first place?! After feeding her a raspberry tart. He was as much an asshole as Nasimiyu was. Assholes. All nobles were selfish, arrogant, thoughtless, reckless assholes who occasionally threw a masquerade so they could fuck servants without being embarrassed about it.

“Noblemen are selfish lovers,” Dulce said, curious what response she’d get from Namjoon.

“How many noblemen have you been with?”

“How many maids have you been with?”

Namjoon leaned across her, one arm on the arm rest, and stared into her eyes. He could see them through the mesh mask, he was close enough that she knew the eye contact was genuine.

“This one isn’t a selfish lover.” He lowered his mouth to hers, masks bumping. Her was tied on too tightly to budge but his did, lifting higher as he settled more heavily on her, arms sliding around her, kissing her right there in the lounge for anyone nosy enough to look over. Dulce didn’t need to feel anything from the kiss to know that he was very skilled and most women would melt beneath him. It was enjoyable, anyway. He was handsome and at least knew how to kiss well.

She slid her hands up to grab his hair and bit his lip.

“Ah, ok,” he hummed. “It’s like that?” He tried to push her back on the couch but her spiked crown bumped and her skirt was too full.

“Don’t fuck me in the middle of the–”

“Right right, sorry,” he murmured. “Getting carried away… I’m a little out of practice…”

She found that hard to believe, but played along, exaggerating her flushed state as he pulled her to her feet and they walked quickly from the lounge.

“Do you have a room?” he asked her.

“No.”

“Uh… I’m sharing a suite with my sister…”

“The garden?”

“You’ll let me–”

“Isn’t that what people do at a ball–”

He suddenly grabbed her and pulled her close in the hallway, mouth hungrier against hers by the minute, needy in a way she would not expect from a man she’d only really spoken to this once. But it made obvious one thing was true: he was desperate to fuck.

He barely let go of her so she could lead the way out into the gardens, and down a few paths until they found a nook isolated enough for them both. Apparently Namjoon wasn’t as worried anymore about being seen though it was unlikely anyone would recognize them in the low light. He sat on the bench and unbuttoned his pants but she scoffed,

“I don’t do that, you’ll just leave after.”

“I won’t, you have my word, but it’s fine. Come sit in my lap, think you can take me already or do I need to warm you up?”

“See, selfish.”

He grabbed her roughly and yanked her down to the bench but then, forgetting his own unbuttoned pants, crawled under her skirt, lifted it right over his head in one move.

Only to laugh, “You have a knife!”

“Oh–”

“How were you going to reach this if you needed to?” he demanded, unfastening the clip and tossing it to the side along with his own mask.

“In case any handsy nobles harassed me.”

“But how are you going to use it? Do you even know how?”

“I’d figure it out.”

“If you stab me, you won’t get to finish.”

“I’ll finish first.”

He laughed, clearly unbothered, and dove back beneath her skirt, pushing her legs apart. She leaned back and closed her eyes and choked on a sigh.

It was bad. It was bad that she couldn’t see him as tongue and fingers unfurled her. It was bad that she couldn’t see him, could only feel that it was a man’s hands touching her right now, a man’s mouth sucking at her clit. It made it too easy for someone else’s image to sneak in. Seokjin crouched between her legs in the dark garden, moaning into her pussy about how sweet she tasted–

She abruptly pushed him away to confirm his face. He looked bewildered, face messy and hair disheveled.

“Something wrong–”

She grabbed his vest and pulled him onto the bench and pulled his cock from his unbuttoned pants, hot and heavy in her palm. It seemed Lord Namjoon had many blessings in life.

He practically snatched it from her hand and dug a condom from a hidden pocket, rolling it on as he ordered, “Take your mask off.”

“No.”

“It’s cutting me when I kiss you.”

“Then don’t kiss me.”

He unbuttoned the lace at her throat and kissed there instead, hands dragging at her dress to pull into his lap where he had to slot himself into place while she tried to press down the volume of her skirt crushed between them. See? So impractical for fucking!

Their coming together was fast, frantic, too drunk, but not drunk enough. She forgot who was beneath her , just grabbed his broad shoulders and bit back the moans at the thrust of him deep into her body. He felt good, she’d give him that. He didn’t just mindlessly rut into her the way she’d half expected. His hands and lips were busy trying to drag pleasure from her that she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing, though it was difficult to hold herself to that. He felt good, he moved well, he smelled nice even after an evening of dancing. His mouth tasted like wine and raspberry tarts when he kept forgetting not to kiss her–

No. No that was someone else, someone whose mouth she didn’t know, and didn’t want to know, and it wasn’t her fault if things blended together in her mind as she rode this broad-shouldered man. He managed to wrestle one of her tits from her bodice, his mouth dragging at her nipple in a way that felt so foreign, it made it easy not to think of Nasimiyu and what she was doing right now. Possibly this very same thing. With someone else beneath her, or above her, or behind her. He worshipped her. She despised him. And they were going to be married and he was going to die and Dulce was part of making that happen. And he’d fed her raspberry tart and spun her on the dancefloor over and over as she got drunker and dizzier, even though it was the wrong move, because he thought she enjoyed it.

She did.

Seokjin shuddered beneath her and grunted against her neck, arms locked tight around her as he came, cock nudging her deep, deep, so deep, mouth hot on her skin–

No, no! Not Seokjin, Namjoon.

It was too late. Her orgasm shoved her from behind, leaving her no time to catch herself before she fell. Instead she leapt off his cock, making him cry out at the shock as she collapsed heavily beside him on the bench, cunt clenching around nothing as her orgasm fizzled into dust. Interrupted. A failure. A shame that left her gasping and twitching.

“What’s the hurry?”

She didn’t say anything, just shook her head. He gave her a smug grin, “See? Not selfish.” He tugged the condom off his softening dick, knotted it and tucked it into his pocket. A cautious man. A proud man who saw her orgasm and thought it was his accomplishment. It was. It wasn’t. She wished she had just let herself enjoy it. She knew she couldn’t.

Once everything was tucked away, he settled back against the bench and closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh.

Dulce just sat there. She felt… strange. Weary. Simultaneously spent and unspent.

After a few minutes, Namjoon reanimated. He leaned down to give her a kiss she hadn’t expected.

“That mask is almost as lethal as you are,” he complained, rubbing at his nose as he stood. “Thank you for that. Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Satisfied?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t I walk you back inside?”

“No, I’m all right.”

“If you’re sure…”

She nodded and waved him off and he went. It let her sit on the bench for a moment and catch her breath as her stomach turned. She hadn’t wanted to cum with him. She was glad she’d interrupted it but it didn’t change that she had. She refused to think about why. She didn’t like the loss of control. She was slipping. This whole night had been nothing but slipping and she didn’t like it. It was Nasimiyu’s fault for making her come to this, for dressing her up, for acting like she was some silly little plaything. My little doll. She hated Nasimiyu right now. Everything was Nasimiyu’s fault. If not for Nasimiyu, she wouldn’t even be here.

And now, where to go? She was tired of the whole thing now. Orgasm had sobered her when she didn’t want either of those things. Honestly if she’d been less weary, she might have gone to find Jimin and Taehyung. Have a crazy end to her night, get further drunk, do the magical lix, have that threesome, embrace the chaos, ride off into the sunset in the morning, stop caring about anything–

Fuck. Fuck, was she starting to care? Better not be.

Maybe she should do that part in the morning, then. Disappear. Prove she didn’t care about anyone or anything.

The other part of her considered just curling up here to sleep and let whoever find her in the morning and deal with it then. Her whole body felt sticky and numb and fuzzy and she was ferociously hungry. She’d never got her plate of desserts back from the tutor and the loss made her want to cry but she couldn’t go all the way back to the masquerade for them. She just couldn’t.

Her only hope was if there were any still in the kitchen. It was worth a shot. If she got some desserts, she’d feel better, and then she could figure out what to do because she felt like she ought to be doing something. Leaving. Getting away from this place. But she couldn’t get this dress off by herself, and she couldn’t go to Nasimiyu’s room for help because she might not be alone or she might not even be there. Would they have gone to her room or his? Dulce’s guess was Nasimiyu’s. Shit, if they went to his room, she’d see the animals and that would be the end of it. The thought almost made her smile.

The kitchens were still busy. She had been an idiot to come here. She entered through a side door and immediately backed out, but unfortunately not before detection.

“What are you doing here? Dressed like… that?” Yoongi asked.

She hesitated. The last thing she wanted was another man involved in her evening, and yet there was no one else. She didn’t know Yoongi well, only in the context of kitchen visits, but he also seemed so nonplussed that it made him feel trustworthy in the way she could use right now.

“Can you help me get out of this?”

“Eh… you coming onto me?”

“No.”

“How did you get into it?”

“My lady. But she’s… occupied.”

His eyebrows raised. “Ah. By the prince, I hope.”

“Yes.”

“Well that’s great. Yeah, you need something to change into I guess. You want to sleep here too?” He stepped away from the kitchen and she followed, not sure where they were going. “I don’t have a private room but everyone’s working right now.”

“You have clothes that will fit me?”

“They’re kitchen scrubs but yeah.” The room around the corner was small and had two bunks in it. It reminded Dulce of her servant's room. She compared them both to Nasimiyu’s room and felt a spark of fiery rage of injustice catch and then fizzle. She was too tired right now.

“Hey, are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Something happen?”

“No. A ball is just not the place for me.”

“Me fucking neither. You look right though. Nice, I mean.”

“I want this gone.”

He helped her out of the dress with only a slight twitching of his lips, didn’t even comment on her tits and lack of underwear but also didn’t exactly avert his eyes. The clothes were bland, beige, poorly fitting but they covered her. They shoved her dress into an empty sack along with the mask, grimacing at the way the spikes stuck out. He found a smaller bag for her jewelry. She’d have to sneak back barefoot tomorrow, the heels would look too suspicious with her clothes. She did her best to wipe the heavy eye makeup off with a wet towel.

“Quite a transformation,” he mused.

“Thank you.”

He hadn’t asked further questions about why she’d dressed up, or how it had gone, or why she might look almost on the verge of tears. She wasn’t. She had no reason to cry. She’d danced. She’d gotten dick. She was a little drunk but not badly. The plans were progressing.

He looked at her feet and sighed, “I don’t even have a second pair of shoes to offer you.”

“That’s ok. Thank you for your help.”

“I’ll extract payment in the kitchen, don’t thank me yet. But hey, if you would rather sleep here it’s fine with me as long as you don’t mind sharing a bed when I get a break in a couple hours.”

She considered it. The other option was to walk barefoot through the castle, avoid being seen by anyone while lugging her bag of dress and spikes, hide that under her own bed, and sleep listening to the complaints from the other maids. Her makeup was smeared but not gone, her hair was down, she smelled like alcohol and perfume and probably sex too. They’d know where she’d been.

But she’d need to gather her things if she was going to light out in the morning. It was looking more alluring by the moment.

He touched her arm, a gentle nudge towards the bed. “Just sleep here. I promise I won’t pull anything.”

“It’s all right?”

“Yes, Dulce. It��s all right.”

She didn’t make him offer again.

Seokjin lay awake, gaze alternating between Nasimiyu sleeping beside him and the silk canopy above her bed. To say this was not how he had expected the night to end was an understatement. The whole night was a hazy mixture of moments and touches and music and skewers he couldn’t quite make sense of yet, though he wasn’t drunk. He felt drunk. Okay, he was a little drunk. Drunker than he would have liked to be his first time with Nasimiyu but maybe it was for the best because he thought the alcohol might have helped him not fuck it up.

They’d really done it. He glanced at her again, at the cloud of her hair rising up from her pillow. Beautiful. Men had followed her every step tonight and yet he was the one she’d pulled close and kissed and brought to her bedroom. Yes, he was her betrothed but it still felt like an undeserved honor. She was as forthright with her wants as he had expected and he thought he hadn’t disappointed her. He just wished he could remember it a little more but maybe that wasn’t the alcohol, that was being drunk on Nasimiyu and the heat that came just from getting to touch her. He would have settled for a dance tonight. A kiss. Instead he felt like he’d got everything and he didn’t understand what he’d done to deserve it.

But he wouldn’t let her down now. He wouldn’t take for granted that she had allowed him this great leap forward in their relationship. If she could just not regret this tomorrow, and not slide back, everything could be ok. Dulce was right, Nasimiyu just needed time to warm up to him, was that it?

He glanced at the shadowy pile by the window of Dulce’s boots and clothes. She had dressed here before the ball obviously. It was an odd piece of her to see in his betrothed’s bedroom. He wondered again about their dynamic but more than that, he wondered what Dulce had done after he and Nasimiyu left. He didn’t know whether to hope his friends looked out for her so no one else bothered her, or hope they left her alone because they might be the bothersome ones. He felt a deep guilt to have left her before they’d even concluded their dance. He felt like he’d left something behind at the dance, an important task undone, a dangling thread that needed to be pulled. Something in the oven.

He couldn’t fall asleep because he’d had sex with Nasimiyu and she was beautiful and incredible and going to be his wife, he was going to spend the rest of his life with this amazing woman. And he couldn’t fall asleep because he had this growing ball of dread in his stomach that he’d left Dulce in trouble. He didn’t know that. She was capable. It was just a ball. Her safety wasn’t his responsibility. Probably she had gone to get her dessert plate from Hoseok. Maybe she was sleeping in her own bed right now.

But she needed her boots, didn’t she? And she couldn’t come get them because he was in here. Lying naked in bed next to Nasimiyu. He felt very naked next to her.

He needed to piss, that’s why he got out of bed. He tugged his underwear on afterwards, and fetched Dulce’s boots. He overbalanced and dropped one at first, and out fell a knife with a jeweled handle. A necklace with a locket was wrapped around the sheath, tangled up in the jewels, and for a moment he had the nosy impulse to open it. Who did Dulce wear in a locket down her dress everyday? Nasimiyu? Her family? A lover left behind in Marvono? Maybe she had followed that lover to Marvono in the first place?

He didn’t open the locket. Instead he carried the things to the door and stuck his head out to hail the attention of the nearest guard.

“I need you to take these to the room where her maids sleep.”

“I don’t know where they sleep.”

“Well figure it out, good man! Don’t spill the things inside. I know what’s there and if anything is missing, I’ll come for you.”

The guard rushed off and Seokjin scurried back to bed. He’d orgasmed hard earlier, the results leaving a wet spot he brushed against. Back out of bed, he got a towel to drape over the spot, then curled up again, and this time felt more at peace. She was probably already in bed and now she had her boots and locket and pretty little knife back. He felt better knowing she carried that. She was capable and probably she could carve up a man as well as she’d been cutting those beans in the kitchen. He hoped she’d never need to though.

Nasimiyu flipped in her sleep and a hand arced, slapping him in the face. He chuckled.

“On the nose, Nasi dear,” he murmured and settled her arm gently by her side. He held her wrist for a moment, embracing the warmth of her skin against his. The sex was so good. It would only get better as they learned the things they each liked. They were going to be happy, weren’t they? Now that she was accepting him?

He drifted off, mind swirling with Nasimiyu’s moans and gold-flecked skin bouncing on top of him and raspberry tarts staining red lips that almost smiled and a beautiful storm cloud spinning around him and skeleton hands that wrapped around his throat until the music stopped.

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seasurfacefullofclouds1 · 2 years

Note

If you read this review and a review by any of the Larries you wouldn’t feel like they were watching the same film.

https://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/my-policeman-movie-review-2022

Larries are ready to hand Harry his Oscar, I guess they thought just because a film festival gave the cast a prize which they invented for the first time and was not judged by a jury, Harry automatically was up for an Oscar. Not like film festivals are marketing ploys and the attention Tiff received by having Harry Styles and also Taylor Swift this year didn’t get them loads of sponsorship and notoriety which they strive for.

I mean even Oscars are, so maybe they are right.

Sometimes I look at Harry Styles and I feel bad for him. Not because he isn’t getting a fair shake, but because someone told him he could be a leading man without warning him about the time and work needed to become one. Hot on the heels of the world premiere of his upcoming “Don’t Worry Darling,” the Olivia Wilde-directed movie mired in controversy and less than generous reviews for his performance, Styles’ second film of 2022 is an adaptation of Bethan Roberts’ same-titled novel. Here, Styles’ inexperience as a leading man in a weepy British queer period piece is glaring. As the film's protagonist PC Tom Burgess, he stands and speaks like a tourist awkwardly stumbling upon a movie set. His co-star, Emma Corrin, is hardly better as his stuffy lover. She tussles with the least developed character of the bunch, but much like Styles, never proves herself as a lead. How can a movie with this much youthful talent be so breathlessly boring?

Helmed by an adequate Michael Grandage, “My Policeman” begins in the present day with the older versions of these characters: Tom (Linus Roache) and Marion (Gina McKee), now retired, live in a seaside town as they go through the motions of their milquetoast marriage. Their steady march toward resignation—which Tom momentarily pauses whenever he visits the sea with their dog—is interrupted with the arrival of their old, now estranged friend Patrick (Rupert Everett). A guilt-ridden Marion volunteered to care for him after a debilitating stroke left him nearly bedridden. And while Marion is ready to bury the proverbial hatchet, Tom refuses to see the man his wife says they owe so much to because he “Taught [them] how to see art.”

The pain that Patrick caused the couple is what “My Policeman” hopes to tell us about. And yet, how it tells us, and what it thinks we hope to gain from this story, comes with little flair and even less self-awareness.

The past on a sunny beach in 1950s Britain, where Marion (Corrin) sees the dashing Tom (Styles certainly isn’t lacking in the looks department) running across the sand. He teaches her how to swim; the pair soon start dating. Humble and working-class, Tom is the total opposite of the educated, arts-focused Marion. It’s why Tom goes to such lengths to read about paintings. The two eventually meet Patrick (David Dawson), a museum curator who knows Tom from being a witness in one of his cases. The trio become inseparable. It even appears that Patrick might be attracted to Marion, and her to him. That is, until we discover that Tom and Patrick are in a closeted sexual relationship.

The messy triangle that forms from these two competing relationships is meant to suggest tension and sympathy for a hopelessly romantic woman seemingly being a victim of two men, who are also victims of the country’s homophobic laws. We come to find, however, that this trio doesn’t fit into easy boxes: Tom demands law and order; Marion is homophobic; and Patrick is somehow their friend. This conundrum would provide juicy drama if any of these actors possessed a speck of chemistry with the other. It doesn’t help that Grandage, through his blocking and coverage, and the editing by Chris Dickens (“Slumdog Millionaire”) try their best to hide Styles’ deficiencies. His physical understanding of the character lacks specificity; his line deliveries are monotone; he doesn’t project allure. There is no interiority or charm in anything he does. Even his sex scenes—where Grandage confuses bare skin and moaning for passion—are without bite.

Instead, “My Policeman” finds smoother ground in the present-day scenes with a trio of older actors who can elevate a script. Make no mistake, the prime culprit in this soporific film is a terrible screenplay that tells a gay love story through the elderly Marion, a straight cis-woman, adopting Patrick’s memories by reading his diaries. It's also frustrating how the script's set-up is initially intriguing, only for a twist to throw all of the built up tension and angst out without a coherent vision for what comes next. And a rushed ending doesn’t instill any further confidence. The fact that the inner lives of these characters are so underwritten you barely understand their psychology—especially with the flawed Marion, who still might be homophobic—makes them unmemorable.

“My Policeman” is surface-level queer representation lacking in visual imagination and begging for better performances. It’s the kind of glacially paced movie that sticks around for two hours and tells its viewer nothing new; a series of moving images without any sense of emotion or wonder. “My Policeman” commits the gravest of crimes—it’s soulless.

This review was filed from the Toronto Film Festival.

My Policeman— and Harry himself— show that bad art, even if queer representation is the subject, is still bad art.

#my policeman #my policeman reviews #harry styles #emma corrin #david dawson

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scotianostra · 2 years

Photo

King Alexander II married Joan of England on 21st June 1221, although one source says June 25th, another the 19th.

Joan was the oldest of daughter of King John and his 2nd wife, Isabella of Angoulême. Born in July 1210 she was the 3rd of 5 children; she had 2 older brothers and 2 younger sisters would join the family by 1215.

Joan’s story is quite remarkable, and I am going to concentrate on part of her life before she became the wife of Alexander.

An agreement was made that she was to married to Alexander, perhaps before she was even born, definitely by aged two it was on the cards, but the King of England, John broke off the engagement when he found his daughter another husband, this time in France.

The new groom was Hugh of Lusignan, Count of La Marche in south-west France. Which is why, at the tender age of seven, Joan left England to join him with her r mother.

King John had died the previous year, 1216, leaving Isabelle a newly minted widow. The Queen saw no future for herself in England. She was never meant to go there in the first place. As a child, Isabelle was betrothed to the old Lord of Lusignan. Had King John not stepped in, that marriage would have gone ahead. But now John was dead; so was the old Count and his son (so nearly Isabelle’s stepson) was waiting to marry her daughter.

Going back to Angoulême, where she was Countess in her own right, and Isabelle could be mistress in her own house – with the added bonus of her daughter little Joan as her new neighbour.

The plan fell apart when Queen Isabelle arrived home, completely overshadowing her daughter. It didn’t take long for Hugh to realise he was wasting his time waiting for Joan to grow up when the mother was back on the marriage market – a queen, rich, fertile, and the right side of 30.

It’s seems like a headline for a tabloid newspaper, but yes the groom really did jilt his bride to marry her mother!

The full story goes that Isabelle married her daughter’s fiancé – ostensibly to save little Joan from the perils of early marriage and childbearing. “God knows”, Isabelle wrote to her son Henry III in England “that we did this for your benefit rather than our own”.

Outmanoeuvred, the English government resurrected the old plan to marry Joan off to Alexander, her first fiancé. The problem, of course, was that the bride was not to hand.

No matter how much the government demanded Joan’s return, Hugh and Queen Isabelle held all the cards. They used the little princess as leverage to strike a good financial deal, and even then only handed her back when the Pope got involved. But Joan’s mother and new stepfather could not be persuaded to return her dowry, which stayed with them in France.

Back in England, Joan had a few months to get reacquainted with the rest of her family. Then she travelled north to meet Alexander, ten years her senior and King of Scots. The couple were married in York in June 1221, with the English king paying for three days of celebrations. The marriage sealed the new friendship between the two kingdoms, with Joan at the heart of not one but two royal families. The Scottish chronicles described how their “lord king returned to his country a happy man with his wife”.

While no one expected an eleven-year-old girl to produce a child, expectations were higher ten years on. We are told Joan had grown by then into “an adult of comely beauty”. But still, there was no child. This meant that Joan had no real ties to Scotland beyond her husband, and Alexander’s need for an heir was starting to put the marriage under strain.

Joan was very close to her brother King Henry III, who was only three years her senior, and he gave her the means to live independently in England as and when she wanted.

Henry himself was married to Eleanor of Provence, although that marriage showed no sign of a child either. In late 1237, the two sisters in law went on a pilgrimage to Canterbury. Both young queens prayed for an heir. The difference was that Joan, of course, had no chance of conceiving when she was so far away from her husband – and she had critics even in England who thought it wrong for a wife to live so far from her husband.

Even so, Queen Joan spent Christmas in England. Her family gave her new robes and wine for the festive season. She was preparing to return to her husband when she fell ill. Joan failed to recover and died on 4th March 1238 with her brothers at her side. She was only 27.

As Queen of Scotland, Joan’s body would normally be returned there for burial. But she asked for her body to go to Tarrant Abbey on the south coast of England (which is as far from Scotland as is geographically possible). The feeling was mutual and, not surprisingly, she was soon forgotten in her husband’s kingdom.

You can find more about Joan here https://historytheinterestingbits.com/tag/joan-of-england/

#Scotland #scottish #England #english #marriage #medieval history #history

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delilahsworld · 2 years

Text

Rage

When people envision anger,

I think they often picture their fathers.

Middle aged men full of frustration,

Regretting the choices

They made,

Taking it out on anything around them.

They see anger as heavy footsteps,

Warning you to scurry away like mice from a prowling cat.

They feel anger as heaviness in the air

After the assembling of furniture,

The tension that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably,

Flinching in fear of every little sound setting off the

Bomb which is ticking away silently

On the sofa,

Remote control pressed tightly in hand.

Historically, anger has never been granted to women.

We are given goddesses of Marriage, Love and Spring,

Images of sweetness and song,

Perfectly composed expressions that give no inkling of the simmer fury inside

As these beautiful arts of work

Depict the stories of their husbands cheating, raping and kidnapping them.

It is unladylike to act in anger,

To show our frustration with a world set up against us,

With the slow moving pace we must march along for change.

You get Ares, god of war,

His face painted in blood,

His mouth open in a roar.

We get Persephone,

Happily being carried away from all she has known

For a marriage she never wanted.

Her power came later,

When we finally saw the strength in a goddess

That fears neither the light nor the dark.

But by then,

The damage her archetype created

Was long since done.

How would the painters centuries ago paint the scenes so common today?

The women, bloodthirsty as they march the streets,

Demanding the right to control their own body.

Would we be weeping,

Clinging to the arms of our husbands as we beg him not to let us die in childbirth?

Would we be bowing our heads demurely,

Accepting our fate as it is?

Or would they show us in the midst of a fight for our own lives,

But will we be perfectly painted,

With no real emotion on our face?

For a woman cannot be ugly,

Even in anger.

What point is there, to a woman,

If she is not nice to look at,

Even as she marches for the sanctity of her own bodily rights?

Anger is a man’s game,

Rage his gods’ given right.

Leave the true vengeance to the men,

Ladies,

They’re better at it anyway.

#poems on tumblr #poetry #short poems #female anger

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amber-vanth · 3 months

Text

Serqet stormed into the hall, hands balled up into fists in her dress, the bunched up fabric most certainly wrinkling in her grip.

Amen was hot on her heels, his posture also rigid with tension. “And where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.

He was met with a scoff. “Anywhere away from you. If you can’t take the hint by me—oh, you know—walking away from you.”

He rolled his eyes at her snarky remark, still insistent in following as she turned a corner hastily. “We’re not done here, Serqet.”

“I say we are.” She kept marching off, determined to at least put some space between them. (Damn him. Damn this castle. Damn him for knowing this castle.)

“You’re walking on a thin line here,” he called after her with a scowl. His stride sped up and he managed to snatch her wrist, tugging it free from her grasp on her skirt.

“I’ve heard that from you before,” Serqet jeered at him, whirling around and attempting to tug her wrist back with a seething glare. “Unhand me before I make you.”

He paid no mind to her threat—even though he knew damn well that she could and would follow through with it—brows drawn in a furrow with his scowl still twisted on his lips. “I thought we agreed to allow those nobles to-”

“I changed my mind. Simple as that. Those nobles were no good.” she said matter-of-factly, lifting her chin somewhat to make her point.

“And you didn’t think to let me know beforehand?” Amen groaned, using his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose briefly before returning to glower at her. “I’m welcome to you challenging my views whether it’s behind closed doors or not—God, you do it nearly every damn day—but don’t you think we could’ve handled that in a more polite, diplomatic way?”

Serqet tugged at her wrist again, this time freeing it and pulling it back towards her so she could smooth her hands down the material of her dress. “Since when have I ever been politely diplomatic?” she retorted.

“Yes, because asking you to at least put in an effort is like asking pigs to fly,” Amen remarked, a tone of grim exasperation coating his voice.

She scoffed once more. “You know just as well as I do that those pigs for nobles were simply aiming to gather unnecessary sources of income.”

“I think you’ve made it very clear of what your opinion is on them with your little display with the use of that sword,” Amen deadpanned. (Perhaps the queen had drawn a sword on her own subjects—but they needed to know their place. He hated how she was right.)

Serqet’s golden eyes narrowed and she took a step closer. Her gaze bold, challenging. “As your queen, I’m simply doing my duties and aiding your own.”

“As my wife, you are infuriating.”

“I’ve heard that from you before too,” she said, letting a smirk crawl onto her lips, “As my husband, what are you going to do about it?”

His eyes darkened as they flitted from her daring gaze to her lips, his frown still on his own. God, she could get him so worked up at times.

“Fucking hell, sunshine,” he sighed out, closing the distance between them in less than two steps, “You’re insufferable.”

Serqet only met him with a widening smirk as he pushed her up against the wall and angled her head into an angry kiss.

“I’m still mad at you,” she reminded him through their heated exchanges, a hint of fond irritation in her voice. “You know I was right.”

He grumbled, lips descending down on her jawline and neck angrily, paying no mind to whatever marks he might leave behind. “Whatever. Just shut up already.”

“You’d think that-” She hissed when he placed a sharp nip on her collarbone, his calloused hands further wrinkling her dress. “that after marriage, we’d stop doing this in the halls.”

“I would’ve had you on that damn table if all those nobles weren’t there, we both know that.”

Serqet emitted an airy laugh. “If I had known that this is how you’d react whenever I threaten someone with a sword, I would’ve done it much soo-”

Amen pulled her in for another angry kiss.

(Yeah, he hated how she was right.)

#⋆☀︎｡ amen n ser #彡 ria has written !!

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sebeth · 1 year

Text

The World of Ice & Fire/Fire & Blood: The Field of Fire

Warning, Spoilers Ahead…

The future Crownlands have been conquered. House Hoare has been rendered extinct. Argilac the Arrogant met his end in battle. And the remaining kings are in a panic.

King Torrhen Stark called his banners to Winterfell.

Queen Sharra of the Vale, regent for her son Ronnel, retreated to the Vale and sent her army to the Bloody Gate. Queen Sharra was a famed beauty in her youth, “the Flower of the Mountain”. She sent Aegon a portrait of herself and offered herself to him in marriage and Ronnel as his heir. No one knows if the portrait reached Aegon but he never responded to her proposal.

King Mern IX of House Gardener, King of the Reach, allied with Loren I Lannister, King of the Rock. Known to history as the Two Kings, they commanded an army of fifty-five thousand that included six hundred lords. It was the mightiest host ever seen in Westeros.

An important fact to note is King Mern had his four sons and two grandsons, aka every male in the Gardener line, with him.

Aegon gathered his own forces. His forces were only a fifth of the Gardener/Lannister alliance and most of these consisted of the Riverlanders whose loyalty was still untested.

King Mern demanded the honor of commanding the center. Edmund, his son and heir, was given the vanguard. King Loren and his knights would take the right. Lord Oakheart of the Reach would have the left.

King Aegon gave the command of his host to Jon Mooton, the Lord of Maidenpool. Aegon and his queens would fight from the sky.

King Mern led the charge on his golden stallion with his son Gawen beside him with his banner, a “great green hand upon a field of white”. That is a lame banner/sigil. Your last name is Gardener and the best you can come up with is a green hand?

As the Rock and Reach forces charged, the Targaryen forces held back while the siblings launched into the air with their dragons, all three simultaneously unleashing dragonflame.

The “Field of Fire” killed five thousand men. Tens of thousands suffered burns. House Gardener joined House Hoare in extinction – at least in the male line. King Mern, along with his sons, grandsons, brothers, and cousins, died in the battle.

The Targaryen forces lost les than a thousand men. Queen Visenya suffered a arrow wound in the shoulder but quickly recovered. Aegon ordered the swords of the defeated be gathered and sent downriver.

The Targaryen forces caught Loren Lannister the day after the Field of Fire. The King of the Rock bent the knee and Aegon confirmed him as the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West. Lord Loren’s bannermen and the surviving Lords of the Reach also paid homage.

Aegon finished the conquest of the Reach by marching to Highgarden and installing its steward, Harlan Tyrell, as the Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South, and Lord Paramount of the South.

King Mern was not the brightest bulb in the bunch. Who takes every male in their line to war? Especially against an opponent with dragons?

The Field of Fire and Harrenhall were both horrific shows of a dragon’s power. I’d rank Harrenhal as the worse display – more died at the Field of Fire but they were soldiers who had a reasonable of expectation of death in battle. Harrenhal would be a war crime if such a thing existed in medieval times. Harren Hoare deserved death but not the women, children, and servants that also resided in the castle.

Up next, the King Who Knelt.

#asoiaf #game of thrones #Field of Fire #Aegon Targaryen #Aegon the Conqueror #House Targaryen #House Lannister #House Gardener #House Tyrell #Two Kings #Loren Lannister #Mern Gardener #Harlan Tyrell

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butternuggets-blog · 2 years

Text

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @adowbaldwin @profoundme444 @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont

Part Thirteen

Summary: Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of mistakes.His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to irritate him every other century.

Also on Ao3

The Roman Empire had no complaints. It certainly wasn’t on the brink of collapse. Not at all. In fact, it was stronger than it had ever been.

It just had a slight…problem…with Atilla the Hun.

Sometimes allies, sometimes enemies, of the Empire and its territories, the Huns had been encroaching on Roman and Gothic provinces for over a hundred years. Attila and his brother, and co-ruler, Bleda, shared a similar appetite for conquest, and had taken an aggressive interest in expanding their territory.

Sassanids and Balkans fell to their blades. Constantinople came close to disaster. Tribute was eventually negotiated, and paid, and on the march back home from Byzantium Bleda died. There were rumours Attila was no longer interested in sharing.

Then a woman happened.

Justa Grata Honoria, sister to Attila’s ally Emperor Valentinian III, had sent Attila a letter begging for his assistance in getting her out of an arranged marriage. In a calculated move, or a stupid one, she also sent him her ring. Attila announced that he would be happy to accept her “marriage proposal”, demanded half the empire as a dowry, and marched on Gaul.

Tinus held his torc and said a silent prayer as a commander on horseback rode through the crowd, marshalling the troops into position. The Huns had fled their siege of Aurelianum and the Gaul-Roman alliance had followed. Now the sun was high in the overcast afternoon sky, and battle was finally about to commence.

Striding through the men to the front line, Tinus adjusted his shield and gave his armor one last once-over, checking to make sure everything was correct.

…Saddle leather…woodsmoke…lavender…

Tinus glanced to his left and found himself staring into a pair of extremely familiar dark brown eyes. Lucius hadn’t changed much at all since he had last seen him.

He was still stocky and solidly built, his armor well-cared for but frayed a little at the edges. He was even still wielding a gladius.

Tinus snorted derisively. Using a gladius nowadays was the Roman equivalent of marching into battle wielding an ancestrally inherited blade. To call it an antique would be generous.

…and his hair…

‘Did you trip and fall in a bucket of piss?’

Lucius’ perpetual scowl turned sneering.

‘It is fashionable’

‘It looks like a pile of wet straw’

Whatever biting retort Lucius was about to spit back at him was drowned out as the tubae sounded; Tinus raised his shield, locking it to Lucius’, and they were hunkering down, waiting for the order to march across the muddy grass towards the Huns.

Hoofbeats. A cavalry charge to their right trying to break their middle flank. Its arrows would be raining down on them soon. Tinus trusted his feet to keep him steady on the quaking ground and concentrated on keeping his shield up in front of him.

Screams and war cries. The thunk of arrows hitting wood; the whinny of horses plunging forward, then retreating, then plunging forward again as their riders tried to break through the defence. Tinus glanced at Lucius; he was still frowning, but beneath it was a wide, determined grin.

Someone behind him was whispering a prayer. Tinus felt something drip onto his neck. He sniffed; it was sweat. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shift his shirt up so that the collar wiped it away. He succeeded, and used his free hand to pull his shirt back down again.

‘Sorry’ mumbled a voice just over his head.

‘Concentrate!’ Lucius hissed.

Tinus glared at him. He glared back.

________________________________________________________________

An hour? Had it been an hour yet? He wasn’t sure how much time had passed but the clamour to their right was quieter now.

Roars of triumph.

…the Huns have broken through…

‘Here they come’ Lucius muttered.

‘Concentrate’ Tinus bit back.

Hoofbeats again, getting closer. The susurrus whisper of ten thousand bow strings pulled taut. Then the archers released.

Arrows falling really did sound like rain, to a point. That point came when they landed on, or in, their intended target. Tinny thuds of metal on wood deafened him. The impact made Tinus’ arm vibrate but nothing made it past. The shield wall was holding for now.

Someone blew the tubae again; at the signal, bolts and heavy stones started flying overhead, flung from ballista manned by the rows of infantry behind them. Tinus suppressed a reflexive shudder.

There had been ballistae at Alesia.

They were doing an excellent job of slaughtering here too. The horses whinnied shrilly with fear and anger, bucking up against the shield wall as their riders yelled and tried to urge them forward. Lucius growled loud enough for the dappled Mongol mare in front of him to hear; it snorted hot, wet air in his face and kicked at his shield.

An inch-wide gap opened up.

The arrow went straight through his jaw.

Lucius stumbled, a great gush of blood spraying out of his mouth as he howled with pain.

The Hunnic rider seized the opportunity.

The spear the woman thrust into the space caught Lucius square in the chest. Tinus heard a crack as bones fractured. There was a horrible sucking sound as she wrenched the spear back slightly, repositioned it, and pinned Lucius to the ground on his side.

She’s aiming for his heart.

On instinct Tinus flung a hand out, bringing his axe down in a tight arch. It cleaved through the spear’s handle, and he used the momentum to turn the arch into an upward stroke that caught the Hun warrior in the chest and unseated her.

Lucius was pawing at his face and successfully snapped the arrow shaft, hissing and dribbling blood as he pulled the two halves of the arrow from his mouth. His breathing was short and uneven, and when he locked eyes with Tinus they were tinged with fear.

Tinus grabbed the writhing Hun by the ankle and pulled her towards him, angling his shield so that it banged her viciously on the side of the head as she slipped under the wall. Woozy and dazed, she didn’t have time to react when his knife came down.

The arterial spray went in Lucius’ eyes and nose as much as his mouth, but he tipped his head back and gulped down what he could catch like a dying fish trying to breathe air. After a moment lying in the mud, he struggled back to his feet, wincing as his armour nudged his newly-repaired ribs, and concentrated fiercely on the battle in front of him.

Tinus snorted, and looked away.

Author’s Notes The Battle of the Catalaunian Plains [20th June 451] – Attila the Hun marched through Gaul in an unconfirmed route, amassing an army of Goths, Rugians, Sciri, Thurigians, Franks, Gepids, Burgundians and Heruli. Attila besieged the city of Aurelianum (now Orleans, France).

An alliance of Western Roman Empire troops, Visigoths, Salian Franks, Ripuarian Franks, Burgundians, Saxons, Amoricans, Alans and Olibrones reached the besieged city on June 14th.

Attila, seeking a more advantageous battlefield, fled. The two armies fought in an unidentified place near the Catalaunian Plains (or Fields).

Tubae – tuba; used to signal the beginning of battle, as well as dictate troop movements during the fighting

Bucina – or “war trumpet”; this was used to dictate shift changes during night watch, summon soldiers, and give a range of orders to troops within a roman camp

HBO Rome used whistles to show how Romans used musical instruments to signal advance, retreat, ect. Whistles did exist in Ancient Rome, but there has not been conclusive evidence that they were used in a military capacity, and the debate over their official use continues

Attila’s troops numbered roughly 48,000 so I rounded the number up to 50,000 and divided it by three because the troops were split into three separate groups. Then I divided the number I got (16,666) by 2 to get numbers for infantry and cavalry.

Attila and his army rode Mongol horses, a breed of horse native to Mongolia, and one which is still very much alive today!

Yes, there were female warriors in Ye Olde Times. I’m sorry she’s dead.

I used the following video to get an idea of troop movements

#baldwin montclair #baldwin de clermont #baldwin/male oc #bibaldwin #adow #a discovery of witches #a discovery of witches season 1 #a discovery of witches season 2 #a discovery of witches season 3 #all souls series #all souls trilogy #all souls tv series

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kookiecrumb · 3 years

Text

jjk|| Your Head

"tags": @kazthebrekkerofinej

word count: uhhhh

summary: Jungkook is the heir to the throne of your Kingdom! In this tale of duty versus heart, will love prevail victorious?

tags: Royalty!Jungkook x Peasant!Reader, oneshot, smut, fluff, slight angst, some crack, pining, forbidden lovers, Jungkookie has a sweet tooth, strangers to friends to lovers

warnings: explicit language, impact play, birthday sex (technically), fingering, oral (m receiving*), love marking, alcohol consumption, s&m themes, horny grinding, praise kink/body worship

a/n:

hey guys!

Firstly, I want to say how proud I am of myself for growing so much during this fic. I learned a lot about what I'm comfortable with, what I'd like to work on, and where my confidences lie.

I won't lie and say it's been easy, because writing this meant dealing with a lot of my fears? I'm excited for all the works that are to come.

The only thing I can do is be as receptive to growth as possible, so I'm looking forward to learning...

*I actually learned that Vaseline wasn't invented until like the 1870s? The fic is written in the 1810s, so I actually had a choice between having them do it with vegetable oil or spit. Spit won.

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5 years ago

You bend over to pick up an apple that had rolled over under your father's produce cart, praying that it isn't bruised so that you have to pay for it out of your dinner, when a crumpled piece of paper hits you in the ass.

Confused, you crawl out from under the stand and unwrap the paper.

The paper itself is of the finest quality you've ever seen. It's a sturdy cardstock, bleached white with gold etchings on the borders. The print on the top of it reads "His Highness Jeon's Royal Study," and scribbled in some kid's amateur cursive below, "Nice butt."

You directed your gaze upwards, towards the towering castle walls. Sure enough, a boy no older than 15 had his noggin popping out from the top of the rampart, with two wide eyes staring down, curious as to your reaction. This was Prince Jungkook, heir to the throne of your kingdom.

"Shouldn't you be equestrian horse riding or playing polo or something?" You shout. He furrows his eyebrows, apparently offended at your assumption, and then disappears behind the edifice.

Moments later, another paper hits your shoulder as you're practicing your caligraphy behind your cart. It lands between the apples, so you reach your hand over and fish out out.

You glance up at the anticipant, and sure enough he's there with his doe eyes and his coconut head, ogling.

"No, dumbie. That's at MID-day." Well how were YOU supposed to know the royal schedule of the crown prince, it wasn't just common knowlegde you learned from being a humble farmer's daught--

Ah!

"Will you STOP?!" You put your foot down. "Unless you're here to buy my apples, then you're not getting ANY, little Prince." Oh, shit. You gave him ideas. Now it was really over for you.

In less than half an hour, half a company of men arrived at the marketplace, asking about your little old apple stand, and sure enough, Jungkook had bought out the entire cart so that you were forced to help with the transaction.

The young prince had eyes frankly too big for his head, with the most prominent cupid's bow you've ever seen. His nose slightly outgrew his face and his ears were hidden away behind his short, black hair. "Now you can talk to me." He gave you a rose he'd stolen from the royal garden. "I am Jungkook, heir to the throne of--"

"I know who you are." You interrupt him, documenting His Highness' total in your calligraphy book.

With a hand perched on his chest from surprise, he scoffed. "And I happen to think you're really pretty, so I was going to ask you to be my very first consor--"

"You're 15, you have playmates not consorts."

"And how old are you?!" He's had it, raising his voice and taking a bite out of one of your apples with force.

"16, old enough to have suitors." You tease. Jungkook hangs his head a little. He just needed someone to talk to, it would seem. Reluctantly, you scribbled down your address down on a piece of note paper and handed it to him.

"Look, if you buy more of my apples, I'll have an excuse to tell my Dad so I can hang out with you." You spoke in a low voice as to not raise suspicion.

Your dad is standing negotiating with the guards about prices, his usual embarassing haggling gruffly overpowering the guards elegant twiddle-tones.

"Wonderful! See you soon, my sweet!" He resumes his confident demeanor, tucking the paper into his overcoat with a small smile. He salutes you boyishly and marches away with a year's supply of apples.

For the next week, the royal kitchen had baked 3 apple pies, made 5 fruit salads, 4 batches of apple muffins, and threw the rest of them in Sangria; that's the same Sangria as King Jeon finds himself drinking in his wife's drawing room on Sunday.

"Call Chef, fetch him up here." He waves to his assistant, keeping his eyes on the outside. He was deep in thought, his hands stoicly behind his back.

The Kingdom had been prosperous for over many years now, and war had not come close to threatening its borders in a lifetime. Negotiations were always successful, and quality of living was high. The work of a King, in a situation such as this, was to perfect the image of the royal family as strong rulers, and to paint his daughters as desirable to foreign heirs.

"Your Grace," the assistant called his attention, "Head Chef Sung." The dainty man bows and scurries off somewhere else.

Chef Sung is a portly man, who carries himself heaving with every step, his great belly inflating with each hefty inhale. He approaches the King, and kneels down to kiss his hand with his fat lips.

The King recoils in disgust, but quickly collects himself and his words. "Where are these apples from, is it France or Spain?" He demands.

"Neither, Your Highness." Mr.Sung lifts up his eyes. "They are from our Holy Kingdom; by order of Prince Jungkook, an entire cart was purchased of these apples and we have not been able to get rid of them." Tears threatened Chef Sungs eyes at the very mention of the fruit.

'Well, there's one thing the kid's done right.' King Jeon now faces the Chef, setting down his drink on a mahogany table, leaning against it casually. "Well! Good. I'd like to meet the owner of that cart, invite him to my Sunday brunch."

"Oh, yes, of course sir! You'll never see them in our kitchen aga--What?" Chef Sung takes out his handkerchief, waving it around in the air and drying his tears at once. "So you like them! Why...Yes! Yes, of course!"

Your father thought it would be valuable to have you around the kitchen, learning from the skilled men and women employed by the Jeon family. He only visited once a week to drop off fresh produce, (he'd been officially hired to handle restocking of goods) but you, after showing promising signs of being a gifted baker during one of your father's restocks, were granted scholarship by Ms.Kang to be her aid.

You were now, officially, a resident of the Jeon Estate, residing in the servant's quarters, immediately adjacent to the kitchen. This was convenient. It was far too convenient for a certain little Prince to get the idea of wanting a midnight snack and wandering downstairs.

One day, he does just that. He finds his way into the first bedroom to the right of the stairs facing the kitchen, and that happens to be your bedroom.

He pokes you awake. "Ow! Ow, whyyy~" You whine and toss yourself over to the other side of the bed. His irritating poking persists. You grab his fingers and your eyes shatter open.

You sit up, alarmed. "You could have me arrested, what the fuck are you doing?!"

"I wanted a midnight snack! Besides, I wanna talk to you." He pouts, still holding a small teddy companion.

"Fine. I'll bake you ONE sheet of cookies." You slip on your night shoes and shuffle to the kitchen, and Jungkook tags along.

By the time Jungkook's 18th birthday comes around, he's in the kitchen helping you whisk buttercream to top his cake while having a tease at the Austrian Princess' mole.

"You have one right under your lip, look!" You take a little buttercream from the bowl and stain the dark spot with it.

He licks it up and hastens to add, "it needs more sugar, lady!" as he turns to grab a puffy bag of confection sugar.

"You're impossible to please." Snatching the sugar away from him, you smirk. "You can gobble down as many sweets as you want when the ball commences. Remember, this is the year you're supposed to be keeping your eye out for a girl of a good fam--"

"Yada yada, must have hips for childbearing, yada yada yada..." He mocks the speech his mother had told him that morning when he got dressed.

"Exactly." You set your bowl aside to fix Jungkook's tie. "Yes, and that's your duty, as our heir."

You step back and examine Jungkook one more time. He'd grown so tall in the last year, his legs like spider's and he was just beginning to grow into his features. Handsome boy.

You, too, had grown into an elegant young woman. You had a poised complexion, ready-mannered and graceful. Your hands seemed out of place in your otherwise feminine frame, carrying an extra bit of girth from baking. You were 19 years old.

Marriage was becoming an uncomfortably frequent topic during your visits home, as your mother had married young, herself, she expected the same of you.

Truth be told, there were plenty of offers for your hand. You were a skilled and very esteemed individual, who had broken into thr artisinal class. But your father knew better than put a dowry on your happiness. So long as you worked, he saw no reason to marry you off just yet.

"Now, go. Your sisters must be worried sick! Go out there." You shoo him, pushing him out the door of the kitchen despite his flailing arms.

Throughout the party, you'd been carrying a platter of your own baked goods, serving them to the aristocrats attending the Princes' coming-of-age ball. Accents from all over Europe and some from Kingdoms as far East as Cyprus jubilantly engaged in artful conversation which filled the air with good spirits.

Jungkook, himself, was busy being introduced to as many women as possible, a medley of presenting duchesses, ladies, and even Princesses of your Kingdom. They were each more qualified than you'll ever be, ten-fold.

One was a Greek Princess, her hair cascaded in darling curls down her shoulders and her eyes were deep-set, her voice a flirtatious trill.

Another, a Prussian Princess', posture radiated excellency, and whose complexion sparkled like powdered snow. Jungkook greeted her warmly, pleased with her appearance.

Distracted, you tripped up your skirt and dropped the remainder of your pastries. With that, you stepped off to use the restroom.

The sound of Strauss' Rosen aus dem Süden faintly loomed in the air as you wiped tears from your waterline in the mirror. That was just the way it was, wasn't it? Princes come of age, and they find wives who they commit their lives to.

"Married men don't have friends who are girls." You say out loud, just to realize it. Jungkook was now expected to find a mate within the season, and he was, in fact, quite the eligible bachelor.

Little did you know that Jungkook had been keeping an eye out for you throughout the party, not only because you were carrying his favorite Danish pastires, but because he knew your company was his greatest comfort.

He's in the midst of greeting the Duchess of Kent when he excuses himself to go look for you. He finds your mess first, frowning as he realizes something has gone terribly wrong.

He catches you in the hallway, face puffy and shaky. He grabs your wrist to keep you from darting back to the kitchen.

"Please don't do this, it's my birthday, y/n." It's as if an unspoken rule had been broken between you, and he feels it. Something is making you uncomfortable. "Was it the girls? You told me about this, it's my duty to at least greet them and--"

"Yeah, you sure did greet the Prussian woman nicely." You speak through tears. "She's the girl you were born to be with, huh? Your birthright?"Jungkook is silent. "Every girl at that ball wants to be your wife, want to have your children. They haven't known you for a day and yet they're ready to be your bride."

You search Jungkook's eyes for any sign of coherence, hoping that he would defend against you, that he would speak up and tell you otherwise. No such argument comes.

You yank your arm from his grip and march to the kitchen to remake the pastries you spilled.

You had the job of clearing off all the tables upon the departure of the last guests. It is midnight, and the windows of the castle stream moonlight down on the carpet beneath your feet. The glow of candles soothe you as you hum the waltzes which echo in your mind. It's a brilliant evening.

The centerpieces of the tables were gardenias, lush rose-like flowers with yellow pistils.

Summer, 1809

"Jungkook, wait! You're going to make me trip!" You shout from the top of the hill.

"You've gotta come see before the sun sets! It's the only way we'll get there on time, now run!" Jungkook's speeding down the terrain towards the Sycamore tree which grew deep and wide beneath the banks of a great rushing river.

You groan and throw caution to the wind, rolling down the steep mount in your Sunday dress. Jungkook turns to watch you, a grin spreading across his handsome face. "Look at you!"

You land on your feet at the bottom and scurry off to join Jungkook under the grandfather tree, out of breath entirely. "Now, look what you made me do. You're such a boy, you know that?! Making me come out here just to see some bloody--"

Jungkook has plucked a gardenia and placed it behind your ear. "Would you shut up? We got here on time. Behold."

In all its glory, the sun bathes you in its vivacious rays, creating a feeling of heavenly bliss as it dips below the horizon. The sky blushes pink, its clouds mere whisps above you. Wind rustles the leaves of the grand tree, rousing the birds to chirp their afternoon song.

"Mom used to come here all the time with my Dad, because of these." Jungkook clasped the blooming flower in his tender hands.

After a while, he says "the bugs will come out soon, so we ought to go back," as if he's trying not to scare something away. He helps you up, and with one last look across the valley, you walk next to each other back to the East Quarters.

You take all the silverware and plates by the tub to the dish-washing station and toss all of the linen napkins into the washing machine. All you had left was to blow out the lights in leading upstairs.

"Prince! It is very late, and there are no guests left for you to entertain. What troubles you?" Jungkook's sitting on the stairs with his head in his hands, still wearing his best suit.

"I disappointed you, y/n...I didn't like any of them." He admits, lifting his head up to sulk at you. "I should have told you then, but I didn't want to make you upset!"

Did Jungkook mistake your jealousy for disappointment?

"I'm not upset because you didn't hit it off with the girls..." You sigh. A confession is due, and he's ready to hear the truth from you about how you feel about him.

"Well, the truth is, I didn't like any of the girls because I like you, y/n. But you know that, don't you?" You pause, asking him to elaborate.

"Remember when I bought all the apples because I wanted to be with you? Like...I told you that you were my consort and I kind of meant it?" He felt pathetic now, realizing that you weren't just ignoring his advances. "So you didn't friendzone me for 2 years, you actually didn't know that I liked you."

It was almost laughable, a situation you would read in one of your illegal novels which you kept tucked away in your pillow at night. "No, Kookie, I didn't." You admit to your insolence.

You can't bear to lead him on any longer. You needed to put duty over your own self interest for the sake of the kingdom, even if it shattered his hope. It was better this way.

"But, you do know that we can't ever be a thing, right? It's just silly." Your heart tightens with the words which fall out of your mouth. "It is. Nevermind what your parents would think, what would it do for your image? You're on the world's stage, Jungkook, and you're a selfish person if you think you can just throw all of your duties away to date a scum of the Earth like-- like me!" With your heart in your throat, dry your eyes with your sleeve. "And...I want to, I really really want to, more than anything else to love you, Jungkook. I love you! I...can't." Through the blur of your tears, the shapeless blob that Jungkook has become stands up.

Taking his thumb and swiping it under your eyes, he sighs. Words escaping him, he takes your trembling body against his chest and nestles his head in the crook of your neck. Your cold hands travel underneath his overcoat to hold his waist. The Princes' lips plant a gentle kiss on your neck, chaste yet deep and satisfying.

"I will not accept any bride if not you, my love." He draws back, meeting your fervid gaze. "To the world, I remain a bachelor for a few years."

"And after those years, Jungkook?" You ride your hands up to caress the man's jaw. "You will still love me after those years, and then what?"

"I don't know," he says, voice as soft as powder. "I don't know many things, y/n, that's why I need you to teach me." His palms are rubbing at your waist, beckoning you closer.

His breath quickening as you lean your body against his hold, and you figure it must be the wine he drank to calm his nerves. That was it, wasn't it? He was drunk.

"You're not drunk, are you?" Your face sours, really hoping it's not the case as you feel your body temperature rise.

"Y/N, I've only had a glass. You saw I was a wreck back there." His lips kept chasing yours in a dance you can't quite describe. "I have wanted to hold you like this since I saw you selling apples on the street. Give me the honor..." His forehead against yours and his strong hands supporting your back, he's already fucking you with his eyes.

"The pleasure of being your lover." He squeezes your waist tight with his forearms, planting brisk kisses behind your ear and breathing in your scent. He smiles against you. Your skin pebbles at his affectionate touch, purring softly as your eyes roll back in delight.

"Kookie..." You breathe, leaning on his broad chest. "Kook, the maids are wondering where I am, I have to go..." You slur, tugging at his collar.

He grunts in protest, taking your ear between his teeth and nibbling it.

"If you let me go, I'll steal some cake for you tomorrow at breakfast." If there's anything Jungkook likes more than Cream Ice, it was cake. He unravels you from his arms and nods, his eyes softening.

"Request my service tomorrow, from Ms.Kang. She's been sweet on me lately." You peck his cheek before stepping back. Your rouge has embarrassingly stained His Grace's cheek.

Jungkook bows and presses a kiss on your hand, eyes rising to meet yours. "Til' morrow, babe."

Jiyoo shakes you awake the next morning, handing you a cake and a note that reads: "Prince Jungkook has a commission he must discuss with you. Meet him at his chamber immediately."

Lacing on a simple corset over your nightgown, you try not to look too red in the face as you climb up the stairs to His Majesty's room. You'd be up there alone, as requested. The girls would absolutely start rumors based on that alone-- rumors which you realize are probably totally true. This was stuff of scandal, after all...

'There shouldn't be anything scandalous about love.' You decide as you rap on His Highness' door.

"Please enter...but only if you have my cake!" Jungkook says in his morning voice. He's so cute.

The simplicity of Jungkook's abode takes you by surprise. His bedroom is very well lit, a capital display of the flowered valley through his bay windows washed the room in gold, painting his porcelain white carpets and his cotton sheets a warm creme color. His drawers and vanity were etched in gold, with breathtaking detailing.

The Monarch himself was splayed across the bed, laying on his side casually. He held a glass in his hand, holding a white wine. He puts down his glass and sits up as your presence.

"We both know that you didn't come here as my servant." You lock the door behind you. "And I have no such commission to give you, darling." The innocence which undertones his usual speech is missing as he coaxes you towards him.

"This much I know, Your Majesty," You say, taking a bit of frosting on your index finger and smudging it on the Princes lips. His black eyes, as cunning as a viper, watch you dangerously as you push two fingers past his plush lips. He wraps his hands around your wrist and draws your hand away, his gaze fixating on you.

"Set the cake down." At his command, you carefully place the confection down on a nearby chest, feeling Jungkook's eyes on you, drawing you back towards his grip.

"Let me pull your laces apart," with your waist held by his Herculean hand, he hums "and then let me pull you apart. I want to memorize your pleasures and gratify your desires, I need it, y/n..." Your back flush against his chest and your thighs split, his hands knead into you as he litters your collar with his mark.

You gasp softly against the crook of his neck, giving into his hold of you. His hot tongue spreads under your jaw, closing into a hard kiss as his hands travel back up to undo your corset and free your tits.

One by one, his fingers pop open the buttons left on your gown until the collar hangs off-shoulder to expose your collarbone. At the sight of new skin, Jungkook's tongue darts to stain it.

His hands stagger above your breasts. "Is it okay if I touch you here?"

"Oh, Kookie, touch me everywhere~" Your hands form fists around Jungkook's shirt, beckoning him impossibly closer.

Grasping one ever so carefully, his thumb grazes your bud as he playfully bites under your ear. "ah-- ahh,"

Jungkook groans in response, he can't believe how cute you sound. Curious, he wants to hear more, so he traces your thighs and experimentally pushes up the outside your cunt.

You squirm, tensing up immediately in response. You bring your hands down to find the latch on his trousers and dip your hands below to rub him through his undergarments. He heatedly bucks up to meet your touch, a panting mess.

You face him now as he watches you ride his fingers while you grip his girth through his clothes. He takes you by the ass and places you on his prominent bulge, hips rolling into you as he hungrily kisses you, his firm hands grinding your core on his cock.

His face is a sinful red, panting under you desperately.

"I've been wanting to do this," His voice warbles through your touch, running your thumb along his underside. It's his turn to gasp. He sits up and collapses his lips into yours, softer than rose petals and his taste faintly like wine.

You place your hand on his chest, and his heart is pounding, a thin layer of sweat already forming on his honeylike complexion.

Hastily, you pull your dress over your head and lean back to allow him to familiarize himself with your stark form, a dainty chain hanging between your bosom. Jungkook bites his lips as he wriggles out of his clothing, desposing of it beside the bed.

He's giddy behind those sultry eyes, you know him well enough that he's overexcited to get inside of you. It goes straight to his cock, your playfulness as you feel up his bare shoulders and discover his abdominals, your fingers tracing his ridges with a sense of innocent wonder.

He takes your hands and looks at you in this way-- Butterflies fill your stomach instantly. Jungkook's thumbing at your pout with his intrepid fingers.

His eyes flutter when grip his base and submerge your upper body below his hips. You lick a long, thick stripe up his underside, causing his breath to hitch and his head to fall back on to the bed.

Those goddamn cupid's bow lips of his would whisper the dirtiest things under his breath, lewd thoughts that sounded completely alien coming from His Majesty's mouth, he said for you.

"Oh, such a pretty mouth~ It's so good, y/n, you swallow me so good--" he moaned like a mantra, trying to keep his hips from snapping up into you. Your hot, wet tongue wrapped around his throbbing cock was only a fantasy to him for years.

He fills your throat with his girth, his taste tantalizingly smooth. It leaves your mouth with a 'pop.' You struggle to keep your legs apart as you crawl up to kiss him.

He takes those fingers of his and slides his index and middle into you and languidly thrusts them, smirking against your lips. "Shit, you liked that, hmm..."

"Kookie...please," you whine as he squeezes your ass hard before smacking it. You yelp, the sting of his fingers radiating from your skin.

"I like it when you beg, y/n, it's so cute..." He pulls your ass up to his thighs. He's flush hard against your abdomen, already sticky with his precum and your spit. You marvel at the self control he has.

You don't finish your thought before he has his head inside of you, impaling you on his cock and stretching your entrance, hissing at how incredible it felt to have you around him.

His shaft reached pleasure points within you had yet to discover. You clench, feeling his tip brush against your cervix. "Wh... hngh," he groans, "how did you do that, do it again--" You wrap your legs around his thighs and clench around him, biting your lip. You watch as he shivers from pleasure, feeling his skin horripilate under your touch.

His thumb is softly circling above your clit as he pulls out of you carefully. He swirls back in, nestling himself inside your heat, hissing. "Ahh~ Jungkook~!" At the sound of his first name moaned out of your mouth, he groans and rolls his hips up to create messy friction. That familiar knot in your stomach tingles as he plays with the bundle of nerves buried within you.

He glances up at your ruined lips, clashing with them again as he lifts your knees up with his hands and thrusts nice and rough, making you yell with every jolt of his cock. The smell and sound of sex fills the room as he experiments with positions, laying you on all fours.

"Get your ass up for me." You obey, ever servile. You're reminded-- you're his servant. He owns your work, he owns your services, and now he wants you in the most lucrative way, he wants your soaked cunt around his imperial cock. He gets what he wants.

Jungkook's palms smack against your ass one more time, just to watch the way it jiggles for him. He smirks a little before he shoves himself into your pretty little cunt. You bury your face into the pillows in pelasure as he chases your orgasm with vigor, fingering your clitoris while you move your hips back to meet his hard thrusts.

You whine like a harlot, his cock allowing you every satisfaction as he works a head-spinning orgasm out of that cunt. "I'm gonna cum, Kookie~!" you warn as you spasm against his length, moans ripping from your throat as you coat him with your thick juices.

His hips stutter up and he just barely pulls himself completely from you as he paints your back white, a guttural groan escaping his mouth.

After a while of loud panting and scattered giggling, Jungkook reaches over for a wet cloth and cleans the both of you gingerly. You trail your hands up to caress his jaw and kiss his lips softly.

"You need to tell everyone that I had a long and extensive request for the Harvest party, that I wanted a lot of fall fruits and vegetables featured in the baked goods, make it as specific as possible and make sure that you mention that I want to meet with you again, over dinner." His labored breathing punctuate his words, as youd kisses consume him. "And..."

"And?" You cock an eyebrow, simpering.

"Doyouthinkmaybeyoucouldbringmesomemilktogowithmycake?" He mumbles, eyes glued on the bed.

"What?" (If you give a Kookie a Cookie...)

Disgruntled, he sighs and repeats: "Milk! Milk for my cake. I know it's moist cause you made it but I'm really thirsty, especially after..." His cheeks flush a cute pink. You wait for him to continue just to fluster him a little more. "Y/N, just please!" You can't ever refuse his pouty face.

Next week, Jungkook's got you pinned against the hallway wall, making out with you hungrily as his hands ride up your dress. Just across the hall, his Dad is negotiating war with Portugal over land in the West.

The next month, you have his cock buried in your throat underneath the table at an important conference about how to create jobs.

All this while the pressure for Jungkook to find a bride continues to rise as he reaches seniority, and as his father's grey hairs pronounce themselves.

Warm touches are always hidden away to the public eye, but often shared between two kindred spirits underneath the man in the moon's watchful eye. Jungkook, as he reaches his maturity, grows strong. His jaw sharpens, and his eyes darken. His hair grows long, and he gains weight. Now at the proud age of 20, Jungkook had become a man before everyone's eyes, including the eyes of foreign monarchs and their eligible bachelorettes.

One day, you're serving the Royal family at a private dinner, when the topic of marriage comes up for the first time since his birthday.

"Your mother has made friends with the mother of the Austrian Princess, and she's invited you to the cordial ball to introduce yourself to the Princess. An allyship with Austria would prove advantageous for our relations with France, so you are to make your best impression." The King wipes his mouth. Setting his fork down, he continues: "It is in the family's best interest for you to marry her, if the French Princess, Anastasie, does not present this season or the next." The Queen holds the King's hand firmly, reassuring him from his shoulder. She wears a slight frown on her face, her eyes worrisome, somber. The King hides his anxiety, as he's been accustomed to from decades of responsibility. Would this be the face of Jungkook soon?

For now, Jungkook's face is scrunching at the thought of marrying Anastasie. She's not the most delightful young woman, her imprudence ruined her enjoyment of any event. She couldn't keep an intuitive conversation about regional politics and domestic policy for the life of her. Her people were on the brink of overthrowing the aristocracy, he was sure of it.

"Yes, father," is what you hear from him before you disappear down the stairs to fetch desserts.

Jiyoo interrupts your quest for sweets with a letter, signed by His Grace. She has a naturally innocent demeanor, her cheeks rosy and her frame as delicate as a feather. "Y/N, you have another special request from His Majesty...can I ask you why you get so many of these?" She looks genuinely curious, not a single menacing thought behind those eyes.

"It's because the Prince really really loves his cake." I mean, technically it was true. Jungkook never passed up an opportunity to squeeze, smack, or dig his fingernails into your ass during your sessions.

"Oh." Jiyoo pouts. "So it's not because you're like, in love or anything?" Her eyes are glued to the floor. You were expecting this question eventually, as the other girls in the kitchen were already suspecting it. It was only a matter of time before word slipped into the girl's ears.

"As much as I enjoy the Prince's interest in my baking, it isn't my place to confess any sort of feeling for him." Your answer is straightforward enough, so Jiyoo nods and hands you the letter. Another request.

Outside the Palace, Winter came like the wind. Lakes froze over, and couples tied up their skates and danced on the ice. The trees were bare and brown, not a single leaf persisting through the chilling breath of Jack Frost.

Jungkook had left for the Winter Palace, to volunteer and raise spirits up in the North. As heir to the throne, he was to be Commander in Chief of the Royal Armed Forces, and therefore needed to undergo intensive training in order to boost morale.

You're back home, and in your wake is your father, who has now grown tangibly tired. He's been on a strict diet of warm vegetable soup for about three months, now. His eyes are sunken, but he still wears a subtle smile even during his most trying days.

Match girls make their rounds at night, you watch as the lamplighters illuminate the streets with their tall ladders and their taller peacoats. Shop windows glow warm shades of yellow and creme; inscriptions on the glass create shadows on the white snow.

"Wow. It's almost as cold as the King's heart out here." You step outside one day with a cup of tea, sneaking in a cheeky smirk. Yeah, good one.

"I heard that!" You turn towards the little voice. A child, maybe about 9 or 10 years old is pointing at you. You squint at it.

"Well, it's true..." You mumble. You have a bit of change in your pocket, so you walk towards a stand to buy a hot bun and a paper.

"Chilly today, hon...Best you take this on the house." The tenant hands you a steaming cake wrapped in a simple cloth and your paper. You stick the paper in your dress pocket and take back your change. You nod a 'thank you.'

You spill the contents of your pockets on the dining table and snatch the paper, snapping it open. Your eyes eagerly skim the headline: "Prince Jungkook Fires Up Royal Army." Below is an article detailing the happenings of His Majesty. All of it sounded very intense, the running, strategizing, first aid training...Was there anything Prince Jeon couldn't nail on the first try?

You set the paper down and pick up your now lukewarm tea. In the back of your mind you're coping with the fact that the Spring Solstice is next week, and that marks the beginning of Jungkook's last season as a Prince.

The King is ill with tuberculosis, and recovery is unlikely. If Jungkook is to marry, it is next season and that was final.

Sitting at the window of his Winter Castle study, Jungkook plays with a ring nestled between his fingers. He looks out onto the lake, as if he's trying to reach you with his gaze. His heart is tight knowing that it would be the season he chooses his bride. Actually, he'd already made up his mind long ago. If his duty was to marry, there was no way to evade such a responsibility. He had to fulfill it, despite his anxieties.

He straightens up and walks out of the hollow room with a firm step.

You awaken with the sound of horse's hooves thudding against the Earth. It is yet to be dawn, and in the distance, thunder roars mightily.

A figure wearing a long, black hood hoists itself off of the animal, tying it to a nearby post. It walks towards an obscure entrance, unknown to many staff.

Intrigued, you wrap a blanket around yourself and peek out at the stranger. His fingers are shorter than his palms, and that's when he tosses of his hood, his eyes set on you. "Y/N..."

You're bewildered by his guise, questions filling your head.

"I was horny, so I left camp" He sits down at the counter, catapulting a cookie into his mouth.

You roll your eyes. "And the guards let you?! Jungkook!" You whisper-yelled at him, readjusting your makeshift blanket-dress.

"Obviously not!" He puffed out his chest with pride. "I bribed them," he smirks.

"You're insufferable," you scoff, your eyes wandering down to observe his physique. His shirt is anything but conservative, highlighting the muscle he'd earned through laborious, sweat-inducing drills. You can feel his eyes on your face as you observe him.

"You can't hide it either," he crosses his arms. "You're standing in the kitchen with a blanket around your naked body." He flicks his tongue. He steps forward, putting a finger under your jaw so you're looking him in the eye.

Your eyes fill with lust as he speaks over your lips. "Look at yourself..." A crash is heard in the other room.

Jungkook's head darts up and in a flash, he disappears into the night.

'Fuck.' You gather your dress from the floor and shuffle back to your chamber.

The first event of the season commences with the most exaltant of spirits as friends of old greet each other with youthful smiles. Juicy exposés, enticing tales, and thoughtful greetings are exchanged in the most formal manner, and the conversation is lively; the most controversial topic of conversation, however, is the rumor that Jungkook is to marry this season.

So far, he's been to four different private residences within his own Kingdom and has been invited, by the secretary of King Louis XVII to meet their daughter. It would be an understatement to say that stakes were high for the pending King.

You were kneading your dough a little too hard thinking about it. "Not so rough, y/n!" Ms.Kang snatches the mixture from your hands. "What is up with you lately, you're so tense! It's really disrupting the kitchen's dynamic."

You shrug it off. "It's going to be hard sedating Anastasie's sweet tooth, I suppose."

"Well, you seem to be doing just fine dealing with Jungkook's addiction to cakes...She's perfect for him, really." Ms.Kang throws more flour on your kneading table and steps off. You give up on the dough, covering it with a cloth and letting it rise.

Jungkook is tapping his feet, munching on finger sandwiches as he waits on you to make an appearance.

"Dearest Prince, look, I am wearing Mediterranean violet!" A duchess shouts as she passes by him, to which he raises his eyebrows at. Another, with dark green eyes approaches and begins speaking rapidly in French at him. Frightened and undereducated, his canned response was: "Excusez-moi, Pouvez-vous répéter plus lentement s'il vous plaît," to which the duchess furrows her eyebrows before something else catches her attention, elsewhere.

Truth is, Jungkook is incredibly shaken at the thought of announcing his engagement tonight. Well, that and the fact that you had yet to pop out of the kitchen. Man, those finger sandwiches were good.

As the night progresses, Jungkook realizes that if he doesn't get up on that platform and say what he needed to say, he'd have to say it in London. Setting his fears aside, he plants himself on top of the orchestral stage and taps a champagne glass with a cheese fork. The music comes to a stop.

With conviction, he begins: "The time has come that I announce my engagement. To all of my beloved friends, who have introduced me to the most beautiful, talented, diverse, and benevolent ladies I've come to get to know over the years, I thank you from the depths of my soul." He swallows and continues, his confident voice masking his trembling. "The life of a Prince is defined by the virtues presented to him at birth. Those virtues are: duty, responsibility, grace, kindness, mercy and integrity." Here comes the part, oh shit.

"I am abdicating my throne to my Cousin, the Duke of Namseong."

Silence sweeps the room. You poke your head out to see what was going on.

"...to marry the love of my life, y/n." He points at you. Your face is cherry red, and you find yourself dropping those same Danish fucking pastries all over the carpet.

"Shit," you fall on your knees, plucking them from the ground one by one. You don't know whether to run as fast as you can or to present yourself, but your body seems to be currently doing the latter. You go along with it.

Jungkook takes your hand tenderly on the stage. "I am unable to perform my duties as King, and therefore am ineligible for the throne." His touch gives you the will to continue beside him. You feel the pure fear rushing through your love's veins, and he knows that this is the hardest thing he'll ever have to do, yet he stands by his announcement.

So, if Jungkook doesn't get to be King of this World, he at least will forever be the King of Your Heart.

But all this, of course...is all in Your, dear reader, Head.

a/n:

hope you enjoyed.

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