#contemptible me au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fizzydrink698 · 4 months

Text

consort vi | minho

pairing: lee minho x reader

word count: 17.1k

genre: historical au, arranged marriage au, enemies-to-lovers

warnings: period-typical sexism, a boatload of family issues, a rapidly increasing amount of sexual tension, like reader is starting to go the tiniest bit feral about it

summary:

Minho paused, the lingering traces of cheer disappearing before your eyes. The shift in his mood was almost tangible, and it felt as if you had made some sort of misstep in a dance, thrown yourself and your partner out of rhythm.

His gaze flickered upwards, so very briefly, to look at you, before moving downwards. Down to your notes, down to where the space between your bodies was at its narrowest, barely a few fingers’ width between your skirts and his thigh. He took a breath.

An uneasy sleep must have reclaimed you in the night, because you awakened to soft morning light streaming through the windows – and chambers entirely devoid of Minho.

You sat up, unsteady, the beginnings of a headache already forming. Your thoughts were scattered, muffled as if wrapped in cotton, barely intelligible under the dull throbbing.

An empty bedchamber. Did that disappoint you? The sheets beside you seemed undisturbed, indicating that he hadn’t joined you at any point in the night, hadn’t risen from the couch he’d been sleeping on last night when –

Embarrassment – hot, ugly flashes of it – flared within you, so violent that you physically shuddered in an effort to suppress it. You wouldn’t be so careless again, risking something so mortifying and so vulnerable as being caught in a position like that.

A tiny voice in your mind uttered thanks for Minho’s order to keep servants out of his chambers without specific request. You didn’t want to imagine having to untangle these awful thoughts in front of an audience waiting to dress you for the morning.

The more you dwelled on the situation, the more you could feel something in your chest twist. Shame, perhaps. You couldn’t help but picture last night again and again, your awful thoughts painting over your memories, imagining Minho’s eyes open instead of closed, imagining the curl of his lip as he watched you in disdain, maybe even in disgust–

No.

You felt your expression harden, breath expelling from you in one sharp burst. You hadn’t realised how much anger you could summon at merely an imagined Minho. Already, even at just the thought of him, you found yourself itching to rebuke him, to challenge the contempt you had imagined yourself.

There was a danger that you could spend the whole day in this bed, imagining all the ways in which you could argue with Minho.

So, instead, you forced yourself out of bed, determined to focus on the rest of your day and leave last night firmly in the past.

It was strange to realise just how quiet these chambers were. They were so far removed from the bustling of the palace’s lower floors that even now, as scores of nobles and servants alike rose from their beds and began their days, you could almost mistake the palace for being empty.

The spring morning air was no longer a shock of cold, but pleasantly mild. Perhaps you should make use of the weather today, you thought. It would be good to get some fresh air.

And then, you came to a sudden halt – as a flash of orange caught your attention out of the corner of your eye.

You turned your head, startled, to find a tabby cat perched on the low table of Minho’s chambers, staring you down.

This was not the pampered sort of housecat you had seen in the houses of your mother’s friends during your youth. While this cat seemed well-fed, there were tell-tale signs of the fights it must have gotten into. There was a pea-sized chunk missing from its left ear, and a faint scar on its little orange snout.

Perhaps this was a kitchen mouser? But how had it wandered so far into the palace, all the way into Minho’s chambers? How had it gotten past those heavy wooden doors, not to mention the guards stationed nearby?

You dared to take a step towards it – to no response. The cat continued to stare. Its tail twitched from one side to the other, slowly, almost lazily.

It didn’t move as you approached, instead continuing to eye you with an expression so distinctly unimpressed for such a tiny face.

Of course, the second you lifted your hand towards it, it jumped away from you in the blink of an eye. There was no panic to its retreat, just a vague sense of disdain as it withdrew from your reach.

For one brief second, you were bizarrely reminded of Minho.

To your own surprise, laughter bubbled up in your chest, slipping out between your lips. It lifted a weight off of your chest, leaving you feeling just a little lighter as you observed the way the cat shot you what could only be described as the feline equivalent of a scowl before it padded over to the bed and disappeared beneath it.

Deciding against following the cat and disturbing its hiding place, you chose to head for the door and request breakfast be served outside.

It seemed only right that the lingering worries of the previous night’s events would disappear in the light of a warm spring day.

There was something so calming about the palace grounds in the morning. At your request, a table and chair had been set up at the base of a hill, just by the long winding steps back up to the palace itself, in perfect position for you to gaze out at the huge expanses of land in front of you.

Morning dew budded on the still blades of grass. Clouds slowly drifted across the sky above, the sun hiding behind them, only reappearing at just the moment the air grew too chilly. In the distance, a light layer of fog lingered amongst the trees of the royal forest, retreating further and further with each moment.

There was nothing but peace and quiet.

You breathed deeply, savouring the morning air, as you reached for the last slice of bread. Beside it, in a tiny porcelain dish, sat a little pat of creamy butter. You scraped the last of it up with your knife to carefully spread onto the bread.

Your plans for the day were the same as always. Studying, mostly. You were eager to crack open the most recent council records you could find, already making plans to note down the stances of each member, the factions that might have formed, anything that might be useful.

How soon would Minho talk to his father? How much time did you have to prepare? You should have pressed for more details.

You could ask him at dinner this evening, you realised. It was still such a strange idea, to think that you and Minho could talk to each other so…often, now.

Because you shared a bedchamber, a voice in your mind – one that sounded suspiciously like your mother – reminded you. You should be doing so much more than just talking.

A mouthful of bread lodged itself in your throat mid-swallow, making you cough and splutter as you reached for your tea.

Not that you were particularly eager for that, of course. Last night had been a brief moment of insanity, a sudden break from rational thought, brought on by returning to the bed that held so many strong memories. It had infected your dreams, and even seeped into your sleep-addled actions in the dead of night, but now you had recovered.

Now, once again, you were just as uninterested as he was. Moving to his chambers was good enough to mend your image as a successful, stable pairing. It didn’t matter what happened behind closed doors, because you had gotten what you wanted.

But before you could make an effort to divert your thoughts back towards the day ahead, the peace of the morning was broken.

You watched as a group of palace guards marched into sight, descending the palace steps – and you stilled when you saw the person they were accompanying.

Her Majesty, the Queen.

You sat up a little straighter, as your eyes met across the wide-open space of the palace lawns. She always seemed so perfectly put together, her long dark hair twisted and braided neatly into a bun, the soft and sweeping fabrics of her dress somehow spotless even when brushing against the ground.

In her fine features, there was so much of Felix. You almost wanted to look away.

Instead, you followed protocol to the letter, rising to your feet and bowing your head at her arrival. “Your Majesty.”

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she replied, and there was a genuine soft note of surprise to her voice that reinforced her words. “If you’re finished with your meal, would you like to accompany me across the grounds?”

You blinked, lifting your head in shock. You’d barely spoken to this woman in weeks. You’d half-expected her to ignore you. You’d half-given up on the affection the two of you had grown for each other during your childhood.

“Y-yes,” you replied, and cleared your throat. “Yes, I’d love to.”

She gave you a smile – one so deeply familiar that it made your heart ache for just a second – and inclined her head, silently offering you the place by her side.

You moved quickly, almost without thinking, barely retaining the grace expected for a lady of your position, as you tried to join her before she could change her mind.

Before the two of you could start walking, however, she first turned to glance at the guards behind her. With a firm, clear voice of a queen, she told them. “I trust I’m accompanied by guards possessing the respect of allowing two ladies some privacy while they talk. Am I not?”

The nearest guard’s eyes widened slightly in understanding, and he hurried to nod at her. “Yes, Your Majesty. Of course.”

“Delightful to hear. The usual twelve paces behind will suffice,” she said, her voice so casual that the comment could almost be described as offhand, before she finally set off. You had to quicken your steps slightly to catch up with her.

And, sure enough, the guards waited until you were twelve paces ahead before they followed – at the perfect distance to remain out of earshot.

This was the woman you remembered from your childhood. Always polite, always charming, and just a little cleverer than she seemed.

You fell into step beside her, searching for something to say to start the conversation. “I heard a delegation from the Lakelands are on their way.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding with a warm smile. “Most of the delegates only came to their position after I left, but I know a handful. Among them is a prince I last saw as a young boy. I look forward to seeing the man he’s now grown to be.”

“That will be nice,” you remarked, looking for something else to say. Something clever, or funny, or charming. It used to be so much easier to talk to her. “Do you miss the Lakelands?”

“Occasionally. Especially in the winter. I’ve never developed a taste for the cold that sets in here,” she said, but there was no trace of sadness in her voice. Nothing wistful. “But what about you? Are you keeping well?”

“Yes,” you replied – but it felt like a half-truth at best. “As well as can be.”

“I’m sure you’ve had so many pleasantries asked about your marriage,” she said. “That’s usually all people can think to talk about, with women like us.”

Her words struck something in you, hooking something strange and raw and tugging it out into the open.

“That’s usually the topic of conversation, yes.”

Her lips twitched, the briefest flicker of a smile. “Then we’ll speak about something else. Are you still keeping to your studies?”

“Yes!” you exclaimed, unable to keep your excitement from rushing out. “Practically every day. Mostly, I’ve been focusing on my histories and geography, but I like to brush up on my languages every so often.”

“You did always love studying your histories,” the Queen nodded, and for the first time in your conversation, you picked up on the slightest hint of sadness in her tone.

It sparked a vaguely familiar feeling. An old desire to cheer her, the feeling so ingrained that it felt like slipping on an old favourite coat.

“My new tutor has helped quite splendidly,” you said, with a smile just a touch forced. “I hadn’t realised how much more I could learn with someone following me in my interests, instead of just telling me what I should be interested in.”

The Queen smiled back at you, and hers seemed entirely genuine. “There seems so much to catch up on. I’ve been meaning to talk to you sooner.”

Her words, as light and carefree as she had offered them, managed to hit something deep within you. Your expression faltered, as you felt the words dig into you, like claws gripping your flesh, piercing you.

You blurted out your only thought. “Why didn’t you?”

The question came out in a rush, an outpouring of emotion that you had tried so hard to keep dammed. You watched the way she paused, caught off-guard by your sudden harsh words.

You swallowed, trying frantically to recover some sense of manners. “I mean, I…it’s just I’ve been…I’ve been so alone since…”

“…I know.”

Her gaze grew so soft, as she watched you sadly. There were moments, occasionally, when her eyes were so expressive, just as Felix’s were.

For a moment, you pictured what it must have been like for her, all those years ago. Newly married to a stranger, not just alone but alone in an entirely different kingdom. A kingdom that her father and her father’s father and his father before that had been at war with. A kingdom with a people who mistrusted her, who still mourned for her husband’s first wife, the beloved wife, the wife she must constantly be compared to in public and in private.

You wondered how long it took her to learn to hide those expressive eyes. You wondered if it saddened her to look upon her son, and see those same bright eyes shining back.

“I missed you,” you confessed. “I miss how it used to be.”

“So do I, sweetling,” she murmured. There were only two people in this world the Queen called ‘sweetling’. One was standing in front of her. The other was half a kingdom away, quiet and aching by the coast. “But that’s precisely why I’ve stayed away.”

“What?” You asked, sharp in your confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“There are whispers at court,” she began, before pausing. You detected the faintest of eye-rolls as she continued. “There always are. Right now, they are centred on you.”

“Me?” You repeated. “I haven’t heard anything.”

“Oh, the subjects never do,” she said, her tone sharpening just a touch. You knew she’d had her fair share of experience with court rumours. “It’s no fun for them if the rumour gets dragged into daylight and exposed for the nonsense that it is. Better to whisper in secret, and give their empty brains something to spin from nothing.”

“What are they saying?” You asked. You’d half-expected something like this to happen, but you’d always thought your first reaction would be worry, or fear – and yet, right now, the news filled you with nothing but anger.

“They’re harmless, for now. Idle gossip. But if any fuel is added to them, they could prove dangerous–”

“What are they saying?” You repeated, cutting her off. You needed to hear it. You already had an inkling, but you needed it in words.

She sighed. “…You and Felix. I’m afraid my son will always be a subject for scandal in your future.”

Felix.

You turned away, eyes searching for the horizon, for something to fix on in the distance.

You hated that this didn’t surprise you. You hated that your paranoia, your constant insecurity about how you were perceived, about how your issues with Minho were perceived, that constant nagging feeling of your marriage being forced under a magnifying glass, was partially justified.

“Anything in particular?” You finally managed to ask when your voice returned to you.

“The stories change every week. Nothing has truly taken hold, which is a good thing,” the queen reassured you. “But until you and Minho…well, when your marriage seemed on shakier ground, I thought it was wise to keep my distance. I thought it would make things easier for you.”

Easier.

Right.

A lump was forming in your throat. You did your best to swallow it down.

“I thought you were angry at me,” you admitted. “For marrying Minho, instead of your son.”

“You did marry my son.”

There was such strong feeling in her voice that it forced your gaze back to her. The queen’s jaw was set, her mouth curved downwards slightly. Years and years of learned authority, of power however scant it might be, radiated through her as she stood firm.

“Minho is my son. In every way that counts.”

You stared, silent, as the faintest hint of guilt began to warm your cheeks.

The queen continued to walk, her gaze softening as she fell back into old memories. “He was so tiny when I entered the palace. I helped him take his first steps. I helped him learn his letters, I selected his tutors and I watched him grow.”

She slowed her steps, as you reached the edge of the forest that surrounded the palace. The two of you would have to turn back soon, but you took a moment to observe the quiet of the trees, the way that sunlight filtered through the newly-grown leaves.

“I might not be called his mother, but he is my son,” she finished, quietly. “And I’m very proud of him.”

She blinked rapidly a few times, clearing her throat, and turned to flash you the briefest of knowing smiles. “As mule-headed as he can be sometimes.”

You couldn’t help but laugh – albeit quietly, softly, as the emotion of the conversation still kept its grip on you.

There was a pull in you – that familiar one, the one that urged you to please others, the one that pushed you to say exactly the perfect thing – to praise Minho to the Queen. To call him a good man. You knew she would want to hear it, she would want to hear how happy you had turned out in spite of it all, that by pure serendipity, your marriage to Minho was just as splendid and happy as the marriage with Felix you had been awaiting your whole life.

But the words stuck in your throat. You practically choked on them. Not just because they were untrue.

Because for a second – for such a brief, unthinking second – you had wanted them to be true, just as badly as she did.

Something cold began to take hold of you. It started in your gut, unfurling his long icy fingers, grabbing and twisting and squeezing as it slowly dragged the rest of you into its grip.

Betrayal. In that moment, you felt – you knew – you had betrayed Felix.

Did it show on your face? The queen was watching you now, and you couldn’t imagine the expression you must have had.

You swallowed, trying with all you had to shove that awful pain away.

You needed to say something. Anything.

“Minho…he’s always…he never seems to care when people believe the worst in him,” you said, the words stumbling out of you, as if your mind was two steps behind your mouth. “It’s almost like he prefers it. I don’t understand it.”

The queen took in your words. After one long pause, in which her eyes studied you so intensely that it felt they were about to burn through you, she turned to look up at the palace on the hill. Even from this distance, it seemed to loom over you, waiting so impatiently for you to return.

“This place…” she trailed off. Her jaw tightened - and in that one instant, as her eyes flashed, you saw the teenage girl that had first stepped foot into this court, so far from home and facing such a nest of vipers. “It pulls something out of the people here. A way to protect themselves. My husband already had his ingrained when I came here. I felt it take hold within myself. I watched it form in Minho, that desire to push people away. And you…” she turned to you, briefly, and you blinked at the twist of amusement in her lips. “What opposites you and he are. How perfectly you mirror.”

You stared. Her words were vague, cryptic…and yet, you couldn’t help feel as if you had been insulted. You opened your mouth to protest, but the queen had already turned away back towards the palace.

“You can’t live in a place like this without growing a few thorns,” the queen sighed. “Like the roses in my gardens, I suppose. The ones without thorns are the first to be eaten.”

There was something layered in her words, something sad, something resigned.

You realised then that of all the members of the royal family she had just mentioned, there was one obvious name left unsaid.

“Let us return,” she said, finally. “Before those guards grow too curious and drift too close.”

Not only did Minho keep his promise of returning for dinner again that evening, he arrived even earlier than you.

You almost stopped at the door, thrown by the sight of him at the table, as perfectly poised as he always was, flicking through a sheaf of papers by the side of his plate. He looked up at your arrival, eyes meeting yours, and something caught in your chest.

You hadn’t realised how strange it would be to see him in person after last night, how…affecting.

Clearing your throat, you gave him a tight smile and made your way to your seat across from him – unfortunately for you, as it gave you a clear unobstructed view of Minho at a time when you very much wished for anything but that.

You reached for the decanter in front of you, eager to pour yourself a drink to deal with this building lump in your throat. To your surprise, you found it to be filled with water, not wine.

“How was your day?” you asked, finally speaking, hoping to sound calm and collected.

Minho eyed you carefully, as if you’d offered some sort of complex riddle, and not a feeble attempt at small-talk. “…Slow. Until the Lakelander delegation arrives, there’s nothing urgent to take care of. I’ve been looking over budget proposals for the harvest season.”

The harvest season was months away. In fact, you were almost certain that the fields had only just been sown at all. That truly did seem like a slow day. “I see.”

You knew you should try to continue the conversation, to ask him more about his work. Instead, you let your eyes drop to the plate of food in front of you, words dying on your tongue as you tried and failed to push down the memories of last night.

It felt so…deeply indecent, to sit across from Minho, and pretend you hadn’t touched yourself just a few feet away from him. And it was only made more indecent by the fact that he didn’t know.

It was all you could think about when you looked at him. You knew a secret, and he didn’t.

For dinner, the kitchens had prepared some sort of fish beautifully. Perfectly cooked, tender and soft and practically melting in your mouth.

You barely tasted it. You just kept eating, preoccupied, eyes trained on your plate. You were certain that if you looked up at Minho for too long, you would give yourself away.

In fact, the longer you sat there, the more uncertain you became.

Were you acting unnaturally? Were you too quiet, too reluctant to make conversation?

But, then again, what exactly did acting ‘naturally’ in Minho’s presence entail? You might have finally found yourselves on better terms, but…

“Something on your mind?”

Your eyes jerked up to meet his, caught off-guard.

How long had Minho been observing you? It looked like he hadn’t even touched his food yet, one hand resting on top of his papers, his other arm propped up on the table, hand curled under his chin as he looked at you.

You made an effort to swallow down the food in your mouth, despite how dry your throat had become, and reached for your water with all the nonchalance you could muster. “Not particularly. I was just…”

Think of something, think of anything.

“Wondering about those budget proposals. The harvest season must be months away. Was there really nothing else more pressing?”

Minho was quiet for a second, just long enough to spark the tiniest flicker of nerves in the pit of your gut, before he let out a sigh. “My father likes to drip-feed me responsibilities, one at a time. If there is anything else more urgent, I won’t know until my next meeting with him. And that won’t be for several days.”

There was an edge of frustration in his voice, something long-suffering, as if this were the topic of multiple arguments in the past, arguments that never seemed to resolve themselves in his favour.

He reached for his water, taking a sip, before his gaze returned to you. “That will also be when I talk to him about you joining the council.”

For a brief moment, all thoughts about the previous night and your embarrassing secret disappeared from your mind entirely. You leaned forward, intrigued. “What do you think his response will be?”

Minho tilted his head slightly in thought – and it filled you with surprise at the fact that you recognised this subtle shift in Minho’s body language, that at some point you had come to learn how to read him, even slightly – and replied. “…I won’t mince words–”

“Do you ever?” You retorted, almost without thinking.

Minho’s lips twitched, fighting a smile, but continued without acknowledging your mildest of jabs. “It will be a hard sell. My father is not a revolutionary. A large part of his popularity has come from his upholding of tradition. But he’s been dragging his feet on filling this council seat for months now, and for good reason. It’s a political minefield, and you are the best compromise. I hope he’ll see that.”

Minho was right. Your appointment to the council, however perfect a resolution to the infighting between your father and the blue-blooded nobility, would not be an easy sell at all. “I hope so too.”

The rest of your dinner passed in relative quiet, but the little calm you managed to gain in that time soon evaporated when you exited the dining room – and found yourself confronted yet again with the question of sleeping arrangements.

Minho’s bed was now the site of two of your most scandalous transgressions. Both of which involved Minho, both of which rendered you almost completely unable to look him in the eye whenever you thought of them.

In contrast to your internal strife, however, Minho seemed perfectly at ease.

He transported his sheaf of papers from the dining table to the couch, seating himself comfortably and setting them down on the low table in front of him.

Actually, perhaps ‘stack’ of papers might be more accurate a description than ‘sheaf’. Just how much work went into preparing these budget proposals? Had he done so little in his office all day to bring so much work to do in his chambers? Or was this a far more demanding responsibility than you had assumed?

All evidence seemed to point to the latter, as Minho worked silently throughout the evening, brow furrowed just a hint in concentration. He didn’t look up once, not when you rose to start preparing for bed, not when you returned in your nightclothes, not even when you wished him good night. He returned the words with a quiet murmur, clearly too enwrapped with whatever he was working on.

He was so engrossed, he didn’t see the way you hesitated by the bed.

Should you invite him over? He might have had work to do, but this would be yet another night that you went to bed without him. You were sharing a bedchamber now, surely the two of you should…

At least once, you should…

You tried to decide on the words of the invitation, of how to phrase it. A suggestion that he should bring his papers to bed, if he had so much work still to do? That was a reasonable question, wasn’t it? If he refused, you could press him on it, demand to know why it was beginning to seem as if he were still avoiding you…

“Yes?”

You blinked, emerging from your thoughts, to find Minho had glanced over to you. You likely made a strange sight, hovering by the bed, still yet to get under its covers.

The words were on the tip of your tongue, carefully crafted, ready to ask.

And then, traitorously, you thought of last night again.

Minho had been on the other side of the room, able to sleep through it, but if he’d been next to you…

You pictured it. You pictured jostling him awake in your sleep, the embarrassing sounds you might make. What you might do.

An awful, awful wave of embarrassment crashed through you because what if you tried to grab at him in your sleep?

You swallowed, turning away without even attempting to reply to Minho, and slipped under the bedcovers without another word.

In the morning, you woke to find that Minho had already risen long before you. The bedchamber was empty, and again the sheets by your side were untouched.

When the third night elapsed in just the same way, and the fourth, it became clear that this couldn’t be mere coincidence. Minho didn’t just happen to be so enthralled in his work that he fell asleep on the couch four nights in a row.

He was refusing to sleep beside you. You might have forced his hand in letting you share his chambers, but apparently he would not let that extend to his actual bed.

You were half-convinced he still held that early contempt for you, that he was still stubbornly maintaining that unconquerable distance between the two of you out of disdain.

And yet, he still sat with you at every dinner. He talked with you about his day, about your studies, telling stories about a particular odious noble that had done something to irk him, or listening to you talk passionately about a particular historical figure or event that had come up in your research. He’d even teased you once, when you confessed that you didn’t have the patience to read through the handful of art history books that Seungmin had added to your list.

The two of you were very slowly developing some odd sense of…well, perhaps friendship was still too strong a choice of word, but at least an understanding around each other that definitely hadn’t been present in the first few weeks of your marriage.

Nowhere else had this become so apparent than on your fifth evening in Minho’s bedchambers.

For a change of scenery, you had decided to spend the afternoon catching up on your research in these chambers, taking lunch there with your books, enjoying the little pocket of quiet in which Minho’s bedchambers were nestled within the palace.

To your surprise, and delight, the cat was back.

Initially, it was just as sullen as you remembered. It eyed you from across the room, perched on the low table yet again, sat as tall and imposing as it could make itself.

That was, until you called for a plate of kippers to be brought to you.

Despite its surly appearance, the cat barely needed convincing before it wandered over to you and the plate of fish, taking each offered kipper from your hand without hesitation. After three fish, it allowed you the softest of pets between its ears. After six, it drew closer, jumping from the table to the seat next to you, a little more relaxed as it took yet another fish from your hand.

To your delight, once the plate was empty, the cat did not abandon you immediately. In fact, it curled up near you – not quite close enough to be within easy reach, but enough that you could lean over and give it slow and gentle strokes as you continued to read. It even began to purr, just a little, whenever you scratched just beneath the base of its ears.

The more attention you gave the cat, the more you realised just how cared for it seemed to be. How comfortable it was with being touched, how well-fed it was, how soft its fur was. Even in a palace, this was not at all typical for a kitchen mouser.

“Someone spoils you, don’t they?” You murmured, giving the cat more strokes. “I can see why, you’re lovely. So cute.”

The cat, while not acknowledging your words, leaned its head up into your hand a little, chasing after those little scratches.

You were close to abandoning your studies entirely for the day, ready to devote your full attention to this adorable little creature, when the bedchamber doors swung open.

The cat jolted a little, jumping from its place on the couch – but to your relief, did not run out of the room. Instead, it lingered by the low table, ready to disappear under it, and stared down the sudden arrival.

Minho, mouth still parted slightly in whatever greeting he’d been about to give you, was silent as his gaze flickered between you and the orange cat eyeing him from the floor.

“We have a visitor,” you told Minho, solemnly, gesturing to the cat.

Minho nodded, briefly, still looking between you and the cat. “Yes. Yes, she seems to like it in here.”

“‘She’?” You repeated, raising an eyebrow.

Minho’s expression immediately smoothed into the perfect neutral, refusing to give even the slightest bit of emotion away. “…I assume.”

“Mm. Well, she seems to be a sweetheart.”

“Does she?” Minho repeated, glancing at the cat again, who seemed to have now relaxed. She began to approach Minho’s feet, sniffing familiarly at his boots.

“I may have had to bribe her with a plate of kippers,” you admitted, increasingly amused by the way the cat began to weave her way between Minho’s legs, but managed not to let it show too obviously in your face. “She seems very well-fed, for a kitchen mouser.”

Minho made a non-committal sound in response, not meeting your eyes. “…Yes, well, I imagine people must toss her dinner scraps here and there.”

“I suppose so. But who would be so soft-hearted in this palace, to feed a kitchen cat from their own plate?” You wondered aloud.

Minho’s face was a mask at this point, unmoving, perfectly calculated. He made his way to one of his armchairs, attempting to ignore the way the cat followed him happily, jumping up and perching herself on the arm of his chair.

You continued. “In fact, I wonder what a mouser would be doing here, so far away from the kitchens. That’s quite a distance for a cat to wander unprompted.”

“I suppose so,” Minho stated, perfectly neutral, even as the cat moved from the arm of the chair to seat herself in his lap.

You continued to stare at him, wordless, eyebrow raised – and finally, he relented.

“I might have given her some scraps, once or twice,” he admitted, even as the cat nuzzled into his hand from where she rested nearby. “I suppose she can’t help it if she isn’t good at mousing, and goes hungry.”

“True,” you allowed, thoroughly unconvinced by his façade. “And do you know if this failed mouser has a name?”

“…I think I’ve heard someone call her Soonie,” Minho said, and finally let his hand drift over to Soonie and begin to give her gentle scratching behind her ears. She purred loudly enough that you could hear her from where you sat, utterly content to receive affection from someone she was clearly very familiar with. “Somewhere. At some point.”

“How odd. Not many kitchen mousers have names.”

“Mm,” Minho hummed, noncommittal, but when his eyes dropped down to glance at Soonie, he couldn’t hide the slightest of smiles.

You took in the sight, this cold and prickly prince melting as he pet the scruffy little tabby cat. Minho was still in his usual daily prince attire, all high-necked and formal. His legs were clad in those familiar riding leathers that you never let yourself look at for too long, so you moved your attention instead to his jacket. Instead of a royal scarlet, this one was a dark blue, the fabric glinting in the candlelight from the clusters of beading embroidered within it. It suited him, you forced yourself to admit, far more than red did.

In fact, you tried to remember the last time Minho had worn the colour red, but nothing recent sprang to mind. Perhaps…

“I’m meeting with my father tomorrow,” Minho told you, and immediately your attention was captured.

Tomorrow.

The word sparked something in your gut – not quite dread, or alarm, but something akin to that. Urgency.

You swallowed back your excitement, remaining as calm and neutral as you could. “And you’ll talk to him about the council?”

“That’s the plan,” Minho replied, enigmatic.

You paused, and a quiet fell over the room. It wasn’t as if Minho was expecting you to reply – in fact, as Soonie settled completely in his lap, chin dropping to rest on his knee, he was looking down and away from you.

But something still just…tugged at you. Just a little bit.

Your eyes darted down to the book in your hands, and as nonchalantly as you could, you spoke. “…Thank you.”

You saw Minho move out of the corner of your eye, head raising to look at you.

“…I’m just doing what I’m supposed to,” Minho said, his voice detached and light. “One of my duties is to recommend the most capable candidate I can find. Don’t think of it as a favour.”

His words rendered you speechless, heart beginning to pound in your ears.

Most capable.

You were the daughter of a rich, powerful man. You had been given many compliments throughout your lifetime.

None of them had ever caused the same kind of lump to form in your throat as you felt now. None had caused this kind of strange heat to bloom behind your eyes, this way your heart swelled.

Most capable.

And just like that, you were spurred into action. If you had only one night left to prepare yourself and construct the perfect defence to prove why you deserved to be on the council, you would take full advantage of it.

You began combing through the papers you had with you, reading voraciously, consuming every piece of information available to you. You did this throughout dinner, chewing absently as you turned pages and scrawled notes. You were so devoted to your studies, you made your way through two full cups of tea before realising, upon looking up, that it was Minho who poured it for you each time.

Your eyes met, just as he held the teapot over your cup to pour a third time, and your gaze held long enough to note the flicker of amusement in his before he looked away.

When dinner was over, you retreated back to the couch with more reading to finish. Minho did the same, taking up the same spot he did every evening, that familiar pile of paperwork set in front of him. There was a strangely companionable silence as the two of you worked into the night.

You almost forgot he was there, despite the sounds of his writing and the crisp sounds of paper-shuffling, slipping into a quiet rhythm of reading and re-reading until words began to blur together.

As the candles burned low, and the hours grew later and later, you felt your concentration start to slip. Your eyes would close, just for a few moments, and the will to open them again slowly began to elude you. Exhaustion crept up on you, an old friend, and you found yourself repeating paragraphs, reading over the same sentence again and again and unable to take in its meaning.

Your eyes closed again, and you vaguely remembered telling yourself it would be just for a moment.

Sleep found you instead.

Blissful, calm. Warmth from the fire. Papers slipping from your hand, but never landing on the floor. You felt safe, wrapped in the quiet.

Something brushed your arm. Soft. Fur. Soonie?

Your eyes opened, bleary, only to find grey instead of orange. The wrongness of it jolted you, your hand darting out to grab at something pale and moving.

Skin.

A hand. Soft.

Except for a callus on the edge of a knuckle on the middle finger. You recognised it, for you had your own on the very same finger. It was where the pen sat whenever you wrote.

Your gaze wandered, still sleep-fogged, and there was no surprise when you saw the hand attached to a Minho.

Your grip on him relaxed, fingers slipping from his, and you barely mumbled a half-formed thought. “Your hand matches mine.”

Your eyes closed again, just as Minho stilled, and you drifted back to sleep.

You woke up, neck aching, still upright on the couch. Your books and papers lay scattered around you, from where you’d been too tired to put them away properly. Morning light streamed in from the windows, and despite the ashes in the fireplace indicating that it had long since burned out, you found yourself unusually warm.

Ah. You had fallen asleep in the previous day’s clothes – and with very familiar furs draped over you.

There was a brief flash of a memory, of Minho’s hand pulling the furs over you. You dimly recalled saying something, perhaps, but the details escaped you. You pushed the furs off of you, your movements unusually gentle as you handled the blanket, as if it commandeered an unthinking respect from you. Sentiment, maybe.

As always, Minho had risen before you and left your chambers, but today this observation filled you with equal parts excitement and nerves.

Were they discussing it right at this moment? Did their meetings take place in the mornings? Or in the afternoons? Would other items be brought up first?

It was maddening, to have so many questions and no way to pursue the answers.

With a night’s worth of sweat sticking to your skin, you made up a bath for yourself, even heating the water entirely on your own. The only oils in Minho’s bathroom were lavender, suited for relaxation in the evenings rather than energising in the mornings, but you made do.

The water was a touch cooler than how you usually liked it, but you didn’t have the patience to heat more water. Instead, you stripped and climbed into the bath with as much grace as you could muster and set about cleaning yourself.

This wasn’t the first time you had bathed entirely without servants – in fact, since you had moved into Minho’s chambers, the only times a servant had been permitted to enter was to bring them dinner each evening.

You found yourself becoming…amenable to that arrangement. It gave Minho’s chambers a sense of quiet, a private solace, that could not be found anywhere else in the palace.

Perhaps that was why it was so jarring, almost invading, when you heard knocking from afar, the sound of a door swinging open, and a woman’s voice ringing out hesitantly. “Your Highness?”

You startled, upsetting the water, letting some of it slosh over the side of the bath and onto the floor. “Yes? Is something wrong?”

Footsteps approached – timid, rushed – and the voice drew closer. “You’ve been summoned, Your Highness. By the king.”

Your stomach dropped, your breath cut short.

“He…said it was urgent, Your Highness, but I can let them know you’re still bathing–”

“No,” you blurted out, quickly, sharply. You got out of the bath hastily, dripping water all over the floor. “Help me change into something quickly, and I’ll go now.”

There was only one reason you would be summoned by the king on this particular day, and from the sounds of it, it wasn’t to congratulate you on your new position on the council.

You needed to stand your ground, to explain your reasoning in the face of his refusal. And if there was any chance of persuading him to grant you the position, to ignore the concerns of your gender…

Well, telling the king that he needed to wait to discuss urgent business until the princess finished drying her hair was not the kind of image you wanted to present to him.

And so, you were laced into a dress with impressive dexterity by your maid, the luscious fabric increasingly dampened from your dripping hair. Was it an uncomfortable sensation? Absolutely, but it was difficult to dwell on it when all you could think of was why you were be summoned, what could have happened between the king and Minho to warrant such an urgent demand for your presence.

Discussions must not have gone as smoothly as Minho intended – but not so disastrously as to be dismissed out of hand.

As you slipped on a pair of shoes, your maid gave one last attempt to persuade you to wait. “Your Highness, are you sure…”

You turned, smiling politely at her. “Yes. I’m sure it will dry soon enough. Thank you for all your help.”

She returned your smile, somewhat nervously, eyes darting to the dishevelled aspects of your appearance, but seemed a little more assured. Marginally. Barely.

Before she could protest again, you marched straight for the door.

Of course, as was so often the case with grand gestures, there were certain factors you didn’t think through entirely.

The palace halls were unforgivingly cold, especially as your hair continued to slowly drip water down your neck, soaking into the back of your gown. It made every step uncomfortable, as every little drop of water that landed on the nape of your neck was another reprimanding shock of chill.

You made sure to stand tall, proud.

If your head was bowed, if your shoulders were slouched and your steps more resembling a scurry than a stride, you would have made a pitiable sight. It would look as if you were caught off-guard, as if you were panicked, incapable, scared.

But with your chin held high, with your shoulders back and a confidence steeling you, this was intentional. This was a statement. An image fit for songs, for stories, a princess devoted to her role and to the orders of her king.

As you drew closer to the king’s chambers, navigating through the ever-narrowing hallways, you felt your chest begin to tighten. You realised you might genuinely hate it here, this deep within the very depths of the palace, its cold little stone heart. A king might be well-defended here, the walls witness to nearly a thousand years of history, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were descending into a tomb.

And then, you heard the voices.

The last time you had been summoned by the king, you remembered catching a snippet of conversation at the very doorstep of his chambers. That was how close you had to get before Minho’s and the king’s voices could be heard through the thick wooden door.

But now? You heard them in the corridor - because they were loud.

Not quite a screaming match between father and son, but–

“–talk of duty, but what’s your solution, Father? Burying your head in the sand, that tried and tested trick?”

You almost stumbled, shock rendering you clumsy, because did Minho just say that to the king?

“Caution, boy, is not ignorance. How do you mistake the two? You’re well-versed in the latter.”

The two guards in front of you exchanged a glance. You noted that they did not share your horror. In fact, you could almost mistake it as…resigned.

“Was it age that turned your belly yellow? Is that my fate too? Cowardice?”

“I will not be lectured by a son still wet-around-the-ears on age.”

Not just resigned.

Long-suffering.

They’d heard this all before. Frequently, by the looks of things.

And then, as if that knowledge had unlocked something, had lifted the veil over your eyes, you could hear it. The hint of familiarity, the ease with which the two hurled insults at each other.

This was not the first time Minho and his father had quarrelled. In fact, you’d wager this wasn’t the first time this week.

The argument paused when the guards knocked at the door, announcing your arrival. As the doors swung open, you caught sight of Minho and his father – not a hair out of place, not even a flush of anger to their cheeks – glaring at each other with familial exasperation.

Minho looked away first, turning to look at you – and paused.

His Majesty followed his gaze, and you watched those regal eyes blink in surprise at your appearance.

You must have made a sight, your gown on its way to being ruined, your hair still slick and dishevelled, trying hard not to shiver in the cold of these chambers.

“Your Majesty,” you greeted, not even the slightest bit affected, and bowed low. You straightened up before offering Minho’s greeting. “Husband.”

“My dear,” the king spoke, just the slightest bit alarmed. “If my summons caught you at an inopportune time, I assure you it’s perfectly reasonable to delay answering until you’re presentable. Don’t concern yourself so thoroughly.”

You smiled brightly. The picture of obedience, of devotion. “I hated the thought of keeping you both waiting. I imagine I know what this conversation is about.”

The king’s gaze flickered between you and Minho at this, a frown soon beginning to form. Still, there was a subtle note of surprise in his voice when he spoke again. “I see. The two of you are conspirators in this…”

“Proposal?” you supplied, gently.

“Attack?” Minho offered, bitterly.

“…Folly,” the king said, finally, turning back to you.

You dipped your head, keeping your voice soft and sweet. “I’m sorry to hear that you see it that way. I believe it to be a fair compromise, to ease the tensions at court.”

“Yes, Minho said the same thing,” the king sighed, dismissive. “Both of you are blind to the same issue. Any conflicts that your position on the council might resolve are outnumbered by the discord it would certainly cause.”

Minho sighed, eyes darting up to the ceiling. You wondered how many times he had heard that argument this morning. “And yet, a good king prioritises the future of his kingdom above all else, is that not so?”

The king shot Minho a look. It didn’t take much to realise that those were likely the king’s own words that had come out of Minho’s mouth, not his own.

“Son–”

“Talk to her,” Minho interrupted, gesturing to you in pure exasperation. “Listen to her. Ask her anything. She’s more than qualified to be on the council.”

After a moment’s hesitation, in which it looked as if the king was debating whether to indulge his oldest son or nip this matter in the bud entirely, he turned to you.

“…Very well,” he said, giving in. You watched as he made his way to the splendid-looking chair behind a monstrosity of a writing desk, sinking into it. For a brief moment, you thought you caught something of a grimace in his expression.

Exhaustion? Perhaps. It must have been tiring work, running a kingdom. Let alone arguing with Minho too. You had first-hand knowledge of how that could drain your energy.

The king’s eyes became fixed on you, almost pinning you to the floor, as he spoke. “Suppose you were on the council, and a message was received, warning of a great army about to invade. What would you advise?”

Your brow furrowed as you considered the question. You needed to remain calm, measured, and use every scrap of information you had studied.

“Which border is the army advancing toward?” you asked, thoughtful.

The king’s face remained unchanged. “The one we share with the Lakelands.”

Interesting. No cardinal direction given – you assumed that must have been on purpose – but still plenty of information to form an answer. The Lakelands were in the north, and under treaty with your kingdom.

“I would advise you to send missives to Lords Kim and Geum in the north with instructions to muster their forces and man our security garrisons along the border. I would also–”

“Which garrisons?” the king interrupted, gently but firmly.

“Yalrock and Banna. Yalrock is the largest garrison on the northern border, Banna is strategically advantageous because of its position on the river plains. You’d be forcing the army to march along the mountain passes instead.”

The king’s expression remained cold, neutral – and you realised, in that moment, exactly where Minho might have learned the same habit. “Continue.”

“I would also advise you to send word to our allies in the hills and across the Sunrise Sea, informing them that the Lakelands have broken our treaty pact.”

“Broken the pact?” the king repeated. “I never said the Lakelanders were the ones invading.”

“The treaty pact also forbids the harbouring of any forces with aggressive intent towards treaty members. In this scenario, the Lakelanders would be doing just this – unless they themselves were invaded by this army too, which I doubt if we received no summons for aid or word from our ambassador there,” you said. Was this too much detail? Were you rambling? You did your best to keep your words steady, unrushed. “Therefore, the treaty would be broken.”

From out of the corner of your eye, you caught Minho watching you, a hint of a smile on his face.

The king, while perhaps a touch surprised at your answer, pressed on anyway with another question, changing the subject entirely.

“…Suppose Lord Sun’s lands are failing to produce the amount of grain demanded of them. How would you advise me?”

“I would be confused,” you admitted, “because Lord Sun’s lands produce fish, not grain.”

“And why is that?”

“Because his lands are in the east, along the coast. The land there isn’t arable.”

“Why?”

“The weather is too hot in the summer, too dry. There isn’t enough freshwater for crop-growing.”

The quickness of your answer was rewarded with the smallest – almost unthinking – of nods from the king. He paused once more, and spoke again. “Suppose I wanted to–”

“Another question?” Minho interjected, sighing, as he wandered across the room and took a seat by the window. He rested his head against his hand, elbow planted into the plush armrest of his chair.

The king shot him a look, either for the interruption, or for the flippant tone Minho had used, or perhaps even for the way he was lounging in the presence of his king, but he made no move to reprimand him. Instead, he turned back to you. “Suppose I wanted to offer a gift to the Lakelander delegation when they arrive next month to renew the treaty. A personal one, not a grand spectacle of an offering. What would you suggest?”

You paused. This wasn’t a question that could be answered with any of your recent studies of war or economics or geography. This was a question of hospitality, knowledge you needed as a queen, not as a councillor.

It took a moment, longer than it took with the first two questions, but soon there was an answer in your mind. “When the last Lakelander delegation came to this country to sign the treaty, one of the gifts they gave Your Majesty were wild rose seeds. Wild roses that were native to the Lakelands, difficult to grow in this climate, meant to symbolise a new peace and the care needed to maintain it. Her Majesty, the queen, still grows these roses in her private gardens, does she not?”

The answer to your question did not come from the king, but from Minho. “She does.”

“Then, I would suggest a bouquet of these roses. It would be symbolic of the care this kingdom has taken to nurture this new relationship with the Lakelands, a sign that we do not take their gifts for granted.”

The king eyed you carefully for a moment, silent. “…You weren’t present at the first signing of the treaty, were you? You’re too young for that.”

“You’re right, I wasn’t present, Your Majesty,” you replied. “But the queen graciously allowed me to play in her gardens when I was a child, and taught me the origins of those roses.”

Not quite. The queen allowed you and Felix to play in those gardens. She told you the origins of the roses when Felix tried to pick some for you, and accidentally cut open his palm on the sharp thorns of their stems. You remembered him, tears in his eyes, sniffling as Her Majesty held the both of you close and warned him gently that these roses were wild, were Lakelanders just like her and a little like him, and because of that, they were fiercely protective.

You remembered sitting and watching the two of them exchange smiles, and silently wishing that you were a Lakelander too. You wanted to be protective. You wanted to be like the roses, like them.

“Any more questions, Father?” Minho asked, jolting you from your memories. “Or has she proven our point? Impressively?”

And again, just as they had last night, Minho’s words stirred something within you. A kind of warmth, filling your chest.

The king regarded the both of you, silently, before sighing. “Your education is…indeed, as Minho says, impressive.”

Your heart soared, mind so entirely filled with elation that you almost missed his next words.

“But I’m afraid that still does not change the obvious. I did not secure decades of unprecedented peace under my reign by breaking with tradition. A woman sitting on the council is not tradition.”

You swallowed, heart sinking just as sharply as it had risen just moments ago.

“…There is precedent,” you pointed out, softly. “I found records of Princess Jiyoon on the royal council, less than two centuries ago.”

“That is true,” the king conceded, before tilting his head slightly. After a moment of consideration, he pushed himself out of his chair with the same half-grimace glimpsed earlier, and crossed the room towards a bookcase stuffed with leather-bound volumes. His hands hovered over them, fingertips brushing their spines, until he found the one he was searching for and pulled it from its stack with ease.

He made his way back to the two of you, opening the volume and thumbing through the pages as he walked, before offering the volume to you.

You took it, uncertainly, and looked down at what exactly he had handed to you.

Council records – but unlike the ones you had studied with Seungmin, you were shocked at just how much more detail this version contained. You supposed that made sense. The records in the library were likely censored, or edited for public consumption. These were private, a king’s own personal records, passed down from ruler to heir most likely.

Jiyoon’s name was there, listed amongst the other councillors, but these records included a strange symbol next to her name.

You frowned, and the king spoke again.

“I imagine you found no records of any contributions she made, correct? No votes cast, no motions brought to attention?”

“…No,” you admitted, reluctantly, looking up at him as dread began to curl in the pit of your stomach.

“There is a reason for that. Jiyoon filled a particular role. If you scour through the legal treatise of the time – dry reading, all of it, but it is there – you’ll find it. Jiyoon was not granted the role of an adviser, but of an observer. A silent one, there only to watch the council proceedings so that she could better educate her heirs in service of her husband. That is the precedent that Jiyoon set.”

Silent. Heirs. Husband.

Of course.

Of course. You should have known. That was what it always came down to. Centuries of royal women, millennia of royal women, and it was always the same.

Silent. Heirs. Husband.

You should have known. You should have known not to get your hopes up.

“What are you saying?” you heard Minho ask, dimly, as these thoughts repeated endlessly in your mind.

“The observer is required to be silent. She cannot vote, she cannot dissent, she cannot speak even when called upon to do so in session. She observes.”

Minho made a sound of disdain, maybe even disgust. “Then, what’s the point? Why have that great of a mind on your council if she can’t even use it? What a waste.”

“Perhaps, but that is the precedent you argue for. If you seek a compromise, that would be it.”

“A compromise? What–”

“I would accept it,” you interrupted, quietly. Your eyes were trained on the floor, voice barely above a murmur. Your brain still thundered with those three words, again and again. Silent. Heirs. Husband. “If Your Majesty were so gracious as to offer this role, I would accept it.”

You didn’t have to look at Minho to know the way his mouth was parted in surprise, astonished and outraged in equal measure. You could sense it in his tone when he spoke. “You can’t be serious.”

You raised your eyes to look at the king, purposefully avoiding Minho’s stare.

“I hope His Majesty knows that I don’t ask for this council seat out of personal ambition,” you said, softly, lying through your teeth to your king. “You said Jiyoon took the role as a duty to her husband and her children. If anyone objected to my position on the council, I would ask you say the same of me.”

“…You would take the council seat in service of Minho,” the king said, and even he sounded sceptical. You weren’t sure what that said about your marriage, but it wasn’t exactly promising.

“And our future children. We both take that duty very seriously.”

“Do you?” the king questioned, sharply, pointedly, but surprisingly it wasn’t you he was addressing – it was Minho.

You might have tensed at such an insinuation, but Minho practically bristled.

“Don’t,” Minho warned his father, straightening up in his seat. No, more than warned, he practically spat out the word. “I thought we agreed.”

Agreed? Agreed what?

You glanced between Minho and his father, sensing a tension that remained unspoken as the two eyed each other, jaws both set.

You were clearly missing something vital to this exchange, some secret piece of information – and, as always, the idea chafed at you.

And then, with a quiet and cold anger that you hadn’t heard in weeks, Minho told his father. “You owe me this.”

The king’s expression twisted. It was guilt, you realised. “Minho–”

“You owe me something.”

Another pause.

And then, finally, the king broke this staring contest with his son to look at you. “…The role requires complete silence. If I decided to grant you the seat on these conditions, and you flout them immediately, I will not look kindly on it. Do you understand?”

“I do,” you replied, solemnly.

“…Very well,” the king said, eventually. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

You did it.

It was a hollow victory, yes, but a victory nonetheless.

You couldn’t quite muster happiness about it, or even gratitude, but there was a sense of achievement.

You nodded, quietly, and curtsied low before the king. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

When you lifted your head again, you found the king glancing between your face and Minho’s before he spoke again.

“You do have quite the mind,” the king said, gaze still shifting between the two of you. “You might not be able to speak in the council room but…well, you share bedchambers now. Whatever you might discuss in there is your own private business. Is it not?”

Within days, news of your appointment to the council spread across the palace like wildfire.

You expected this, to some extent. Precedent or not, observer or not, this was still an undeniably shocking development. You knew there would be whispers about it, gossip passed around, growing and contorting with each telling and retelling.

All of this, and still you did not expect the conversation you happened upon one evening as you took a shortcut through one of the palace courtyards on your way back from a tutoring session with Seungmin.

The sun had just descended below the horizon, casting the square into shadow wherever the dim glow of torchlight did not quite reach. You caught snatches of voices as you walked, whenever you passed doors to parlours, to sitting rooms, to the dozens upon dozens of meeting places for the elite that resided within the court. Some of these doors were cracked open to enjoy the fresh air brought by the open-air courtyard on their doorstep, unaware of any passers-by.

And then, one particular comment caught your attention.

“Perhaps the poor girl is simply bored,” a haughty voice said, with a hint of laughter. “That council room might be a dreary place, but I’d wager it’s a damn sight better than her bedchambers.”

You froze, half within shadow, half without.

There was only one person that comment could possibly be referring to.

Immediately, you slipped behind one of the stone pillars lining the courtyard, heart pounding.

Finally, after all this talk of rumours, of whisperings at court behind your back, you finally had the chance to listen for yourself.

“Careful, Park,” another voice cautioned, although sounding more amused than concerned.

“A prince too scared to share a bed with his wife for weeks after the wedding,” the first voice – Park – scoffed. “What, did he hope no one would notice?”

A third voice chimed in, low and gleeful. “You want to hear something good? My wife heard a maid talking the other day. They change the sheets of that marriage bed every day. And they’re always pristine.”

Your face heated, something approaching bile threatening to burn the back of your throat. There was something about hearing your privacy be so…violated, and said so casually. Your bedsheets? They all talked about your bedsheets?

“You know my theory,” the third voice spoke again.

“Your wife’s theory,” Park corrected, sounding dismissive.

“It makes sense. She’s saving herself for the other brother. Traded one for the other before, maybe she’s waiting to trade back when he comes home.”

Felix.

Traded one for the other. Is that how they saw it? Is that how they all saw it?

“He’s not coming back,” Park scoffed. “Not for a long time. Not unless His Highness fancies looking down and wondering why all his children have the Lakelander look to them.”

Your heart stopped. You felt the blood in your veins freeze, matching the ice-cold anger settling into your bones.

“Gods be good, close the door before you say horseshit like that. Moron.”

This was more than fury.

This was wrath.

You stepped out of the shadows, just at the right moment to lock eyes with Lord Park as he stood by the doors, his too-late hand stilled on the handle.

“Good evening, Lord Park,” you said, voice so syrupy-sweet and cloying, and watched the blood drain from his face as he stared back at you in horror. You craned your neck to peek over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the two other men with him. “Oh, I see Lords Song and Ryu have joined you. How nice.”

“Y-Your Highness,” Park stammered, and there was genuine fear in his eyes.

He knew what you had heard. He knew the words that had come out of his mouth, and how close those words danced along the line of treason. It would take you only one conversation with Minho, or with the king, and his career would be done. His family. His fortunes. Possibly even his life.

You smiled brightly at him. “I look forward to seeing you next week at the council. I’ve heard you’re quite the contrarian. You’ve voted to reject the last, what is it, seven bills put forward by my husband?”

Park didn’t answer. Perhaps it was more accurate to say Park couldn’t answer. You wondered what could possibly be going through his head at that moment. You wondered if he had ever felt this afraid in his entire pampered little life.

You tilted your head slightly, eyeing him. “Perhaps from next week, you might find yourself second-guessing a decision like that. Don’t you think so?”

Park’s face, still pale, twisted into something approaching realisation. He seemed to grasp exactly what you were hinting at – the threat that remained unspoken.

“…Y-yes, Your Highness,” Park agreed, nodding erratically.

“And your companions? Perhaps they’ll have similar changes of heart?”

From behind Park, his friends stammered their assent, just as rattled.

You beamed.

“Perfect. Have a nice night.”

You attended your first council meeting the very next week, finally taking that last empty council seat that had remained vacant for so long.

Sixty-two members attended the session in total.

You felt sixty-one pairs of eyes on you throughout.

You recognised quite a few of the faces in this meeting. Lord Young, as delightful as ever, sat just a few seats removed from the royal family – a position of great honour, especially for a man with neither blood nor marriage ties to the crown.

Lord Park had also made an appearance, and blanched the moment your eyes met his.

Good.

You paid the stares little notice, attention completely and utterly captivated by the debates that took place. Every idea proposed, every motion considered and accepted and denied, every opinion volleyed back and forth, you noted down.

You might have been silent, but you wrote feverishly. Pages and pages of scrawls, near indecipherable as you worked to keep pace with the spoken word of the other council members.

Minho was seated next to you. Of course he was – he served as a visible explanation for your presence there at all. To be useful to him, to educate his heirs and better his legacy. In the eyes of everyone else, your seat on the council was essentially just an extension of Minho’s.

You weren’t sure what to expect of him during these council meetings. You knew just how seriously he took his position as heir, and his duty to the kingdom – but you also remembered that carriage journey home from Lord Young’s orchards, the disdain he had for politicking, his derision in his voice when he talked of strings attached.

It turned out that in council meetings, Minho kept up the same perfect princely mask he always did in public. Never once raising his voice, never slipping into anger or mockery. Exemplary behaviour from the first second of the meeting to the last.

Except for one moment, when an old lord from the Tan family had loudly proclaimed an argument so poorly constructed, with parts so moronic that you made sure to underline his exact wording for its stupidity, that you heard the quietest of noises from Minho. When you glanced up at him, he was watching the debate with apparent rapt attention. If you weren’t sat so close to him, you would have missed the slightest way his jaw clenched, as if to fight a look of disdain as he watched Lord Tan blather on.

Minho proposed only one new bill – investment in a new mill, to be built in one of the kingdom’s slowly-dwindling rural villages, in the hopes of creating employment opportunities. You paused your notetaking to watch each council member cast their votes for or against the bill.

Most supported it. Some rejected it. Your eyes sought out Lord Park again, and you watched as he reluctantly raised his hand in favour of the bill, gaze nervously flickering towards you as he did so.

What an astonishing change of heart from the man. Who could have predicted?

Still, despite it all, the council meeting ended without incident. The issues tabled for the next meeting were fairly standard: a new maritime trade deal with a kingdom across the Sunrise Sea, preparations for next year’s census, the ongoing reports from the Lakelander delegation slowly making its way to the palace. You made note of it all, jotting down your own thoughts on each matter when you were able to, and kept the notes closely guarded on your person.

You made sure to take them straight to your bedchambers as soon as the meeting finished, intending to lock them away in your desk until dinner that evening, when you could discuss them with Minho.

To your surprise, instead of making his way back to his office to spend the rest of the working day, Minho followed you back to your shared chambers. You tried and failed not to focus on his footsteps, how they matched your pace precisely, echoing along the empty corridors.

The slightest sense of frustration sparked within you. If you had to be watched by gossiping onlookers, why couldn’t they at least see this? Minho ignoring his usual duties to accompany you back to your bedchambers? Let them whisper about that, sordid or not, that could at least be useful.

You pushed away the thought with one last scoff at your own poor luck, reaching your chambers without so much as a single pair of prying eyes to witness you.

“So,” Minho said, as the doors swung shut behind the two of you. “How did you find it?”

Frustrating. Exhausting. Borderline insulting.

“Informative,” you replied, collapsing into a seat. Your hands ached from how feverishly you had written throughout the meeting, and you began to clench and unclench your fists in the hopes of relieving the pain. “I made a few notes.”

“I noticed,” Minho commented, eyebrow raising as he appraised the pile of papers at your side. “They look…detailed.”

“They are,” you confirmed, picking the papers up and beginning to flick through them. “If I can’t speak my mind in that room, writing will just have to do.”

For now, you added internally. You refused to accept that this silent role would last forever.

“Can I…read them?” Minho asked, and his question came out hesitantly, almost cautiously.

You looked up, surprised. You weren’t sure how much use these notes would be – you were both just at the very same meeting after all – but there was something about the request that was almost…endearing.

Minho. Endearing.

Hell had truly frozen over.

“Of course,” you replied, holding the notes up.

Minho paused for a moment before, slowly making his way towards you. When he sat next to you, he was close enough that his jacket sleeve brushed your bare arm.

You cleared your throat, focusing your attention on anything but how close he was. “These pages are about the logging site proposals, this one was on the Lakelanders’ progress, this…oh, this page is actually about Lord Tan.”

“Lord Tan?” Minho repeated, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes. He’s…” you trailed off, trying to think of a polite way to phrase it. “…He’s a blithering idiot, honestly.”

Minho, to your surprise, laughed. Openly, loudly, with a note of genuine delight. A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have thought him capable of producing such a sound.

“Do you know how many hours of my life I have wasted listening to that old man ramble incoherently?” he asked. “There were moments I was driven half to madness. But he was my father’s first real supporter when he became crown prince, so he’s adamant on keeping the man around.”

You watched as Minho turned the page over, half-smiling to himself.

“He’s a sentimental old fool like that, sometimes,” Minho said, too lightly to really be considered critical – or treasonous.

“Who was your first supporter?” You asked, curiously.

“…Felix,” Minho said, softly, discreetly shifting away as he held your notes out to return them. “He was the only one to never doubt me. Not even for a second.”

Yes. Yes, that sounded like Felix.

You took back your notes, and tried not to notice how Minho avoided your touch as your notes exchanged hands.

A new silence fell between you.

Stifling.

Deafening.

You tried to take a deep breath, and stood up, making your way over to your desk to lock away your writings from prying eyes.

From behind you, Minho’s voice brought you to a halt.

“We haven’t talked about Felix,” he noted. “…And we probably should. At some point.”

He said it so plainly, so devoid of nuance or emotion. As if it were a mere observation, a comment about the weather and nothing more. As if his words didn’t strike something deep and vulnerable within you, like fingers clumsily probing a freshly-formed bruise.

You hated his apparent nonchalance. You despised it, and you envied it because you might never be able to do the same. To speak Felix’s name as if it meant nothing to you.

To speak his name as if…

To speak…

You…

Realisation – cold, violent realisation – hit you at once.

You had not. Not once. In months.

It had been months. And you had not spoken Felix’s name.

Not since your wedding day.

Others had. Countless others had. They murmured it gently and sweetly like Her Majesty, or they crowed it before you mockingly like those noblemen, or they threw it at you, cold and cryptic and horrifically empty like Minho.

They dragged him out of your memories where you kept him locked away.

Away, where he was safest to you. Safest from you. Safest for you.

“…No. We haven’t,” you said, and the words were quiet. Pained. Final.

The two of you did not speak again that day.

Soon enough, your father found you.

Your mother, all those weeks ago when she summoned you for that painfully awkward afternoon tea, had at least shown you the decorum your new status demanded and sent you a formal request.

Your father, a proud man, a pragmatic man, had no patience for such etiquette.

You were in the library, sat with Seungmin and poring over budgetary records with tired and bleary eyes, when he came marching in. He was flanked by two panicked guards, too fearful of your father’s status to lay their hands on him, too mindful of their duty to let him wander freely.

They fixed you with beseeching looks. “Your Highness, we – no one told us…y-your father…”

“Desires to speak with his daughter,” your father finished, in a tone you’d never heard from him before. “Urgently.”

Usually, your father was calm, collected, never one to show even a hint of vulnerability.

Now, here, he was impatient. Almost rattled.

You rose to your feet, so thrown off-kilter by the situation that you were a touch unsteady. After a moment, you nodded to your guards. “Very well. Please leave us.”

They did just that – and so did a third guard who had been sat just a few paces away from you and Seungmin.

Your father’s eyes darted to your tutor. “Him too.”

Seungmin, however, stayed seated. Slowly, he laced his fingers together and rested his hands on the table in front of him, returning your father’s glare with an unimpressed stare.

“It takes a bold man to order around a princess,” Seungmin remarked. Gently, as always, but firmly.

Your father’s expression hardened. He opened his mouth to speak back, but you cut him off at the pass.

“He’s right, Father,” you said. You couldn’t quite shake the nerves from your voice. You supposed that was only natural, after a lifetime of loyally following his orders and keeping your mouth shut in the process. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to Mother?”

Your father stared at you for a moment, almost…bewildered. He recovered quickly enough. “Your mother is fine, which is more than I can say for the state of your…of…” he gritted his teeth, swallowing back whatever he desperately wished to say, and instead cut straight to the point. “You took a seat on the council?”

His question, and the venom behind it, almost took you aback.

Still, you lifted your head, trying to stand firm. “Yes, I did.”

“How could you be so…foolish?” your father demanded to know, anger giving way to frustration. “I could have protectedyou there.”

It took you mere moments to read between his words.

You didn’t take a seat on the council.

You took his seat.

“Could you?” you said, swallowing. “Or would you have protected your own interests?”

Your father’s eyes blazed at the accusation. You knew the look. Your own temper was a family trait – and it certainly didn’t come from your mother.

He thundered his response. “You are my daughter! My interests are your interests!”

“Are they?” You shot back, your voice rising to match his.

“We are family, we are blood–”

“And what have I done, except increase our family’s legacy?” you interrupted him. “I did that, I secured our first council seat.”

“And what seat is that?” he replied, incensed. “A mute councillor, never to vote, never to speak?”

Your face burned, as you tried to think of a rebuttal to his questions. Something began to twist in the pit of your stomach.

Your father sighed, fixing you with a stern look. “Let me be frank, girl, if you’re so eager to play politics. Your position is not secure.”

You swallowed. “I know–”

“No, you do not,” he snapped, briefly raising his voice, before dropping his voice to a more controlled volume. “You inspired the love of the people, but what else? I know half a dozen lords are plotting your annulment, and another dozen with their own girls waiting in the wings. What will you do with that council seat, when a proposal comes to terminate your marriage? Watch silently when they vote to cast you aside?”

You stared at him, as that twisting sensation in your gut finally earned a name: dread. You tried to respond. “Royal marriages are a king’s prerogative, they can’t–”

“Yes, they can,” your father said, simply. “Any silver-tongued politician could convince the king that your marriage is a matter of the state. Perhaps if you were married to the younger prince, you’d be safe, but you’re married to the heir–”

At those words, coming out of your father’s mouth of all people’s, your vision turned red. Your response, when it came, hung heavy in the air.

“And whose fault is that?”

Your father’s eyes widened, and he hissed. “Mind your tongue.”

“I did,” you said, your voice cracking. Before you could top yourself, words began tumbling out of your mouth, every secret silent thought that had festered in the darkest, most vulnerable corners of your mind, spilling to the surface. “I was happy and content and loved, and I still bit my tongue and let you scheme to take it away. I married the right brother for you, are you still not satisfied?”

In an instant, your father stormed his way towards you, eyes blazing as he loomed over you. “Be careful, girl.”

For a moment, you thought he was threatening you. Your own father.

And then you watched his body crumple slightly, panic and concern finally bleeding through all that pomp and anger. “Especially about…that. Him.”

You watched him take a deep breath, rendered speechless. You had never – not once, in all your life – seen your father like this.

He seemed almost…scared.

“If there are plots to annul your marriage, there are plots for something far darker. Annulment would be catastrophic, but bearable. But any whispers of adultery, of treason? To see you executed…”

Gently, he lifted his hand to cup your cheek. And for a moment, you were four years old again, showing your father your very first letters, beaming as he called you his little princess, long before the rest of the kingdom was obliged to.

“You are my child. My only child. Doubt my intentions, if you must, but do not doubt my love.”

You were stunned into silence. His words should have been touching, and you supposed on some level that they still were. But you felt almost numb as you absorbed them. Was it shock, hearing your father speak of his emotions so plainly? Perhaps.

There was a small part of you that whispered if this was all just too little, too late.

Your father dropped his hand and stepped away from you, silence filling the air between the two of you.

Then, he paused, and turned his attention to something behind you.

For a moment, you felt confusion, turning to follow his glare – before embarrassment consumed you.

Seungmin, of course, had been sitting there the whole time.

“And you,” your father interjected, his voice cold and bordering on menacing, pointing at your tutor. “If you breathe a word of this–”

Seungmin, despite showing the very clear signs of awkwardness one would expect from someone who had just witnessed such an intense and private family dispute, managed to keep calm as he replied with unfailing honesty.

“I am no fool. This position keeps my family fed, and will see my sisters marry well. I am only here at Her Highness’s request, and if the princess goes, this job goes with her,” Seungmin said, fiercely. “…And if nothing else, I know about your reputation, sir. I would rather like my tongue to remain inside my head.”

Your eyes widened.

That was a bold insinuation on Seungmin’s part. Tongue mutilation had been outlawed years ago, deemed too brutal a punishment when death was a surer way to guarantee silence.

You half-expected your father to deny this with bluster and offence. And yet, all he did was eye Seungmin silently, before nodding once and turning to the door.

As he approached it, your father spoke one final time to you.

“Keep your wits about you. You’ve made a dangerously bold move, and your enemies will use it against you,” he warned, before finally leaving, letting the heavy door slam shut behind him.

The echo of it reverberated across the library, as you stared after him with far more questions than answers.

It was Seungmin who first broke the silence, clearing his throat with just a touch of unease. “…Well, I imagine you’re no longer in quite the right mindset for last year’s harvest calculations. Would you like to finish our sessions early today, Your Highness?”

You didn’t speak. You barely looked at him, in fact, as you silently sank back into your chair.

Seungmin waited a moment or so longer, beginning to tap nervously on the smooth wooden surface of the table in front of him. “…Your Highness?”

“I…” you trailed off, as you realised the incriminating words that had fallen from your own lips just moments ago, and your head jerked towards Seungmin in panic. “Don’t… I don’t know how much you report to Minho about our lessons. But…please don’t tell him what I said about being…you know, about…”

“Biting your tongue?” Seungmin supplied for you, but his tone was heavy, knowing. He knew that wasn’t the offending part of your outburst.

“Yes,” you replied in the same tone, and when your eyes met, you knew you had an understanding. “He’s a smart man, I’m sure it’s nothing he doesn’t already know, but…it just seems cruel. I think. To hear it directly.”

Seungmin observed you for a moment, brow furrowing just a touch. He opened his mouth as if to say something, hesitated, before speaking anyway. “Actually, you should know that I don’t ‘report’ anything to Minho. Sometimes, he asks questions about what we study, and I answer them. Nothing more.”

You blinked, and before you could stop yourself, your curiosity won out. “What kind of questions?”

Seungmin eyed you again, and for a split-second, you could have sworn something akin to amusement quirked the corner of his mouth. Whatever it was, it disappeared in an instant, as he replied. “He asks about what interests you. Once, he asked about a book he’d seen you reading, and took a copy for his own use.”

“Oh.”

Whatever you were expected, it wasn’t that. A strange, unbidden feeling began to spread in your chest, warm for just a moment before common sense returned and drove it away.

“Well, I suppose that makes sense. Minho sometimes takes an interest in my education. Perhaps he wants to test me on it, make it a competition or something.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Seungmin said, perfectly politely. “Or something, indeed.”

Soon after that, the first move was made against you.

Details were leaked about the maritime trade deal discussed in the council meeting. Confidential details that were now freely gossiped about, within the palace and without. No one could say for sure who was the source of those leaks, but the evidence was damning.

Before you joined the council, there hadn’t been a single leak in years. And now, after you attended your first meeting, sensitive information was being bandied about within days.

There was only one simple conclusion to be drawn about the identity of the leaker.

You.

Your father was right. Whoever your enemies were, they’d been scheming, and they did use your position on the council against you.

Perhaps the library would have been a better place to take a breath, dwell on the knowledge a little longer, turn it over in your mind alone to work out the whos and whys and how to press forward.

But your feet drew you to your chambers, through the doors, and even once inside they refused to let you sit idle. You paced, backwards and forwards, going over the situation, the accusations about to be levelled at you, the defences you might need, the evidence you had and did not have to prove your innocence.

You paced and paced, and thought and thought, until your head spun and your feet threatened to leave its imprints in the stone beneath you, until it became clear to you exactly what you were doing.

You hadn’t chosen these chambers for silent contemplation.

You were waiting here.

Because when you imagined defending yourself, you didn’t picture a faceless mob before which to protest your innocence. You didn’t picture the king, and his councillors, and the lords scheming behind your back.

You pictured Minho. His expression flickering between accusing, betrayed, angry, cold, pitying, wounded. It was him you wanted to convince before any others, as illogical as it was.

It was hurt, perhaps, maybe, at the idea that Minho thought you would betray his trust. You knew how he’d pushed hard for your position on the council. You would never throw it back in his face like this, and you needed to make sure he knew that.

You questioned just when Minho’s good opinion of you had become so…important.

Eventually, the chamber doors opened, and your words came spilling out at the mere sight of Minho in the doorway.

“I didn’t do it,” you declared. You wished you could be calmer. You feared that the panic in your voice would mislabel you guilty.

Minho, blinking in surprise for a moment at your sudden outburst, regarded you calmly. “Ominous words to hear when entering a room.”

“I’m not the leak,” you clarified, with little patience for his cleverness. “And don’t pretend you haven’t heard about it. I know the information being spread, and I know fingers are pointing in my direction. With some reason, I suppose, but it was not me.”

“You seem agitated,” Minho remarked, maddeningly, all but ignoring your words as his hands moved to begin undoing the fastenings of his jacket. It was some sort of rigid construction, high-necked and broad-shouldered, and perhaps once the imposing princely sight of him in it might have intimidated you. Now, there was a familiarity to the sight – and a bizarre comfort that came along with it, perhaps. “Usually I’m the one to spark it. It’s actually quite bemusing when something else is the source.”

You stared at him for a second. Off-guard, waiting for any kind of actual response to what you were saying. When none came, irritation sparked in your chest. “Minho–”

“You’re innocent,” Minho said simply, halting you in your tracks. “I know. I told my father as much.”

It took you a moment to register exactly what he said, your head too full of practised arguments to leave much room for the recognition that Minho didn’t need to hear them.

He believed you without them.

It felt as if you had been barrelling towards something at high speed, a runaway horse, only to come to a sudden jarring stop. Air left your lungs in one unconscious breath, like a weight that had crushed your chest had been lifted.

“…Good,” you said, haltingly, and then relief struck you with such a violence that your eyes began to sting with tears.

At the sight of them, Minho’s expression shifted instantly from flippancy to something bordering on horror.

Frustrated, and more than a little mortified, you wiped them away impatiently. “Don’t. I’m fine.”

Minho opened his mouth, about to speak–

“No,” you interrupted, pointing at him, embarrassment warm in your cheeks. “This is just a serious allegation to be faced with, and I’m…relieved that I don’t have to waste my time defending myself.”

You managed to regain your composure, with no more tears threatening to make an appearance and humiliate you further. Taking a deep breath, you refused to look at Minho, refused to know if he believed your words or if that damned expression still lingered on his face.

“People are talking,” you said, finally.

“…People always talk. We’ve discussed this before.”

“It’s different now. I thought it was just idle gossip before, but…” you trailed off. “My father came to me a few days ago. He believes some of the nobles are scheming to dissolve our marriage. Free you up to marry a daughter of their own, and have me removed.”

Or worse.

You hadn’t fully comprehended what your father had hinted to you that day, not until now. You could see it all now. The image of your execution, a hundred smirking noblemen awaiting it, ready to thrust their own girls into your role. Perhaps to perish after you. Their scheming would not end with your death. They would simply turn on each other, try again and again, a dozen dead brides falsely accused and outmanoeuvred and doomed from the start.

And then, you snapped out of your dark thoughts when you realised that Minho had closed the distance between you, standing almost toe-to-toe.

His eyes sought your gaze, and held it.

“They can’t do that,” Minho said, firmly, gently. Certain. “We are married, and nothing can change that now.”

“It could. It would be easy, really,” you argued. “There’s no real proof of our consummation. You could say it never happened, and our marriage could be annulled by day’s end.”

“I would not,” Minho said, firmly. “Believe what you will about me, but I would never break off our marriage with a lie like that. Those are a craven’s actions, not mine. I swear it.”

Perhaps to your surprise, you found that you believed him. Minho could be called a great many things – indeed, you have called Minho a great many things – but ‘craven’ was not one of them.

Minho’s lips set into a grim, serious line. “Is that what concerns you? That I would set you aside?”

Would he?

Even after so many years around Minho, after weeks of being married, you still could not guess his true intentions.

“…I don’t know,” you confessed.

Something small flashed in Minho’s eyes. It looked like hurt.

“You have done a lot for me these past few weeks. More than I ever expected. More than I could ever ask for, truthfully. I think…I hope that we are friends, or at least something approaching it,” you told him, because it was true, and the lastthing you wanted was to destroy this budding trust you had developed between the two of you. Still, he deserved total honesty. “But I know you didn’t want this marriage, Minho.”

Minho was silent for a moment. You knew he couldn’t refute it, and he didn’t try to.

Instead, to your surprise, his hands lifted to rest gently on your shoulders. You could feel their weight on you, and how warm it was. Solid. Grounding.

He held you there and when he finally spoke, his tone was serious – grave, almost.

“…The night before Felix left for the coast, he came to me,” Minho admitted. “He made me swear – on my life, on his, on my mother, on my crown, on everything I have ever valued – that I would protect you from harm.”

Your lips parted in shock.

Felix.

“I love my brother, more than anything. He was once my only friend, in all the world. The very best of me,” Minho said, words beginning to pour out of him, as if finally freeing thoughts he had kept buried deep inside for months, perhaps even years. “I didn’t tell him how much he meant to me, not really. And now…”

Minho swallowed, eyes closing for a brief second, before meeting your stare again with a quiet intensity.

“He will never forgive me for marrying you. Never. The least I can do is honour the last thing – the only thing – he has ever asked of me.”

You didn’t know what to say.

A sudden realisation hit you. A small piece of an inscrutable puzzle, revealed.

“Is that what you meant, when you told your father he owed you something? For making you marry me?”

Minho swallowed, pausing for a second, and answered.

“Yes, in short. My father and I have had our squabbles but this marriage…it was the first true fight we had. The first time he’s ever had to order me to do something as a king, not asked me as a father. We haven’t seen many things eye-to-eye since. He doesn’t…understand,” he said, and then, almost to himself, “but he doesn’t need to. I know I’m doing what is right.”

There was a terrible sadness in his eyes, a shocking vulnerability. It was almost alien to see such an expression on Minho’s face, to glimpse beyond the walls he so skilfully kept up.

Unthinkingly, you surged forward and wrapped your arms around him.

He stilled in your hold, tense with surprise. You ignored it, squeezing him tightly, pressing your face into his chest. It was an awkward embrace, perhaps. The hard edges of the embroidery on his jacket dug into your cheek, stitching rough against your soft skin, and Minho’s movements were stiff and unpractised as he returned the hug.

But it didn’t need to be perfect. It only needed to prove the one thing you intended to show him.

Trust.

That night, when dinner was cleared, Minho retreated to his couch and paperwork. You left to change into your sleepclothes in private, as usual, and returned to slip quietly into bed.

There, however, you fidgeted and fumbled with exactly what to say before finally, bravely, breaking the silence. “…You can sleep in the bed. Next to me. If you were…unsure about it.”

Minho’s stare in response was indecipherable. But he nodded once, and when he finished whatever report he had picked up from the pile of papers, he disappeared to the bathroom and reappeared dressed for bed.

White linens. Thin, soft. You remembered them from your wedding night.

It was enough to make your breath hitch – and, embarrassed, you rolled to your side to avoid looking at Minho, lest you stared too openly at him.

You heard him pull back the covers on his side, and felt the weight of him sink into the mattress. He seemed to keep his distance, as not a single part of you touched, and yet you were painfully aware of his presence there.

Silence fell over the two of you, interrupted only by quiet breaths in tandem.

Something squeezed gently in the pit of your stomach. You recognised it as something like anticipation, which was bizarre, as you knew nothing was going to happen.

Nothing would happen.

…And yet, you supposed it would be easy for Minho to shift closer towards you. You could imagine him reaching over, and setting his warm hand on the curve of your hip.

Would he turn you, so you were facing him? Perhaps, but you could also see him keeping your back to him. Letting you hide your face, a small mercy, because he would probably know how embarrassed you would be.

Your eyes drifted shut.

It would be easy for him to press his face into the back of your neck, his mouth into the crook where your neck and shoulder met.

And perhaps he would whisper, soothingly, as his hand travelled lower, seeking the hem of your nightgown, sliding it up your thighs and…

No.

Your eyes snapped open as you scolded yourself, a mixture of excitement and shame heating your face. You banished every remotely inappropriate thought from your mind, turning to lie on your back and stare up at the ceiling.

You wondered, briefly, if Minho was looking up at the same thing too. You refused to glance over at him to check. The thought of seeing his face after all…that that had been swirling in your thoughts? Absolutely not.

It took far longer than usual to fall asleep in the deafening silence, but eventually you managed to.

The next morning, you awoke and realised, for the very first time, you had woken up before Minho. He was sleeping peacefully, unaware that the two of you must have turned to face each other in the night, bodies still a careful distance apart.

With one exception – Minho’s left arm lay outstretched, the knuckles of his hand just barely kissing the delicate skin of your wrist.

You stared at where your hands touched, skin-on-skin.

And you did not move your hand away.

643 notes · View notes

eraenaa · 4 months

Text

A Bastard's Bride, A Dragon's Desire

Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen Princess Reader AU

Synopsis: They have betrothed you to Jacaerys as a way of securing a line to the throne if they fail in usurping your half-sister’s crown. Your older brother Aemond was livid at the decision.

Warnings: Targcest, Mature, 18+, Submissive Aemond (kinda), Oral Sex (M receiving), Boobjob, P in V Sex, Jealousy, Possessive, not proofread

Word Count: 4,327

“This cannot go! You dare betrothed my sister to a bastard!?” Aemond screamed at your grandfather and mother. Never have you seen him so angry and agitated. His lilac eye was wide in fury, his frame rigid in rage. You did not wish for the betrothal, but you did not have the same anger that Aemond showed. Screaming and spewing foul words as if he was the one being sent as a bride for the plain prince. “My prince— you will learn to hold your tongue.” Your grandfather warned. “We understand your qualms upon the match; believe it or not, we do not wish for it. But it is a marriage that must be made.” Your grandfather sighed, his eyes going to you, who had your head downcast, ready to silently meet your fate.

You peeked a look at Aemond, heart swelling at how protective your brother was. How he would defend and voice out the concerns and fears because you did not have the courage to. You tried to reach for his hand under the table; your touch always seemed to calm him, but he was in a state of utter anger— rage at a level he had never reached before. His vision was white hot at the injustice he believed to be presented— injustice greater than when his eye was taken. For how could they be so cruel to betroth you, his sweet, smart, and enchanting little sister, to a plain and weak bastard of House Strong? “I will not stand by this union,” Aemond seethed and stood from his chair. “With all due respect, my prince, you have no say nor sway upon the marriage— complain and rage as you would; you will not change the plans made. You swallowed thickly as Aemond marched out of the chambers of the council, your mother heavily sighing at the reaction of your older brother—his reaction to your betrothal confirmed her suspicions.

You walked to your chambers and were slightly startled to see your older brother there. Staring intently at the fire, waiting for you. “They cannot do this— they cannot be allowed to dict—“ You sighed and shook your head, sitting upon a settee and bringing a pillow to your lap. “They have the power to— I have no choice but to do as they wish,” You answered. You knew of this— you always knew you were to be played like a pawn, sold like a sheep in order for them to have a greater claim to the throne. You’ve expected this for years— you have made your peace with it.

Aemond turned to you, his eye dark and terrifying. “Why are you not angered? Why do you only obey without even a question?” He asked, threading closer to you. “Tell me, sister… do you wish to marry Jacaerys? Is that why you said no word when they made their plans known? Hm? Are you ecstatic at the thought of being a bastard’s bride?” Your lips agape at his words— at his anger that he now pointed towards you.

“Grandfather was right— you must learn to hold your tongue.” You whispered. “You dare insult me, brother? You dare try to dress my quiet contempt as ecstasy in being a lamb for slaughter so they can continue on with their plans,” You whispered harshly as his face threaded closer to yours. His lilac eye softened and started to fill with remorse, but you shook your head, disheartened by the words he uttered. “Get out,” You said and stood, not wanting to face him any longer. Growing hurt at your brother for thinking as such. “Sister, I—“ he tried to get hold of your arm, but you stepped away. “Leave— I wish to be alone,” You muttered, hearing him sigh before doing as you asked.

The following day, you confined yourself to your rooms. Ignoring the knocks of your maids, sister, mother, Aegon, and Aemond, who was the most persistent of them all. Trying to bribe you with sweets freshly made from the kitchen and then the promise of jewels and dresses that your heart was completely bemused with. You ignored all their calls and focused on the betrothal made. Trying hard to have a better outlook upon it— trying to find the little positives so you would not be so completely miserable with the marriage. “Ñuha hāedar, you must eat— please.” (My little sister) You hear Aemond call; it is time for supper, and you have not consumed a meal the entire day. He called your name once more, but you ignored it, simply staring out of the window to the starry night sky.

“I swear to the gods I will break down this door!” Aemond gritted out— trying a new tactic because his pleading got him no reaction. The prince sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, growing tired of your stubbornness. He regretted raising his voice at you— wrongfully pointing his anger at you, who was simply a victim of their desire to ensure a line of power. He could not bear it— he could not have another thing taken from him by the Strongs. He already lost his eye to Lucerys— he’d rather burn the entire Kingdom than have to lose you to Jacaerys.

Aemond sighed in relief as he heard you unbar the door, slowly opening it to reveal your sullen self. “The cake,” Was all you said through the little gap. Aemond bit his lip and handed you the platter that held your favorite sweet. He was to speak once more, offer his apologies but you were quick to shut the door and bar it again.

The next day, you were finally forced out of your chambers. Your mother was persistent in readying you to meet your future betrothed. Having you fitted for new dresses as if you were a doll. You used to love that— you used to love spending hours discussing your visions and specificity for your dresses. You did not mind having to stand for hours whilst they took your measurements— you would even volunteer to embroider your own dress, but now the task seemed heavy.

Aemond watched you as you were being spoken to about the plans they had made when your bastard kin was to come. He watched your sullen eyes, your deflated shoulders, your pouted lips. The rage in him started to return; he hated witnessing you be in such a state. He believed that you do not deserve to be given such a cruel fate. He believed that you deserve someone better—someone who was not a plain bastard. You deserved someone honorable and were of high standing. You deserved someone who would adore you, dote on you, spoil you, love you— you deserved to be with someone like him. Aemond clenched his jaw as you sighed heavily; your mother had ignored his wishes and pleas.

His mind was made long before. He knew he loved you more than the love a brother and sister shared. He loved you in the way of your house, in the way of a dragon— queer it must be in the eyes of the others, but he did not care; he loved you as a man would love his woman. But he was silent with his love, fearing you would not return it. Yes, he felt that you loved him, but he believed it only to be a familial kind— that it was not the same as the burning passion he had in his heart.

Aemond lay on his bed, mind swimming in thoughts on how to save you. On how to make you his. It did occur to him that to make you his, he would have to admit the deep feelings he had and was certain of ever since he was but nine. That he would have to confess his devotion to you, his sweet little sister. He hears a small knock on his door, and he immediately knows it is you. The prince did not even stand, simply muttering for you to enter. No word was uttered as you closed the door and walked to him, who lay on his bed. Your brother was to sit up, but you moved to lay atop his chest— just like you often did in childhood. You wanted comfort, and your brother Aemond is always and you believe will forever be your greatest comfort.

Aemond froze as you placed yourself atop him, letting your body press against his, your arms wrapping around his neck. You two did this often in childhood; whenever you felt glum or melancholic, you would place yourself atop him, and he would wrap his arms tightly around you. But as the both of you blossomed and grew into man and woman, you stopped doing such actions— growing weary and aware of your bodies.

Aemond wrapped his arms around your waist. You were so warm and soft and plush. Your frame fitted perfectly against his— just like it always has. “I do not wish to marry him,” You mumble against his letter-clad chest, taking a deep breath to smell his scent: leather and citrus. “I know,” He mumbled against the top of your head. Aemond taking a deep breath of you— lavender and lilac invading him.

“Perhaps I should flee…” you mused after a stretch of silence. “And go where?” Aemond asked. “I do not know… maybe Essos? I’ve always wanted to see YiTi, or I could go and find Old Valyria? Anywhere but here.” You sighed as Aemond ran his hand through your hair. Your body tingled with every stroke his hand made. “You would leave me?” He asked, and you shook your head. “No, you would come with me, of course.” Aemond smiled at your words. “Of course,” He agreed and placed a kiss atop your pretty head. You stayed in Aemond’s arms for hours— drifting off to slumber. Aemond stayed awake, wanting to savor the feeling of having you in his arms, indulging himself with the thought that you were his.

However, as time went on and you were starting to wake, Aemond’s heart clenched at the thought of letting you go. Right then and there, he had decided. He decided to do what he never had the courage to do… he had to claim you and make it known to everyone that you were his and his alone.

The scowl never left Aemond’s face as he and Helaena were tasked to escort you and Jacaerys. Having to watch you grow familiar with the boy they intend for you to marry made his heart wrench in jealousy— his stomach pitting in fear as he saw a small smile on your lips. Aemond resisted the urge to throw a dagger at his eldest bastard nephew when he dared take your hand to escort you down the steps of the courtyard. “You’re growing too obvious, brother,” Helaena muttered as she watched you acclimate yourself to the presence of the Strong Prince. “I do not care— let them know my intentions,” Aemond answered, holding tightly at the railing as he saw the enchantment in Jacaerys’ eyes as he spoke with you, body daring thread closer to yours. “I’m afraid there is not much you could do… they are to be bounded by blood,” Aemond shook his head, stubborn and unaccepting of their fates.

When evening came, and supper was held for the whole of the family, Aemond stewed in anger as your place next to him was removed— moving your place to sit with your soon-to-be-announced betrothed. You took in a breath as Jacaerys took hold of your hand, a smile on his lips. But you could not focus on the joy he showed because you saw clearly the scowl on your brother’s. His hand tightly clenched around a dinner knife, his eye steady on you.

“This is torture for you, isn’t it,” Aegon muttered to his younger brother. His eye held a spark of amusement at Aemond’s ire— but there was a tinge of concern at the uncertain look in your eyes as Jacaerys kept his hold on your hand. “Return to your seat,” Aemond gritted but Aegon kept still at his spot. “You’ve waited too long, brother… you must take matters into your own hands before it truly is all too late,” He advised. Aemond closed his eye at the temptation his brother’s words presented. “As much as I like to watch you suffer… control yourself and painfully deny yourself of pleasure— I’d rather have our little sister here with you than be with a bastard in Dragonstone.”

Aemond gritted his jaw. “Enough, Aegon— what you suggest will not only dishonor me but our sister as well. You a—“ Aegon sighed and shook his head. “There is an opportunity for you, brother, to gain something you’ve wanted since we were children— lower your damned pride and self-righteousness and make her your own. Either that or watch her be married to Jacaerys; it’s your choice, Aemond.” Aegon warned and finally returned to his seat, leaving his younger brother silent, confused, and torn.

You were in your chambers after the supper— you dismissed your handmaids, wanting to be left alone. You readied yourself, removing the pins in your hair as you stared at yourself in the mirror, your eyes admiring the dress made especially for the occasion. You sighed that such a pretty dress was made for the sole purpose of pleasing your future groom, whom you had no love nor fondness for. You stared at yourself in the mirror until you jumped in shock as you caught a glimpse of your older brother standing behind you. “You scared me,” You said as your eyes locked, you returning to remove the pins in your hair.

You tried not to grow conscious at how he was in your chambers after dark, at how your dress was partly unlaced and the sleeves were starting to drape off, and you especially tried not to notice the dark look in Aemond’s eye that you could not read or process. “I have a gift for you,” Aemond said lowly, walking closer to you, who still faced the mirror, your eyes never leaving his as he approached. You took in a breath as you felt him behind you, a few inches away, but you still felt the heat that radiated from his body; you still smelt his familiar scent.

“What is it?” You asked. Aemond wanted to smile as he saw the clear excitement in your eyes. You were always bemused by gifts and shiny things. “Close your eyes,” He dipped down and whispered. There was a hint of hesitancy in you, your skin growing with gooseflesh at the way he whispered in the shell of your ear and how his lips grazed your skin. You licked your lips as you were certain that you would recall this moment as you lay in your bed and pleasured yourself with the thought of Aemond. You were shameless to do such an act— seeking pleasure with the thought of your brother in mind.

Aemond watched as you obeyed him and closed your eyes. His own wye flying to your lips, shiny and pink. How magnificent it must be to kiss them, he thought. Aemond is distracted as he stares at you, memorizing each part of your face. “What’s your gift?” You asked impatiently. Aemond made no answer. You froze as you felt something cold touch your bare upper chest. You peeled your eyes open, the orbs growing wide as you Aemond clasped a sapphire necklace around your neck. “Aemond…” You called in shock at the beautiful gift. Aemond took in a breath and let his fingers graze the soft skin of your shoulders, letting himself indulge and touch you in such a way.

You finally turned to your brother, a somewhat satisfied look in his eye as you marveled at his gift. There was another emotion in his eye, something that was always present but you could never decipher. “Thank you,” You sincerely said. “Anything for you, ñuha perzys,” (my fire)

He had never called you that before. He had never addressed you with such a primal and almost possessive tone. You did not know what possessed you— why you did it. Too muddled in excitement and silent wanting perhaps, but you stood at the tip of your toes as kissed his lips. A kiss that was never meant for brother and sister— a kiss that was meant for the intimacy of man and wife. Aemond took in a harsh breath as he felt plump and soft lips against his— him tasting cherry wine and feeling a delicate frame against his. When the uncertainty left Aemond, he tried to move his arms to wrap around you— to flush you tight against him, but sensibilities returned, and you backed away. Fear trickles inside you as you realize what you have done.

“I… I’m sorry… I should not have do—“ You could not word out the finality of your sentence as Aemond pulled you to him and smashed your lips. Holding you tight to him even though you tried to push him away, keeping your lips locked even though they should have never met. “Aemond,” You called as both of you gasped for air; his hold on you was tight and secure— painful even, but pain disguised itself as pleasure as you felt yourself grow in need with each passing moment you were in your brother’s arms.

“You will never be his… you’re only mine.” He stated—a promise in his eye. You gasped as you felt him tear away your dress. “You want me, yes? Say it, my fire,” He whispered, tone desperate for you. “I want you… I need you,” You muttered and sighed as his lips met with yours again. “Say that you’re mine,” Aemond ordered, as his lips flew to your neck decorated with his gift. His hands planted on your shift-covered waist, not daring to move until you uttered that you were his as much as he was yours. “All yours, Aemond— never his, only yours,” You distractedly uttered as your mind clouded with the feel of his lips on your neck. That was the assurance Aemond needed to let his hands travel your frame.

One of his strong hands gripped the flesh of your behind; the other went to your chest. Heaving and soft, the bud calling for his touch. He would have to admit, ever since womanhood struck you, he had grown tempted more than once by your tits. Especially when you have grown a fondness of wearing dresses with a lower cut, going against your mother’s orders, and proudly fashioning a neckline that exposed a tease of your bosom. A breathy moan escaped your lips as Aemond picked the bud, rolling it between his callused fingers. You’ve wanted to feel his touch for years now— deeply desired him that it started to make you grow crazed. And now to finally have him? You felt like you could come by just how his hand played with your tit and how his lips peppered kisses on your neck.

“Tell me what you want, my fire,” He whispered in the shell of your ear as he noticed you closed your legs and whines leaving your lips. “You— I want you.” You said decisively. You watch his eye grow dark, his lips twitching. “Then you shall have me,” Aemond answered. You bit your lip as another wave of need washed over you. “Tell me how you want me,” Aemond said, giving you control. Your cheeks heat at his words, “I… I want you to lie on the bed,” You said quietly, making Aemond smirk. He dipped down and quickly kissed your lips before doing as you meekly ordered.

You blushed even more as Aemond expectantly lay on your bed; you were uncertain about what you should do; you had a faint idea of what you wanted, but you lacked the courage to proceed. You gazed at him, though the most evident thing in his lilac eye was lust; you saw his encouragement through it. You swallowed your doubts and bit your lip, moving to remove your shift before him. Aemond turned rigged as you stripped the last of your clothing for him. Leaving you bare and completely exposed. You had not touched him yet, but he could not help but let out a groan of pleasure as he saw your body. You were truly carved by the gods themselves.

You kept your bite on your lip as you threaded closer to him, bare and moving to straddle him. You hear him take a breath, his eye scanning your body. “Take off your eye patch,” You said, willing your voice to sound stronger. Aemond froze, hesitant to do so. You waited for him; the silence wanted you to take back what you said. Aemond mustered his own courage and let himself be exposed to you. You were taken aback as you saw him fully, as you realized why he chose to give you a sapphire necklace. No word was uttered as you kissed him again. Kissed him until both of you grew dazed. Your hands moved to remove his tunic and unbuckle his belt. Your lips grew downward from his lips to his jaw, then to his neck, to his chest, until finally, your lips hovered over the wanting bulge in his trousers.

Aemond felt himself grow cold in anticipation; a moan slipped his lips as you placed a light kiss on the cloth-covered bulge. You gazed up at him, eyes locking, both desperate for more— you decided to end both of your torments. You pulled down his trousers and revealed his hard length, needing and seeking for your touch. You licked your lips and placed a loud kiss on the tip of his cock; already releasing a clear bead of liquid. You were satisfied as Aemond let out another moan— he was usually so quiet… you would think he’d be quiet when in pleasure as well.

Aemond shuddered as you took the tip of him in your warm mouth, your tongue circling his cock. You were barely doing anything, and he already felt the urge to release. You took in a deep breath and moved your head to take as much of his long and thick cock, your eyes watering as you could not physically fit the whole of him in your mouth. You were breathing heavily as his cock slipped out your lips, your hands moving up and down his length, coating it with wetness.

Aemond marveled at every movement you made, every flutter of your eyes, every flick of your wrist. He was certain that he was in heaven as you positioned yourself, taking his cock in between your heavy and heaving tits. Your name slipped lips, lost in utter pleasure as you fucked him with your tits. His large cock fits nicely between your ample bosom. Aemond fisted the silk sheets of your bed, his toes curling in utter pleasure as your movements fastened and as you moaned as your nipples grazed along his skin. You clenched your legs together, feeling the tightening coil of release even though it was you who was pleasuring him.

Aemond felt himself ready for release but he could not have that— not yet. You gasped as you were yanked off, Aemond switching your positions. Now, you were the one to lay beneath him. You feel him coat himself with your wetness, his cock teasing your folds. “Make me yours,” You whispered.

Aemond groaned as his cock pushed inside your— your walls already clenched and painfully wrapped around him. You feel the prickle of tears as he tore his way through you, the blood from having your maidenhead taken mixing with the wanting essence of your cunt. You let out a shuddered breath as you feel him fill you— fully inside you and the tip of his cock hitting a place that made you forget about the pain of taking him fully.

Aemond let out pleasured breaths as he tucked his head in your neck, deeply inhaling your scent and savoring the way you moaned his name and how you clung to him. Your fingernails scratching along his back, your hips moving to meet his thrusts. “I thought you innocent, sister— but look at you… you act like such a whore,” Aemond nipped your neck, leaving a mark for all to see. “Just for you… only for you,” You managed to say in between moans. Aemond let out a groan at how you declared yourself his— only his.

Aemond’s thrust grew faster; your moans grew louder as both of you sought release. Aemond removed his head from your neck and admired the whole of you under him. Your tits bounced with each and every thrust, your lips parted, and your eyes rolled back in pleasure—the sapphire necklace he gave shining from the light of the moon. Aemond let out a groan through gritted teeth as he realized your hand moved to draw circles upon your needing bud, shameless as you pleasured yourself whilst he pleasured you. “Aemond… I’m— I’m,” You instead moaned, the words not coming to you as you felt yourself ready to release.

“Scream my name when you come— let them know who you belong to,” Aemond ordered with one last thrust, you doing as he said. His name leaving your lips with the tone of nothing but sheer pleasure. Aemond gave a deep final thrust before filling you with his seed— making certain that all part of you will be his.

That night, you and Aemond slept peacefully and satisfied in each other’s arms. Waiting for morning to come for all to see that the only one you belong to— that the only one you wanted bound to you was your brother.

#targcest #aemond targaryen x female reader #smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond smut #aemond x reader #prince aemond #hotd aemond #prince aemond targaryen #prince aemond x reader #prince aemond fic #aemond targaryen smut #Targaryen princess

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catcze · 4 months

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Reblogs are greatly appreciated !!

「 ### : 」 Modern AU ish !! GN Reader gets drunk at the club !! But Navia and Clorinde stay with you through it tho, because they're your good friends !! This is literally just humor and reader not recognizing Wrio but gushing over your husband so so much !! Reader swears when drunk bc same lmao

Had a vision. No editing. Feast on this while I feast on my Nissin Bulalo cup noodles.

The moment Wriotheseley steps into the club, he immediately spots you. Even over the painful strobing lights, the sea of dancing bodies, he can single you out a mile away— regardless of the fact that you're slumped over the bar, drunk out of your mind.

"Navia, Clorinde," he greets with a wave, hurrying over. His voice has to be almost a yell to be heard over the loud music.

They sit on either barstool beside you, bracketing you between them. When he approaches, Clorinde hands him your phone, and he knows who he has to thank for the 'come pick your bae up' text. The moment he's close enough, he's already looking you over, making sure you're alright.

"Sweetheart," Wriothesley tries to rouse you, but you just mumble and splay out further on the bar. Your hand knocks into a mostly-emptied glass of what he can only assume was tonight's poison of choice.

"How many—"

"More than five," Navia tells him, grinning sheepishly, just as Clorinde says, "Nine."

Your husband shakes his head fondly, sighing, and turns back to you. "Sweetheart," he tries again, voice a bit louder. He places a heavy hand on your waist, coaxing you up. "Let's g—"

But at the touch, your eyes —still hazy and unfocused on account of the nine drinks you've had— shoot open, and you whirl on him in your seat. If not for the hold he still keeps on your hip, you may have just toppled over. There's a look of unbridled, drunken rage on your face, more comical than actually terrifying.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" you hiss, slurring, as you wrench his hand off of you and fling it away with such contempt that he has to stifle a laugh. "Keep your hands off of the masterpieces, bucko."

Not even giving him a moment to breathe, you shove your left hand in his face, vehemently pointing at the ring that sits on your fourth finger. "I! Am! Married! If I tell my husband that you're out here getting handsy, he's gonna come and kick your ass sooo hard. He's gonna rock your shit, you trick ass bitch, if i don't do it myself!"

Wriothesley shouldn't find this funny— he shouldn't. But Navia and Clorinde and fighting smiles behind their palms themselves, and he can't help the grin that breaks across his face.

"Oh? Is your husband that strong?" He can't help but ask, and you scoff.

"Is he that strong— you wanna find out for yourself? Huh? Wriothesley could— could—" you hiccup, and he has to fight the urge to coo. "He could knock you out with just a flick of his fingers, you know!"

"And is your Wriothesley more handsome than me?"

You turn your nose up at him, scowling. Once, twice, you try to cross your arms in contempt as you drunkenly look him up and down.

"You're alright," you begrudge, "but my Wriothesley is the— the most handsomest man in the world! The fucking prettiest! No one holds a candle to my husband and his broad shoulders and his thick thighs and his... and his adorable smile."

Wriothesley has to bite his lip to control his grin. Navia is fighting for her life to stifle her giggles, and Clorinde hides her amused smile behind a cough.

It's like that loosened your tongue though, and you continue on, oblivious to the embarrassment you'd face the next morning.

"And he— he'll be very upset when he finds out that you're here, hitting on someone who is very happily married to one of the best men on this side of the fucking galaxy, so— so you can fuck off!"

He really, really tries his best to not laugh.

You huff, patting down your pockets and grumbling incoherently about your phone, not even questioning it when Wriothesley hands it back to you himself. It takes only a second of you furiously tapping your screen before his own phone buzzes in his pants.

[Sweetheart ♡]

babe pookie pick e ip plrase im drunk and i wanna go homd snd yhere's this assholr hitting o me love yoy [location attached]

As soon as the texts go out though, you yawn and the energy leaves you in one fell swoop. Wriothesley manages to catch you before you face plant back on the bar and break your nose, maneuvering you to lean into his chest. The fight escaping you, you nuzzle into his black button up, rubbing your face against him like a big cat.

"Mmm. I know that cologne." Blearily, you look up and make eye contact with those pretty, pretty blue eyes, and your face immediately lights up in the most delighted grin. "Wrio!" you gasp, arms coming to wrap around his waist and pull him towards you. You're still drunk, still pretty out of it, but it melts his heart how overjoyed you are to see him.

"Hi sweetheart," he says fondly, running a hand through your hair. Happily, you lean into his touch. "Have a fun time with Navia and Clorinde?"

"Mhm. Missed you though." Then, your eyes pop open and you sit up, looking around furiously as if you're looking for someone. When you don't find this person, you lean in to whisper conspiratorially in his ear— "There was this guy who tried to make the moves on me, you know! But I told him that I'm super duper married and with the bestest husband ever— if you wanna double team him, I'm sure the guy's around here somewhere."

But your husband just chuckles, pulling you back into his embrace. Smoothly, Wriothesley has you wrap your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his waist so he can easily pick you up and into his arms.

"You two need a ride home?" He asks the two, but they shake their heads.

"Appreciated, but we only split a drink between us," Clorinde says, already standing up alongside Navia. "We'll be fine."

"Get home safe, you two!" The blonde says, waving you off, and that's that.

Wriothesley easily maneuvers the two of you out of the club, you having already fallen asleep on his shoulder. He can hear your soft breaths in his ear and feel the way you cling to him even in your sleep. No doubt you'd have a raging hangover tomorrow, but that's okay— because you'll have him to take care of you, too.

Bonus!!

You wake up to hands down the worst fucking headache in your whole life. Your temple hurts so hard that you swear your head's gonna crack open like an egg. Groaning, you pull the covers over your head and roll over, blotting out the mid-day sunlight as best as you can.

There's a chuckle from the other side of the bed, then weight moving across the sheets— then your husband's face appears in front of you, under the blankets too.

"So, darling sweetheart of mine" he starts, voice soft as to not aggravate your headache, and you're grateful. "What were you saying about my broad shoulders and my thick thighs?"

You're suddenly not as grateful.

Promptly, you kick him out of your blanket cave, and he goes with a laugh. He leaves you grumbling on the bed, cursing out all the drinks you had last night and swearing to never ever ever drink again.

Wriothesley grins, shutting the curtains of your bedroom as he ambles out the door, dead set on getting you water, advil, and something to eat.

Maybe by the end of the day, you'd add 'endlessly doting' to the list.

[ #Taglist registration here !! ]

#astronetwrk #「 🐈‍⬛ 」 catcze.desserts #wriothesley x reader #genshin impact x reader #cw gn reader #cw alcohol #wriothesley #genshin impact

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wildestdreamsblog · 11 months

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Latibule: II

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader (Mafia/Detective AU)

Summary: In which you didn’t know who he truly was- until it was too late. Or in which he found heaven in you.

Warnings: Secret Identity, Yandere behavior, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Violence, Mention of death, Disability, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: don’t do tag list my loves. Thank u for showing love to this fic, and also! Leave a comment and reblog

Masterlist, Latibule I

“Who’s that handsome man, dear?” Your elderly neighbor asked you as she peeked over your shoulder to look at the man who just wouldn’t tell you his name. He was trailing behind you, his face showing his apparent displeasure at having to wake up early in the morning. He detested the sun and he glared at the sky like it did him dirty. Who the fuck was sane enough to wake up at five in the morning?

Definitely not him.

You crinkled your nose at your neighbor. Handsome? Sure he was. But his grumpy attitude annoyed you and it did outweigh his good looks. You didn’t even know why you agreed on him staying- not that he asked. Yet when you inquired if he was in danger and he nodded his head, you agreed without another thought.

You wouldn’t turn away someone who was seeking solace.

You knew what it was like.

Additionally, it was as though you didn’t even have a roommate. What you seemed to have acquired was your very own shadow who just wouldn’t leave you alone. In his defense though, he was trying to have a read on you. It didn’t make sense to him that you were living alone. Yoongi wasn’t blind. He could see that you were an attractive woman who somehow had peculiar habits.

Like walking at night in the dark. Or looking at the stars every night without fail. Or the fact that you hadn’t kicked him out despite his unpleasant attitude.

Which you were seriously considering right now.

The man looked at you with brows raised as though anticipating how you would explain his existence in your life to which you merely rolled your eyes and smiled at him with contempt.

“That’s-“ you started as you gestured at him with your arms full of groceries that he never even offered to lift himself, “That’s a full-time problem and the human form of nuisance.”

You offered her a kind smile as she blinked in confusion at what you said. Meanwhile, he looked affronted by what you said.

Him? A nuisance? A full-time problem?

His enemies had insulted him less than you did and they all ended up getting tortured. Yet you had the audacity and courage to call him names that belonged to kindergarten.

Your neighbor frowned, confusion glinting in her eyes. “I’m sorry, dear. I’m afraid I heard you incorrectly.”

“Oh, I said he’s an extremely problemati-“

“Hi, ahjumma,” he walked closer to the two of you, his face painted with a charming smile as he extended his hand to her. Suddenly, he was a different person. This two-faced asshole, you thought to yourself. “I’m her-“

“-problem,” you whispered behind him.

“-her cousi-“

“-her nuisance,” you mumbled behind him once again.

“I’m her first love and I’m here to marry her,” he said with a grin so wide you could see his adorable gummy smile.

Wait. What?

Adorable?

First love?

Marry????

You turned your head so abruptly that your hair whipped on his face as soon as the two of you arrived at your home. You got into his space, your now empty hands pushing him against the door. He couldn’t even defend himself because you forced him to carry the groceries because he should be a good as fuck boyfriend. Yoongi gulped when he met your eyes filled with storm. And strangely, he felt his heart skipped a beat. It never did that- not when he was staring at the barrel of his enemies’ gun, not when he was looking at the chief of police, not when he was literally dying outside your house. Never.

But now that he was looking at your eyes, it strangely skipped a beat. It wasn’t as though he didn’t spend majority of his time observing you, or watching you wander in the dark at night, or following you out in the shadows when you took your evening walks. However, he never really spent time really looking into your eyes. It was only now that he realized your forehead had little sparse of faded wounds.

He tilted his head in perplexity. You were hurt. You were hurt so deep it left a scar…like his.

“What the fuck was that?!” You hissed at the nameless man. You looked up to glare at him only to find him putting the carrot in between the two of you as though in defense. “Did you hit your head during the accident? No, right? So why then did you spew out the worst lie ever known to mankind?!”

He gulped when you stepped closer to him. For someone so small, you sure did have a lot of anger in you. “I merely adjusted to what happened accordingly because what you were about to say would sound suspicious!” He replied in defense, the pack of sugar joining the raised carrot as an added barricade to your anger.

“I was about to say you were my cousin!”

“No. I clearly heard you said I am your problem.”

You nodded, seeing no issue in that. “That, too. A cousin and a problem!”

“Well, now I’m your boyfriend.”

“Fake.”

“Yup,” he agreed with a pop before smiling at you innocently. “Telling her that I’m merely a cousin will be a complication that I do not fucking need. For starters, I look nothing like you.”

You squinted your eyes at him, “Is that an insult?”

He nodded without hesitating. “Yes. Obviously. For starters, I’m prettier than you. Have you seen your skin? Have you seen how white and smooth my skin is?”

Taking the deepest breath known to mankind, you sighed before going straight to your kitchen. “Yes, fine,” you shouted in a deadpanned voice, having enough of this man’s incredulous statement. “You have a good skin. White skin. In fact, your skin is too fair that your name is now Suga.”

His face darkened as soon as you renamed him. He was stalking to the kitchen without any thought ready to fight you. “You will not call me Suga! You do not-“

“Shut your mouth and slice these carrots!”

Yoongi couldn’t sleep. He had always been a light sleeper. Or maybe, he just suffered from insomnia that he was used to staying up all night. Or also, maybe it was because the littlest sound could set him off just like now. These were all why he found it peculiar how he was able to sleep peacefully, albeit injured and fighting for his goddamn life, in your bed a few weeks back. God, he missed sleeping in your bed. The sofa sucked. And he hated it with a vengeance.

He watched you from the sofa he had made his bed. You were walking in the dark once again. Seriously, how difficult was it to turn on the light? Were you that considerate to walk around blindly in the dark just to not wake him up?

He watched you with his feline eyes, following your every movement. You made it seemed that you already memorized every turns in this house, and maybe you did. Yet what you didn’t anticipate was the chair he failed to return at the rightful place and with that, you fell to the ground.

“Fuck,” you whispered as you rubbed you forearm that took the most and painful hit. You almost jumped when light flooded the small living room with Yoongi looking unimpressed as he stood near the switch, his dark hair swept back from his face. From the looks of it, it did not seem like you disturbed his sleep.

“You do know we have electricity, right?” His deep voice asked in a mocking tone. “You know how to turn this on, right? If not I can teach you. You just press this gently or not, depends on your mood, really,” he explained like you were a child, even going so far as conducting a demonstration.

You glared up at him so hard from your position on the floor, wishing that your irritation at him could somehow turn into weapon and disintegrate him. “I know we have electricity because I pay for it!”

He smiled indulgently at you as he nodded his head, “And I thank you for your service. Now,” he trailed off as he walked to you, crouching down and resting his arms on his spread knees. “Does it hurt?”

“Nothing hurts more than looking at you,” you snapped back as he inspected your forearm without asking.

He hummed in agreement. He raised his dark brow when he saw the redness forming on your skin, “I know. It’s because my beauty shines too bright.”

You looked heavenward and groaned at his audacity. You were starting to question what you did wrong in this lifetime that you were burdened with this full-time problem. “What are you doing up at this hour, angel?”

“I was thirsty.”

He rolled his eyes before he unceremoniously pulled you up with him. But then…he was too close. He was so close that your front brushed up against his. So close that you could feel the heat emitting from his body. You spent the first week trying to keep him alive and after that, you spent it regretting your choice.

You really hadn’t looked at him for quite some time now. But now, this close and you could see him- all his perfections and imperfections. This close and you could see how he could looked so menacing, could see the lingering madness in his eyes and the swirling darkness in him.

And then you wondered how he came to be who he was. You wondered what made a man such as him to keep so much anger in him.

And while you were busy analyzing him, he was consumed by you. Notwithstanding his unparalleled intelligence, he did not, for the life of him, take his time to analyze why having you in his proximity calmed the demons in him.

He didn’t take his time to wonder why touching you calmed him. And instead, he opened his mouth to spew out another nonsense to you.

“You’re looking at me like you wish I’m your real fiancée,” he stated in a teasing way. His hand snaked on the small of your back, pulling you abruptly closer to his front. He was smirking as he leaned in, his hot breath tickling your ear. “You wish I was yours, don’t you?”

To which, you kicked his shin and stalked to your room, uncaring of his pained hiss. You locked the door for good measure.

It wasn’t much of a surprise that you woke up hours later with parched throat. Sighing, you opened your bedside lamp only to find a glass of water.

D-did that asshole put it there?

Latibule III

#suga fic #bts fic #yandere bts #bts smut #bts yandere #min yoongi x y/n #min yoongi fic #yandere min yoongi #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x reader #suga x reader #mafia yoongi

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kisses4kaia · 5 months

Note

on my knees, foaming at the mouth, begging for more sub coryo

u guys are so funny oh my goodness😭 (slight au where sejanus did not die because we love him🥰) i got a bit carried away as you can see!! but that’s ok !!!! also, university!corio .. okok go read now plz enjoy and reblog :)

being the girlfriend of the winner to the plinth prize whilst simultaneously biting your tongue constantly was no easy feat.

every thoughtless, careless, borderline sexist, comment corio received from older men—and even some of your male peers—along the lines of, “oh, she’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she? bet you keep her on her knees, huh?” (whilst you were right there, mind you!), infuriated you beyond belief and typically made corio tense up and awkwardly brush them off.

because no, corio did not always keep you on your knees. as a matter of fact, it was quite the opposite. you had him on his knees, every night, begging and pleading for a taste of you. and if he was a good boy, he would get one. you were assertive, not cruel.

you so badly wished you could shut them down, tell them exactly how it is, but you still loved and respected corio, and you knew what might happen to his reputation if that kind of secret got out.

so you kept on biting your tongue.

and tonight, corio’s arm is snaked around your torso and his large palm rests on the small of your back.

you’re at a elite party he was invited to, making friendly conversation with clemensia and sejanus while throwing witty comments back and forth with your boyfriend, when all of a sudden, one of crassus snow’s old friends come up to the both of you and it goes how you would expect; however, this time, something’s different.

this time, he laughs boisterously and nods, agreeing with the crude comment the man made. coriolanus shakes his hand and says “oh, absolutely. would you expect any less from my father’s son?”

you are fucking appalled, and the astounded expression on your face doesn’t do much to hide it.

when the old man whose name you didn’t bother to remember finally leaves, corio finally looks down at you to see your narrow eyes shooting daggers into his.

you say no words and storm off, and he’s hot on your trail. “baby? baby, hold up, slow down!”

you heed no mind to his words, and only stop your stampede when you find an unoccupied bedroom and drag him inside.

it was glamorous, which was to be expected, considering the host of the party was volumnia gaul; she always was one for dramatic flare. the ceiling was high and the walls were crowned in gold paint. the layout was simple, there was nothing but a queen-sized bed, an empty dresser, and bare vanity gracing its presence, all but proving that it was not it use, and perfectly fine for you to punish coriolanus in.

“what the fuck was that?” your voice is scornful and with the way your face twists up and contorts into a look of contempt, he knows he’s in for it.

he stumbles over his words, trying to think of a way he can phrase his words to deescalate the situation, lessen the blow for himself. “i-i’m sorry. i don’t know what i was thinking. please, honey. please forgive me. i’m begging you,”

the last phrase causes you to look up at him before smirking wickedly, “are you?”

you can see it dawn on him, the realization that you really are going to make him beg—the proper way, down on his knees.

he sighs ashamedly before letting his knees buckle, right one hitting the ground, the left following suit.

the slicked back hair on his scalp gleams perfectly underneath the warm overhead lighting the small chandelier provides, and his glossy, devastatingly blue, eyes are boring into yours as his bottom lip begins to quiver ever so slightly.

“i’m so, so, so, fucking, sorry. i’m so stupid, i just didn’t want him to think lowly of my fathers kin. i fucked up, i know, just, please, please, forgive me,”

he sounds like he’s on the verge of tears when he speaks and you can’t help but revel in how hot this all is. having one of the most powerful men in the capitol at your feet, pleading for you, you have to work hard in order to conceal the ache between your legs.

“show me, then.” you turn around on him and walk to the bed, sitting, before crossing your legs and leaning back, dangerous, siren eyes inviting corio to crawl to you.

he doesn’t even hesitate before getting on his hands and knees and desperately pawing at the ground, trying to get close to you again. and when he reaches your sat figure, he grabs your ankles, uncrossing them and pulling your high heels off slowly, all before kissing his way up your calf, and up to your mid-thigh, where the slit in your dress begins. he looks up at you pleadingly, expression reading ‘may i?’ and you could praise him for being so polite if he wasn’t enduring punishment.

you nod slightly, raising your hips just enough so corio could hike your dress up, bunching up at your waist.

his eyes stay on yours, watching you intently as he pulls your delicate, lacy, black and pink, panties down your smooth legs, before gently placing them on the floor next to him.

when you part your legs ever so slightly, the eyes boring into yours spark up with excitement and hope. he finally breaks eye contact when he shuts his eyes and lays his tongue flat against your cunt, lapping up the ego-boosting amount of arousal that’s drooling from your achy hole.

he’s so perfect for you, timing his transitions between fucking into you with his tongue and sucking on your clit just the way he’s learned you like just right, never lingering too long on one part of you.

at this point, you have your legs wrapped around his head tight, nearly restricting his facility to breathe, shamelessly moaning and praising his ministrations. “fuck, yes corio! oh fuck, you’re gonna make me cum? yeah? so fucking pathetic,” you spit at him in between borderline moans so pornographic that you’re apprehensive that somebody outside of the four walls you’re in may hear you, but it doesn’t seem to bother you that much, considering the lack of you lowering your own volume.

and the sounds, the sounds are vile, fucking disgusting. his salivated muscle messily dragging all over your labia, his perfectly pouted lips making out with your pussy like he’s in love with it (he is). all of the insanely erotic factors of this moment don’t do anything to hold off your impending release, and with a weak cry of the boy beneath you’s name, sweet syrup leaks out from your tight hole lands onto corio’s anticipating tongue, and you can feel him smile against you at the taste of it.

he drinks it all down in no time and when he continues to lather his tongue all over your clit, not seeming to want to be done, you have to physically pull his head away from you as a result of overstimulation.

he frowns but when he sees the look on your face, your exhausted, satisfied, fucked-out, face, he has to bite his lip to contain his smile.

“i did good?” there’s a special twinkle to his eye, and you find it all-enamoring.

“so good,”

“you forgive me?”

“yes, but next time you pull some shit like that, i’ll jerk you off under the dinner table, you hear me?”

#.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ 𝐤𝐚𝐢𝐚 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 !#angelnon 🤍#kai's got mail <3📑#young coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow fanfiction #corio angel 🪽★#tbosas smut #tbosas #thg smut #the hunger games #tom blyth smut #tom blyth #coriolanus snow #got just a tad bit carried away here.. oops!#kaia writes coriolanus

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sixosix · 19 days

Note

happy 5k, six! i remember finding you randomly one day bc i wanted to read more genshin fics and look where you are today!! you absolutely deserve all the love n support you're given rn /p /happy

in any case, i can't resist the event calling out to me frfr, so if it's possible, may i please request a badtzmaru plushie, wanderer, and fluff?

wc 300, modern au; THANK U SO MUCH ANON WHATTT that means so much to me!! so glad u were w me thru my journey... and also im sorry LMFAOO u sent this ask a month ago,,, i hope u'll be able to read this anon<3

5K EVENT SPECIAL | EVENT MASTERLIST

“What the hell is that,” Kunikuzushi said blankly.

“It looks like you! Doesn’t it?”

The badtz-maru plush stared back at him, daring him to deny it. Kunikuzushi glared at it with contempt rolling off of him in actual visible waves. “No. No, it really doesn’t.”

You held the plushie by his face and compared the unhappy expressions. They looked terrifyingly similar. It was hilarious, and so you burst out laughing at Kunikuzushi’s face.

Bullied, Kunikuzushi snatched the plushie off your grip and reared it far from your reach. “Why do you even have this?”

Kunikuzushi was scowling and trying his best to come off as intimidating, but with the badtz-maru plush in his grip, it was excruciatingly difficult to take him seriously. Or maybe it was because you’d gotten too used to him that it didn’t affect you. His attention was still attention from him.

You grinned and batted your eyelashes in a way you knew would make him falter. “I told you already. It reminded me of you.”

Kunikuzushi was still scowling, but his arm no longer extended like he was seconds away from chucking the palm-sized stuffed toy. It was still staring at him, and you were reminded of those pets looking like their owner videos.

“How long have you had this?” he asked, voice much quieter. His ears were red.

“Probably since you left to visit Japan.”

“A week?”

“A week!” You gasped. “That’s shorter than your last trip. Did you miss me that much?”

He cocked a brow. “This is more home than that shithole.”

You wanted to coo and tease him for that rare glimpse of vulnerability (even when veiled by his indirect wording), but you knew what he meant—you knew what it felt like. Your quiescent house only ever felt like a home when Kunikuzushi was here.

“Should I buy you a plushie that looks like me for you to take?” you wondered aloud, genuinely considering it. The stupid badtz-maru plushie you bought out of a moment of weakness from missing him, no matter how ridiculous, helped you when your arms felt a little lonely.

“No need.” Kunikuzushi threw the plushie to the bed, ignoring your alarmed shout. He drew you in by the waist and smiled in that deceptively sweet way only he could really pull off. “I’ll just take the real deal along with me instead.”

#606: 5K EVENT #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x you #kunikuzushi x reader #kunikuzushi x you #wanderer x reader #wanderer x you

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rottiens · 5 days

Text

stay longer in me, | satoru gōjō

summary. desperation to be recognized by your brother may lead you to take decisions that you could regret.

tags. (18+), dark content. stepcest / incest, canon au, breeding kink, lactation kink, afab reader, pregnancy discussions, hints of gojo being attracted to his mother (yeah.. sorry). divider creds: cafekitsune.

wc. 2.4k

You know that Satoru has never looked at you as another member of the Gojo clan. He has never seen you as a sister, but as the mistake his mother made that they must pretend to be proud of while trying to hide the truth as if it were possible to cover the sun with a finger.

Since you became aware of the world around you, you realized how close Satoru and his father were. The fact that he did not tolerate you was for you a sign of loyalty. You took it on and accepted it, even if deep down it hurt, without questioning your mother's actions, even if it cost you.

Even though all this was going on in your mind and no one ever verbalized how wrong it was that a bastard daughter of the leader of one of the most important clans was living there with them under the same roof as their only legitimate son, their looks of contempt and pursed lips said it all. None of them needed to speak for you to know what they were saying behind your back: the murmurs, the gestures, and the obvious contrast of the color of your hair compared to your parents' spoke louder than words. You understood that you were not his father's daughter without needing to ask.

It's not like you really needed his validation, but Satoru, being your brother especially, you expected more from him. More understanding. You expected to feel exonerated of all blame for a mistake that wasn't even yours, but his look of indifference and superiority told you everything you needed to know: he didn't like you.

As time went on and he had more responsibilities, Satoru stopped visiting the clan frequently and spent more time at school. You heard about his missions and adventures, and despite everything, you were proud of him and what he was accomplishing. After all, you could always see him once a year at the clan's celebratory anniversary.

“Hey.” Your body bows in a curtsy at the sight of him, but he undoes the gesture with a wave of his hand before you can lower your back any further. “Stop that. Come here, let me look at you.”

The kind tone confuses you; you think Satoru can see it on your face by the way a lopsided smile quivers. This attitude is new and leaves you intrigued; he never addresses you or pays attention to you.

You take a step closer to the front, hands still hidden in the light blue kimono, much like his own, and Satoru glances at you.

“Look at you, you're taller.”

Satoru places a hand on your head and pats it in small strokes, flashing you a smile that intrigues you. Despite his technique, he decides to turn off his infinity to touch you directly.

“I think you look the same way.” Maybe a little bigger, you can notice it even under the fabric of the kimono, but you'd rather not make the comment to him.

Satoru keeps his hand to the side of his body and watches you a little longer before leaning towards you as if examining you.

“So you're in marriage season, hm?”

You can't deny the surprise that comes over you when he comments; you didn't know he was aware of it.

“Yes.” You nod.

“Have you met him yet?”

“He's a blond man, about your height.”

You make a gesture with your hand indicating the height of his shoulders.

Satoru shakes his head in approval, “Let's go to the tea room, you can tell me all about it there.” And then walks towards you, placing a hand on your lower back to guide you to walk with him down the hallway. You let him guide you with his invisible hand without touching your body, as if you don't know the places in your own home.

The room you arrive in is decorated in traditional Japanese style, with a low table on the floor. On the table, cups of tea and a teapot sit, emitting a comforting aroma that fills the room with a sense of warmth.

Satoru sits next to you cross-legged and pours tea into both cups without asking how much you want to drink. As you watch in silence, you can't help but feel incredulous.

“Why?” Satoru brings the cup to his lips and doesn't look at you as he swallows, giving you time to ponder the question you filled the room with. “It's strange that you're being so nice now.”

He holds back a smile and lowers the cup to the table before looking at you with a relaxed expression.

“You don't trust your older brother's actions?”

No, you want to answer, but your lips seal as you process the words you'll say next.

“You've never acted like this before with me and I want to know why, what changed now.”

Satoru averts his gaze to the window facing outside. Through it, a quiet garden can be seen, adorned with small lanterns softly illuminating the scenery. The afternoon sun filters through the leaves of the trees, creating a play of dancing shadows on the tatami floor of the room.

“It was for your own good, for mine even.” You haven't touched the cup, intrigued by every new word that comes from his tea-stained lips.

“You're just like her.”

“Her?”

“My mother.” My. Not ours. You don't recognize what's in his tone: contempt, possession, spite. Yet you keep probing.

“What's that got to do with anything.”

“When I saw you, I saw her, and it was hard not to think about what she did. I didn't mean for you to feel like I hated you, because I don't.”

Satoru stops looking out the window to turn his gaze to you. In the evening light, he is fully exposed to the orange rays that bathe the details of his face: scarred jaw and naked blue eyes glowing under the brightness.

Unable to maintain eye contact any longer, you pick up the cup and take a sip. The herbal tea burns your tongue a little, but you decide to take another sip anyway.

“So you're going to be a family woman soon… Do you want to have children?” you hear him ask and you don't look at him, you lose yourself in the wavy dance the infusion does as you set the cup down on the table.

“I'm not sure, though the clan is definitely going to want me to have them,” you laugh bitterly smoothing non-existent wrinkles in your kimono. Then you lift your head and see him look at you with concern, a slight frown that is barely noticeable before he reverts to his usual stoic state where you don't know what's going through his head.

“Of course,” he replies ever so plaintively.

“You?” the word comes out of your mouth out of politeness more than anything else, eager to share and further elongate an encounter with your brother that never happened when you were younger.

Satoru cooes, glancing you up and down to conclude with a grimace that mimics a smile.

“I think I'm more interested in the process.”

“The process?” your eyes widen. You internally debate in taking more of the little tea left in the cup or pretending you weren't taken by surprise by what he said.

“Sex.”

“I know exactly what you meant.”

“Is it a subject that makes you uncomfortable?” Satoru insists as you look hesitant to pick up the cup, it shakes a little in your fingers before you finish it all in one gulp and set it back down on the surface with a clink of the ceramic meeting the wood.

“No.”

“Then, what's the problem?” Satoru examines your reaction, his eyes narrowing briefly in your direction and the corners of his mouth crinkling slightly.

“None.”

“Then you're not a virgin?”

“Satoru.”

He smiles now, not with his teeth. The corners of his mouth blur from the straight line he keeps whenever you're together and for the first time you get a flash of the Satoru Gojo you hear rumors of. Relaxed, funny, annoying, flirty.

“So you are, I really had my doubts.” He shrugs softly. You notice his finger outlining the rim of the cup in lazy circles. “More tea?” The question is more of a polite one, as he doesn't wait for you to answer before filling it a second time.

“I don't think it's appropriate to discuss this with you.”

“Why? I'm your big brother.” You lick dry lips and notice the hot steam rising from the infusion and brushing against his skin protected by his Infinity. You notice his long fingers around the teapot and the few veins protruding from the back of his pale hand.

“That's exactly why.” You pick up the thread of conversion that bubbles to the rhythm in which the tea finds the cup.

“Have you ever kissed anyone before?”

“I don't have to answer that.”

You're purposefully avoiding his gaze now. Too hot inside to maintain eye contact.

“Come on. Don't be a coward, I'll tell you if I have too.”

“I know you have.” You dare to look at him and you swear his eyes are looking past you, the deep sky blue in his eyes seems to consume you completely, it makes you feel smaller than him and you force your hands to stay still on your knees and not run to hug your own chest.

“How do you know?”

“I've heard the rumors.”

“So I'm popular then,” Satoru laughs sarcastically under his breath and picks up the cup.

“I did kiss someone,” you confess spontaneously, and Satoru starts to pay more attention.

“Our parents don't count.” Your mouth opens reproachfully. “I'm talking about a real kiss, on the lips.” You remain silent, your lower lip trembles a little, and you soothe it by chewing it with your teeth. “Oh I knew it. Come closer,” satoru gently pats his crossed legs. “Into my lap.”

“I don't think we…” maybe you weren't sure about a lot of things but, you know and you got the feeling that this wasn't right. The conversion to where it was directed, the knot in your stomach, your wet hands were witness to that.

“I just want to see something up close,” he whispers, but despite the shiver that runs down your back, there is something in his gaze that draws you in: the recognition and, to some extent, the attention you always craved from him.

You glide across the wooden floor like an obedient pet, approaching him with your cursed energy gushing out of you. With his help, you position yourself better on his lap.

At first, his hands are hidden, out of your sight. Gradually you feel them on your waist, then on your hips, stopping finally at your ribs, where your breath hitches. You try to ignore his stare, but it's unavoidable. His right hand slides up, between your ribs and your chest, stopping gently on your chin, forcing you to look at him.

With his thumb, he pulls your lower lip apart, revealing a fleeting flash of your teeth. You hesitate between looking into his eyes or staring at his mouth. The thought of kissing him crosses your mind briefly, but guilt hits you hard, making you dizzy for an instant.

Satoru strokes your lip gently, and before you can process it, he leans over you and kisses you. At first, he holds still, feeling you tremble beneath him, letting what just happened sink into your chest- you have the option to pull away and run but as you remain still he a few seconds later deepens the kiss, exploring every corner of your mouth curiously. His tongue ventures deeper, tasting the herbs still lingering on your tongue.

The hand on your chin prevents you from moving, keeping you trapped in his eyes as he pulls away. Though you wish to hide your face, he holds you there, under his dominance.

“You have such soft lips. And these beautiful tits…” he says, looking down between the slit he formed between the kimono's folds. Your chin is free again after he moves down your throat and stands still on your chest, carefully spreading more of the fabric on either side and your bare chest is at his disposal. “They are beautiful.”

You run from his eyes even though they are not looking at you. Your nipples react to his words and your skin bristles at the thought that he might touch them. Through the Infinity as a barrier Satoru cradles your breasts and something shimmers in his eyes as he lifts them to you.

“I want to suck them.” His eyelashes flutter. You nod, still hesitantly.

When his lips touch you he purrs with satisfaction, you seek to justify your guilt by thinking there is nothing wrong with this. Perhaps, even, the connection between you will grow even stronger after this moment. Satoru grabs your breast from underneath with a large, firm hand, pulling it into his mouth greedily, savoring every inch with his expert tongue and teeth. In the distance, you can hear the distant murmur of clan members, reminding you that they could approach the tea room at any moment.

Alarmed, you look over his head to the door and as you return you catch him looking up at you from below with his tongue flat on a sensitive, hardened nipple. “So so sweet,” he muses. “And they'll be full of milk one day, oh your husband is so lucky.”

You inhale deeply, feeling the air cool your brain. Your body tingles with shivers, and your thighs feel uncomfortably tight on his. Soon, your hips are desperately searching for something to roll over, releasing some of the pent-up heat.

With teary eyes, you plead to him, and he grants you one last suck before pulling away with a popping sound, only to turn his technique back on once more. Satoru wipes the corner of his lips with his thumb, a mischievous smile playing across his face.

“Really fucking sweet,” he repeats, with an even wider grin. “Will you let me do it any time I want?” The rush of adrenaline, coupled with your own thoughts, prevents you from hearing what he says next, but still, you nod. “Even when you're married? Will you let me suck them as much as I want?” he asks with a defiant tone.

Before you can answer, the sound of rapid footsteps on the wooden floor approaches from outside. You hurry to get up from his lap and arrange your attire as you make your way to the window, trying to buy time and improve the appearance of your kimono while looking out over the garden.

Satoru remains motionless on the floor, taking another sip of tea when your father enters the room. You bow in reverence, but are completely ignored as your father welcomes his son home.

#wr #cw dark content #cw stepcest #cw incest #tw incest #tw stepcest #tw dark content #gojo x reader

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ncis-nerd · 9 days

Text

Tears Fixed

a/n: part 2 of a mission gone wrong

grey november au

warnings: nightmares, injuries, smut, petnames (r receiving), reader has a uterus, hurt/comfort, crying, nat squeezes r's arm too tight, oral (r receiving), tickling.

Soft snores escape her mouth. You glance over to find her passed out. You smile and takes her laptop off her stomach, turning off the movie the two of you were watching. Natasha must have been tired, you know her last mission took a lot out of her.

"NO! YOU FUCKING-" you woke up to Natasha thrashing around in the bed. Scared, you try to shake her awake. You've never seen her like this before. "Natty, wake up. It's not real. Come back to me." You mumbled, gently shaking the older woman.

Her eyes fluttered open with a gasp. "Shh t's okay" you hold her close. "You're safe Natty" you mumbled, stroking her cheek. She gripped onto your arm tightly, it kind of hurt but you dismissed it as it brought the older woman comfort.

Your arm began to turn red and you exhaled in pain. "Shit, I'm so sorry baby love." She whispered. "What happened Natty?" You look at her teary-eyes.

"I dreamt I was back there.." She trailed off. You took the hint that she wasn't ready to talk more about it, based off her silence and hesitance.

Your arm rubbed her shoulder gently, "you don't have to tell me if your not ready" you whispered, your head traveling to the crook of her neck. You lay against her comfortably. You sigh in contempt and she continues to hold you close to her.

----

"Can you braid my hair." You mumbled against her skin. Her braiding your hair brought the both of you comfort and you knew it was just what you guys needed.

She began to pull you away from her neck. You whine softly. She smiles at you, shushing you. Her hands smoothen your hair, she parted your hair and began to braid.

Her green eyes look at you admiring the braid. "I look like you" you smiled. She began to attack you with kisses, her fingers found it's way to stomach and began to tickle you. "Careful little one, I'm still older than you and stronger.

"You giggled and squirmed beneath her. "Natty, can't breath" her kisses turned into something more than innocent teasing.

Her lips attached to your abdomen. You moaned softly as one of her hands found it's place on your stomach and the other trailed down to rest dangerously high on your thigh. You could feel your underwear dampen. You were soaked.

You close your eyes and sigh softly, trying to take in all of her touch. She looked up, stopping her actions for a moment. "You okay detka? Want me to stop?" She paused, waiting for permission to continue.

"D-don't stop." You say shakily. She smiled, getting the hint that you were more on the silent side during sex, not that she minded of course. She loved any reaction she could get out of you. She was not definitely not greedy.

The older woman trailed her kisses down to your heat. She looked back up at you to make sure you hadn't changed your mind. You nodded, giving her permission to continue. She slid your underwear off and one her hands found yours.

Fingers interlaced, you hold onto her. Her tongue finds it's way to your clit and she starts to suck on it. You gasp softly, your legs attempt to close, she smiles and holds it open with her other hand.

Her hand begins to trace lazy circles on your thigh and she started to speed up her actions. Your legs begin to shake and she smiles. Seeing how close you are. What effect she has on you. Fuck, you're so wet and taste so damn good. She thinks to herself.

She wonders why she hadn't done this sooner, made you hers sooner. You continue to sqirum and that begins her back to reality. "You close, lovie?" She mumbles against you.

All you can do is nod, gripped the sheets with your free hand and squeezing the interlaced hand. She takes this as a sign to push you over the edge.

Your high approaches with small little gasps. She cleans you up with her tongue and goes back you to meet you. She looks at your glossy eyes, all fucked out.

"How was that, bunny?" She whispered softly against you. "So fucking good" you mumbled in return, breathlessly.

part 1

taglist: @ssa-shaylam @madamevirgo @radcherryblossompainter @midastouch013 @dumbasslesbi @krystallevine @ellieromanov @fxckmiup @viosblog112

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truly-neutral-art · 21 days

Text

Din/Luke Pacific Rim AU pt.2

Pt.1 | Pt.3 | Pt.4

Another addition to this AU because It's been living in my head rent free for ages. I can't do a Pacific Rim AU without recreating the iconic Kwoon scene. Also, I was too lazy to draw backgrounds so I just stole them from the movie ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Under the cut is a teaser of the fic I'm trying to write. It's a first draft, so there's probably some mistakes. Also, I'm still kind of in Screen Writing mode from school, so please don't mind if there's not a lot of internal character narration.

“Four points to two,” Luke calls after the final candidate falls. His emotions are carefully masked on his face but Din can see how tense he is.

“We’re wasting time, Marshal. He’s barely compatible with any of them, this isn’t going to work,” Luke says.

“What do you suggest?” The Marshal raises a brow.

“Put me in charge, I’m drift compatible with several cadets. We don’t need him.” Luke gestures towards Din. The look on his face makes Din’s blood boil. Contempt. What did he ever do to Luke to earn this?

“What’s your problem, Skywalker?” Din stomps towards the edge of the mat.

“I’ve already told you, I don’t think you're the right man for the job,” Luke replies. He’s now turned squarely towards Din, his face back to that eerie calm. It sends a shiver down Din’s spine.

“No, there’s more. You’ve got a problem with me.” Din steps closer, trying to ignore the piercing blue of Luke’s eyes.

“Enough! both of you.” Marshal Skywalker turns to them both.

“If you think you’re so much better, then let’s go.” Din points his bō at Luke. “If you win, you can pilot the Crest. If I win, you back off.” Din holds Luke's gaze, projecting his challenge.

“Neither of you are in the position to make that decision,” Anakin states, breaking the spell.

“What? Think your own blood isn’t good enough to beat me?” Din didn’t know Marshal Skywalker that well, but from what he did know, the man was prideful. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest move, but it got him what he wanted.

The Martial turned towards Luke, earning his attention. No words were exchanged between them, the Martial simply gave a nod. A brief look of satisfaction washed over Luke’s face. Din turned towards the mat to prepare for the fight before Luke’s eyes turned back to him.

Luke stepped to the edge of the mat, shoes and outer shirt removed. He bowed at the waist before stepping forward. He was in a simple black tank top and the standard cargo pants. It was the first time Din had seen any of his skin exposed beyond his face. His arms and neck were covered in pale, lightning-like scars that looked like they extended beyond what Din could see. He wasn’t sure what to make of them. He knew almost nothing about Luke when he really thought about it. Only what he heard from the news from the past four years.

He had to admit, it made him earn a little more respect for the kid. At first he’d seemed like a petulant child who was getting his favorite toy taken away, but now, Din wasn’t as sure that was the case. He had no more time to think on it as he and Luke passed each other on the mat, walking to opposite sides, then turning to face each other.

In the blink of an eye Luke swung his bō with the finesse of a warrior. He moved forward before stopping in the middle of the mat as he pulled his bō up in defense. Din followed suit, taking on a more aggressive starting position. He could tell Luke was analyzing him, eyes flitting around to every point of his body. Din took the opportunity to attack. In one swift moment he had his bō mimicking a strike at Luke’s skull.

“One, Zero.” The words had barely left his mouth before Luke made a counter attack. In a flash Luke had reversed their positions with a satisfied smirk.

Without wasting any more time the two began to fight again in an explosion of movement. The people in the kwoon reacted to them, but Din’s focus narrowed in until it was only them in the room. He watched Luke’s movements carefully, anticipating and blocking every attack that came and returning his own. He picked up on a franticness in Lukes’s movements and took advantage, landing an attack on his ribs.

“You’re too eager, you’re projecting your moves,” Din commented as they reset.

“I don’t need your advice.” Despite his words, Luke waited, ready for Din’s next move.

Luke swiftly blocked everything Din threw at him and pushed back even harder. In the next moment Luke attacked with a flurry of blows, catching Din off guard. He was stronger than he looked.

“Two, two.” Luke had once again evened the score.

There was barely a pause before they were at it again. This bout lasted longer than the others, both having picked up on each other’s gambit. They danced around each other, the only sound in Din’s ears were the clacking of their bō staffs and their heavy breathing. Neither was holding back.

In a blur of motion Luke darted towards Din’s legs, throwing him off balance. Din rolled out of the throw but as he lifted his head he was met with Luke’s bō to his throat. Luke's eyes were no less intense this close.

“Two, Three.” Luke stepped back into a ready position. “Better watch out, Djarin.” There was a satisfied smirk on his face. He was winning. Din wouldn’t give up that easily.

He pulled out every trick he had, but Luke seemed to always be a step ahead. He was too fast, almost as if he could read Din’s mind. From the outside it would almost look like this was rehearsed. In the end, it was Din’s weight advantage that won him the point. He moved in close and pinned Luke's arm before throwing him down to the mat. The blond hit the ground on his back, breath escaping his lungs from the impact.

Din almost went to help him up but Luke threw his legs backwards into a handstand before standing back up. He barely looked affected, the only sign of fatigue on him was the sweat on his forehead that matted down his blond hair.

“Three, Three,” Din called. “And there’s no need to show off.”

The next point would declare a winner. There was a smile on Luke’s face, different from the ones before. This one was more open, leaving Din feeling dizzy instead of insulted.

Din tried to understand it but there was no more time to ponder as Luke set on his next attacks. He was more aggressive than he’d been the rest of the fight but Din pushed back, not without some difficulty. Luke danced around Din with a frightening agility. The only thing that kept Din in the fight for so long were his reflexes. He knew he had to end this fight soon or Luke would eventually wear him down.

In a decisive move Din attacked at Luke’s head, trading off his defense for offense. He had Luke on the move, nearly pushing him off the mat. However, before he could land a finishing blow Luke darted to the side, slipping his leg between Din’s and toppling him to the floor. When Din processed what happened, he was pinned under Luke’s hips on his chest and his bō at his neck.

Cheers erupted from the gathered crowd, but Din’s view had narrowed into Luke as he stood up. Din stayed on the ground, still a bit stunned from the end of the fight. He wasn’t really sure how to feel about its outcome. But one thing was for certain, he and Luke were drift compatible. Very drift compatible.

Din was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t even realize Luke was reaching down to him until his hand was in his face. He took it and allowed Luke to help him to his feet.

“You felt it too, didn’t you?” Luke asked.

“Yeah.”

#dinluke #star wars #luke skywalker #din djarin #art #dinluke fanart #fanfic #fanfiction #pacific rim au #dinluke au #tru's dinluke pacific rim au

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50cal-fullauto-astarion · 9 months

Text

to leave the blood stay in the veins

monster!könig x f!rcursed!reader (no use of 'y/n') 6.6k words NSFW!

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT‼️CW: extremely NSFW, descriptions of gore, implied consumption of human flesh by a non-human monster, mention of necrotic curse, monsterfucking, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, knotting (no omegaverse), outdoor sex, ambiguous ending, pre-established relationship, 0% proofread, könig and reader are both fucking unhinged.

Day 01 of the Haunted Hoedown Challenge by @/inklore

taboo au (monsterfucking) + "i'll be your dirty little secret, if that's what you're into." + oh no i'm dating the town serial killer

There is a beast in the woods, and it leaves so little meat on the bone that not even carrion birds find value in the corpses it leaves behind.

It’s a strange town in the foothills of the Austrian Alps, full of little sicknesses hiding in the corners, and you learned them well when you moved here. No one goes past the treeline at night. Hardly anyone is outside of home if they can help it. Tourists are the beast’s fodder.

Your boyfriend thinks it’s funny.

König, under his ever-present hood–a not altogether uncommon sight in your town, people come here when they have something to hide, something they are uncomfortable with or find hideous in themselves, and he has given an unimaginable amount for you out of love–laughs, sharp in the tooth.

“Anyone dumb enough to head into the trees is dumb enough to die,” he teases, but there is an arrogance and a contempt swimming deep in his bloodshot blue eyes.

“That’s coldblooded, but not wrong,” you tell him, from behind your own mask. Plain thing, blank in expression, modeled from the one from Eyes Without A Face. It covers the ravages of a curse, numb necrosis slowly spreading up your face through the years. “I still want you to get me a gun.”

“What’s a gun going to do against a thing like that?” he asks, tilting his head, the hood bagging off the curled horns that start at his temples and sweep back over his ears. “Something like that, you need silver. I’ll get you a knife. Big one. Nice and fucking sharp, Schatzi.”

The knife isn’t a comfort when the beast begins to hunt in town. It stalks from house to house, preying on people in their beds, their living rooms, their bathtubs–there is no rhyme or reason, not a whit of discernable pattern.

Only teeth-gouged bones and viscera ground into wall, tile, and carpet alike. Your neighbor falls victim, and you watch the police from your window, flinching when a veteran officer stumbles out into the fall-frosted grass to vomit, sobbing and pulling his hair.

“It got Emil,” you say, still watching through your sheer curtains.

König nearly cackles from your bed, lounging as he visits. “Good. Emil was a piece of shit. Depperte Fut.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, over your shoulder, before returning back to the circus in the yard next door. “‘Stupid cunt’ is a pretty strong insult. He was an asshole, but I don’t think he deserved to die like that,” you mumble.

“You don’t know all that much about your neighbors, Schatzi.”

You begin to rock side-to-side on your hips, the enormous silver blade König gifted you turning over and over in your hands, the point digging lightly into your palm.

It’s insane, the way you begin to tell yourself that you’ve seen König’s face nearly everyday for the last two years—you can see it right now. He lies on your bed, pointed teeth gleaming under his split philtrum in the soft yellow light of the bedside lamp and the red-blue flash of the cruisers. You know there is a man under the hood, however odd and satyr-seeming.

And yet. And yet.

The blade digs a little too deep, drawing a curse-blackened bead of blood. König’s eyes burn into the back of your neck, and you can only guess his horizontal pupils dilate into black holes.

Just quit your job. I’ll take care of you.

It’s a simple enough promise, and one you know König will keep, but not one you’re willing to make. You have few shreds of independence, hard-bought through years of fighting back against misfortunes and setbacks, and, no matter the depths with which you love him, you’re not willing to trade your shit wage on faith for love of a man. It doesn’t matter how helplessly besotted he is.

It’s this molar-cracking grit that delivers you right to the beast. Because you were forced to pick up an extra half shift at the hotel to fold towels behind the front desk, because you needed the money, because you wanted to pay back your beautiful, bloodthirsty boyfriend for the ridiculous blade he begat you.

The god forsaken thing lumbers down a deserted street, blocks from your little rental, and something fucking horrendous seizes you. It’s enormous, walking on cloven hooves and back-bent legs. Its arms are too fucking long, clawed, jagged. And worst is the skull, bleached white and glowing like a beacon in the dark, an enormous rack of brutally sharp horns dripping trinkets of bone and gold that glints in the street lamp it approaches.

A horrible fact hits you. It’s not lumbering, it’s wandering. Putting a massive, craggy hand on fences and peering into houses, taking its time, evaluating. You swear you can almost hear it humming.

You don’t know when your hand found the handle of the silver blade strapped to your belt under your coat, but the leather on the grip bites your palm with the force of your grip, a nauseous, cold sweat terror tearing apart your ability to think.

It’s a primal fear, one that makes you want to protect your soft, vulnerable neck, even if the blood that warms it runs venomous.

It’s a bad choice, but there are no good ones. When the beast lifts its head and scents the air, skull snapping your direction and shaking its grisly trophies, you run. You snap the huge blade off your hip and drop into a dead sprint, cutting between yards, trying to escape the horrendous bellow that reverberates through the bony chambers of the monster’s skull.

Choosing to run instead of freezing maybe bought you a few extra minutes before death decided it was time to seize your pulse in reclamation, and it hurts. The physical exertion it takes to bomb through the last stretches of suburbia before the forest closes in feels like you are breaking every bit of your body by forced choice, listening to that awful fucking thing chase after you.

Your blade makes a slicing sound cutting through the air at your side, the monster’s hooves pound the dirt as it digs in and chases after you, but, good god, it doesn’t sound like it’s even trying.

You don’t dare look back, pushing your body past agony, your lungs shredding in your chest. You’ve never moved this fast, you’ve never run this hard for this long. Your body is TV static—hissing, popping, distant—and, insanely, the urge to cry drills into your eye sockets.

You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to fucking die, stupidly and dumbly and pointlessly, because you wanted to pay your boyfriend a stupid sum of fucking money, for a stupid fucking knife that he bought you on a stupid fucking joke.

Two meters from the second worst decision of your life, the monster snaps out, rough hand between your shoulder blades, crashing you into the goddamned dirt. Your eyebrow splits on a tree root, your eyes roll in the back of your head, your hand stays manically tight on the blade, slicing your other arm.

“Schaaaatzi,” the miserable fucking thing hisses, pressing that same hand between your shoulder blades, pinning you into the freezing dirt.

Oh, god, no, it has König’s voice. It’s—it’s not him, but it has his voice, thin and washed out as low-hung fog, but you would know that voice. In hell, in high water, in the dirt with a massive, bark-rough hand grinding your skin raw through your coat—you - know - his - voice.

Furiously, you slash the blade over your head, behind your back, screaming and digging your feet in the dirt. For a brief second, as you hack at the wood of the monster’s hand and wrist, you’re even able to push yourself off the ground by mere inches. The beast growls and shoves you back down twice as hard, knocking the wind out of you, spasming your hand open. The knife drops, and you begin to blindly try digging and dragging yourself away.

“Stop…hurting…me,” the beast lows, still in your boyfriend’s voice, and you imagine a bathtub full of gnawed bones, a living room with scattered body parts, your kitchen smeared with blood like cave wall art, and you start to scream as loud as your lungs will allow, your mask filling with dirt in your horrendous and futile bid to escape. Bloody murder bellows, filled with rage, wanting to kill and consume and conflagrate.

If König is dead, you will take your pound of flesh. You will either die fighting, or win, and you will hack apart this freak-fuck’s corpse to burn in your woodstove to warm your home. You’ll mount its fucking skull on your front door, so anything else in these woods will know you won’t hesitate to make trophies of them either.

Bone, warm to the touch, presses against the back of your head. When it breathes, the air is as hot as exhaust, almost scalding your back. “Schatzi,” it bids you slowly once again.

“I’LL KILL YOU!” it rips your throat raw to shriek it, reaching back and almost dislocating your arms to rip at anything you can. Your hands fall on the dressings attached to its horns, you tear off a vertebra, and a gold wedding band, and a bracelet of rave kandi in plastic beads. “IF YOU HURT HIM, I’LL YOU FUCKING KILL YOU!”

The head presses harder, driving your face into the dirt. There is something desperate in the pressure. It spits all at once, grating and wide in a voice you know better than your own, “You pissed off a fucking witch, because you ran out of riddles to tell her, when she was ransoming you to your arshloch grandmother. She never paid. That’s why you were cursed—no one gave a fuck. But I gave her my face for you, to stop it halfway, better than fucking nothing.”

Your rage freezes immediately, your chest heaving under the weight it presses down on you.

No one knows that. Only König. He’s the only person who would know about his lonely and quiet climb up to the Scottish highlands. Besides you, and the witch, König is the only one who would know why his human face was distorted, malformed, made animalistic.

“Lee?” you pant, unleashing part of his first name, the only one he ever tolerates. And, fuck, instantly the pressure pulls away, the skull rubbing against your back to soothe it.

“It’s me, Schatzi,” the slow voice promises, nuzzling you. There’s rustling above you that you don’t dare turn to see. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

A tinkling piece of jewelry lowers in front of your eyes, and you can see that it dangles from an enormous, ligneous finger. You’re being shown a sterling silver charm bracelet. You’re being shown your bracelet, the one you thought you had lost months ago.

Your hand shoots out, wrapping around the finger, the peeling bark shearing off under your grip. You find instantly that you can pull yourself up on your hip, sitting, caged and protected under the beast’s massive body—under König’s massive body.

He shifts back onto his digitagrade haunches, holding himself over you, still offering your bracelet. He shudders at your touch on his hand, and you imagine that he may’ve never been handled with kindness in this shape. Which makes a certain amount of sense. Because he fucking kills and eats people.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snap, staring dead into the hollow sockets of his eyes. He shifts uncomfortably, turning his head. “Why—you have me so fucked up—what have you been thinking—?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, do you have to—”

“Yes, I have to, fucker.” It’s impossible to wrap your head around the magnitude of what a simple secret and a silver bracelet has done to your understanding of the world. A complete unraveling—upheaval, utterly.

You take the bracelet from his finger, on which it fits like a ring, and push it into your wrist, sitting up on your knees and grabbing him by the underside of his jaw. Though it puts you in his blind spot, staring dead center at the sinus dimples between his eyes, it feels like you have a mote of power over him.

(If he were asked, he would say the power you hold over him could corrupt, absolutely. He would badly like you to ask someday.)

“Why are you—what are you? Have you always been like this? Or was this new, with the fucking witch? Are—Jesus Christ—why are—the monster isn’t supposed to come into town, why are you in TOWN?” you run off at the mouth, words stalling and crashing and fusing together as your thoughts overwhelm just how quickly you can speak.

And up from that impossibly deep throat–simultaneously from the center of your brain, and from all around you all at once–crawls König’s pitchy hyena-laugh, edged, always, with cruelty. He butts the jagged end of his nasal cavities into your stomach, catching on the threads of your sweater.

“Leshy, Schatzi, say it for me.”

Your hands pull his jaw closer, digging the bone into your stomach, wondering if he can feel the pressure of your deep breathing. Oh, fuck, you could crack. This is your König. You start to wonder how many of his perverse buttons you can hit, the part of you that felt shame for your attraction to what the world discarded as ‘ugly’ long ago removed from your emotional bank.

“Leshy,” you say, really leaning into the word, saying it deep in your chest. One of your hands travels the long length to the hinge of his jaw, gripping tight, directing his head to turn so you can meet one of his empty eyes. “Answer my fucking questions.”

The laugh doesn’t come this time. In its place is a near-violent whole-body shudder that wracks through you.

“Old! Alwaaays been this way,” and even in the strange disconnect of his voice from his physical form, you can tell his arousal is eating away at him in big bites–clipping his speech, broiling his brain with body heat, “can’t remember ever being young, haa-haa. And why do you think I’m hunting in town?”

Another trap, a stupid pop quiz, wanting to test your knowledge of him, or a gotcha! to check your observations and what you had missed.

Your hands get tighter, and you pull his jaw open, marveling at the sharp grooves ground into his teeth, like nightmarish, ivory rook pieces, tall and straight in the dry sockets. His chest begins to heave, his breath fogging into steaming clouds over your hands, and, remarkably, it smells like nothing at all apart from pin needles and snow.

You’d thought you’d smell decaying flesh or rotten blood. The only blood you can smell comes from your own busted brow and sliced arm, crusting black on your skin and in the fabric of your sweater as it coagulates.

“If I was working on a hunter’s instincts, I would say that Schladming has become too good at keeping people out of the forests. Even during daylight hours. It cuts down on prey,” you say, ice cold and clean as a slit throat. Your eyes flick back up to the socket, surrounded by the feeling that those glass-blue eyes of his humanoid form are drilling into you. He’s waiting for you to hit the hook. “But I’m working on your logic.”

“Oh, yeeaah,” he drawls, his hips shifting, and you feel as if he would bite his lips in anticipation now, if he could.

“Oh, yeeaah,” you echo him, “the logic of a fucking crazy asshole.” He feels like a huge grin, hands on his muscular, bunched, and flexing thighs. That detail is not lost on you. “You’re hunting in town because you’re pissed off. You reached a limit, and you got tired of sitting on your fucking reaction.”

You swear to god he moans a little. Just softly. It could be a breath, but you know him too well to dismiss it out of hand.

“That’s good, Schatzi. I like that. I like that you figured that out,” he says, definitely panting in rhythm now, his fogging breath giving away the rhythm secondary. “People are looking at you too much. I don’t fucking like it when they look at you too much.”

That’s a sudden thought that had not occurred to you, and you lash yourself silently because it hadn’t. König has always been possessive of you. Jealous. Protective. And he held grudges in ways that could spark blood feuds and successive generations of death.

Like a curse.

It’s a testament to how fucking cracked and perfectly matched the two of you are that you start laughing, stroking his orbital bones in big, pleased pats, kissing the bridge of his nose.

“Schatzi, please,” he groans, pressing into you insistently. “Promise you won’t tell. Promise me.”

“Why the fuck would I tell?” you laugh, losing track of your faculties, your very sense. What does it matter? What does it all even mean? You’ve found a man that loves you so deeply and truly and twistedly that he slaughters those who desire or deign you. You’ve found, and fallen in love with a man that would sell his face to save as much of yours as he could. “Who the fuck would I tell?”

The slope of his shoulders relaxes, and he moves closer to you, once again shielding you with the massive bulk of his body, warming you in the cold air. Tucked under his chin, you can study the soft suede-like material of his body, how the bark covering his arms gives way to a ruff of dense, double-layered fur around his shoulders and his long, muscular neck.

The rest of the muscle on him is horrendously hard, flexed like steel cabling under a layer of fat. There is something about this body that reminds you of the shape of the human one so well–long legs, a nipped waist, and flat hips built to strut and rock, all of it buttressing a broad set of shoulders.

You press your face into the ruff, pushing your fingers into it. Dear god, your hand goes deeper and deeper, and it just never seems to stop. His scent is–it’s almost familiar. He’s in there, somewhere–his musk, the metallic tang of blood seemingly sunken into his skin–but there’s so much more to it. Green, and earthy, almost like soil and moss.

A sound comes from his body, like a house settling. A deep, broad creak. The trophies on his horns rattle together, clinking like dull wind chimes. “More,” he says simply, leaving you to figure it out. Simple enough.

Your hand drops from the ruff, tracing over his convex chest, down to his stomach. Another shudder, and he pulls those big arms around your entire body, a fuller, more protective hug than you’ve ever felt.

“Schatzi–would you let me…” he breathes, a heaving sigh.

Another laugh cracks out of you, hysterical, constricted by your mask. Why not? Why shouldn’t you? You’ve always been a woman that loves monsters. You, yourself, are one. You can’t find a reason to halt your hands, nor your body, nor his desire.

In an odd show of tip-to-tail, you push the mask off your face, and kick off your boots, going for your zipper. “Yeah. Yeah, honey, come on. Show me,” you urge him, pawing at his massive waist as you struggle out of your jeans.

He groans and this obscene trill escapes his body–a low, rattling moan that travels miles through every cell of your body, his legs spreading wider. You laugh in delight and mania, watching rapt as his cock slides out of a sheath you hadn’t even caught sight of, his monstrous body a foreign land you hadn’t traveled yet, but, fuck, do you want to learn the lands well enough to call them home.

It’s heavy in your hands, a little slick, and, childishly, you almost giggle (holy shit, that is a sound that has never left your mouth in your living memory, and yet, here you are). It’s hot, hotter than you expected, and a vulnerable shade of pale, like a plant slip. Oh, and it’s elegant, almost spiraling. He huffs as you stroke the length of it, pushing your fingertips into his sheath at the base.

“I don’t think this is gonna fit,” you warn him, and it somehow feels as if you’re challenging yourself with the statement.

He takes it as a challenge for himself, though, and an aspiration to hold for you, “You are going to take all of it. I’m going to make sure.”

His massive hand comes to the back of your waist, finding your fulcrum without needing to search, pulling you off your knees to hold to beneath him. “You naked yet, or still fucking around?” he asks, breathing heavily, and you shove your jeans off the rest of the way.

“You’re being a little bitch,” you snipe, a dumb swipe at reclaiming dignity after you realize you’re so wet that it slicks your thighs, having darkened the crotch of your freshly abandoned jeans pathetically.

He throws another coarse laugh, haa-haa, shifting his massive body long, pulling you into place.

It’s on you, then, to figure out the logistics. Somehow, it just works, even through layers of physical translation. Under your hands, he reads König, loud and clear.

There’s a brief, flighty moment of terror as you rub the head of his cock between the lips of your cunt, rolling your hips to stimulate your clit against it. It is just fucking enormous, almost half again the size of his human cock. But then you grit your teeth, tipping your weight back so your shoulders rest against the dirt, bleak and unyielding ruthlessness seizing your mind.

You do not back down, you have never done it once in your life, and tonight is no different.

His head lifts, bottom jaw dropping, and he bays as you push yourself down on his length. The sound crashes into you, rocking your entire body, and the stretch burns, but you buckle down. What are the people in the houses just at the edge of suburbia thinking? Has the fucking abberation that has been slowly killing its way through their number taken to a different form of punishment? Has someone unlucky fallen to its new tastes?

It cuts your mouth into a horrid grin. If they only knew that you were no victim at all, if only they had an inkling of the fact that you are a victor. That you are the hand holding this nightmare’s collar, and he attacks for the sake of you.

Inch by inch, a slow journey, he fills you, pressing completely against your walls, body shaking with the effort it takes not to thrust fully into you. Oh, what destruction that would result in, what a wreckage that would make of your body, what lengths he would go to not ruin you in such a fashion.

“Fuck–fuck–Liebes,” he mutters, just for you, the moment he is as deep in you as he can go, most of his length still outside of what your body can handle, pleading, “I can’t–I. I have to move. Please, meine Liebes.”

“Go. Go-go-go,” you answer back, almost frantic, too full and occupied, needing motion or you might split apart into atoms. The way he answers is instant, undeniable, desperate, rocking into you as if testing waters, going faster as if he finds them warm and welcoming.

You lose yourselves to it, and your eyes threaten to roll back into your head, gripping onto the elbow of the arm suspending you, blood rushing to your head in an ache from the way you hang off him, forcing you lightheaded. Sap-like blood from where you’d hacked at him in rage drips down your arm, your waist, clinging to your skin in a way that feels permanent.

He tenses all around you, panting, clouds of steam fogging the air over your head from his pants. Words escape him, leaving nothing but animalistic grunts, the grinding of his dry, exposed teeth as your desperate pussy sucks him deeper and tighter.

You’d taught him as a human to find your g-spot, to destroy your brain with a steady climb, and he doesn’t even need to search now, every movement pressing every inch of his cock into it, and unrelenting onslaught that makes you shake and nearly drool, being fucked like a sacrifice.

König raps his other fist above your head and pulls out without warning, shaking his head and breathing roughly.

You imagine brutally grabbing him by the scruff and biting his ear–what kind of punishment would that even be, no worse than a bug bite to him, more likely than anything else–for the loss of his cock. Mostly just an impulsive fantasy, too barbaric and stupid to actually act upon, but you were thoroughly enjoying yourself, and it feels like hell to be split open against him with nothing inside you.

Breathless–and naked, sweating, and trembling in the woods–you start to sit up on your elbows, cunt throbbing. "What is it? Are you okay?" you ask, your love for him–your fear for him–overwhelming even your damnation-worthy starvation.

König, massive and so dark he's almost indistinguishable from the night apart from his skull, shakes his head again and puts up a clawed hand. Fine, the gesture says, and you’re realizing he’s beyond words now, but trying his best to communicate. Then he curls it into a loose fist and pantomimes masturbating and finishing.

"Christ!" But you’re laughing, tugging at a tuft of fur on his chest, spun out in your giddiness. It’s still him, you’ve already known, but to see it. To find him through this–this utterly new reality. "They teach you that signal in the forces?"

In his hollow sockets, twisting his body to watch you closely, he looks pleased with himself, ducking forward, bracing on his free hand to one side of your head as he nuzzles into your neck and breathes deeply.

He huffs, rough fingers running over your back, claws trailing the parts of your spine he can reach as he holds you, before he taps the side of your thigh with his other hand. At your eye level, he turns his finger in a slow loop. Roll over, maybe? It's worth a shot.

"Okay. Alright," you sigh, relieved. When you try to roll in his palm, he shakes his head and sets you down, pressing down against your body, pushing his arm under your ribs. With his other hand, he gestures a flat line on the ground. You ask, "On my stomach?"

Two knocks against the ground next to your head. Yes.

You stretch out flat over the frost-crisp grass, too hot to even register the chill against your bare skin, and König lowers with you, sliding the arm under you down to your diaphragm. With his knuckles, he taps your outer-thighs until they're drawn back together, and your breathing hitches when you understand what he intends.

With his legs on the outside of yours, he uses his free hand to run his cock up the length of your seam to tease your pussy, but he takes his sweet time with it. Impatient, you slide onto your knees with near-perfect timing, driving your entrance against his head, snarling with indignation when he bows away. "Fucker!"

He rumbles something almost humanoid, between a laugh and a gruff, trilling ‘rrrr’ you recognize as cousin to a sharp, challenging hum he makes when faced with an idiot comment in his human shape.

"Stop teasing me. I can't stand it," you try instead, turning to give him big eyes over your shoulder because you know that it works well on him.

He bends down and barely-barely nips the top of your ear, a startling move that leaves you perfectly inflamed all over again again. Greedy brat, it says to you, so pleased in the fact he is so desperately wanted.

The feeling of him inside you is extraordinary. He lubricates in this state, but you hardly need it with the nearly absurd way you’re wet, slick down your thighs. You wonder if your cunt is glimmering under the dim moon and streetlamps, because he'd said that to you once. Heilige sheiße, you have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever fucking seen, could just stare at how wet you get for me forever, he'd laughed during one delirious, marathon session of staying sunken between your legs.

He begins to rock his hips, growling quietly and pleased at the wet sounds of your of cunt squelching around him–another sound he enjoys, a marker of pride, how wet can I make my girl get–settling onto his forearm and pressing a little weight against your back.

He rests his head across your shoulders, burying his snout in your hair, breathing in hard-bought bursts of restraint.

"Yes, honey," you almost seethe, loosening your body, giving up a little of your own iron will to become just a little lost in the feeling of him. You relax your walls in a bid to take more of him, breathing tight, voice pitching up into a plea, "Yes, baby, that's perfect. That's so perfect, keep going. Just like that."

He rocks a little faster, thrusts a little deeper, breathes a little harder. The hand around your waist shifts up to your breast, but isn't dexterous enough to do more than give it an encompassing squeeze.

With your thighs pressed together, you feel as if your body can't stretch properly to take as much of him as you want (and you want all of him, every burning hot inch, fucking him so well that he cannot disappear into one of his miseries where he will not let you follow, because they all live in his head).

He ratchets back his speed, tries a new motion with his hips. He rolls instead of thrusting, a more fluid movement, brushing your insides in new ways that leave your swollen clit screaming for attention and your eyes watering. You breathe in ragged pants, fingers digging into the turf over your head, trying not to rip it with the force of your grip by the fistful.

You might cum. You might cum. You want to cum, and you might, and he's so much deeper now, panting hot as fire against your shoulders. You can feel the muscles in his abdomen clench and dance, his horns cutting the air in swipes of agitation above you, and he is so much this way. König: bigger, sometimes bloodier, but always so, so amplified.

"Honey, honey, honey," you whine in a chant under your breath, trying to ground yourself, trying to encourage him. You squeeze your thighs together for the extra stimulation, but you know you’re going to orgasm from him alone, no extra assistance needed. You’re just greedy, you just want it all, but you want him the worst.

When he pulls out this time, you snarl loud and gnash your teeth, digging your dirt-packed nails into his unyielding skin. You were full to the brim and on the wire-edge of climax, and he is so suddenly fucking gone it's almost as abrupt as violence.

"KÖNIG!" you shout, his callsign cutting from between your teeth like the desire to slit a throat, shattering the quiet around you both, reeling to find him with your burning eyes.

He collapses onto his side, cock jumping and leaking, and he whines deep in his throat, pulling at you with the flat of his hand. Your thigh, then his hip, your chest, then his–more hand signals, a story-told like a man with a sucking chest wound needing saving. He snakes his arm under you again, whining growing deeper, and you understand.

You roll, throwing your thigh over his hip, tucking tight against his chest. You give yourself one second of feeling cool air against your overheated pussy before you take him in hand and direct him home, and his deep, slick slide into you knocks the air out of your lungs like a punch to the solar plexus.

You’re only seconds away, and he can't be much farther, driving his head under yours to give you something to rest on that isn't the ground.

You don't utilize his offering, craning your neck as if you'll somehow get a glimpse of your connection from this angle–flat against him from belly to breast, resting your cheek and forehead against his heaving chest. His whine turns into a series of small, strangled howls and gasps as your voice crawls from whimpering to keening.

You’ve known you were going to cum, but you’re still somehow surprised with yourself at how quickly it's raced up, and how overwhelming it feels like it's going to be. You feel like you’re going insane.

His other arm wraps your ribs, too, squeezing you to him like you’re the only thing in the world worth keeping close, and damn him for it. You don't know why, but damn him.

"Cum, baby, cum," you instruct, gasping when you aren't clenching your teeth. You curl close to him, as close as your body will allow, spreading your legs as wide as you can. You drive back down into his thrusts, giving as much of yourself as you can, taking as much of him as you’re able.

You want it all–everything–every little bit of blood and bone that's built him into a home he offers only to you. "Cum in me. I'm ready, I want you to cum," you demand, finding it truer than true, finding yourself right on the razor-edge.

The command is all it takes. Three hard thrusts, and he's buried in you to the base, punching the wind out of your lungs, and filling you to the point of what feels like impossibility with his spend. It forces you to finish as well, lighting you up like a lightning storm, swallowing him deeper as you cum and cum like you'll never be able to stop, soaking the both of you.

You gasp a raw-throated howl, tears pricking the corners of your eyes, and you praise him as his cock kicks and kicks, emptying everything he's got to give into you.

A pressure builds inside you, beginning nearly unpleasant, until something just gives and his knot anchoring him to you feels right.

It feels special and dazzlingly intimate, and you’re boggled, again, with the knowledge you’re the only person in the world that he's ever shown himself to this way. It’s just a thing you know in your marrow, an immutable truth, like the sun setting in the west, or the cruelty of witches without their wants.

You wind down, sweating and panting and filthy in each other's arms, and you rock against him, holding him inside, clenching around him what little you can. You feel so wonderfully safe, so immaculately powerful, so stupidly, crazily, fantastically in love.

When your combined breathing evens, and the knot between you retreats, you groan when König shifts back into his human form, but only for the resituating you both have to endure.

The body against yours is familiar again, and you’re dreadfully sleepy, though you want to clean yourself and eat. You crave something raw, something bloody. You hunger the way an animal hungers after a hard fuck. His spend drips out of you now that his cock's returned to normal, and it forms a trail of cooling wet down the crease where your thigh meets your ass.

You feel lovely.

König laughs, rough and spent, tucking hair out of your face and kissing your closed eyelids. "Holy fucking shit, Schatzi," he marvels, looking at you like you are the only god that has ever mattered.

Your smile cuts sharp, and your fingers find his pulse point, tracing it thoughtfully. “You hungry? I bet you're fucking starved,” is all you say in return, eyes trailing the way his hand finds the charm bracelet newly returned to your wrist, touching it like a token.

It’s late and dark when you both manage to stumble your way back to your rental. He stays close, needy and soft, his hand on your hip, tugging you into his body when he can, careful of not knocking into the big, silver knife you’d placed back in the scabbard on your belt.

The hood is back on his head, rolled up to his nose, and his split mouth kisses against your neck and behind your ear, his eyes closed like he endures a waking dream. You, in your own filthied mask again, allow it, craning your neck to give him more room, anchoring him with an arm around his waist in return.

It is late now, and the neighborhood is silent. Again, you wonder what the quiet lives inside must be thinking–whether they think the crimes have increased into a new field of brutality, if they are fearing and wondering what body parts they will find at the treeline come dawn.

You know they will not leave the safety of their homes to investigate. They would be stupid to do something like that.

“That shower is going to feel so goddamned good,” you mutter, unlocking your door, and he nods against your skin.

“Oh, yeeaah,” he says, and the familiarity of the phrase makes you hum a laugh, shutting your eyes as you push through the threshold. "Get that blood off your skin before it stains. Your poor face, your poor arm. Poor Schatzi."

He splits off from you with a facsimile of a kiss–your masks pressing together at the mouth–and he pinches your ass before he takes off to the kitchen, his stomach growling, not even bothering to take off his boots.

You, however, kick off your shoes, and pull together clean clothes, heading toward the bathroom in the hall, the one with the big shower, in case he decides to join you.

Sleepy and content, you listen to his boots move heavily over the kitchen tile, the sound of the fridge door hissing snickt as he pulls it open, and shoves things around in his search for food. You nearly sway up to the closed door–why is it closed, you barely manage to wonder–your eyelids lead-weighted.

It takes only one thing to make them snap open wide, your back going ramrod straight. A dark smear, curling around the knob, around the edge of the door where it seams to the jamb.

Cold grips your lungs, sending your heart galloping painfully in the cage of your ribs, wondering if it really is copper you smell, or if it is a trick of your mind. The hall is too dark to tell if the swipe on the white door is red or black–if it is blood, if it is König’s or yours.

There is a presence at your back, and enormous hands on the door on either side of your head, so fast you cannot tell if you were even able to blink before you saw his wide, scarred, and knuckle-broken limbs spreading wide across the wood.

Your hand finds the grip of the knife, looking at the brutal gouges you had hacked into his forearm earlier in the night, and you are thinking faster and harder than you ever have in your life, realizing in a terrible microsecond that you will have to make a decision–that you will have to choose what reality you are willing to live with, or that you are simply mistaken.

Either way, you are moments from learning.

“Something wrong, Schatzi?” your boyfriend’s familiar voice asks, low and raspy, hot against the nape of your neck.

The laugh in his tone is cruel, and you can’t tell whether it belongs to König, or something pretending to be him.

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