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rosepetalsinwinter · 10 months

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Meant to Be — Bucky Barnes (7)

Chapter 7 — Mr. And Mrs. Barnes

Pairing: mafia!bucky x innocent!reader

Word count: 7,856

Summary: There is more than meets the eye, and Bucky is suspicious. What is everyone hiding?

Warnings: language, sexual innuendos, brief nudity? (blink and you'll miss it)

Note: Sorry, it's been a while. Enjoy!

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Chapter 6 — Chapter 7

"Today I know that such memories are the key not to the past, but to the future."

— Corrie Ten Boom

May 4th, 2018

He never understood what triggered it, but he found himself reliving it at odd times. The figure always sneaked up on Bucky in his dreams with an eerie silence, draped in shades of gray and brown.

"You really don't remember me?" the figure would taunt.

Bucky's responding grin was almost derogatory. "I'm sorry, am I supposed to?" He dismissed the flicker of familiarity attempting to crawl up his spine.

"You've changed."

He chuckled, deciding to humour the person. "Have I now?"

"You used to keep your promises."

"Did I?" Bucky slowly loosened the restraints behind his back, reaching for the concealed metal in his waistband. "You hit my head pretty hard earlier. I don't remember much."

"At least you kept your stupid sense of humour."

Bucky scoffed, spitting out the blood that pooled in his mouth from his bleeding nose. "You think you know me?"

"I do."

He shook his head. "You don't," he retorted. "You don't know me." The click of the safety turning off made them both pause. "And you never will." Years of training propelled him into action. The figure collapsed on the floor before the gunshot could reverberate through the room.

He stood tall over the lifeless form. "I always keep my promises."

May 4th, 2018

Bucky was beyond pissed. So far, his entire day had passed attending to one matter or another, making call after call instead of getting to know his wife. Not that she was in a state to talk.

Hmm, his little wife had been unconscious for nearly eighteen hours since she fainted in church. Bucky would have been seriously concerned if it weren't for the French maid and her reassurances. Fran—was that her name?—had informed him that the girl hadn't slept properly in over a week. Stress, she claimed, though Bucky suspected a deeper meaning behind the word. The way the maid narrowed her green eyes and tilted her reddish-blonde head hinted at something more.

The mobster took large swigs of Scotch straight from the decanter. Earlier, when the flight attendant came by to pour him a glass, Bucky had unleashed his rage, barking at him to leave the whole thing and disappear. He was in no mood for small talk.

A pounding headache throbbed in Bucky's temples. The entire day had been a whirlwind of problems. First, waking up to discover Phil Coulson dead. Dealing with Rollins' men—though that was stress relieving, at least.

Then, being brutally attacked outside the church, resulting in the need to dispose of the body in the East River, where the strong currents would erase any traces of foul play.

And let's not forget the spectacle that was his wedding. Fuck. The fucking wedding. And the shitshow that followed after. Bucky had so many questions. So many things he needed to address.

He hadn't been married a day, and already his wife was causing him problems. Bucky was exhausted, drowsy, and to make matters worse, he was overwhelmingly aroused.

With a scowl, Bucky downed the last of his Scotch, then glanced at his watch to see if he had enough time to address his growing... predicament.

He didn't.

They would reach Constanţa in half an hour, the estate in one. Bucky couldn't wait. Suddenly, his phone lit up with an incoming call, causing him to huff before ending it. Not even a minute passed before Danial Burgundy's caller ID appeared again. God, the man was persistent. After ignoring twelve calls, he still tested Bucky's patience.

"What do you want, you sick fuck?" Bucky answered impulsively.

The man on the other end sounded amused. "Hello to you too, James."

"Cut the bullshit, Danial. I'm in no mood for small talk." Danial was the last person Bucky wanted to talk to, especially after their conversation in New York. The older man was lucky he was Bucky's father-in-law now, or he'd already be six feet under.

"Right. Straight down to business then," Danial sighed. "I want to speak to my daughter."

Bucky scoffed dismissively. "No ace."

Annoyance tinged Danial's response. "Don't tell me—"

"She's taking a nap," Bucky interrupted. "She can't talk right now."

"I don't fucking believe you, James."

"I don't care." Bucky didn't give a damn about what Danial thought of him.

"Listen, asshole," Danial began losing his temper, "I know you've always been a good-for-nothing motherfucker, but—"

"Is that why you gave her to me?" Bucky taunted, a sardonic grin on his face. "Is that why you gave me everything?" That seemed to silence Danial, at least for the moment.

"Because I'm a good-for-nothing motherfucker?" Bucky chuckled, acknowledging a minor defeat. "I'll admit, you caught me off guard before with the stipulation you threw in my face, but don't think you have the upper hand here." Adrenaline coursed through Bucky's body as he further provoked Danial. "I got what I wanted. I didn't even have to work for it. You handed it to me on a silver platter." He prepared himself for the final blow. "In fact, I've already begun fulfilling that condition of yours." Bucky clicked his tongue. "No complaints so far. She's amazing."

"You bastard!" Danial exploded.

Yes, Bucky was being vulgar. Danial had forced his hand to leave for their honeymoon two days earlier, and Bucky didn't appreciate it.

He hushed Danial. "You'll wake her up. I tired her out. She needs all the rest she can get."

And there it was, the silent row of defeat. Danial sighed, audibly distressed. "She's still my daughter," the coward insisted.

"No, she's not," Bucky retorted, not to mock but to state a fact. He shrugged nonchalantly. "She's not yours. Not anymore. She's mine. She became mine the second I signed your papers."

"You Barnes' have always been greedy," Danial sneered. "Wanting what's not yours. Not giving a shit who gets hurt in the process. Fucking murderers."

"And you Burgundys have always been manipulative bastards," Bucky spat. "Pulling underhanded shit. Whoring out your women for a quick buck."

"You little—"

"Then that's exactly how I'll treat her. Like a slut, a fucking whore."

Danial's breath hitched on the other end of the line.

Bingo.

"No! Wait, no! Barnes, don't you fucking dare! Don't you dare fucking touch her—"

"Leave me the fuck alone."

Bucky ended the call.

The moon hung low in the sky, making way for the impending sunrise in a couple of hours. Bucky tossed his phone onto the seat opposite him and turned his attention to the porthole, gazing out at the soft glow beginning to fill the horizon.

They should be flying over Pitești by now, en route to Constanța. It felt good to be back home. Bucky stretched his arms above his head, contemplating Danial's reaction. If he didn't know any better, he might have mistaken Danial's tone for genuine concern about his daughter. Fortunately, Bucky knew better. With most of Danial's cards laid out on the table, Bucky would respond accordingly, starting with his bride.

Suddenly, the cabin door opened, causing Bucky to whip his head around, prepared to unleash his anger on the intruder. It was his bride, leaning against the entrance of the small bedroom at the back.

She still wore her wedding dress, barefoot and breathing heavily, cheeks flushed and hair rumpled. Her gaze wandered around the cabin in a daze, clutching the door frame in a white fist when the plane encountered slight turbulence.

"You're awake," Bucky broke the silence.

Her eyes scanned the surroundings as she took in their location. "Where am I?" she croaked.

Bucky frowned, realizing she must be thirsty. "Sit," he commanded instead of answering. His wife blinked owlishly, staring at him as if he had grown another head. A faint smile threatened to emerge. "Don't make me drag you here," he muttered. "Because I will."

His wife snapped to attention, unsteadily walking across the aisle, leaning against the empty seats for support. The image stirred something pleasurable in Bucky's mind. She halted across from him, hesitating to sit when she noticed his phone perched precariously on the edge of the armrest.

When Bucky reached over to retrieve the device, he let his arm brush against her leg. It was a gentle graze against the white lace that, nonetheless, left her flustered. Bucky smirked, savouring the sound of his wife's hitched breath.

The girl slowly lowered herself onto the brown leather, almost robotic in her movements. Her back remained rigid, and she wouldn't look at him. Why wouldn't she look at him? Bucky didn't like that. The table separating them was the only thing preventing him from reaching over and forcing her eyes to meet his.

Bucky pressed the overhead call button, his gaze fixed on the girl. He noticed black smudged under her eyes and lipstick smeared around her mouth. How many hours had it been since the ceremony? Too many and not enough. Her features appeared more striking in the natural light than in the harsh illumination of the church.

And there, when her eyes flicked up ever so slightly at the sound of the call button, Bucky recognized that same dead look from before, the one she had when he leaned in for a kiss that never happened because she fainted. It was more subtle, tamped down, but still present, difficult to ignore and even harder to comprehend.

Bucky summoned the flustered flight attendant and ordered food, water, and another Scotch. He may not have been hungry, but he assumed she was.

"Drink," Bucky pushed the glass of water toward her. She was playing with her fingers, gaze fixed on her lap.

"Where am I?" she breathed.

Bucky frowned when she didn't immediately comply. "Drink," he demanded with more force, pushing the water closer. He watched as she brought the glass to her lips with trembling hands and took a small sip.

"Where—"

"More," he interrupted with dissatisfaction. She was an impatient one.

Bucky thought he heard her huff in annoyance but disregarded it as she began to take hesitant sips that soon turned into large gulps, causing water to trickle down the sides of her mouth.

The glass was empty within seconds.

"We're in Constanța," Bucky answered her earlier question.

She looked up at him in surprise, eyes wide and lips parted. Bucky was hit with a sudden urge to kiss her.

"Excuse me?"

"Constanța, Romania," Bucky clarified. "I have a family house in Mamaia. We'll be landing in ten minutes."

Bucky leaned back in his seat and sipped his Scotch, raising an eyebrow at the girl's obvious shock. The slight burn of alcohol felt pleasant, immediately relaxing him.

She glanced around the cabin, blinking owlishly. She seemed flustered. "I don't have—" She took a deep breath. "Why are we in Romania?"

Bucky couldn't help but smile. "Why do you think? What do newlyweds usually do after getting married?"

He waited for the realization to dawn on her, watching as she trembled and shied away. Bucky wondered how experienced she was if a simple innuendo left her so flustered. He couldn't wait to find out.

She still wouldn't look at him.

"Where's my father?" the girl asked, her question directed at the floor.

It appeared the Burgundy princess was close to her last remaining parent. "Danial?" Bucky sneered, unable to suppress his annoyed scoff. "In New York, where he belongs."

She seemed taken aback. Her lips parted, and she straightened her posture in attention.

Bucky narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Why?"

Flustered, she started to answer but then froze, her eyes wide with an emotion he couldn't quite discern. She shook her head furiously. "Nothing."

Bucky's suspicion grew tenfold. He was ready to interrogate her, but she interrupted him.

"And my friend?" she asked desperately. "Where is she?"

"Hmm," Bucky mused. "The blonde with the big mouth?" He missed the expression on her face as he finished the rest of his drink. "Dove, was it?"

"N-no," the girl denied. "She's French."

It took a second for Bucky to recall, and once he did, he couldn't help but smile.

"The French maid? She stayed with you after the ceremony. I talked to her about—"

"Well, is she here?" the girl cut him off.

Bucky met her eyes, and the second he did, she averted her gaze. Acting on instinct, he reached out and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. "You interrupted me."

He watched as her breath quickened and her irises dilated. Bucky waited for a verbal response, but she remained frozen, struck dumb by his intimidating presence. "You're lucky you're cute," Bucky said, finally releasing her.

She seemed to deflate the second he retreated from her personal space and mirrored his relaxed posture, melting into her seat as if suddenly drained.

"Eat," Bucky ordered, pouring a finger's worth of Scotch into his glass and pushing it toward her.

An indescribable tension filled the air, an unspoken awkwardness. Which was to be expected, Bucky supposed, since this was their formal introduction. The girl shook her head. "I'm not hungry," she whispered.

Bucky downed the rest of his Scotch, keeping his gaze fixed on her. Her discomfort in his presence was palpable, incredibly aware of him with how she uncomfortably squirmed in her seat.

"Eat," he repeated, the finality in his voice leaving no room for argument. The girl obediently picked up the fork, ready to dig into the food. The meal consisted of a variety of fresh fruits, sweet and savoury pastries, and various breakfast proteins. She nibbled on a melon, taking such small bites that Bucky became frustrated.

The pilot's voice came through the overhead speakers, announcing their impending arrival, and the flight attendants prepared for landing.

"Shall I pack this to go, Mr. Barnes?" the female attendant asked, gesturing toward the untouched breakfast.

Bucky nodded. "Has the car arrived?"

"Of course, Mr. Barnes. Also, the police commissioner is waiting for you on the tarmac, per your request."

Bucky hummed. "Good." He retrieved his wallet and handed a few hundreds to the male attendant, who was closer. "For both of your discretion," he explained, referring to his previous phone calls.

"Thank you!" The attendant quickly pocketed the money, and the area was swiftly cleaned. The table between Bucky and the girl was folded and moved out of the way.

"Mrs. Barnes?" the female attendant called. "Mrs. Barnes, please fasten your seatbelt."

Bucky watched as the girl stared blankly at the attendant. "What?"

"We are preparing to land," the attendant explained, struggling to hide her bewilderment.

After a few more uncomfortable moments, Bucky leaned forward and fastened her seatbelt himself, ensuring it was secure. She tensed under his touch, but he ignored it, both amused and annoyed by her reaction to him.

He would need to rectify that later. There was no sound reason for a woman to be so cold toward a man. But for now... They needed to discuss more pressing matters, starting with why she...

Vaguely, Bucky recalled a drunken whisper from his father regarding the Burgundys. Something he had said after one too many drinks. "Their manipulations killed your grandfather."

Bucky hadn't comprehended it at the time, but perhaps he did now. He remembered his conversation with Danial. Surely, any offspring of Danial's would be just as cunning and manipulative as him.

Bucky would uncover the truth if it was the last thing he did.

May 4th, 2018

The car ride from the airport was filled with silence. The girl had lost her appetite but was picking at her food at the behest of her husband, who was engrossed on his phone. She took small, reluctant bites of the fruit, struggling to keep it down.

Husband. The word brought a welling of tears to her eyes. She fought to hold them back as she felt his penetrating gaze upon her. Was this how prey felt just before they were pounced upon by their predators?

James was a prevalent man, it seemed, if the Romanian Chief Commissioner himself came to the runway to greet the newlywed couple on their recent nuptials. The commissioner discreetly pledged his unwavering loyalty to them, and they exchanged handshakes.

"If you need anything," James assured him, "don't hesitate to reach out. You have my number."

They were on their way to James' villa, situated on the outskirts of the city and nestled in a little strip of private land. It was a secluded house meant to provide the newlyweds with privacy during their honeymoon. James had explained this to her before diving straight into his work.

Honeymoon. The girl felt a bout of fear wash over her at the thought. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with a murderer.

Oh God! Would she have to...? Bile rose in her throat. Fleur had warned her that the first time could be painful if both partners weren't ready. She vividly remembered the almost-kiss with Nathan two weeks ago—the anticipation, the push and pull. The immense relief when their moment was interrupted.

No, she wasn't ready at all.

Horror struck her. If Nathan, the university's golden boy, could stoop so low as to drug her, what would James be capable of? James, with his imposing stature and intimidating presence, his unconventional upbringing and violent tendencies. He was involved with the mafia! And now she belonged to him, bound by the laws of God and man.

He would force himself on her and take what he wanted. After the events of the past week, She wouldn't have the strength to fight him. She would lie there, helpless, as another piece of her soul withered away. At this rate, she wasn't sure how much more she had left to lose.

Bile rose even higher, but she forced it back down. Through the tinted window of the Escalade, the Romanian landscape flashed by, though she could not find solace in its fleeting beauty. The unfinished food sat neglected as they finally arrived at their destination.

The house was beautiful. Its dark exterior was adorned with soft lights hanging from nearby trees, creating a mesmerizing canopy that resembled a starry sky. Nestled behind trees and overlooking a meticulously landscaped garden, the two-story Spanish-style building exuded charm and elegance.

It seemed like a place she could one day call home... but she hated it.

The car faltered to a stop on the smooth cobblestone driveway, and the girl was so enraptured by the view that she didn't see James at her side until he opened her door and extended his hand.

She hesitated. Of course, she hesitated. Her father had sold her to this man as part of his despicable retirement plan. A man responsible for her mother's death. Perhaps he would be the one to eventually kill her as well. She didn't want to touch the hands that would bring about her demise, nor did she wish to meet the eyes that would watch the light in her own slowly fade.

Fear took over, and she let him help her out of the car. Clutching her skirt in her free hand, she took cautious steps, mindful not to trip over the fabric that now grazed the pavement without the support of her tall heels. It was then she realized she was still barefoot.

James barely acknowledged her, offering only a quick nod. His grip on her wrist remained firm and unyielding as he guided her pliant form around. They passed stone figurines portraying scantily clad fairies, a white deer with golden antlers, and fire-breathing dragons. They crossed over a small bridge above a flowing stream, with a seating area to their right and a vibrant array of flowers that tied the scene together.

A sudden wave of sadness washed over her as they reached the threshold. Like countless other girls, she had dreamed of her perfect wedding. She envisioned her lover cradling her in his arms, gazing at her adoringly, whispering sweet nothings in her ear as he carried her into their new home. Never did she imagine being dragged by her arm, trailing behind a husband she did not love, and into a house she never wanted to call home.

James released his grip on her wrist as they entered the foyer, and the girl exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. And if his touch provided even an inkling of comfort in this strange and unfamiliar place? Well, it was promptly ignored.

A few servants had gathered at the entrance to welcome the young couple. A frail older woman dressed in splashes of red and white stepped forward. "Ai venit devreme," she grumbled, her shoulders stiff and an ugly frown etched on her face.

"Scuze," James replied.

"Cum a fost zborul?"

"Lung."

"Trebuie să fii obosit."

"Nu prea."

The woman's eyes flicked toward the girl. "Ea trebuie să fie obosită."

James and the woman studied the girl until she warmed with shame, realizing they were talking about her.

"Poate," James grumbled, and they looked away.

The older woman suddenly embraced James, running her arms down his back. "Bine ați venit acasă, domnule Barnes!"

The girl was surprised to see a smile on James' face. The sight made her pause, and she tilted her head in contemplation. In her dreams, the monsters that appeared as smokeless fire, mocking her pain and suffering, never smiled. Yet here was one of those monsters standing before her in the form of a husband, smiling, laughing, displaying emotions she did not believe him capable of.

"Bunică!" James kissed the older woman's hand before gently touching it to his forehead as a sign of respect. Ah! So she was his grandmother. The girl understood that much Romanian. "Mi-a fost dor de tine!"

Their attention was solely on each other, and as if compelled, the girl found herself stumbling backward, one step at a time. It was an instinctive reaction to the turmoil festering in her gut, threatening to drown and suffocate her.

"She's not wearing shoes," a voice with a thick accent remarked.

The girl froze in place. James' grandmother looked at her pointedly, with a kind of resentment the girl couldn't comprehend.

James gestured toward the girl's stiff figure. "Bunică, this is—"

"I know who she is," Bunică snapped. "I can smell a Burgundy from a kilometre away."

"Bunică," James warned in a low tone.

"I want to know why she isn't wearing shoes."

The girl consciously flexed her toes, trying to hide them beneath her dress. Her feet were dirty and sore from walking across the tarmac and then from the car.

Bunică circled the girl, closely scrutinizing her. "Well? Can you speak, girl? Or are you going to stare at me dumbly all day?" For a slighter woman, she was very assertive.

"Bunică," James warned once again.

"I just want to know if Danial gave you a mute bride. I wouldn't put it past him."

"She can speak," James snapped. "Say something."

The girl raised one arm in an awkward wave. "Salut." Shame filled her immediately after having obeyed him.

Bunică narrowed her eyes. "You speak the language?"

The girl vigorously shook her head.

Bunică turned to James for confirmation. "She doesn't," James replied with a roll of his eyes.

"Nu mă face cu ochii aia mari! How can I know if she isn't just as manipulative as her grandma—?"

"Bunică," James interrupted. "Why don't we talk in the study?"

The girl trembled from the number of accusations and verbal abuse hurled at her. She didn't know what she had done to deserve such treatment, but it obviously had something to do with her father.

Bunică gave the girl one last piercing look before abruptly walking away. Her eyes stung at the harsh treatment she was receiving from this stranger. If the grandmother was like that, how unpleasant would James be? She didn't want to find out.

James strode toward her, firmly gripping her arms. "Yelena will show you to my room. Get comfortable and wait for me there." He paused as if considering his words carefully. "Don't leave."

From one prison to another. Perhaps it wasn't such a drastic change from New York. He shoved her into someone else's arms without waiting for a response and hurriedly strode away to catch up to his Bunică.

Yelena was a sturdy young woman with broad shoulders and a slender waist. A dirty blonde braid rested atop her heart-shaped face, with round eyes and pink lips adding to her appealing features. "This way," she said in a thick, palatal Russian accent.

The girl followed Yelena further into the house and up the stairs. The Spanish-style villa boasted ample natural light with contrasting dark accents. Climbing the stairs, they reached a small hallway that led to a pair of doors.

"The master suite," Yelena announced, pushing open the double doors with a flourish and guiding the girl inside. Coming to a stop in the middle of the spacious room, the girl took in the striking contrast of grays, blacks, and earth tones that adorned the bedroom. Floor-length mirrors adorned one wall parallel to the bed, and a set of French doors leading to a small balcony graced the far side of the room. Cool air swept in from the open door, causing the girl to shiver as her heated skin lowered in temperature.

"Your luggage has already been brought up, and a warm bath has been drawn," Yelena informed her, closing the balcony doors when a strong gust of wind carried in some leaves.

The girl nodded but gave no reply, locking herself in the bathroom. It was spacious, surpassing the size of her room back in Vancouver. It exuded luxury, resembling something out of Architectural. Marble floors, wooden accents, twin vanities facing each other, a rain shower at one end, and a window overlooking the black sea at the other. And in the middle of it all, made prominent by the red rose petals scattered around, was an oval bathtub brimming with steaming water.

The girl approached the tub, hoping to relax her weary muscles and wash away the stress of the past few weeks, when something caught her eye. Folded neatly on a stool next to the tub were two engraved robes, a flash of gold against matte black. One bore the inscription "Mr. Barnes." She held her breath. While the other said, "Mrs. Barnes." She felt a sudden confusion, momentarily forgetting how to breathe—was it inhale, exhale, inhale, or the other way around?

She gave a frustrated cry and began tugging at her dress, the only barrier preventing her from resurfacing. From breaking through the layers of hurt and deceit, to feeling the fresh air on her skin, in her lungs. She kicked harder—clawed savagely, but her legs felt lifeless—her fingers weak, and try as she might, she couldn't swim to the surface—couldn't breathe.

The dress clung to her like a second skin, too tight in some places and loose in others. She reached for the zipper at the back but couldn't find it—couldn't break free of her cage. Another cry of frustration escaped her as she dropped to her knees in defeat.

And most curious, her hand snagged on something as she ran it through her hair. She painfully untangled her fingers, revealing the culprit—a ring, forcibly placed upon her by him. It was heavy, and big, and so beautiful ugly. She tugged at it, desperate to remove it from her body and cast it far away. That is what kept her here, anchoring her feet, clipping her wings, depriving her of oxygen.

This—his—ring.

Dipping her fingers into the soapy water, she watched as the diamond disappeared behind a floating petal. Yet, the ring remained stubborn, as if sewn onto her skin, fused with her very being.

Her right hand slipped, causing pain to bloom across her palm. The stupid ring had cut her! She huffed indignantly. How dare—how—why? Her lips curled, quivered, and a whimper escaped her. Then another, and another.

Pain seemed to follow the girl, clinging to her every step. Now, she finally let it wash over her. Pietro's duplicity paled in comparison to the betrayal of her best friend. Her friend who spoke too much and too fast, who pretended to care about her. Her sheepish smile at the ceremony was seared onto the girl's mind. And to think she had been involved in the entire scheme, conspiring with Pietro and her own father.

Was nothing real?

Pain! The girl recalled the last conversation she had with her mother. They talked about school and her mother's garden. Her mother had soothed her after another nightmare, as only mothers knew how. It had been nice. She had been happy.

Until she wasn't, and it wasn't. Now her mother was dead; her father had lied about it. And the girl found herself married to her mother's murderer.

Blood spread through the soapy water, turning it pink. And she finally allowed herself to cry, releasing the pent-up emotions that had thus far consumed her.

He didn't expect the first sob, nor the second or third. When Bucky heard the fourth sob echo through the room, he reached two conclusions. Firstly, he realized he needed to soundproof the bathroom and possibly the bedroom as well. He could hear every hitch in the girl's breath, every pained cry, and every sob she attempted to suppress.

Secondly, Bucky concluded that he must have overlooked a crucial detail in his extensive research regarding the girl, and something was clearly amiss. A lingering suspicion had plagued him since the morning of the wedding. Everything felt off.

Bucky recalled his conversation with Danial after the disastrous ceremony. When his father-in-law threw papers at Bucky's face and made him sign on the dotted line. Bastard.

Another sob caused Bucky to flinch, and he sank onto his bed, loosening his bow tie. Perhaps little Burgundy was unaware of her father's deceitfulness.

He remembered what his bunică had said. "How can I know if she isn't just as manipulative as her grandma?"

Or perhaps the girl was as cunning as described. Bucky knew his family had a history with the Burgundys, but he was unsure to what extent. He was gaining a lot from the marriage—power, money, land—what was she getting, apart from his last name? One thing was certain: the girl was keeping secrets from him. She had refused to see him before their wedding, and now she refused to say more than two words.

An evocative wail drew Bucky's attention back to the present. His feet carried him toward the bathroom, but he hesitated to knock. Bucky doubted the girl wanted his comfort, not that he knew how to provide any if she did.

Bucky Barnes knew women like the back of his hand—their bodies, that is; understanding the female brain was a whole different matter. Bucky knew the basics. He knew that "I'm fine" meant "I'm not fine." And "I don't mind" meant they definitely minded.

There wasn't much else Bucky felt confident about when it came to understanding female behaviour unless it concerned sex. Sex, he knew. It was easy and instinctual.

Boy meets girl. Attraction. Mind-blowing orgasm. Boom, it was as simple as that.

He had heard that honeymoons were filled with sex, sex, and even more sex. Where one's carnal desires came to life. It was supposed to be romantic, sensual, and sexy.

Bucky had spent the past month or so fantasizing about all the sexy things he would do to his wife. Nothing about her crying in the bathroom was sexy.

"Fuck." Bucky quickly changed out of his uncomfortable clothes and into a loose pair of black sweats. He neatly folded his wedding attire and placed it in the dresser, intending to have it dry-cleaned later.

Bucky plopped down on his bed. "Motherfucker," he whispered in disdain. He was not supposed to lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to block out the girl's cries. He was supposed to be fucking her hard and fast, using her to release the stress of the past few weeks out of his system. Her tears were supposed to be tears of pleasure, not pain. His groans were supposed to be of satisfaction, not annoyance.

God, he was exhausted. Now that his body knew he wouldn't be getting lucky tonight, the weight of the entire week's stress settled heavily on his shoulders, making him feel foggy and worn out.

Bucky must have dozed off because the house was eerily quiet when he opened his eyes, and almost an hour had passed.

He stretched his lithe body with a yawn and forced himself up. He wouldn't let the girl rot away in the bathroom all day. They needed to talk, she needed to eat, and then Bucky planned to take her sightseeing in the city.

The bathroom was locked as he went to open it, and there was silence on the other end. Bucky called out his wife's name and knocked on the dark wood. "I know you're in there," he said, exasperation creeping into his voice. When he received no answer, his jaw clenched in frustration. "Come out, I need to talk to you."

There was some rustling on the other side, yet the door remained closed. "If you don't open this door in the next five seconds, I'm breaking it!" Bucky warned. He was not against property damage if it meant she would come out.

It took longer than five seconds, but the door eventually opened, revealing the girl in her wedding dress, still as beautiful as the night before.

Bucky cursed under his breath, momentarily distracted by her appearance. His mind worked a lot slower when she was wearing white. He let his gaze roam over her body. Her hair was a dishevelled mess, with pins sticking out every which way, and mascara streaked in lines down her face. It was unmistakable that she had been crying.

"What's wrong?" he found himself asking, concern evident in his voice.

The girl shook her head dismissively, avoiding eye contact.

"I could hear you," Bucky pointed out. He couldn't have ignored her cries if he tried. She was that loud. Her head bowed lower in what he suspected was shame. "Is it your father?" Bucky ventured. "Do you miss him?"

She remained quiet for a while, frustrating him further. Eventually, she spoke in a voice so low he wouldn't have heard it if he were not waiting for her reply. "My mother."

Of course. Bucky immediately realized his mistake. How could he have forgotten about her mother?

He apologized, "I'm sorry. Any idea who did it?"

His wife slowly lifted her head, eyes wide with alarm.

Bucky narrowed his eyes, trying to gauge her reaction. "I heard it was an inside job. You really don't have any suspects?"

She slowly shook her head. "No," she whispered.

Bucky nodded, as if satisfied. In reality, his sharp mind was assessing her sincerity.

His attention shifted, noticing that her neckline had plunged significantly. It caused his heart rate to increase with excitement, his body coming alive from her proximity. He could see more of her skin than before, not that he minded in the slightest. God, she was sweet. Then a sudden thought struck him—she was still in her wedding dress.

"You haven't changed?" he asked in a husky voice.

Her response was hesitant and quiet. "No, I—I couldn't reach the back."

Cute. Bucky moved aside, gesturing for her to leave the bathroom, smiling when she accidentally brushed against his chest. He closed the door behind him and approached his little wife who stood near the edge of the bed with her back turned.

Slipping behind her, Bucky pressed his body flush against hers, feeling her stiffen. "Relax," he whispered, lowering his head to meet her height. He gently tucked a straight strand of hair behind her ear. "Let me help you."

She didn't object as Bucky ran his hand over the back of her bodice, searching for a zipper or clasp to aid in removing her dress. Instead, he discovered an intricately woven corset, revealing glimpses of smooth skin from between the silk ribbons.

After a few attempts, Bucky managed to undo the bow at the small of her back, and the dress unravelled before his eyes. His wife inhaled in surprise, using her hands to cover the rest of her modesty.

Bucky removed the remaining lace, discarding it somewhere behind him. He noticed red marks on her skin where the corset had been digging in, and he couldn't resist running his fingers over the slight indents. God, her skin felt burning hot against his. It made his heart beat in his ears—made sweat line his neck.

Reaching around, Bucky grasped his wife's chin, tilting it toward him. The sight made him lick his lips in anticipation. Her eyes were darkened with lust, her mouth slightly parted, and her chest rose and fell with each breath.

Sweet, so sweet. And so close he could just reach over and claim her mouth for his own. They were so close he could almost taste the dried tears on her face. Bucky felt an overwhelming desire to touch her, to feel if she were as soft and sweet all over.

His hand tightened on her chin while his other arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer until their noses touched. He was ready to lose himself in her scent, but just like earlier at the wedding, his wife's eyes rolled back, and she collapsed against him.

"Fuck," Bucky muttered, holding his half-conscious wife in his arms. She was not fully unconscious and was mumbling incoherently, blinking her eyes, trying to regain control of her body. "What the fuck?"

Was this a regular occurrence? Bucky hoped not. His line of work was not for the faint-hearted. Hell, she was a Burgundy! Her father, Danial, was ruthless and unapologetic when it came to his empire, so it made no sense for his daughter to be so fragile under minor stress.

Unless she's faking it.

But the longer Bucky stood there, cradling his wife, the more absurd the thought seemed. She looked too sweet and innocent to be as cunning and deceitful as her father.

"God damn it!" Bucky carried her to the bed and laid her down on the sheets. Her eyes were droopy, but she was fighting to stay awake. "Hey," Bucky lightly smacked her face. "You're fine. Open your eyes." She slowly regained composure, blinking and looking around the room as if seeing it for the first time.

"Fuck." Bucky ran a hand through his hair in frustration. All he wanted was a conversation, a simple conversation with regular-sized sentences and no fainting spells. Was that too much to ask for? He didn't think so.

He blindly grabbed a shirt from his closet and handed it to his wife. "Put this on. We need to talk." He made sure to leave no room for argument. Leaning against the wall, Bucky crossed his arms over his chest and waited for his wife to dress.

"Well?" Bucky questioned when she looked at him blankly. "Get a move on. I don't have all day." He chuckled when the girl gasped in surprise. She could think whatever she wanted, but he wasn't going to let anything else delay their conversation. "I'm not moving until that dress is off," he warned.

She swallowed audibly before slipping her head through the neck hole and pulling the fabric over her dress. Bucky observed as she fixed the sleeves and neckline, making final adjustments and letting the dress fall to her waist. Hmm, it was a sneaky move, but Bucky decided to let it slide.

"Go on," he encouraged.

His wife remained seated on the bed, lifting her hips to remove the dress from her legs. It fell to the ground in a heap, and for a moment, Bucky was met with the sexiest thighs he had ever seen. He thought he saw a flash of white lace, but it was quickly covered. His wife pulled his red henley down, attempting to hide her skin, which made him frown.

What had Steve said about him getting some? Yeah. Right. That didn't seem to be happening anytime soon. Didn't mean he couldn't look.

Bucky hummed, breaking the silence. "You faint often?"

His wife appeared taken aback. "N-no, not really."

"Not really," Bucky echoed sarcastically. "Right, we need to talk about that. What happened yesterday?"

"I don't know," she replied, fidgeting with her thumbs, a clear sign of nervousness.

Raising a patronizing brow, Bucky remarked, "Come on, you can do better than that." The girl remained tight-lipped. "Were you drunk?"

She vehemently shook her head, denying it.

"I could smell it on your breath," he accused, recalling the moment before their failed kiss when he leaned in and caught a whiff of alcohol. There was no mistaking it.

"I had some Champagne, but I wasn't drunk," she insisted with desperation.

"Well, someone saw you finish an entire bottle," Bucky pointed out, caught between his wife's words and Dot's account. "Honestly, you don't strike me as someone who can handle her alcohol."

"It was nerves," she finally admitted, avoiding eye contact by focusing on the ground, the window, or the rings adorning his fingers.

"Nerves?" Bucky raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence.

"I got nervous because I've never done this before," she explained.

Bucky understood her perfectly well, but he couldn't resist playing with her. He faked a frown. "I'm not sure I understand."

"You know," she shrugged, silently urging him to fill in the blanks. Bucky took pleasure in making her say the words. "What newlyweds normally do after getting married."

"You mean fuck?" Bucky chuckled, enjoying her reaction. "Somehow, I doubt that."

"Doubt what?"

"Doubt you've never been screwed," his words hit the mark.

The girl's eyes snapped toward him. "I haven't."

Bucky felt a surge of excitement at her false confession. "I wouldn't lie if I were you."

"I'm not lying," she insisted.

Bucky uncrossed his arms and stood tall. "So you're telling me you've never had a boyfriend before?"

Something resembling shame flitted across her face. She hesitated to answer, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Yes."

Bucky didn't buy it, not for a second, especially after what he discovered the day before. He swallowed his harsh words and retorted with a snide remark. "Never had a boyfriend, huh? Interesting."

"I'm still young," she argued.

Bucky raised an eyebrow at her argument. "Still young, huh? Well, sweetheart, age doesn't determine romantic experiences, but hey, who am I to question your luck with Cupid?" He couldn't help but add a touch of sarcasm to his voice.

The girl's face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and frustration. "It's the truth," she insisted, her voice tinged with defiance.

Bucky leaned in closer, a smug smile playing on his lips. "Sure, sure. I guess it's just a rare case of a twenty-two-year-old with zero love history. Must be some kind of record."

The girl clenched her fists, clearly affected by his remark. "It's not as uncommon as you think," she retorted.

Bucky grinned mischievously. "Oh, I'm sure it's a regular occurrence," he replied sarcastically, enjoying their banter. "Cupid must have taken an extended vacation when it came to your life."

She shot him a piercing look. "Well, maybe I've been waiting for someone worthy."

Bucky chuckled, a hint of skepticism in his voice. "Someone worthy? Well, here I am, sweetheart," Bucky spread his arms in an elaborate display, "ready and willing."

With that final snide remark, Bucky settled back into his previous position, eager to see her reaction. The tension in the room lingered as they locked eyes, both unwilling to back down.

"You have some nerve," the girl huffed in irritation.

Bucky's smirk widened, thoroughly enjoying their verbal sparring. "You have no idea, sweetheart," he replied, his voice laced with amusement. "Nerve is practically a requirement in my line of work."

The girl's cheeks flushed with a mix of anger and embarrassment. She clenched her jaw, determined not to let his taunts get the better of her. "Just don't expect me to swoon over your nerves," she retorted, her voice laced with a hint of sarcasm.

Bucky chuckled, the sound deep and resonant. "Oh, sweetheart, I wouldn't dare," he said, inching closer. Somehow she seemed even smaller when he towered over her. "But it seems like you're pretty daring for the both of us." He grabbed her chin and narrowed his eyes, dropping all pretense of humour for a moment. "Don't forget though, this marriage won't be built on swooning or romance. It's a partnership, an arrangement. And you'll find that I bring much more to the table than fucking nerves."

The girl flinched at his harsh words, pursing her lips. Angry tears gathered in her eyes, but she didn't let them fall. "And what is that exactly?" she spat. "Because so far, you've been a beast."

For the first time that day, Bucky felt a genuine flash of rage rise within him. He stepped back and released her chin, clenching his fists at his sides and away from her. What had he done to warrant being called a beast? He was trying his best to make sure she was comfortable, but it seemed the Burgundy princess had higher standards.

He breathed through his nose, plastering a mocking smile onto his face. He could tell the second the girl realized the weight of what she said because she was suddenly back to her quiet self.

"Power, protection, and a life you couldn't even fathom," he responded with intensity. "I may not look like your typical knight in shining armour, but I can guarantee this much—no one will ever dare to mess with you as long as you're mine. You have my name now. There's nothing you could possibly want that I couldn't give you."

Bucky paused and took another step back so the girl didn't have to strain her neck as much to look at him. He wanted her full attention on him as he delivered his last blow. "What will you bring to the fucking table?"

The girl's expression softened slightly, her defiance giving way to a flicker of uncertainty. She seemed to be grappling with conflicting emotions, the weight of their unusual situation bearing down on her.

Her eyes went vacant for a moment as if she wasn't in the room anymore. "I'll give you an heir," she whispered.

"What?"

She shook her head, seemingly returning to the room. "I'll give you a son. An heir."

Bucky cocked an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Well, that's a given."

He watched with mild pleasure as she deflated in front of him, defeated. Bucky turned to leave.

"I don't understand you." Her voice was the softest it had been.

"You don't know me," Bucky retorted, slowly warming up to her fluctuating tone. "And I don't know you." He glanced at his watch. "Be ready in five. I'm taking you out for lunch."

Note: Thoughts?

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Chapter 6 — Chapter 7

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!! 💜💜

@bbgem329 @broco8 @calwitch @candybabysworld @chwlogy @darlingsuna @emmabarnes @hallecarey1 @la--figue @last-sheep @littlewhiterose @lostyx @marvelatthetwilight @matchat3a @moonlightreader649 @nefri-black @ng4b20 @nothingbettertosay81 @pineprincess @prettywhenicry4 @ria132love @sebastianstansqueen @sergntbarnes @speedysimp @star017 @thegirlnextdoorssister @tinkerbelle67 @umadirectioner @valkyrie418 @vayollie @veroxbarnes @vollzeitliebe @writing-for-marvel

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes series #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes au #mafia!bucky #mafia!bucky x reader #mafia!bucky x innocent!reader #mafia au #marvel #meant to be series #mywriting #forced marriage #arranged marriage

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princesssarisa · 2 months

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I've still been reading Heidi Ann Heiner's Cinderella Tales From Around the World. I've just finished reading all the variants from Ireland, Scotland, and England.

Here are the patterns:

*In Gaelic variants (e.g. two Irish versions and one Scottish), the heroine and her two sisters typically have names that describe their appearance or demeanor, with the sisters' names implying that one is blonde and the other brunette. For example, Fair, Brown, and Trembling, or Fair-Hair, Brown-Hair, and Mangy-Hair, or the Fair Maid, the Swarthy Maid, and the Snow-White Maid.

*As usual, it varies whether the heroine is abused by a stepmother and stepsister(s) or by her own mother (or both parents) and sister(s), or just by her sisters alone, and whether there are two (step)sisters or just one. In the three Gaelic versions with hair-themed naming, the girls are biological sisters, though in The Snow-White Maid, the Fair Maid, the Swarthy Maid, and Bald Pate Their Mother, they're half-sisters and Balt Pate is the Snow-White Maid's stepmother.

*It seems far more common in these versions for the heroine and her (step)sister(s) to be princesses. This has sometimes turned up in other countries' variants so far, most notably in Finette Cendron, but so far the British Isles seem to have the biggest number of Cinderellas who are princesses by birth.

**In the Irish Fair, Brown, and Trembling, not only is Trembling seen by her own prince at church, but the fame of her beauty spreads throughout the world, and all the princes of Ireland come to see her, as do princes from other countries like Spain and Greece. They all want to marry her and agree to duel for her hand after the slipper fits her, but after four days of fighting they all concede to the prince who first fell in love with her.

*The heroine's magical helper is either an old woman or an animal in these variants, and if it's an animal, it's almost always either a black sheep or a red calf. The beginning of one Irish version explains that black ewes were considered good luck.

**In almost all the versions with an animal, as in the Grimms' One-Eye, Two-Eyes, Three-Eyes or French tale of The Blue Bull, the (step)mother sends the heroine out to pasture each day with barely anything to eat, hoping to slowly starve her, but the animal magically provides her with good food.

**As usual, the animal companion tends to be killed by the (step)mother, but unusually, it doesn't stay dead in these variants. Instead, after the heroine gathers up the bones, the animal comes back to life, limping because the heroine lost one shank bone, but otherwise none the worse for wear. There are also some variants where the animal doesn't die at all. In one Scottish version, the heroine is ordered to behead the calf herself, but instead she kills her sister (!), takes the calf and runs away.

*In both Irish and Scottish versions, the special event the heroine attends is always church, not a festival or party. Several versions take place at Christmas and have her attend the special Yuletide Masses.

*The old woman or animal typically not only provides the girl with finery and a horse to ride, but cooks the family's dinner for her by the time she gets back. In one Scottish version, Ashpitel, the black lamb doesn't even give her finery – she just dresses herself in her own fine clothes that she rarely gets to wear, while the magic the lamb provides is just to cook the dinner for her.

*In the Gaelic versions, the prince rides after the heroine the third time she rides away from church, and grabs her by the foot, but only succeeds in pulling off her shoe. Whereas in the Scots versions, she just loses her shoe by accident.

*In Scotland, the story (and the heroine) is most often called Rashin Coatie (a.k.a. Rashie Coat, or Rushen Coatie), because the heroine wears a coat made of rushes, or "rashes" in Scots dialect.

** It varies whether Rashin Coatie is simply forced to serve her (step)mother and (step)sister(s) at home, or whether she runs away, to escape either from a cruel family or from an arranged marriage, and becomes a servant at the prince's castle, a la Donkeyskin.

*Both Irish and Scottish versions tend to include the motif of foot-cutting to make the slipper fit, just like the German versions do. A bird alerts the prince, typically in a rhyme which says that "nipped foot and clipped foot" is riding with him while "pretty foot and bonny foot" is elsewhere. But it's not always the (step)sisters who do it. In the Donkeyskin-like versions of Rashin Coatie, where the heroine runs away and becomes a servant at the prince's castle, the rival who tries to trick the prince is a henwife's daughter instead.

**Henwives are ubiquitous in these variants. But in the Gaelic versions (both Irish and Scottish), the henwife is benevolent, often serving as the heroine's magical helper, while in the Scots-dialect Rashin Coatie variants, she's a secondary villain, with the above-mentioned daughter who aspires to marry the prince.

*The Gaelic versions usually continue the story after the heroine's marriage, and have her eldest sister (the blonde one) throw her into the sea or a lake, then take her place. But either the princess's bed stays afloat so she doesn't drown, or she's captured by a whale or a water monster that keeps her a prisoner in the deep, yet briefly lets her onto the shore now and then. A cowherd sees her and alerts her royal husband, who rescues her, slaying the whale or monster if there is one, and the sister is executed.

*There doesn't seem to be a strong tradition of localized, oral Cinderella stories in England the way there is in Ireland and Scotland. But this book does include an English literary version: The Cinder-Maid by Joseph Jacobs, the folklorist who gave us the best-known versions of Jack and the Beanstalk and The Three Little Pigs.

**As usual in Jacobs' retellings of folktales, he borrows motifs from various different oral versions in an attempt to write down the "definitive" version of the tale. So The Cinder-Maid is basically the Grimms' Aschenputtel, with the three-day royal festival, the heroine getting her finery from a hazel tree on her mother's grave, the prince smearing the palace steps with tar to catch her golden slipper, and the stepsisters cutting off parts of their feet. But Jacobs also includes the motifs of "finery from a nutshell" and "hollow tree opens to reveal gifts" from other versions – each dress and pair of shoes comes from inside a hazelnut from the tree, and then the trunk opens to produce a coach and horses. And the bird in the tree instructs Cinder-Maid to leave by midnight, as in Perrault. (The midnight deadline is a rare motif in international Cindrellas, despite the fame Perrault gave it; in most versions she just leaves early to ensure that she gets home before her family does.)

**In his footnotes to The Cinder-Maid, Jacobs notes the existence of Rhodopis, but he argues that the entire Cinderella story (the persecuted heroine, magical help to attend an event, etc.) most likely originated in Germany, because it was a German betrothal tradition for a man to put a shoe on his fiancée's foot. He makes no mention of Ye Xian, or the more common belief that the story was born in China from the Chinese view of tiny feet as the height of feminine beauty. This reminds me of a hypothesis I once read that maybe Ye Xian isn't really as ancient a tale as it's believed to be – that maybe the story originated in Germany, then spread to China by way of the Silk Road, and that the name "Ye Xian" may derive from the similar-sounding "aschen," the German word for "ashes" that starts every German form of Cinderella's name (Aschenputtel, Aschenbrödel, etc.). Personally, though, I don't see why the reverse can't be true: couldn't the story just as easily have travelled from China to Germany? Maybe the heroine's association with ashes started when Germans heard the name "Ye Xian" and thought it sounded similar to "aschen"!

But I'm getting ahead of myself talking about China. The next several Cinderellas I'll be reading come from Scandinavia.

@adarkrainbow, @ariel-seagull-wings, @themousefromfantasyland

#cinderella #fairy tale #variations #cinderella tales from around the world #heidi ann heiner #ireland #scotland #england #tw: violence

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duck-of-the-mob · 6 months

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I have a theory that @directdogman put those lines about French maid outfits in there specifically because of the fan art he knew we couldn't help but make of the concept

I'll have you know that I will NOT be falling for it. That idea is utterly absur-

(Brings this to you like it is a dead rat or other beast of some kind)

I drew most of this with my finger so it’s not great but I thought it should be put into the public regardless

#dialtown #dialtown fanart #dialtown art #directdoggo #randy dialtown #drawing #randy jade #dialtown randy #French maid outfit #maid outfit

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punk-in-docs · 2 years

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🥀 Traps With Baited Jaws 🥀 Prince Paul x Reader || 14.8k words || Part III

Summary: There’s a snake in the palace garden. Blood spattered on Catherine’s shrubs. Reader learns that Ruling all of Russia comes at a gutting price- (TW so much subby!Paul smut, violence, mentions of gore/death)

Suka - Term mostly used for women, meaning ‘Bitch’

Mudak - Term used for men, it mostly means asshole, pig, basically a derogatory term for a man.

General Abramov was practically pacing long groves, in the parquet floors outside your quarters.

The doors were closed. No signs of life stirred behind them. None. Stone cold dead. Quiet as the grave.

It was a quarter past ten. The Tsarevich was due half an hour ago, to join Minister Panin in negotiations with the Turkish Ambassador. Who famously was of a grizzly temper, and didn’t like to be kept waiting.

Subsequently, the man now had a face like bottled up thunder. Sat across the table tapping his fingers on the wood. His aides were getting twitchy and pissy. Scurrying to his side to whisper more snide discontent in his ears in their mother tongue.

They offered wine and cakes. They offered vodka. They almost offered some agreeable plump-thighed courtesans. But it wouldn’t sway the bastards. Sharp brown eyes scratched glares like arrow tips across the table.

Abramov volunteered to leave the huge echoing room. Snappish. Tensions swimming down tight like a noose on the Russians. He politely said he’d hurry the Prince along. The ambassador gave him a chilly stare. Gaze packed in frost.

You do that.

Find out what’s so important to that insolent Boy Prince, to keep us waiting.

The General bowed jovially in parting. Waddled his portly way the hallways to Paul’s chambers. Sword clattering at his rounded side. He scooted along. Sweat beading under his wigged brow. Matching his red cheeks.

He’d knocked loud enough to wake the hounds of hell. And then he decided enough was enough. He jiggled the handle and it twisted.

He let himself into the private lounge. The rooms where the Prince would dine. A lounge where they’d light the fires. Masculine port reds soak heavily on the walls. Golds and creams layered daintily on the furniture, like whipped cream dolloped on a dark cake.

It goes beyond the General’s notice to spot a wriggled pair of stockings thrown over the back of the settee. Cushions squashed from the previous crush of bodies. A suspicious wet patch sullying the silk. One pair of mauve ladies heels cast across the floor.

Evidence of a salacious night the evening past.

Catherine’s silky miniature greyhounds are in here. The maid let them in. The mutts were thieving the food that hasn’t been yet cleared by the servants. Leftover essences of last nights dinner.

Blue cheese and French bread. A bowl of ripe grapes, apples and oranges. Two used glasses of wine. One knocked over, broken. Crimson blooms into the persian rug. Bleeding expensive Portuguese wine. No one will care.

The dogs are thieving bread crusts, fruit, and leftover bones. Munching on the plushy pink centres of cut open figs and gnawing ham bones. They yip and sprint away licking their spoilt greasy chops when Abramov came storming in.

The pocket doors to the bedchamber are half closed. Pushed up but not shut. The General is walking too angrily and too quickly to stop and devour the noises coming from behind those doors.

The room filled with wet sounds sneaking from the spaces where your bodies vigorously net.

“Your Majesty.” He begins as he determinedly cuts through Paul’s quarters.

When he rounds the open doors and sees what’s happening on the bed, mortification roundhouse punches him in the stomach. His glaring pink cheeks get pinker - eyes blow wide like spode saucers.

You and Paul, not at all covered the twisted cotton sheets laying limp to the mattress.

He’s laying back. And you’re riding him. Winding your hips to slam down on his cock.

Head thrown ceiling bound. Hair wild and kinked down your back. Cheeks red. Body rendered in shimmering sweat. His hands clutch the cradle of your hips. Fingertips digging dips into the meat of your skin.

He’s in the same state. Sweat licked skin. Eyes so dark they’re black tar stuck on the sight of you. Brown curls damp at the brow. Cheeks all rushed red. It spreads down his neck too.

You love when it does that. You drag your nails over the blush. Leave white lines raked through.

General Abramov is a witness to the way you grind your hips, all to make your husband buck and writhe below you.

Paul’s eyes widen just a little at being caught. Too wrapped up in the bliss of your cunt to fully care.

He almost goes to grab the damp sheets. Or move. Or rectify, or-just, something. Yell and tell him to get out, when he can manage to find his churlish tongue.

Because, fuck, your hips were just that good. He’s drunk on you.

You shove a hand flat to his sternum and make him stay down - your breasts jolt as you ride your husbands cock. You don’t care if the General sees you. Even more than he’s already undeservedly glimpsed.

The man flounders on the spot for a moment. Caught in the ragged chafing space between embarrassment and mortification.

You twist, panting and look the General right in the eyes where he stands gawping. Long coils of hair sticky and clinging on your forehead.

Narrow your bladed eyes and cut his skin with a look that’s all displeasure and amusement. Prickly as a pretty rose bush. To be adored, admired, but make no foolish mistake, your thorns will prick out blood.

It’s true what they say about you. You are all slicing knives, coated in bitchiness.

You look displeased. Yet you smile. It’s all manner of brazen. Lips way too red and wet from sucking on your husbands cock before the position you find yourselves in now. You’ve no shame.

“I’m not done with him yet.” You insist.

Ultimate authority in your tone. Purring sultry breathy words like the sex kitten you are.

“Now, fuck off Abramov. You may have him. When I’ve finished.”

Unspoken threat follows sharply after your carefully plucked but nettling words; Kindly fuck the hell off so I can cum.

He stumbles through an apology to your majesties and bolts from the room like his heels are lit on fire. Like hell hounds are snapping at his coat tails too.

You hardly hear the receding footsteps. General Abramov’s bright red face glowing as he chuffed in displeasure and made a hasty retreat. Good. Tubby old letch.

Paul chastised you.

Overlapping his cross chide is the slam of the door that rattled the air. “That mouth.” He growled in fondness.

“The mouth that you had wrapped around you not too long ago. You were saying very different things about it then.” You point out.

You shift your hips and resume your pattern. You had been edging him for nearly an hour now. He’s all blushy and ready to blow. Just a little longer.

He sits up, chest mashed to yours, and shuffled your hips further on him. Hands scooping under your ass and bringing you close as was possible.

And then he doesn’t care at all, cause he’s smothering his mouth over your breasts and your perfectly hard nipples, and they bounce to his lips where you continue to ride him to a full gallop.

Those hips of yours should be outlawed. Fucking divine.

He’s licking your nipples and letting them fall into his open, searching mouth. Moving his head to time with your thrusts on and off his cock. Plucking with lips and tongue.

You get sweet. Soft on him maybe

Decide to lean back and let his hot mouth and seeking lips wander the sweat trails on your skin.

So dirty. This prince of yours had some of the filthiest desires you’d ever known. Debauched. Debased. He’s always ready to lap you clean after a hard fucking. Beg on his knees. Let’s you choke on his cock for hours, if that’s what you so desired. Prostates himself on the altar of your dignity.

You purr moans right now as he licks at your nipples.

Your interruption was paid no heed. He’d deal with it later. Much later. After you’d finished having your wicked delightful way with him.

Your nails are scratching up the nape of his neck. Tugging the brown locks in a mean fist. You bring his head up to watch his reaction when you clench down on him.

“Seeings as you find my behaviour so objectionable. Perhaps I should stop?” You judge.

Thrusting your hips forwards in a silky sway that gets his mouth going slack. Buried between your shoulder and your neck as he hiccuped a sob.

“Would you rather I cease, my prince?” You ask.

Twist of the knife. Salt rubbed in a gaping wound. You ask so sweetly. Yet still you roll your hips.

There’s a little glaze of fiery hatred in his eyes. But he knows if he doesn’t behave he won’t get a single thing.

“Please. Don’t stop. Please. Never stop.” He begs. His voice crawls into that soft broken territory between pleading and desperation. Hands palming your dewy hips as he nudged his nose against your shoulder.

He’s weary and sweaty and rubbing himself all over you like a cat in heat. Sweat licked skin. Desperate pretty boy with his lashes draping a long flick of burnt umber onto his cheeks, as he bites his lips and begs begs begs.

You’d kept up this soft teasing for hours. Especially last night.

At dinner was when you started. Afterwards during the Opera was when you kept it going.

Sat next to him in the red and gold encrusted box and drove him wild.

You started by caressing your fingertips just up his thighs. Over his tight white breeches. Palming his cock over them. Making him close his eyes and whine like a kicked puppy.

You’re a cruel cruel mistress with it. Every time he hummed, or moved, or adjusted, shyly asking for more, with a shove of his hips forwards to your hand, you pulled away.

Diamond bracelets rattling on your wrists. The way you looked so smug. Had his teeth grinding to dust.

Desire spurned with so much love and hatred it could swallow the blazing sun whole. Loathe at first sight and all that-

You watched the stage religiously as the Aria from the Soprano tripped into a stunning high C. Pitching higher and higher as Paul’s hips squirmed to your touch. And then-the horrible awful wretched burn of-

Nothing.

Leaving him to fester in the ache of a punishment. Hand pulled away again.

He had to swallow and bite his knuckles. You could see tears shimmering in his eyes. You wondered if he’d summon that bratty tongue and give you orders soon.

Listening to him breathe unevenly, all choppy, staring at the chalky opera scenery and fucking Greek marble plinths and columns on the foggily lit stage, with his cock pressed hard and painful up against the falls of his breeches.

You fan yourself and know he’s watching your hair swirl in the breeze. Your diamonds blazing in the dull light, linked around your neck.

The way they shift up and down with your every breath. Clasping your collarbones and fuck now he’s envious of a bunch of stones for being able to kiss your skin and he cannot?- torture.

He looks to your amused face for answers. Puppy doe eyes - slipped with tears-melting all genteel at you.

You give him that look. That knowing wifely look of ‘you will not cum until my say so.’

And how he knew it.

Trying to get you to budge would be like trying to move this entire palace over three feet, merely by pushing at the brick walls with your bare hands.

You scrape your nails up his thigh to dig in. A sting. Just a little pain. He could take it.

His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Sweet rouge on his cheeks absolutely nothing compared to the real merlot blush underneath.

His jaw was tight, knowing that if he utters so much as one peep of a word, those fingers and that blissful touch of yours would flit away. Back to your own lap.

Poor baby boy prince.

He leaned over and hissed into your ear. Clutching your hand where it laid over his cock.

This opera is going on for far too fucking long.

It’s a German opera my love. It may well last for a week.

He curses in his mother tongue.

When it does finally blunder to a finish? Oh he’s ripping you out that seat and out the box door before the final note even reaches top pitch. Before the velvet curtains slam together.

He practically ran you to his rooms he moved so quickly, so recklessly. Sweaty palm clutched hard and painful on yours. He’s tugging you along and you do let him. Spilling love-drunk into the night

The pair of your shoes clipping harsh on the parquet floors. It snaps to the high moulded ceilings. Along with the smoke that flickers from the flickering candelabras. You laugh when he shoves you into the alcove by by his doors. He kisses you like he wants to win you over.

Again. You let him. You let him devour your mouth like a sloppy teen with a fat clumsy tongue whose never even kissed a girl before.

You grab his cravat. Fist the tied cotton in your nails. Tumbling backwards on horny limbs through the doors to your chambers. Entwined.

Lips joined and roving over hungry plump mouths, passion bruised, burned alive as you bumbled your way, tangled legs, knocking knees, and into his bedchamber.

Your arm hooked around his neck. His took fists of your skirts and hauled you closer. Like a spoilt child clutching at his favourite toy.

“Please, please” He began. Your poor husband was treading softly on eggshells, the slightest kiss or the tease of your body against him giving him a hard-on he couldn’t get rid of. He aches. It hurts- he wants to sob already.

You decide to grant a little clemency in the middle of your fun.

You pull him in and push him onto the settee in your rooms. Shove him back til his legs give way. Making him crash down.

He drank this behaviour in, fucking flourished on this kind of attention.

He’s sprawled out. Cheeks red. You hook your fingers into, and then throw that stupid pompous ceremonial wig on his head across the room. You yank his trouser falls down one handed.

You saw the resulting grin that followed. The dark eyes clutched with lewd lust. He wanted to admonish you for stripping him of his courtly dress. But then you won’t give him what he needs.

Being married to you has been a lesson in biting his tongue. He both loathes and loved it in equal measure. No one can treat him like this but you-

Before he can even try asking and begging again, you’re wrapping your skilful lips and talented flicking tongue around his thick cock. Swirling around the head. Sucking deep. Swallowing him down.

Choking on his girth as his hands twitch to just bury themselves deep in your perfectly arranged, silky-sweep of hair. All coils and pearl pins. Refinement. Elegance.

And yet here you are with his cock buried in your mouth til your gagging. Like some common Parisian whore with smeared rouge.

You let him just clamber to the peak and then, you’re leaving him dry, pulling back with a hum, and a satisfied pop where he slicks out your mouth. Drool stringing down your tongue to his length. Hard cock shiny with your spit.

Watch him drop his head on the puffed up and plump settee cushions with a damn near pitiful, aroused whine. Hips shifting.

“Be good." You warned. You rose up and bit his lower lip in an aggressive kiss. Voice like harsh thunder. He sits up and drinks as much of a kiss out the cup of your mouth as he dared.

You back up to a stand. Pushing up with your hands from the furniture. Paul just looked up at you from his thrown position on the settee, all sprawled crashed limbs and hope worn naked on his face.

Pulling off what of your dress you could manage on your own. Making him watch your crude undressing. Brocade silk cast to the floor.

You lock eyes with him as you strip your clothes. Shoes kicked off. Leaving you in your stays, chemise and stockings. Anything else required more elaborate undressing. And time you simply didn’t have right now.

Every scrappy second was devoted to this man before you. Stood up, peering down on the lovely sight of him

“Are you going to behave for me, my Tsarevich?” You asked him, cupping his chin between a thumb and forefinger.

He’s quick to nod. Head bobbing like a wild lunatic obeying your commands.

“Going to follow my every command?” You check. You slip your hand off his chin.

Again. A nod.

“Knees. Now.” You bark out at him.

“Yes. yes.” He couldn’t twist his clumsy tongue around the words fast enough. He struggles off the settee and his knees crashed to ground - hard. Cock bobbing where he moved.

You take his place. Laying back. Spreading your knees wide. Pulling up your chemise until your slick pussy was exposed.

He swallowed. His pupils blew wide at the sight, enchanted. Tongue wetting his lips. Fingers itching to move.

“Lick-“

He dove into you.

Licked and sucked, nibbled, flicking skilfully against your clit and running the point of his tongue right up and down your slit.

So enthusiastic, so greedy.

You reached over and soothingly grabbed a handful of his brown hair with a sigh, rocking your hips against his mouth.

He groaned into your folds and took it.

Lolling his head forwards as you ground your clit against his nose and slicked up his chin and all over his cheeks with arousal.

“Finally putting that bossy mouth to good use, Hmm?” You moaned. Bucking into his searching mouth.

That voice that barked at his army. And often at you. Or scathed at his mother. And here he is being such a good boy with it. Like he was trying to eat you from the inside out.

He slurped at you as best he could. Hazily content to let you use his lips. Chocolate-drop eyes glassy, gazing with sheer dumbed bliss and awe up at you.

Contentment churned with gratitude, that you’re finally letting him get his mouth on this holy grail of your lush pussy. Feeding it to him.

“You getting all thoughtless my sweet?” You cooed, heat pooling in your gut at the sight of his face squished between your doughy thighs.

“Love eating me that much do you?” You murmur.

He hummed his answer into you.

“Mmmhmm.” Long and low, like hot drawling treacle, nodding, fingers bunching your skirts as you rocked against him.

The only thought behind those doe eyes, is that he desperately needs to make you cum.

Drunk on pussy. He’s making those moans. Your favourite kind. Eyes flicked back in his skull. Lost in your taste, and the sensory thrill of puffy wet lips gliding against his tongue.

Sweet submissive little noises endlessly trip out his mouth.

You can feel that low-gathering heat bunching up in your gut. He’s tonguing you into an orgasm so quickly. Sensation like fire sneaking up from your ankles up your thighs. Almost like an agony. Bliss stacking up in your bones ready to tip over.

“Mmm. Paul.” You groan all breathily. Your hand clutched hard in his hair. The other over your head and scratching nails into the settee silk.

A warning. A good kind of warning. One that meant he was pleasing you. He thrummed with bliss, neglected cock throbbing, and he’s licking harder.

Fuck, you were close. So very, very damn close. He got you there quick.

You sway your hips up and down to push against his sloppy lips. “Gonna cum. Right on your tongue. Would you like that, my darling?” You ask. Voice all high.

He nods. Furiously nods. It makes lewd wet sounds squelch out from between your thighs.

You start to pant with the way your orgasm rips through you like a devastation. It starts to uncoil and then it’s unleashed.

A natural storm that swelled and tugged and transformed. Legs shaking around his head. Knocking into his ears. Throwing your head back and crying out one long wail. Wetness of your climax seeped out of you and onto the silk of the settee seat. Smothered his chin and mouth.

“Paul. Oh, Fuuuck. Fuckkk.” You tug on the back of his hair and it must be mashing his face so deep into you, nose into your clit so that he could barely breathe-

He didn’t look the slightest bit bothered about gulping down air. Not when he was busy gulping down you.

You spilled into his mouth and he eagerly lapped you up. He finally took a breath as he rested his cheek against your thigh. Dozy grin on his dopey lips as you came back from your high.

Seeing this man shiny cheeked with your arousal. All blushy and slumped against your thigh, ye gods, it was almost as good as the incendiary sex the two of you have.

The future heir of all Russia. Slumped into you, brainless from eating you out. Will wonders never cease.

“Get me out these fucking stays Paul. And I will make you cum and cum until my legs give out.” Is your next order.

Laying back and purring at him from your resplendent sex-frazzled position.

He very obediently stands up and acquiesces instantly. Tearing your stays laces open. Stockings off and thrown over the settee back. Mouth hungrily sloppy slanted on yours.

Bed. Now. Wife.

He ripped your stays. An unfortunate casualty in the end. You couldn’t even care.

This is where it wound you both up. The morning after. You’re riding his cock and making him late to meet with the Turks.

You smirk when you think what they will ask Abramov on his return, and what his answer will be.

“Now. Be a good Prince. Lay back so I can fuck you properly.”

“This isn’t properly?” He asks with disbelief.

You reel him in and kiss him before you pull back and carelessly shove him down. The way he liked. Hand to sternum. And you shove-

He sprawled back on the mattress with a pretty grin that split his face in two. Hands sliding up your knees.

“Want me to fuck you or not?” You ask.

“God please. Please. I will throw myself on your mercy.” He begs.

“Go ahead. I don’t have much to contend with.” You warn him sharply.

Watching how he moans and drops his head back. Gasping and grasping at the sex mussed sheets. You start to swivel your hips. Figures of eight relentlessly. Cruelly.

“You’re so-“ The words evade him. He can’t decide if he wants to curse your blood or sing your praises.

“Careful. Or I won’t be generous. I’ll pull off. Leave you here to fist yourself in your own hand. Spill over your chest like an adolescent.” You sneer.

“You wouldn’t.” His lip trembles with some real horrific fear that you might leave him aching.

His fingertips seek for your legs. Clamping you onto him. Never leave. Ever.

He can’t even let you sleep in separate beds. Not even when you vex each other and snipe like fishwives over something inconsequential at court. Something you don’t see eye to eye on.

Even then, he goes off to his chamber to take a drink and calm down. Yet, come an hour later, and he’s climbing under your sheets with you. Pasting himself to your back with his face in your neck because-

His pillows smell like roses. Of course. They’re soft as anything in heaven. But what they don’t have, is the smell of your peachy perfume lingering on them. He needs that merely to drift off to sleep.

On nights like those, you tend to hate-fuck the aggression away. Take it out on each other. Bear scratches and bruises and tired half moon eyes the next morning. It’s worth it all to share that secretive dirty smile over a crowded room.

You both can’t forget that this crazy twisted path which ended up leading to love, did start in seething hatred and explosive enemy territory. You vexed him, he shoved you back. You kicked, he clawed, you scratched.

You loathed each other bitterly before you ever considered it could actually be passion, prevailing, blazing between you. Some nights you’re reminded of that fact and in the morning neither of you can walk properly. There’s bliss in it you could never give up. Not for all of Russia.

You run your fingers down his chest. Dig your nails in just a little. Press your fingertips over his taut nipples to get a whiny reaction. You smile when it comes.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You slide back down on him so he can feel how wet you’re getting.

“Your cock feels too good, my Prince.” You slam on him again and let him feel how you crush your walls in a tight squeeze on him. Choking his thick fat cock. Pleasure and pain in equal portions.

He’s laying back. All lip bites, blushy cheeks and stumbly moans. Unable to tear his shining eyes off you.

You give him so little all night, and took and took, and then you heap everything back upon him. Like now; riding him so fast you knew he wouldn’t be able to resist it for long.

You were slamming yourself to his hips and grinding right up against his soaked thatch of curls at the base of his cock. It had him close to tears. Your clit is almost numb with how much sensation you’re grinding out of him.

The wet slapping-slick sounds of your cunt sheathed tight around him echo obscenely in this bed. Crude as hell and so loud. It’s making him shiver to hear it.

You’re so wet he can feel you slurping against his body. Mess dribbled down to the inside of his own thighs.

“My love. Oh my- love my-your cunt is incredible. I can’t do it. I can’t hold off. I- hmmm.“ He blabbered. Pitchy. He can’t even round off his jagged little words. Throat corded and tense and veins wriggle and push up under his skin with the strained effort.

His body is jolting from how hard you’re riding him. You can feel him coiling tighter and tighter under you. His belly tenses. He’s thrusting his hips up to meet you. It batters that spot rooted far inside that makes your whole belly flutter.

You moan with pleasure and he’s eating it all up.

You adore the way the bed is slamming hard, knocking into the wall from the roll and knock of your hips.

“Better break this damn bed frame putting a baby in me.” You order. Dig your nails into his ribs again.

“Going to fill me up, Tsarevich? Hmm? Leave me dripping?” You enquire. Sultrily cooing the words at him. Liquid sex skated on your voice.

That did it.

His nails bite into your legs and he starts to chuff breaths like he simply can’t believe you. Can’t wrap his mind around your indecipherable form. Eyes wide and dazed. You catch them for barely a second before they flip back in his head.

You wreck him. You drive him to ruin. And he offers himself up to you for more. Push him right to the brink of abyss and snatch him back. You’d always snatch him back. He was yours to do so with.

You feel his cock pulse hard inside you. Spurting and blooming that delicious push of warmth low in your belly.

He whines when you won’t stop winding your hips in big wide circles to get every pulse of pleasure out of him. Capture every drop.

He cries for mercy. Throat bared as his head is all the way back to the sweaty mattress.

You eventually decide to give it. But not before succumbing to your pleasure. Throwing your head back and riding hard hard hard. Moaning for anyone to hear and you didn’t care who did.

Then you’re drenching-gushing in his lap when you cum. Gummy walls rippling down on him in a fluttering series of squeezes that make his brain wipe blank.

His hands are sweaty clamps on your waist as he watches in awe. Cup of his sweet pink mouth gaping. Oversensitivity brushing against his cock but, lord, this view of you he gets to have is entirely worth it.

You float down from your high. Sticky skin pasted to his where you flop into his chest. Thighs shivering with the strain. Feeling the warmth of his soft cock inside you. Messy where your bodies meet.

You indulged him in a kiss as he rakes his hands through the sweat dampened hair at the nape of your neck.

“So good for me. Always so good.” You pant against his lips. Biting his lower lip with a tigers proud smile. Heart clashing terrifying beats against the trap of your ribs. Same as his.

He’s quiet. Just gazes at you. Equally terrified and utterly beguiled by the fierceness of this hold you have over him. He doesn’t know what he’d do without you. Every day in this court he treads a knifes edge that something will take you away. Something he can’t stop. Something he’s powerless against.

Then what will become of him-

Bliss is now furring up his tongue and stilling his head. All you can hear is the aggressive ram of your hearts as you lay atop him.

Dipping your fingers into his collarbone. Dragging them in patterns that smear his sweat over his torso. Down his slight pudge of a belly. The soft scratch of his happy trail. Up over every bump of his ribs.

You roll on your side and hiss when you shift up and off his cock. Almost sore from the rough ride you gave but you don’t divulge that. That would be admitting weakness and there’s no soft spots you can expose, not in the rough hyde of your ‘supposed’ scaly dragon skin.

Slick-creamy spend of him spills down your thighs. A ring of it left at the base of his cock. Shining wetly on the thatch of his dark pubes.

You smile with sight of it as you roll on your side and cuddle up close to him. Leg thrown over his hip. Hand a reliable weight resting on his sternum.

Wedding ring shining a bright snatching gold and glimmer of diamonds. Sweat wriggled down your chest and over your nipples and he’s hungry to stick them in his mouth again.

He skates his hands up your leg. Looking at you with a weepy and dazed expression.

You watch him a second. Before shuffling naked to sit up. You reach over and press your thumb into the space between his brows. As if you can rub the creasing frown away.

“Why the face my love?” You ask.

Because of course you eternally have your fingers hovering on the pulses of his every mood and want. The vital string of him deep inside you loved to toy with? You know it better than anyone ever has. It’s infuriating. Yet somehow incredible.

You can feel when something isn’t right. It’s eerie but you just can. Can judge what’s up with one flick of your eyes across his expression.

To you, he’s like those long daunting books you devour in the library. You trawl your diamond tip eyes over every secret line of him, and can easily read when something isn’t right.

Hysteria slams into his chest. Mangles his still throbbing heart that doesn’t, that can’t, calm down. He drapes his hand over yours on his ribs. Turns to meet your eyes.

He loves you. Proper honest to god, biblical, soul-deforming, aching perfect love.

And that frightens the hell out of him.

And he’s not just stumbling to this realisation because you’ve pushed him around into submission, and ridden his cock like an absolute champion. Well, not entirely-

You tilt your head and await his response. So many things unsaid sink into the plush bed of his tongue;

He’s so thankful his conniving draconic mother brought you here. Summoned you from Rostov to entertain him and get him off her back.

He’s so happy for every sneer you give him. Every shared look that sent shivers, cast over a ballroom swimming in good golden candlelight and the other half falling into spots of shadow.

He’s so soothed when he comes back from another argument, locking antlers with his mother, and you’re there in his quarters.

In your exotic plum silk dressing gown, hair down, soft, no angles present, pouring him wine and pulling him in for a plump kiss to chase the sour-sharp words off his tongue.

He doesn’t know how to speak kindly or softly. He’s been raised in the opposite of all those things. In every manner. By the same token, so have you. You’re perfectly matched in that regard. Tongues like sandpaper. Bred with barbs left on your dark souls.

Is there a hole where our hearts are do you reckon.

Yes my love. Black and terrible deep ones.

And it couldn’t be more right.

He leans over and softly lets his lips spill onto yours, and kisses you. Because these feelings just burst out of him, and he needs somewhere to direct them. He cups your face and won’t stop drinking in your lips like he needs them merely to survive.

You smile when he lingers so long kissing you like he’s still aroused. Lips wet and tasting faintly of you. Pushing and taking. When you pull back, your lips are spit wet.

“Aren’t you now terribly late to go and meet this ambassador?” You enquire in a soft voice still laced in giddiness from his kiss. Fingers still splayed on his sweaty skin.

He shakes his head at you with a trace of a flirty smile. “Good thing I don’t entirely care for the Turks.”

“You’re welcome, my liege.” You grin. Looking like a honey eyed vision. Like that sly fox in old fables.

It suits you. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

A tea party. Another bloody insipid tea party.

All you seem to do is take tea, or lunch, put on dresses, or a strand of pearls or a diamond clasp. Plan yet another tea party, and lay in wait to hear the latest snippets of gossip. It does grow into tedium, you’ll admit.

But then, that’s what the ladies of the court love to do.

They do remarkably little else.

Aside from fucking, reproducing, and bitching. But, silver lining. With these parties, atleast there’s cake.

Paul remarks that those silly affluent ladies don’t have the brains to do anything else. They do as they’ve always done; as they were taught and raised by their own ridiculous mothers.

Prance daintily around with their fluffy little lapdogs, their silk dresses and their powdered wigs, they wag their tongues like it’s a sport. And their usefulness really does end there.

You sit in Catherine’s spacious rooms. The ones she entertains in. The walls are slaked in deep rich paints. Mossy greens and flower vines twining in opulent golds with jewel coloured petals. Dazzling Prussian blue velvet swallows the light on the furnishings. Dark like her wicked taste in all things.

You’ve got one of her little Italian greyhounds cushioned in your lap. Malvolio. The naughty tempered grey one. He sits there chuffing as you scratch behind his ears.

You watch the Empress cackling with mirth as she points out the window beside Lady Orlova, showing off the pair of peacocks in her gardens that drift through, pecking at the lawn. Feathers skirting fluffy behind their steps like a brides train.

They were a gift from the Emperor of the Mughal Empire. All the way from the Agra Fort.

You’re sat on the rococo settee with Milena. She wore a dress the colour of vivid lemongrass, with a gold and emerald necklace ringing her throat. You saw to her having a good maid - at last. And access to as many jewels and silks as you did. She smelled like rich vanilla soap and damask roses.

You wore your mulberry purple silk dress. Rubies set in squares and icy silver cling to your neck, and drape from your lobes. A single teardrop of a pearl dangles off the necklace. To sit at your clavicle.

Both dressed in your court finery. Heeled feet propped on the low table being very unladylike as you dipped into Earl Grey tea - her into the wine - and scoffed down tiny, pretentious pink cakes. Slathered in too much sugar and fondant icing.

“I cannot believe it is expected of us to do this twice a week.” She griped.

“Here, here.” You mope in agreement.

“That’s cause not a single one of them, save for our glorious Empress, has ever read or touched a fucking book.” Milena explained as she shoved a much too big cake into her mouth.

“Probably wouldn’t know how to open one without instruction.” You jape.

It made her smile around her mouthful. She vulgarly sucked her fingers clean.

“You know, I heard that in Europe, There is a popular movement. It is being called the enlightenment. People meet in coffee houses and read journals and pamphlets. An exchange of ideas and liberation.”

At that precise moment your attention is called across the room to where the Ladies flock like hens to one noble who was proudly showing off how the new snuff box she’d been gifted, had been painted with a miniature of her spaniel. And isn’t that stunningly clever. Have you ever seen anything so ingenious? I declare not.

The Patriarch Archbishop, stood and clapped his hands in wondered awe at the spectacle. How wonderfully Marvellous.

“And then the there’s us-“ You comment drily as you watch the exchange with barely veiled horror.

“Stuck in the dark ages.” Milena agrees.

“Be careful lest we be burned at the stake for that kind of talk.”

Lady Petrova scurried past you, talking shrilly a mile a minute, about her new lilac lace parasol. How wonderful the fabric was. And how she simply must demonstrate it’s perfection right away.

She puffs up her parasol like she’s putting on a show and gets a dainty round of applause. Noises of awe from her companions.

“Fuck this. Have you a pistol?” You murmur in agony.

Milena snorts.

“If I’d have been lucky enough to be carrying right now. Half the idiots in this room would have some extra ventilation in their heads courtesy of me.”

“Start with the Patriarch.” You consider. Smiling all saccharine at the man. He was a horrible old letch. Pious to the most harsh degree.

He unnerved you with his constant toadying towards you and Catherine. When you’ve heard him snipe from corners when her back was turned how German turncoats and sexually liberated women like her, should be horsewhipped.

It makes you wonder at the manner of this frivolous court life. If everyone slaps on a smile that’s purely fake to glide through halls. Then, crept in the dark gaps of bright candlelight the smiles drop and true natures come sneaking free. This place felt like a writhing-seething snake pit on the best of days.

Milena tilts her head at you. “Patriarch is a solid choice.”

His nature was entirely contrived in front of Catherine and Paul. You and Milena received scathing comments from him in moments when no one could overhear. As far as he was concerned she was a sapphic hell-spawn who should rot in hell. He saw you as the royal bitch of a broodmare only fit for breeding. At least you were a true Russian though.

By gods grace that was the one thing he did like about you.

Both your moods plummet to the earths core when he decided to wander your way away from the courtesans and their lace umbrellas and fucking dog painted snuff boxes.

“Tsarevna. You do look well.” He rubs his slimy hands together. Horrible glint in dulled eyes the colour of grey marble stone like the cold walls of church he loves. His voice is chalk dry and grating. A sack full of broken metal that scraped against your ears.

“Patriarch.” You greet. Your smile is stiff.

“Still not with child I see? Are there problems upon the royal marital bed? As a holy leader of this country, I take great interest in the state of our leaders familial prospects.” He raised one thinning brow. Your jaw clamps.

Keep fucking walking. You think.

“Though I hear you’ve no problems with opening your legs for our dear royal Prince. Like a true Voronsky.” He insults with a beam traced on his lips.

Milena turns to you with a sneer. “Bet you wish I had that pistol now.” She starts darkly under her breath.

“Tell your little spies to keep their beaky noses out of my business or my bedchamber. I’m a terrific shot. I’d hate for anything to come to harm. They may get their pretty feathers bloody.” You peck out. Stroking your lapdog.

Milena chuckles. Popping another cake in her mouth. Cackling as she enjoyed it. Not taking any care to be ladylike.

“Lady Dimitrova.” He hissed with his teeth clenching. Milena’s hand curls into a fist.

She narrows her eyes. Smiles sickly. Daydreaming about putting a bullet right through his greasy balding head. It was her soothing lullaby most nights.

“Heavenly Father.” She cooed all flirting.

“Still delighting in your depraved inverted sins?”

“On a daily basis.” She sucks her fingers clean of icing with a too loud suck. Sucking the end of her middle finger, and plainly aiming it right at him.

“Still on your knees praying yourself black and blue? More fool you-“ She sniffs derisively. Running her tongue inside her lower lip. Entirely unbothered.

You can see him bristling to say something else. Jaw clenched. You cut him off.

“I would be very cautious of saying too much more, Patriarch. One day I will be mother to the next heir of Russia. I will have sway in this court and this country will belong to my children, and my husband before that.” You make plain.

He folds his hands behind his black cassock back. Cross swaying heavy and obscene weighty gold on his chest.

“Insult me or my Lady in Waiting any further in any manner, and I will happen to discover that you have vehemently voiced ill-will against the future King of Queen of Russia. Repeatedly. I think that may even border on treason.” You state easily.

A very real fear and loathing is woven into his eyes. Everyone knows what happened to Svenska when she dared threaten you at a soirée one night.

Paul’s devotion to you was laced in ferocity and any words levelled against his Tsarevna would answer harshly to the crime. Pay in blood and pain.

“And you. You pathetic little worm. Will be ground into the mud and left for the birds to rip to pieces. I’ll make sure of it.” You sip your tea. Diamond eyes sharp over the rim of the dainty rose pattern china. Set the cup back into the saucer.

“Such a vision of beauty.” He bows and takes his leave. Eyes throwing pools of acidic scathing at the pair of you.

He stalks away and into the folds of court to stir discontent with the Lords. Black cassock flapping around his feet as he takes his leave.

“I love when you do that.” She chuckles. “Put the dogs back in their place.”

Malvolio shakes his head in your lap. As if he knew he was being discussed. Settles his paws on your knees.

“Soundly whipping them into shape.” You smirk. You pucker a kiss at the Patriarch as he daggers a scratchy glare at you through the crowds.

“Besides. I far prefer being sat here with you. My scary Serbian bitch.”

She’s amused at that. “Mongrel remember. Not an ounce of pedigree blood in this unholy body. Unlike you, you pampered bitch.” She sneers.

You laugh together and she shoves a cake at you. “Come on. You’ll need energy to be a broodmare ready for the stud to hump later on.”

“You’re such a cunt.” You speak through a laugh at her. “And I wouldn’t have you any other way as my Lady in Waiting.” You pat her leg with your hand.

“Stop flirting or I’ll do something to you that will make the Patriatch blush in anger.” She threatens.

“I don’t think it would be wise for us to cross the boundaries between friends to lovers.” You decide with teasing.

She tilts her head. Scans you up and down. “You haven’t seen what I can do with my tongue.” She curls it out at you in a scooping motion.

“Must I have you hosed down? Mongrel?” You ask. Eating the cake she gave you.

You pluck the cherry off the top and bite it- plump sweet red clamped between your teeth. She looks salacious.

“Always ready to do my depraved things to anyone- Oh. For fucks sake.” Milena began. Turning away from you and hissing.

You tittered laughter. She cursed under her breath as Svenska came trotting into the room with her train of even more vapid ladies in tow. Even the stupid tottering click of her heels was somehow annoying.

All ridiculous brushed wigs, and low cut dresses. Svenska with her cleavage bulging out of her dark fern silk dress. A little yippy snuffling dog on a lead. With a flat face, lolling tongue, and bulging eyes. Ugly fat beast of a thing.

“I’m astounded she managed to find the door without help.” Milena bit out.

Her and Svenska famously did not get along. They grated like powder versus lit fuse.

Svenska was all highly-inbred noble stock and entirely no brain.

As the saying goes, if it was raining brains, that woman wouldn’t even get wet.

Milena was the polar opposite. Too many brains for her own good, and plenty more besides. She had no noble silver spoon childhood. Her father was a penniless Baron and her mother was a scullery maid. Quite the scandal to blossom from out under.

She rose, through hard plucky grit and bootstrap enthusiasm, and took her years to rise to become a Lady of Catherine’s court. She earned her place here and married only for gain, and you respected her greatly for it.

Svenska had her cushy comforts slung at her, like everything else in her spoilt life.

You were the same. Most of your life had been handed to you on a plate. You’d been trained for this occupation of marriage. Look at where you’re sitting now because of it.

Lady Svenska and her harpies always seemed determined to needle your friend for the manner of her upbringing. Spiky with the fact she wasn’t raised in these noble circles, like them.

Milena had known strife and penury. Overall you think that makes her far more interesting. She wasn’t bred for court life from the very second of her conception.

Now, Svenska’s distaste, it appears, had spilled on over to you, by mere association.

Good.

The woman was a venomous snake, who had tried on many occasions to slip into Paul’s bed and earn title as his Mistress. Even after you were married.

She was always trying to dig her claws in. Angling herself for a dance. Draping her hand over his elbow if she can snatch him alone, at a ball or one of his mothers soirée’s. Always hovering herself on the edge of his notice.

Your scratchy eyes never missed a thing. You kept them on her. You had your sources around this palace. Keeping you informed.

She makes a beeline for you. Expression dipped in venom. She had to come and bid her greetings to you. You were of rank. It was expected.

“Svenska.” You awarded. You didn’t really wish to engage any more than was necessary.

“Harpies.” Milena greets to them with no hint of shame.

“You should really have that mongrel companion of yours muzzled, Tsarevna.” Svenska trilled all chirpy. Smiling. Hateful bite in her words.

You can feel the air crack with tension. Milena bristles with it. Snarl kept at bay in her throat.

“I tried. But she bit the handler quite viciously.” You explained. Still stroking Malvolio. Self assured smile on your lips. Stroke and smile like a fresh faced daisy.

Milena sipped her wine and thereafter bared her teeth in a grin.

“Man needed his wounds sewn shut.” She widened her eyes. Unflinching eye contact with Svenska.

“Best not get too close. She may be rabid. I haven’t yet had her checked.” You warned. Stroking the dogs silky ears like you hadn’t a care.

“Good day Svenska. Have some cake.” You stretch her a wide smile like heaven was too perfect for you. Angels feathers and clouds.

She bobs a curtsey and departs with a sickly smile that snaps off her face when she turns away at her rude dismissal.

She side eyes Milena who winds her up, making a growling noise and then barked and flashed her teeth.

Makes the woman scurry away all the faster in her dainty heels.

You smile together and clink your glasses. Tipping the rim of your saucer to her wine glass.

“Stuck up prig.” Your friend scoffs into her wine. Watching her back as she departed. Ridiculous pampered dog wadding after her.

“Maybe she wears her hair too tight. Could that be why she’s so unpleasant?” You ponder.

Milena snorts her brusque laughter. “Not like it’s strangling a brain. She doesn’t have one. Maybe it’s the wig? Too heavy perhaps?”

“Ladies.” Comes a harsh hyena bark from in front of you.

It’s very telling that Malvolio yips a whine and zips submissively off your lap at Catherine’s looming appearance.

“Empress.” You both nod at her with due politesse.

“Behaving yourselves I should hope?” She lowers her sharp sherry hawk eyes to burn into your faces. Eye contact always so shrewd.

Milena bites her tongue. Tries to hold back a face of amusement.

“Not even remotely.” Comes your answer.

Catherine gives a dry chuckle. “Would you give us a moment, Lady Dimitrova?”

“Of course, Empress.”

Catherine hefts her saffron orange skirts up. Milena vacates her seat for the Empress to take her place.

“I do so hate to be bossy. But I needed to see you.” She insisted.

Catherine loved being bossy. That was such a blatant mistruth. She craved it.

“You and I fully appreciate, compromise is not your strong suit. It’s not even in your repertoire.”

“Not yours apparently. If the spoiled Turkish ambassador meeting I’ve heard about, is anything to go by.”

She needles you with a look.

You allow yourself the small sneak of a smile.

“May I give you one small piece of advice, petal.” She says with a thinning smile.

“Of course, Empress.”

“All these air-headed idiots may vex you terribly. But it’s good to keep them in agreement. Nettling as they all are.”

“Was my displeasure so evident?” You ask.

Not entirely sorry that it was showing so much. Your face was stale and sour with it. Putting up with the frippery and frivolity.

She rolls those dark-sherry eyes over to you. Tucks her cold bony fingers into yours. Rubies and amber rings on her fingers. Her perfume slides off her skin and slinks across to you. Red pomegranates and lilies. Spicy and vibrant as she is. Harbinger of blood. And how ironic it is that she’s scented won’t the flower that reminds most of death.

She beckons the servant over with two crooked fingers and cradles a glass of wine. Scarlet red.

“It pains me to even say it, but a woman in power needs to occasionally rely on the absolute idiocy that envelopes her at every turn.”

She takes a moment and scans around the room as she sips her wine. Fuck the tea.

“You scare them.” She tells you as she looks across the crowds. Squeezing your hand like she’s proud.

“Because I would rather hunt, ride and shoot. Then sit here and sip tea. To be alongside Paul when he attends his meetings. Not shut out and expected to embroider. To possess a sharp mind and budding intellect. Not some empty headed noble who gets excited over an umbrella in fucking November.” You smile through clenched teeth.

You bite the words out so hard it stings your tongue. You consider that perhaps you opened up too much.

“Exactly my darling.” She answers.

“I should be less- terrifying?” You ask. Really you don’t know any other way to be.

“Heavens, no.” She winks.

“Goddamn right they should be scared of you. You’re the Tsarevna. You live in the shade of my terrible image. That thought should strike fear unto anyone.” She sneers. The jewellery on her wrist rattles where she squeezes your hand harder like a great wrapping boa.

“To be in power in Russia. You must be more than a woman. More than your meagre bones. More, even, than a man. You must be like a God.”

You smirk. “Like a god? Busy elsewhere?”

It makes her laugh. It’s a bright musical sound that doesn’t happen often.

“It’s hard fucking work believe me. And a task few would envy. But you must tread a fine line. With Paul. With the nobles. Don’t be a wet blanket by any stretch. But there are times when you must proceed more softly than I know you’re probably used too.”

You nod. You do see sense in that. Doesn’t mean you agree with it.

“I would be by his side for whatever he wishes. I think he’s perpetually scared I will usurp his rule.“ You inform her.

“I did set a precedence for that.” She beams at you.

“A dangerous one. Sometimes the way he looks at me, like he’s worried I will one day follow in your footsteps. I think I scare him in that way when I’m too forthright.”

“Good. Keep the boy on his toes.” She urges with a sickly grin. “It’s not in my nature to take it easy on any man.”

She pats your knee and rose to her feet. A great waterfall of saffron silk rustling as she stood. The slash of her tulip red lips. She towers tall over you.

“Any word on my heir of yet?”

The warmth is sucked from the sun. Your belly shrivels. She’s good at that. Making you shrink down to about two inches tall.

She can wither anyone to crumpled cinders with those eyes and her words. She roots out any spec of shame and dissects it in front of you.

“No word yet. But you’ll be the first to hear if anything changes.” You insist with as much geniality as you can stroke on your tongue. You hold your jaw firm and set you eyes like the hard diamond tips they can be.

She leans down and kisses your brow.

She lingers with an afterthought on her lips. “By the way. I must warn you, keep your guards close-by. I will be adding three more to your usual watch. There’s been rebellions against us in Omsk. Last week two men tried to break into the palace gardens. Be watchful of your pretty back, my dear.” She urges. Nudges a finger under your chin.

And in a great sweep of silk she’s out the room. Guards on her heel. Flying away back to her cutthroat rule. You’re left sat there with a daunting hole burning it’s way into you gut. Price for being royalty already chalked on your head. Being chided slyly for the fact you weren’t with child yet.

You take a deep breath. It’s not deep enough - it feels too shallow. Milena thumps down back next to you on the settee. Shoehorns a glass of your favourite wine into your slack hand.

“I had a feeling this would be needed after the Dragons visit.”

“My guard watch has been doubled.” You told her. Lifting the glass for a sip.

The taste of it soured on your tongue. Too sharp and spiky. It was so sour, you could barely stand to swallow it down. Your stomach roiled at the taste. Throat left chalky.

Milena’s face fell at your news. “Is that dangerous?”

“Looks as if Catherine has been busy of late.” You suggest flatly. Stirring up her usual amount of rebellions and distaste.

And then you wince. “That wine tasted disgusting. What vintage was that?” You ask in vehemence. The cloy of it sat on your tongue making you feel ill.

She frowned at you. “The Portuguese one you love.”

You handed the glass back.

“Come on. Let’s go have a ride or shoot something. I grow weary of tedium.” You insist. Clutching your skirts and rising gruffly to a stand.

Paul was sat leisurely at his escritoire writing his letters. Leafing through sheets and sheets of bureaucracy inked on thick white cloth like paper.

Unawares as to the storm happening in other parts of the palace.

His eyes were store from trying to make out the squiggled hand. Head swimming from the amount of political jargon swirling around his head. Ink stains on his hands. Cramped fingers.

You’d left not half an hour ago. All bathed and powdered. Rouged up and sent off all pretty, smelling of peaches and cashmere wood soap, wrapped in your cream silk dress and a cloak for a walk around the frigid Autumnal gardens with your maid.

You looked so pretty in silks with diamonds shimmering in your ears. It seemed a strange parallel that not half an hour previous, he had you on all fours on his bed ramming his cock into you, until you sobbed.

It was almost unbelievable to equate the two images of you in his mind.

He gets you as the pretty regal Tsarvena in diamonds, in court being perfectly divine by his side. All elegance. Then in private, he gets you as the most debased woman. When you look at him as you’re laying there naked on the bed. Eyes glazed. Beckoning him over with two curled fingers for more-

You glided over to where he was sat writing. Back to the room. You sling yourself around him and kissed the back of his still sweaty neck. Told him you liked it when he was all rumpled and undone. No buttons polished. Shirt untucked. You ran your gloved hand down his chest.

You then squealed as he flipped around and tugged you across his lap on his desk chair. Hands up your waist as he kissed you deep.

Your maid knocked at the door. Too timid to come in. She’d been burned by that before.

He pulled back and rubbed his nose briefly into yours. Laying it alongside yours. Examining those scratchy-diamonds of your eyes he adores. Extending the touch for as long as he could.

Then he hauled you back upright on your feet. Told you to get out of his way and don’t be troublesome. Swatted your ass and watched you smile with it. Lip bite.

“I’m always troublesome.” You insist as you stand near. His kiss worn pressing on your lips.

“Enjoy your promenade. Tsarevna.”

It never dawned on him until later, how those could be the last words he said to you.

You kissed him once more. Softly. White lace gloved hands slipping off him. Flowers and sweet blossoms coating your palms. He watched you slip out the doors. Swathe of pretty silk slipping through his fingers.

Usually it was a walk you reserved for Milena, your lady in waiting. But she was currently in bed hungover and she was too stubborn and grizzly to be contended with this morning.

She’d sent you a note with two short words scrawled on it telling you her answer.

Scurrilous was a word that seemed entirely crafted for your Lady Dimitrova.

He turned to his papers and the morning sun slanted over his desk. Displaying the lateness of the hour. Burning over the walnut wood as he worked. The maid brought him tea. In his working daze, it grew cold.

Time crawled on until something far greater came to disturb.

He could hear her coming. He could hear his mother a mile away. Always.

The tell tale stab of her heels on the wooden floors looming closer. Closing in like a predator on hunt with blood in her nose. Stab-stab-stab. Slaps to listen to her footfalls. Summed her up perfectly.

What wasn’t usual was the drum beat of many many soldiers walking alongside her. He twisted his head to the doors.

She didn’t stand on ceremony. She threw open the doors when she got to them. They slammed the walls. Rattled the floors. Shook the doorcase. Rage filled the room and it’s entirely hers- powerful and terrifying like the way lightning takes up the sky.

The air she feeds into this once calm space feels damned.

He stood from his desk at such an ungodly, not to mention, noisy intrusion.

Catherine’s hawk eyes are scanning his rooms. They narrow to rusty blades at him. Some way relived.

“You’re safe.” She says it like it’s a minor convenience.

“Where is the Tsarevna?” She orders to know.

The guards flanking her file into the room and fill it up. Hands poised over their guns ready to aim and fire. Faces stoic.

Paul feels his gut plummet to his toes. “Walking in the gardens. She left half an hour ago.”

Catherine’s lips purse.

“You are not to leave these rooms. Do you hear me?” She seethes.

Before turning around, and walking her terrifying rage somewhere else. Flicking her sherry coloured eyes all poison-filled, in another direction.

Two of the guards flank the doors. The others trail after her like violent shadows.

“Mother!” He snaps after her. Demanding to know what was so twisted about all that. About why he suddenly felt sheer clammy panic. Shimmering it’s nasty way along under his skin like a vile serpent. It’s gripping onto his bones and he can’t shake it loose.

“What is happening? Explain.” He snapped. His voice clapped harsh off the walls. His throat strained around his shout. Eyes ablaze.

Catherine didn’t even try and temper him. She turned and caught his eyes. Doesn’t mince her words.

“She’s in danger.”

Ice fills his blood. His heart hurts where it beats. Trembling in fear. So much fear fills his face, he looks like a shiny eyed boy again. His lower lip trembles.

“No-“ He says. His voice is a quiet bleeding wound. Born on skipped choppy breath. Not you.

“Paul. Stay. Here.” She threatens. Voice falls as hard as knife blows. She leaves blood weeping behind.

She’s just pulled out his guts out and splayed them twisted at his feet. Stomped on his heart the way one would a weed.

Paul has never wanted to disobey her more.

Your Autumnal walks did fill you with such joy.

It was yours and Milena’s time to bitch or laugh away from the always poised ears of the stifling court. Where apparently every corner and nook and cranny had both eyes and ears.

You don’t see why you need a chaperone still. You were married. And your usual guards had swapped shift when you departed the house. The new men coming into duty were General Abramov finest - so he said.

You found them passed out in the company of a naked plump whore with a ratty wig. Empty bottles strewn around the pit of their room. Clearly they didn’t care overmuch about your safety when there was vodka and fucking to be had.

You rolled your eyes. You weren’t waiting on another set of grunting shaved monkeys to ready themselves.

So fuck it. You made the executive decision.

You and Darya strode out into the dark heart of the gardens, alone.

Your maid was much sweeter than your friend. More timid wet bunny than a rabid long-toothed mongrel. She pranced gingerly along beside you, tiptoeing like a nervous baby roe deer.

She didn’t talk much and mostly hung off your words for fear of displeasing you. You never snapped at her. You weren’t that heartless. She worked thoroughly hard. She was a diamond in the coal mine of ladies maids. She was good with hair too. Worth her precious weight in gold.

“Lovely day.” You comment. Hiking up your skirts to step over a squelching patch of mud.

“Indeed it is Tsarevna.” She copies your lead.

“You don’t need to call me by my title every time, Darya. It doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue.”

“Yes, Tsarevna.”

You roll your eyes. Really, she won’t be won over.

“I hope the chef makes apple cakes tomorrow. That, or something with yellow pears. They are my favourite fruit this time of year.”

“Mine too, Tsarevna.”

“With cinnamon and brown sugar?” You add. Determined to coax more out the girl.

“Yes. Tsarevna.”

You sag your shoulders down. She wins. Milena would have told you three salacious sex stories by now. And two shreds of reliable gossip.

You stroll along and you introspectively marvel at the slowly deadening trees. You didn’t actually mind the companionable silence.

Autumn here did remind you of home. In Rostov. Your father and his love of roasting nuts over the fire embers at night. Buttery chestnuts and smoky air lacing together.

The prick of frost on your cold cheeks. The loping mist that accompanies a frigid bitch of a blue dawn morning. The way you and your sisters used to collect apples in the orchard. Rusty rosy flesh. Gather them in your apron pockets. The way you had to warm your toes by the fire before bed some nights.

You were more at home bedecked in furs, and being in horse drawn sleighs over milky frozen lakes. White as a swan feather snow.

You liked this type of cold that was creeping in. You put that down to your entirely slavic blood. Sustained on frostiness.

You like it how it is now. An array of golden toffee leaves being tidied into corners by the gardeners. Scuttling papery things being blown everywhere. Tumbling and sticking across the wet grass. You idly wondered in the back of your head why the guards weren’t at their posts.

That thought didn’t sink into the proper full dawning place it should have.

You skimmed your eyes along the clipped hedges. The way the frost knifed at the copper beach groves was stunning. Spiderwebs it’s clawing ice across each and every one of the leaves. The air is ungovernably sharp with cold. Blue silk drape of a sky with a searing mustard sun.

Breath leaves your mouth as a silver wisp. Each drag inhale burns the walls of your throat. You watch birds dip and swoop in the sky above. Through the frost thinned branches.

You walk with your eyes turned skyward for a second. And when they come glancing back down to earth- your steps come grinding to a halt.

You fist Darya’s cloak. Getting her to come to a sharp halt. You tuck her behind you. Your hand a grating pain on her wrist where you held so tight.

There’s blood spattered on the frosty copper leaves.

You’re just coming to the clearing in the groves. There’s a fountain with a Greek statue decorating the space ahead. You know it well. Deep in the heart of this garden. The water in the mossy stone pit, is thick and glossy still with ice.

The guards lay dead, heaped beside the fountain. Slumped dark shapes of what used to be men. Throats laid open from ear to ear. Crimson ribbon cuts draped over their throats.

Darya splits the air with a scream, muffled through her hands clamped to her mouth, tears shaking from her terrified eyes. You catch on what tore that scream from out her mouth.

One of them isn’t dead yet. But the man who just ripped a knife across his throat from behind, unleashed a vivid spill of red. Like he was a boar on a hunt and not a royal guard.

Wide glassy eyes, choking splutters. That dreadful expression as his own blood fills his throat. Choking.

The men holding the knives are not of nobility. There’s two of them. They wore dirty coats and mud smeared faces. Shaggy stubbled beards, and hands and eyes that have never known finery or riches. They’re smiling as they kill.

Catherine was very well hated after all.

Darya’s screams draw too much attention. You try and silence her lest she ends up the same manner as the guard. But then her eyes flick back and she drops into your side. Dropped like a dead weight. Fainted. Perhaps that was a mercy.

Their eyes swim to you.

Without care you’re kneeling in the mud and checking she’s alright. Calling her name but she just lays there limp. You yank hair out her face. There’s mud on your hands. You don’t mean too, but it smeared across her cheeks.

Breath fell silver from your lips as you rasped her name. You refused to let panic crawl up your throat and thicken your voice.

Suddenly there’s a grubby hand fisted in the back of your neck. Cold steel - bloodied - resting at your throat. You will down your bile.

“Up. Suka.” Comes a sniggering voice from behind you. Laughter.

Charming.

You try to breathe as you rise to your feet. They pull you up fast. Shoving you backwards against the grove. Leaves and frost scratch the back of your neck.

“Pity that small one fainted. We could’ve had one each.” One says, tone pure filth. Rakes his eyes over your heaving tits. Not even fully addressing you.

They’re animals at best. Beasts that dared to crawl upright from the mud. Dirt ringed around their fingernails, blood spatters on their brown coats. Shirts yellowed with sweat. Hands red.

The way they’re both looking at you is like you’re a plate of bleeding lamb chops before a wolf.

One is lanky and still brushed with youth. Short shorn hair. He licks his lips as he looks at you. Eyes so deep they’re black.

The other one is shorter, older. Hair blonder and shaggy. Down to his shoulders. Eyes paler but no less spurned, entirely wrapped up in blood lust- pure hatred.

“I’m Russian you Mudak.” You spit out at them cursing at you thinking you won’t understand your native tongue.

The young one grabs your cloak in a fist. Clenched the fabric. Rips it off to see more you. Silk ribbons slither free and they cast your fine cloak into the mud. Get a better look at your dress and bodice.

“Look at that- fuckin beautiful.”

You blaze with a furious blush as he drags the knife tip under your diamonds pushing up so the gems grew tight around your neck. Choking a little. Choking you on your riches like the pampered bitch you are.

“The diamonds or the tits?”

“Both.” He guffawed back like a hyena.

You bristle. Caused the younger one to prick the slimy knife deeper into your throat. It burned. Grazed skin.

“Behave girlie.”

You can’t keep to silence. You can’t. Your pride is unleashing it’s jagged monsters. You’re snapping your fangs without thought.

“Fuck you.”

The knife pushes in more. You felt the scrape of it pushing at your rage slicked heartbeat.

“Keep your fucking tongue still unless you want it cut out.” The older one slithers a smile at you.

You spit at him. It lands right on his chest. Streaking down his coat.

“You’re going to regret that Suka.”

“Doubt it.” You snap.

Then he gets closer and his filthy hand grabs your chin. Hard. Squeezes your bones.

“Shame that. To leave a pretty girl without a tongue. It’s all you must be good for, Suka.”

You glare. Eyes threaded with steel. Your backbone rigid.

“If you’re going to keep calling me Suka, you better put start putting royal before it, scum.”

The young one fists his hand in the back of your hair and forces you to arch your neck. It burns. His foul breath washes over your face. His lips are chapped. His teeth are twisted black and yellow.

“Who might you be then?” He wonders aloud.

“Too smartly dressed for a maid.” The older one proposes.

“Maybe she’s a Whore. Opens her legs and keeps her cunt wide open for the nobles or the Prince.”

“What whore would have a maid?” The young one asks.

A beat of silence. You swallow

“The Tsarevich’s wife would.” The older one grins. It’s deadly.

Bile fills your neck like acid.

“We’ll go and find your pretty prince when we’re done here with you.” The young one taps your cheek with his fingertip.

“Slit his stupid throat. Leave you gutted open here. Two little presents for that Empress cunt.” The young one keeps his hand in your

Then he chuckles and it’s sick. Looking down your body. “Maybe you’re already carrying the Empresses’ heir huh? That princes babe in your belly.”

He makes a face that you could only describe as coldly flippant.

“Shame.”

You barely register anything else save for the way he swings his arm back and goes to bury the blade in his hand deep in your belly. The older one watches on.

You brace for the hot mean slice. Your hand vices for his wrist. But no pain comes. It didn’t penetrate your skin.

You flick your eyes down and see the blade hasn’t even pricked beyond the whalebone of your stays. Stuck on the thick close fabric of it. It only ripped the silk and left blood that wasn’t yours.

You act so fast you can’t believe it. Your hands are shaking. Time slows to honey.

You twist his wrist hard enough to potentially break it. He screams. Too slow.

You grab the knife and tore it onto his lanky throat. Ripped it across his neck and push him away. You hear his grunts of pain that churn into wet sloppy chokes.

You’re a sight. Red spattered across your cream silk and those fat diamonds. Droplets across your face and cheeks. Dripping off your hair darkly. It’s like there’s red rose petals on your dainty lace gloves.

You sneered at the expression on his face. Eyes glassy wide and blown with disbelief. Shock. Blood sheeting down his grubby clothes as his hands scrabbled for his neck.

The older one comes for you in rage. Which makes him clumsy. He pushes you into the mud and used all his weight to try and choke you with his bare hands. Where he felled you, the knife scattered out your hand.

Greasy blonde hair falling in front of his rage flushed face. Muddy clothes and the horrid weight of rutting man like a stocky boar above you. Spittle wet on his lips.

He’s cursing your name. You’re grunting and trying everything in your gritty scrappy power to overcome.

He gets his meaty hands around your neck. You scrabble your fingernails at his dirty coat. He slaps you to keep you subdued. Cheek stinging. Mind reeling into base animal instinct.

You twist and reach for it. The knife you dropped. Your fingertips barely reach the handle. A desperate stretch. An empty slip to the frosty muddy grass.

Your world starts trickling into punchy static swirled stars. Blood pounds white and black over your eyes. Pulsing with the craving for air.

Not for long.

Where he pushed you and climbed on top of you, your skirts were up around your knees. And with every painful pulse of your brain. You reach for the slither of a dagger you keep in your garter.

You get your slippy fingers around it. They drift off. Blood smeared over your thighs and your breath is starting to wane. Trickling out dry past your lips. Paul’s face flashes in your mind. Last thing you can think of. Those brown eyes and the corner of his pink smile caught in candlelight.

You could sob with the agony of it. You really could. Your lip trembles.

But then something else roundhouse whirls into your chest like a furious storm that can’t handle your bones. Rage. Love.

Tears squeeze out your eyes that feel ready to burst as you gape up at his furious face. Digging his nails and thumbs into the meat of your neck. The burn of blood rose furious in your throat.

You slam your knife down into the soft of his back. Three times. You stab and stab down down hard until pure terror seizes over his face. Until he’s weak enough that you can knee him off you and grab the back of his neck. Fist his dirty collar in your hands and grit your teeth.

“Rot in hell.” You curse at him before you slam the sticky steel knife into his throat too.

Gurgles and frothy pink blood. More red blooming down into your dress. Sour metal in your nose. Too many warm pennies. It’s gummy on your hands. Sticky.

You hate the smell of blood even on a hunt. It cloys on your furs and matted and made you feel sick. You never hated it more than now.

You kick him off you and scramble to your feet. The weight of him off you. You’re upright and legs trembling like they won’t hold you.

Skin too small. Your veins wriggle like flames. Your steps shivered. Body bowing pathetically. Every muscle sore and still pulled taut with adrenaline.

There isn’t enough air and all you can taste is blood. You spit it out your mouth but it doesn’t leave. Bile tries to force its way out but you just breathe. For now. Just try and locate the thin air.

You brace a crimson hand on your stomach. Stained lace. Mud and blood smeared on your dress. You cannot hear the sweet call of birds or the wind rattling it’s whisper through the trees. All you can focus on is the fierce drum of your heart. Lungs swelling in the trap of your ribs.

You stand and stare down the centre of the copper birch groves. Trees lining the way in your vision. Back to that terrible palace. You just stare because everything is still ringing in your ears.

Guards are furiously running in their swathes towards you. So many of them. Rifles aimed. General Abramov in the centre enfold of stocky columns of uniforms that were his men. Barking his orders that you cannot hear. It’s all swirling mute to you.

Paul is there. Surrounded by a cluster of soldiers. In his untucked white shirt, undone jacket. Hair a smushed mess. Pistol locked in his hand.

Your face is oddly stoic.

He stalks towards you- terrified eyes scanning the bodies slumped around you. Your maid. The guards. The blood. The knife still dripping in your hand.

You’re covered in it. He doesn’t know if he’s out his wits with fear, or wanting to get on his knees and pray his thanks to the heavens, til his lips hurt.

Wrap his hands around your hips and kiss your belly. Chide you and love you in the same breath cause you scared him to death.

You barely see him when he comes up to you. Calls your name. Cups your face. Doesn’t care for the mess all over you. He needs the snap of your diamond eyes meeting in his.

He drops his pistol cause his hands are around you. All over you. A scuff of material catches rough on his palm. Grazed jagged silk.

He looks down and sees the knife sized hole that had been stabbed into your stomach. His breath lays in his throat and it’s too thick to reach.

Even in your hard prickly angles, your glassy steel countenance, and they’ve cut through your brambles and laid their hands on you. Hurt you.

You finally say his name. “Paul.” It’s not even above a raspy whisper.

Tears shine in his eyes and you don’t know anything else than how to clutch him and hold onto his hand over your belly. You chuck down your bleeding dagger. Will the blood ever come away.

You wait until he reels you into his chest and cups the back of your neck to cry. Fear finally gets to you. Hands cold and scrabbling for his hair. His warmth. The smell of his shaving soap. Safety.

For now, it’s enough.

Night fell swift. Catherine was furious. Seething spitting nails at everyone who crossed her path. Livid at being disobeyed.

She chucked wine glasses. She threw priceless vases at the walls. Shrilled til her throat hurt. Shards of broken things less spiked than her displeasure. The countess could barely calm her down.

She cast her eyes over you as Paul walked you back from the gardens. Soldiers flanking you entirely and the General on your heels.

You stepped inside and she was ready to draw some blood of her own. And then she saw you. Red spattered face and dress. That metal scent living on your skin and you were dying to scrub it away. You wanted that harsh scratch from a hard wooden brush. Bristles on your skin until it barbed to pain.

You meet her eyes. You don’t back down.

She almost had the balls to look impressed. Intimidated even-

“Go get her cleaned up.” She orders gently to the maids.

The first time you’d ever heard anything gentle come out her mouth. Crossed with respect. She nods at you. You feel blessed in some ways.

And here you were. No longer trembling. In the piping hot bath in Paul’s quarters. Water slicked over your skin. The bath water still ran pink even now. Even after they sluiced it off you with cold jugfuls before you got in the tub.

Your throat is stinging. Eyes bloated and sore from salty tears. You weren’t angry. Or sad. It went much deeper than that. Roots clinging. You’re not entirely certain why you spilled tears. Maybe it was that one thing you swore you’d never show;

Fear.

It’s fully matte dark and the room is only licked by flames. The orange of the fire and the spin of the gold from the candle holders. You turn and turn a wedge of soap in your palm until your fingertips were pruned. Your hair sticks down your back. Wet silk that sticks into the water.

Blood still in your mouth no matter how much you swilled with tea or water. The wine still tasted bad. It will be a while before you can stomach swallowing claret.

The maid knocked on the door. A harsh rap that disturbed your silence. It seemed almost too much. Overwhelming. You flinched.

That wasn’t you.

You were at peace with the crack of the flames and logs shifting in the half. The swish of the water around your naked limbs. The smell of your tuberose and cashmere wood soap. That was all you wanted for now.

“A little longer, Tatiana.” You call out. Not unkindly. Dazed maybe. You didn’t have the energy spare to be a sniping viper tonight.

The door opens anyway. You don’t bother to cover yourself. The waterline only just hid your nipples.

When you look up. Paul is stood sideways in the door. “I took the liberty of dismissing your maid.” He tells you.

“Did she say how Darya was.” You ask.

“Awake but she was very shaken. The doctor attended her. Gave her a draft.”

“Poor kid.” You sympathise. Scrubbed the soap bar down your arm.

You feel Paul bristle at that. You just know. When you look over at him the sides of his mouth are taut. Pulled firm with anger.

Catherine does the same. When the lips purse, that’s when you know- run.

“My concern is elsewhere at present.” His voice is stiff. Tamped with stomping brat and anger.

“Do not think to lay the blame at my feet. I went for a fucking walk.” You hold firm. Eyes gazing into his. Too tired to be slinging vitriol back and forth.

But you won’t dare let him forget you have sharp snarling teeth. They may be tucked away. But just because a panther sheathes it’s claws doesn’t mean it’s lost use of them entirely.

“I don’t lay blame at you. I’m just trying to wrestle with the idea that I could have lost you today.” He snaps out louder than he intended. Voice reed thin.

Stood at the end of your bath in his big baggy shirt and breeches. Barefoot and stripped down to nearly nothing. Rubbing his forehead and trying not to let fear bleed into his voice. He failed.

He looks so young. So stricken with fear as you sat there. Watching candles flicker jerky flame across his satin cream cheeks and those wide brown eyes.

You say nothing. “You want to be angry with me.”

“I’m not angry. I’m livid.” He hissed out.

I’m terrified. Is what you hear.

“Those men meant harm. They killed four guards.” He tries to strike fear. You’ve had enough of it today.

“I’m sat right here proving their plans otherwise.” You insist.

“Because you got lucky.” He snips.

“Not really. I’m always armed.” You insist.

He softly uses your first name. He never does that.

“Try and take what I’m saying seriously.” He pleads.

You look at him for a silent beat. He’s lumping all this on you and you’re just trying to sit here and manage to breathe.

“They said they wanted to hurt you.” Another swish of water. Swill of soap over your palms. Chalky and white woody petals.

“They told me. They were going to gut me and leave me in the gardens like a stuck boar. They were going to come and slit your throat. Leave your mother our corpses to find. A present.”

His face falls into distress. He’s spurning with so much anger and sadness it’s starting to rule his expression. His eyes twirl with it.

“So before you sit there and rightfully rip pieces out of me, Paul. I ask you this: What choice did that leave me.” You say it so softly. But your meaning is backed by steel.

He soaks in your words. Drinks them in.

He can’t cross the room fast enough.

In four quick strides he’s on you. Uncaring for the soap suds still on your skin or how your hair is dripping. His face is in your neck. His arms wrapped around you and yanking you to the edge of the tub. You’re dripping spots onto his white cotton sleeves.

His fingers rake through your hair. Wet beading on his fingers. He tilts your face up and just traces his thumb over the stinging welt that animal left.

“I don’t want to be without you.” He whispered softly.

That’s what it comes down too. When everything else is stripped away.

“I’m a bitch with sharp teeth and lots of knives. My Angel. I’m not going anywhere.”

You pat his cheek. Slide into an easy plump-lipped kiss. He pushes his mouth onto yours. Strokes his fingers gently down your naked wet back. Those melty chocolate drop eyes by candlelight you will never get enough of gazing at. Or into.

“Your fierceness today astonished me. I’ve never known you do anything so physically Russian.” Ghost of his smile returns.

You take a breath. Something swims on the tip of your tongue.

“I believe It wasn’t just myself I was being very Russian in defending.” You admit.

His face is thrown into all realms of bewilderment. “My love?”

You tilt your head at him. Smile like you’re the gatekeeper of sacred secrets.

You take his hand and slide it under the bath water to your belly. Fully soaking his sleeve. You press his palm onto your warm flesh.

There you fool.

“You-“ He gasped.

Fell on his knees. Mouth gaping. Doe eyes wide. You stunned him like a deer caught out in the open on a hunt.

“Congratulations. Tsarevich.“ You smile. “And may the Lord fucking help us.”

My taglist for the babes; @ceriseheaven @indouloureux @stiegasaw @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @starbxcks @morganamoonstone @ramona-thorns @gvtosbith @poppy-metal @munsonswhore86 @munsonlov3r @lunatictardis @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-tittie @anaisweird @cerinthussulpicia @cinnamoncunt @thincrusttheworks @manicpixiedreamcurl @therosietoesy @fanficappreciationblog @thicksexxualtension @tvserie-s-world @sharp-and-swift @dadsbongos @2clones-1kamino @edsforehead @chcolateeyelver @seven-glass-kids @forever-is-not-for-everyone @creme-bruhlee @bkish @wayward-rose

🥀- lmk if you want to be added or removed. drop a comment to join taglist. This is the most up to date tag list I will be using on all my JQ stories going forwards I don’t wanna miss anyone out ! 🥀

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lamb-of-seven · 1 year

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Head-Canons for the Demon Brothers 2

Prompt: The Brother’s reaction to you dressed as a Cat Maid

!!Minors and Ageless Do Not Interact!!

Word Count: 3,127

Content Warning: Rather Suggestive.

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You, our favorite MC have a knack for getting into some wacky and sometimes unfortunate situations with our favorite Demons in all of Devildom. You are always invited to play different games with them, You, Levi, Belphie, Beel, and Mammon tend to play video games together. You Satan, Asmo, and Mammon tend to play cards. And you and Lucifer will play a round of chess… with Mammon begging to play but being shut down. Our Avatar of Greed couldn’t help but always ruin the games with wanting to have every one place some bets with cold hard cash, and as always everyone refused. Until one day…

Mammon: "Ya Know what…” Everyone involved in their game of Poker looked at him. “We don’t have to bet with money. How ‘bout this, loser has to do whatever the winner says for a day.”

From that day on, everyone gathered together once a week, playing games and the person who lost the most had to do whatever the one who won the most, do something entirely of their choosing for a day. One week Mammon lost to Levi and had to clean his entire room. Another week Beel lost to Asmo and had to be his perfectly handsome butler for the day, while the disastrous week Levi lost to Belphi, Levi had to attend the next game night in his Ruri Cosplay. And so the new tradition was born. And after narrowly escaping last place for two months, you officially came in dead last and were ordered to dress up in a Maid Costume with Fluffy Cat Ears and a Tail.

Lucifer:

★The moment you entered the room, with your body dressed head to toe in a typical French Maid Costume, adorned with charming cat like features, a smirk graced his face. He didn’t once try to hide his amusement as he took his time gazing over ever inch of you.

★Though the costume was alluring, Lucifer is a busy man, and he will absolutely put you to work, to the point where you are starting to think that the bet was for you to be an actual maid. However, as you bend over slightly to dust away dirt from a hard to reach spot in his office, he sneaks a peak at the frilly matching underwear and gives your bottom a swift slap. Laughing as you jump and let out a small yelp, then walking away to continue his paperwork.

★Unlike some of his other brothers, he will make sure not to parade you around in front of others. He wanted this sight all to himself and knowing how desperate his brothers were to see you like this made his smirk grow wider.

★Throughout the day Lucifer will often make small comments like “I believe you missed that spot.”, “Ah, what am I going to do with you MC, you need to sweep this spot over again.”, “Mc, the bed sheets are uneven, fix them.” You could have cleaned perfectly, he just wanted to see you work harder or twist and bend in all different positions.

★Once his work is done, then cleaning is over. He will stay at his desk, his eyes darken and his smile becoming sly. “My my, you’ve been working hard haven’t you my maid. Come here, I believe I have a task for you that we can both enjoy.” From there he will have you on your knees under his desk pleasuring him until he needs more from you. “Remember MC, your mine for the entire day, and night.”

Mammon:

★The Avatar of Greed himself winning a gamble and getting you as his prize is practically a dream come true. The idea of a Cat Maid Outfit came to him after one of his brothers had to wear something similar. He just couldn’t get the thought of you in such an outfit, acting all cute and sexy for him, out of his head. The moment the day of your punishment started, he was up at the crack of dawn banging on your door and practically throwing the outfit at you. He will wait excitedly bouncing on his toes for the moment you step out of the room.

★When you look up at him, with embarrassed eyes and a blush he’s just ready to pounce on you right there, but he holds back, he’s got a long list of everything the two of you are going to do that day. He’s grabbing your silken glove covered hand and guiding you to his room. He askes you to first clean his room, and though he spends a lot of the time watching you work, just admiring the view, he can't help but sometimes join you in the cleaning, showing you where everything goes and ultimately putting half his stuff away.

★Now it’s time for him to show you off to everyone, and by everyone, he mean’s everyone. He wears such a cocky smile as he parades you around HoL in front of all his brothers, often making you sit on his lap, or meow for him or giving him little kisses on the cheek. He’s simply in pure bliss and often laughing to himself as his brothers look on with jealousy.

★Once the late night hits, he's bringing you out on the town and by that, to poker matches or illegal casinos. Despite your protest and further embarrassment to be seen in such a way, he just remarks, “Hey, who’s the winner here? Me, the Great Mammon! So you have to do everything I say for a full 24 hours, alright Kitten, no complainin.” And sadly you spend the next few hours hiding your face as best you can while Mammon props you up on his lap at ever poker game you visit. His hand constantly wrapped around your waist.

★The more time he spends with you, the more he wants. He brags to others about how he won you, and will start to sneak his hands and fingers towards more dangerous places. The more drinks he consumes and the more money he wins, the more restless he becomes, until soon enough he has you pushed up against a wall in some alley behind a casino, tongue pushing into your mouth and hands grabbing at every inch of you. Next thing you know your back at his place bent over and being told “Don’t you dare ever take this off. I'm about to show you why your mine!”

Leviathan:

★The jealous otaku having you all to himself in a cat maid costume! It just can’t be!

★When you first show up to his room, standing in the doorway with the cutest maid costume on and perky fuzzy ears and tail on, it just drives him crazy. The moment he sees those thigh highs pinching into your thighs, he becomes a blushing mess about to have a nose bleed.

★He is probably one of the few brothers that will not make you clean a thing. Instead, he’s going to take a few hours filled with stammering and stuttering and game playing before he is brave enough to ask for the first thing he wants. He wants a photoshoot. He want’s to pose you in so many ways and take million photos like as if you were doing a cosplay shoot at a convention. A first he will shyly ask for you to look like your dusting off his figures, then maybe making his bed, then maybe posing like a cute cat. After the first half an hour, his confidence begins to show. Now he’s physically posing you and putting himself into weird positions and adjusting lighting to get the most perfect pictures.

★Now that he is a bit braver, he will ask you to call him master. “Ok Master.” You say and his face is bright red again. Now he will start to make more request. “Could you play games with me?” “Of course Master.” “Would you feed me?” “Say Ah, Master” “Would you pat my head?” “Anything you want Master.” Now that he’s getting more of the hang of it, his demands start to become bolder. “C…could you k…kiss me?” “Where would you like me kiss you Master?” From there on the more perverted side of Levi comes out as he starting kissing you. All games and fears are abandoned as he has you pinned down on the floor, the maid costume rising up to reveal more of your thighs for him to kiss and lick.

★He will totally start roleplaying with you. “I know it’s forbidden for you, a maid ,and me ,your master, to have such relations, but I simply can not resist.” You are in for a long night. And once morning comes, he will absolutely be a scared blushing mess again.

Satan:

★Have you seen this Demon’s bedroom. He needs a maid. Have you seen his obsession? He want’s a cat. Put those two together and it’s the more alluring combination. He will come and fetch you from your room the day of your punishment. “MC, are you dressed and ready?” Once you appear and he glimpses at the adorable cat ears and tail, he will try to hide his blush, then smile. “How cute!”

★He will bring you to breakfast to show you off in front of his brothers to get a rise out of them, reminding them how you are all his for the rest of the day. And once you two take your leave after eating he will say, “We will be spending the rest of the day in my room, so don’t bother us.” He can’t help but give into a toothy grin as his brothers, especially Lucifer, try to protest.

★However once in his room, your put to work. His books need some serious dusting and organizing. However, your not doing it alone. Satan’s books are so precious to him so he’s helping you and making sure you don’t touch anything cursed. He will most likely want to clear up the space surrounding his bed first.

★You have been cleaning for hours, and as time passes Satan’s self control starts to slip. It starts with him saying stuff like “that’s a good kitty.” And “No, kitten, this goes over here.” And progresses to him often patting your head, rubbing the ears and tail, cooing at you like as if you’re really part cat.

★“Does my precious little kitty need a break?” He will ask, standing above you as your kneeling on the floor going through a pile of scattered books. Satan will help you up and settle you onto the sofa with him, where he has two cups of tea on a table. He will ask if you could read to him as he settles his head on your lap. As you read, you almost thought he fell asleep, but with ever pause he tells you to keep going. As you continue to read the novel he provided, you notice the themes of romance start to get heavy until you suddenly stop reading.

★“Go on Kitten, use your words.” He smirks, one hand rubbing you thigh, while the other reaches up to touch your lips. You stammer and blush as you start to read the graphicly intimate chapter. As the characters build up to their climax, Satan’s now on top of you undoing a few of his buttons. “Let’s make this a reality, shall we?”

Asmodeus:

★The literal Avatar of Lust. Need I say more?

★He will be totally gushing over how cute you look in all that frill and silk. He will make sure your hair and make up are on point, and have you as personal arm candy. Asmo has no intention of making you clean a single thing. He’s taking selfies with you and going on and on about how cute you look. At one point he will be matching you. Similar to Levi, the two of you are doing a couples photoshoot and he’s posting it all over Devilgram.

★After the photoshoot, he gets himself ready for a shopping trip, and you are coming with him as his personal maid. The blush could not be more obvious on your face. “Oh sweetie don’t be embarrassed, your so cute and sexy! You just have to come out with me like this!” Every time you walk into a store with Asmo he introduces you to everyone as his personal maid. And when he buys something, guess whose holding the bag, you.

★After a long day of being dragged from store to store he will ask you to join him for a bath back at home, where you can scrub every inch of his beautiful and delicate body. Though he would love for you to get naked and join him in the water, there was something so satisfying in seeing you as an obedient maid washing his skin.

★The real fun comes when your relaxing back in his room. He will sneak his manicured fingers around your shoulder. “You know MC, I slipped a little special treat into that tea your drinking.” He giggles, his body pressing closer into you. “It’s a lovely aphrodisiac.” As your eyes widen and body starts to heat up, he moves his lips so close to yours that they are practically touching “Did you forget?” His breath hot on your lips. “I’m the beautiful Avatar of Lust.” And with that he embraces you in a passionate kiss.

Beelzebub:

★You were suppose to be a cute cat maid, and yet it seems you have been demoted to chef. The Demon with food occupying his mind 24/7 has kept you in the kitchen for hours now, making meal after meal for him. Beel has requested for you to cook up every human dish possible with the Devildom ingredients he has provided. The moment the dish is done, he scarfs it down in an instant and is asking for the next. You have to keep giving him simple snacks to hold him over while you cook.

★What you didn’t know is that watching you make food just for him didn’t just satisfy his appetite. To Beel food is everything, so watching his favorite person make him dishes with their own hands was special. To have you do it dressed as a cute cat maid made it all the more alluring and satiating, like he was at one of those maid café’s Levi has talked about.

★The fuller Beel’s stomach gets, the more he starts to notice things about you, things that make him feel a different kind of hungry. The way a bead of sweat drips down your chest, the way your cheeks are flushed, they way your thighs rub and your hips sway with each movement. It made his lower belly feel hot and other parts of him needy.

★“I think I might want dessert now.” Beel stated. You smiled and nodded happily. Dessert was a lot easier for you to make than large meals. Beel’s heart skipped a beat as he watched you skip off to the fridge. You started to pull out different ingredients like whipped cream, custard, pudding, and more. As you put the ingredients down you cant help but have a taste of some of the custard that spilled a little on your finger. This small action made Beel’s mind stop thinking. He impulsively grabbed your hand.

★“Oh, did you want to taste it Beel?” You ask. He just blinks, almost in surprise that he grabbed your hand in the first place, but didn’t stop. He bent forward and licked the rest off your finger. “More.” He says, then picks up the whipped cream, putting some on your hand, licking it up, the taste of cream on your skin making his member twitch with need. “More.” He says again, now pulling you practically on top of the counter as he pours more whipped cream over your bare shoulder, licking it up. Beel moans a bit to the taste.

★Beel lifts his head up, looking into your eyes. His gaze had darkened and he was starting to pant. “Not enough.” He states in a pant. “I need more.” Dessert became you on the counter top spread out for him while he kept pouring whipped cream over every inch of you and lapping it up with his tongue.

Belphegor :

★The lazy sleepy Demon is thrilled to have someone be his own little maid, and the cat features just add to the best part, humiliating you. It was so much fun for Belphie to see you blushing and flustered. All day he can boss you around and you can’t do anything about it.

★He will absolutely have you wash all of his bedding, pillows and clothing. He’s the avatar of Sloth, his favorite pass time is sleeping and on a good day, he is maybe able to do one load of laundry and that’s it. So to have you clean all his stuff while he lazes about was a dream come true. Even better since Lucifer couldn’t yell at him for shirking on his chores.

★Once You have all of his stuff clean he will snuggles up in his utopia of blankets and pillows ready for the best nap of his life. This is when Belphie starts to bark orders from his soft cocoon. “Hey Maid, tuck these blankets in more.” “Hey Maid, fluff these pillows.” “Hey Maid, get me a glass of water… no tea, make it both, and order me some of the best sushi Devildom has to offer!” He will be giggling to himself as he watches you frantically do every task he orders. He’s in such a good mood, it made it almost hard for him to sleep. Almost. Once he is asleep, you finally have a break to yourself.

★You didn’t even notice yourself drift into sleep while slumped back in the chair. “Slacking off are we.” Belphie’s cynical voice wakes you abruptly, your heart now racing in your chest. Belphie was looming over you and you stumble out of the chair. He laughs a little wickedly. “And here I thought I would treat you to something nice, like letting you use your thighs as a pillow for my slumber.” He grabbed your wrists. “But no, I’m fully awake now, and I’m going to make you work hard.” Belphie dragged you to his bed, throwing you onto it a little roughly. He started pulling off his clothes then laid down on the bed. “Hop on, and don’t you dare stop until I tell you to.”

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maidoftheday · 9 months

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Hello, fellow maid lovers! Today, Maid of the Day officially turns 5 years old! This blog is finally old enough to start attending school. They grow up so fast! 😭

Anyway, I sincerely appreciate every single one of you, including my followers and those of you who have taken the time to suggest and submit such wonderful maids/butlers over the past 5 years!

So to mark this anniversary, as I always do, I once again present to everyone Maid of the Day’s Top Ten Maids (based on number of notes, excluding second/third/etc. outfits):

10. Kosaki Onodera from Nisekoi 9. Keiichi Maebara from Higurashi 8. Tohru from Kobayashi-san Chi no Maid Dragon 7. Sawako Yamanaka from K-On! 6. Sakura Minamoto from Zombieland Saga 5. Laundry Dragonmaid from Yu-Gi-Oh! 4. Nyako from Nyako to Hakase 3. Kurisu Makise from Steins;Gate 2. Marie Rose from Dead or Alive 1. French Maid Roomba from The Internet

Looks like French Maid Roomba has usurped the crown from Marie Rose, who had managed to defend her title as number one maid for three years in a row! What a feat!

And as an added bonus, because they exist on this blog too, Maid of the Day’s Top Butler is Rin Okumura from Blue Exorcist, who has also managed to finally unseat Charlotte Dunois from Infinite Stratos as top butler!

With all that out of the way, I have officially hit my goal of running this blog for five years. Though I have thoroughly enjoyed serving all your daily maid (and butler and shrine maiden and nurse and etc.) needs over these past five years, I think it’s finally time for me to take a step back from this blog.

As I had mentioned previously, it has become increasingly difficult to find new maids and I just don’t have the same time and energy as before. I’m still in the process of determining whether I will stop updating this blog altogether or switch to posting on a semi-daily basis. I’d like to think the latter, but we’ll see.

Thank you everyone for your support and for sticking it out with me all these years! Let’s see where the future takes us!

#announcement #anniversary #thank you everyone <3

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triviareads · 10 months

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Can you recommend any books where they get right into the sex?

Either historical or contemporary

Sure! I'm all for an instant gratification moment (and for the purpose of this ask I stuck to early sex scenes between the main couple because there's a decent amount of het romances out there that begin with the hero and another woman..... though predictably not many with the heroine having good sex with another man :/).

Contemporary:

Minx by Sophie Lark: There's some fabulous, very hot sex (and pet play) a few chapters in, after Blake agrees to take on Ramses as a client. And once the ball gets rolling, it really doesn't stop.... and only gets better from there.

Lush Money by Angelina M. Lopez: Roxanne basically *mounts* Mateo (if there's one thing Angelina loves, it's a mounting moment) right after their agreement that she'll get her pregnant in exchange for money is finalized. It's very.... economical and Mateo hates it, but gets off on it. He's soooooo conflicted and I personally loved that.

After Hours on Milagro Street by Angelina M. Lopez: The other mounting moment sex scene; Alex hops on Jeremiah literally two minutes after arriving in the dead of the night at her family's bar. It's honestly made hotter because Angelina writes a (kinda hilarious) premature ejaculation coupled with Alex getting off after. It works and I'm all for it.

Sherwood by Sierra Simone: Such an underrated book imo; the prologue has our "Robin Hood" (she's a woman here) about to be deployed, and "Maid Marian" tries to dissuade her by eating her out. Very emotional, very hot.

Asking for Trouble by Tessa Bailey: An early face-sitting scene after she's cuffed him in her foyer. Brent puts his "middle-class mouth" to gooood use.

Scorching to the Touch by Ofelia Martinez: There's hate sex about two chapters in; Erica makes Friedrich eat her out in the bathroom of an event and when he whips out his dick and is all "what am I supposed to do with this?", she points to a stall. Honestly, a winner.

The Risk by Caitlin Crews: She's a ballerina pretending to be a stripper-escort who gets her fantasy of being "bought" fulfilled and she and her billionaire have sex pretty much right after.

Crashed Out by Tessa Bailey: Like a couple chapters in, Jasmine sees Sarge's dick and books it to her car and tries to get off, but then Sarge catches her and lends a helping hand all while asserting he's a Grown Man now.

Desperate Measures by Katee Robert: Jafar kills Jasmine's mob boss father in the beginning and within the next chapter, there's a CNC scene where he chasing her down while she pretends she doesn't want it.

Give Me More by Sara Cate: Sara immediately sets up the throuple by having the married couple, Hunter and Isabel, have anniversary sex while listening to their friend Drake have sex with two other women, with Drake also getting off while listening to Hunter and Isabel.

Historical:

The Bride Goes Rogue by Joanna Shupe: A fabulous anonymous encounter with neither Preston nor Katherine realizing who the other person is (right after Preston rejected his arranged betrothal to Kat) and they're pretending to be Louis XV and Madame Pompadour while they get each other off at a French Ball.

Her Husband's Harlot by Grace Callaway: The book starts with Helena following her husband to a brothel disguised as a prostitute, and Nicholas fully doesn't recognize her when he (successfully) has sex with her for the first time.

Passion by Lisa Valdez: An erotic romance; the literal first lines describe Mark groping Passion during the Great Exhibition, and he has her "pinned to the wall like a butterfly" within the next few pages.

The Virgin and the Rogue by Sophie Jordan: Charlotte is (allegedly) under the influence of an aphrodisiac when she mounts Kingston (can you tell I have a thing for this) in the library in the middle of the night, dry humps him, and runs away. Unironically one of my favorite Sophie Jordan sex scenes.

The Rake Gets Ravished by Sophie Jordan: The story begins with Mercy breaking into Silas's bedroom to retrieve the deed to her family home, and when Silas finds her, she seduces him and fucks him into such a deep sleep that when he awakes, all he's left with is an apology note and her *virgin blood* on the sheets.

#book recs #sophie lark #angelina m lopez #sierra simone #tessa bailey #katee robert #sara cate #ofelia martinez #caitlin crews #sophie jordan #lisa valdez #grace callaway #joanna shupe #historical romance #contemporary romance #romance novels #ask

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kerubimcrepin · 4 months

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Episode 9: The Legendary Unikron

The post where I finally make the naming format of this blog more sane

This is the same place as the one, where in the episode "Heads for no Tails" it will be revealed that Kerubim obtained the legendary, life-draining Heads for no Tails restraint while pissdrunk. Y'know. The one meant for an Ondine created by Djaul to trick the dragon Aguabrial into creating a Dofus.

Yeah, I will not think too much about the fact that it is flipped. To me, they're The Same Place. I guess he's been drinking here for decades. Kind of cute.

And yeah I guess it means the Ondine named Ondine, from the episode Like a Snapper in the Water is literally just named "Siren the Siren". I guess her mermaid parents weren't very creative. I'll mention this when I liveblog that episode too, but I would feel bad, if I didn't mention this here too.

We will talk about my feelings on Kerubim leaving the legendary demon-killing life-draining shackles somewhere Joris, in his shelf-climbing corridor-running wisdom, could reach, later.

We'll get there when we get there.

Glad to know there's a reason Kerubim and Joris live in a bad neighborhood. And that reason is that Kerubim wouldn't be tolerated anywhere else.

Love his scary and off-putting behaviours.

Okay, rant incoming:

Firstly, this is a customary french drink bowl, to stop any wondering from the non-french aware readers. It's normal for French people to drink coffee, milk, and tea from a bowl, soup-style, in the morning and in the evening. So this part is normal.

Now onto more sillywhacky part of this: What the fuck is Joris doing here, exactly?

As we can see, his Bowl of Liquid is steaming even before he starts pouring the chocolate milk into it. Is he adding chocolate milk to hot milk? Is he adding chocolate milk to cocoa or hot chocolate? (I will fight people who don't differentiate between them, they're two different things, you heathens.)

Is he, mayhaps, adding it... to tea?

We will never know, yet the question is haunting.

Interestingly, it seems that one of Simone's jobs around the house is polishing swords. Also, her being here so late means that, quite predictably, she is a live-in maid.

(You can see that like, 50% of this blog is me paying to random details that could only be useful in like, extremely faithful fanfiction, and 50% getting whacky with this show's storytelling.)

I love Simone so, so much. Truly, she is Joris's cooler aunt.

No comment besides this image.

Joking. I do have a comment, actually. Imagine me putting on a tinfoil hat here, btw.

I think it's kinda telling that Joris's main fear, the one that re-occurs a multiple times during the show, and always, without fail, makes him break down in tears, is Kerubim dying.

The facts that are important to keep in mind are: They've been living together alone for Joris's entire life, Joris knows he's adopted, and Kerubim himself is an orphan, which he doesn't really hide.

Which leads to multiple conclusions, which all coexist:

1. Joris is a kid who's very aware of the mortality of parents/guardians, and that, above everything else, that he is lucky to have a home and a semblance of family. That if Kerubim wasn't there, he may not have had that.

Which is uh... a pretty stressful thing for a kid his age to know, I suppose!

Especially considering the fact that Kerubim is an old man riddled with back pains, and for 7 years had such a level of post-lou-divorce post-battle-with-julith depression that he could not figure out how to get them into a clean, non-shitty non-hazardous home.

And now that their home IS clean, still can't make it non-hazardous.

2. Joris and Kerubim are much closer than most parents and children, because they literally have no other relatives, and Kerubim has pushed away most people who would consider him a friend in the past. Only relying on one another isn't the best or healthiest idea, but what choice do they have?

You can't just show up at home, be like "i would be dead, if it wasn't for you giving me water, my jojo <3" and not expect to inflict some eldritch horror levels of psychic damage onto your son.

Especially considering the fact, that he KNOWS, from your own shitty stories, that when you're gone, and it IS a when, because you're an old man who's constantly complaining about his health, he's going to be fending for himself all alone.

It's pretty obvious, then, why Joris would put Kerubim on a very high pedestal and, as will be shown later, prioritize the man's feelings over his own. Kerubim is his best friend, his role model, provider, guardian, AND the only one family member he has.

Besides depending on him, Joris knows papycha is a very, very lonely and sad person, — and who is he, not to try and make the life of the one person, who's most important to him, better?

If Kerubim isn't always happy, both in general and with Joris, then that's the worst thing ever, and if Kerubim isn't amazing, all-capable, and Not Going To Die Within The Next Couple Of Years Due To Being Old As Fuck, then their life is Over.

So Joris has to put in a lot of work.

This analysis isn't even picking apart the nitty-gritty of Kerubim being an orphan and having abandonment issues, or the way those things make him latch onto Joris the same way Joris latches onto him — as if this child is his Only Hope and Savior, Who Won't Leave Him Like All The Others.

And how that might lead to him REALLY liking Joris idealizing and putting him on a pedestal, despite the guilt he might feel knowing that that's kind of a... not-good parenting tactic.

...Man this post isn't even a rewatch liveblog anymore, it's just an analysis post, innit? 💀

#ep9 #wakfu #dofus #krosmoz #ro liveblogs dofus #joris jurgen #kerubim crepin

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roselyn-writing · 4 months

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I changed Derek’s appearance because he looked similar to my other male OCs; Black hair, Fair skin, Blue eyes and etc. I made him different by giving him a tanned skin, chestnut brown hair and his blue eyes remained lol.

Full Name: Derek Monrik.

Age: 50 Y.O.

Date of birth: 21 November 1180. (Virginian time and year).

Hair: Brown.

Eyes: Blue.

Skin tone: Tan.

Favourite food: Burgers, Steaks. French Fries.

Least Favourite food: Peanuts, beans.

Favourite colours: Brown, Blue, Black.

Aesthetics: Royal Aesthetics, Bandit Aesthetic, Police (Sheriff) Aesthetics. Prince aesthetics.

Weapons: Enchanted Sword.

Hobbies: Practice with his sword and riding his favourite white horse, He named it (Buck).

Derek is inspired by Prince Charming (OUAT). And the other princes who gone rogue. I’m a big history lover lol.

Lore

Derek Monrik was born into the Royal family of The Monriks; to a Kingdom called ‘Verdantia’.

He was the second-born child of Queen Eveliyn and King James. He couldn’t see his family, Because they were invaded by their mortal enemy Kingdom: The ‘Lothlorien’.

The Lothlorien army quickly raided their Kingdom. King James, Queen Eveliyn, and Their oldeer son, Bernard managed to find his baby brother ‘Derek’ and they escaped the Kingdom. Fleeing from the enemy.

Once, King Leonidas of The Lothlorien Kingdom entered King James's old castle. He and his wife, Queen Adaia, sat on the thrones; Declaring this Kingdom is now theirs.

He raised his hand. “I hereby declare this kingdom is ours!” Leonidas announced. His tone is laden with pride and joy.

Hours later, One of the maids brought a baby to King Leonidas. She told him that she found the baby in a hidden basket in one of the princes' rooms.

King Leonidas took the baby. He held it like he held his baby. The moment he looked at the baby, He knew it was King James's son. He had a sinister smile plastered on his face. He will raise the child so that when he grows up, He will task him to kill King James, his father, and his brother, Bernard, His real family, Which He would never know, Because he was abandoned.

King Leonidas raised Derek as his son. Because, He is sterile and he couldn’t have children. So, Derek was his only chance to experience Parenthood. And he was happy with it.

Years go by, and Derek grows up to be the best and strongest Prince in the kingdom. Known for his chivalry, strength and kindness. His name was on every tongue. Everyone knows him and love him.

Prince Derek: The Venerated Prince-Knight, was tasked by other kings to slay Dragons, Demons, Creatures, etc. He killed one of the most feared and fiercest dragons was ever known to Virginians. ‘The Latroshka’ it literally means:‘Face of Death’ in the Virginian language. Once he killed it, King Midas paid King Leonidas handsomely.

His second best achievement was the killing of the Aleazēt which was a Demoness living in a statue named by the same name: ‘Aleazēt’ She lived in a black statue of a naked woman with messy long hair.

The Aleazēt was known to corrupt people, enslave them and use them for her own purposes. He was tasked to kill her by King Oberon, King Leonidas and his soldiers camped near the Aleazēt place.

Derek managed to find her and broke the statue to pieces. He thought she was dead, So, He returned to his father to tell him about the succession of his mission.

King Leonidas looked at him. He has a neutral expression. “When you killed her did something appear?” King Leonidas queried. His tone was neutral.

Derek shook his head. “No, Nothing appeared, It just broke to pieces,”

King Leonidas facepalmed at Derek revelation. “Then, You didn’t kill her, Go back and finish the job!” He commanded with a firm tone.

Derek once again left for the statue of Aleazēt. He was astounded to see the statue there Like nothing happened! Like it was never shattered. So, Derek took his sword and started to smash the statue, Breaking it into millions of pieces. He didn’t stop until he heard a loud shriek of a woman.

In just a matter of milliseconds, He blinked for seconds, Startled by the sudden sound, he quickly looked around to find the source and that's when he saw her – a mysterious black woman with skin as black as onyx - eyes as red as garnets, and her hair falling on her face like a thick river of blackness, Lying right in front of him; It was none other than Aleazēt herself! His heart raced as he realized the gravity of the situation.

The moment she tried to escape or resist, Derek acted swiftly, drawing his sword and striking her with a forceful blow that sliced her in two; She let out a piercing scream that echoed through the air. But instead of blood and flesh, Derek was met with a cloud of black dust and sand that blinded him momentarily. With a quick reflex, he shielded his eyes and regained his focus. It was a thrilling victory, and he had completed his mission successfully.

He returned to the camp one again. He informed his father that he finally killed her. To prove it, He handed his father a potion bottle filled with black sand. That was Aleazēt remains.

His father, King Leonidas, Smiled proudly and congratulated his son. “Excellent! I’m so proud of you!” He cried happily.

To thank Derek for his help. They hosted a large and luxurious party for his honour. There, He met Princess Charlotte, The daughter of King Midas.

King Midas smiled as he introduced his daughter to Prince Derek and King Leonidas, She was beautiful, elegant but she was a spoil brat.

King Midas suggested that Prince Derek should ask for his daughter hand’s in marriage. But, He has to earn it by killing a notorious Siren: ‘Lady of the rocks’ She lived and guarded a beautiful lake decorated with rocks and rocky landscapes. It is called Lake ‘Na’rinda’

After the party, King Leonidas and his son, Prince Derek sat to discuss the next mission of Derek. King Leonidas told of him the Siren, Cordelia.

“Cordelia, The beautiful and seductive yet murderous Siren of the Na’rinda Lake, luring in all who come to the lake to pull them to their watery graves.” That was what King Leonidas told his son, Prince Derek, about the deadly yet alluring siren.

Derek was with Princess Charlotte in the royal carriage. King Midas asked his daughter to accompany them. Suddenly, The driver of the carriage stopped.

Derek exited the carriage to see what made the driver stop, The driver told him there is a big tree that had been cut down and its blocking their way. Derek strolled to the big fallen tree to investigate. He surveyed his eyes at the sight in front of him. He noticed it has been cut clean, Not by accident at all. He deduced someone made this trap.

He helped the driver and his men to remove the tree. Suddenly, He heard a loud scream coming from Princess Charlotte. A thief had stolen her golden bracelet and took off.

Prince Derek immediately goes after the thief. He knocked the person down, and he discovers that thief is a woman.

“You are a girl?” Prince Derek gasped.

“A woman.” She corrected him. Then she headbutted him then she ran away.

Prince Derek, Momentarily stunned, He got to his feets. And he vows that he will find her no matter what.

Hours later, The woman exited her cottage, she steps out of it, and she is immediately snagged in a trap, Set by Prince Derek himself.

Derek chuckled as he crossed his arms. “Told you, I will find you.” He grinned.

“Ugh, You again, What do you want?” The woman said, Her tone is laden with annoyance.

“You know what I want! give the golden bracelet back!”

“Fine, I will give your bracelet back. But! You should release me first!”

Derek rolled his eyes but he released the woman from the tree-trap. After he released her. She handed him the bracelet.

Derek wasn’t interested in the bracelet. He was pondering the woman’s face. She is beautiful.

Her skin is creamy and flawless — Her long curly black hair cascaded down her shoulders and back like a waterfall – gentle hazelnut eyes with a hint of a green colour in them. She has a slender body-build that is covered with brown and white bandit outfit.

Derek was admiring her but he realised himself and took the golden bracelet from her. He looked at her with a neutral facial expression.

“What’s your name?” He asked.

“Eevie.” She replied. “You?”

“Prince Derek.”

“Nice to meet you. ‘Prince’”

“So, What are you doing here?”

“Nothing much, Just stealing so I can eat.”

“Where’s your family?”

“I don’t have a family.”

There was an awkward silent between. Derek felt sorry for Eevie. He knew she has a tough life. He inserted his hand inside his pocket and handed her a sac full of gold. She was surprised. She looked at him for explanation.

“You need more than I do.” came his reply. His tone was firm yet full of compassion.

She smiled as she took the gold sac. “Thank you.”

Prince Derek smiled. He looked at her for one final moment. Before he leave.

“I hope we cross paths again,” Derek said then he left.

Eevie smiled. She looked at Derek’s back as he was walking away, until, He disappeared into the thick forest of trees and grass.

At this moment; Derek knew who his heart chose. And that was Eevie. He never wanted to marry someone out of power and ‘kingdoms relations’. He wanted to marry out of love.

Derek told his father he doesn’t want to marry King Midas’s daughter: Princess Charlotte. Instead, He wanted to marry out of love.

Enraged, King Leonidas demanded his son to take back his words and he’d marry Princess Charlotte, Not because of money or riches, He wanted his son to marry a noble or a royal woman. He doesn’t want his own son to defile his bloodline.

Derek looked at his father with his serious facial expression. He stated his reasons. And he will not abandon what his heart desires.

Before King Leonidas could grab his son’s hand to so he could stay and talk more. Derek looked at his father and self-exiled himself. He ran to his room. Took some possessions: Gold and clothes. Then he left the palace.

He entered the horse stable, He ride his trusted white horse and took off to the forest, Where Eevie is.

After encountering Eevie once more, he mustered up the courage to confess his love for her. To his delight, she smiled and reciprocated his feelings, and the two fell deeply in love. They decided to get married and start a new life together away from the chaos and drama of royalty. They settled in a cozy home in the woods and lived happily ever after with one another.

In modern world, Derek works as a sheriff in Moirvdonne police department and he is so good at his job.

This is the Lore of Derek Monrik. I hope you like it! 🖤🖤😊.

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eggcompany · 8 days

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Heart to Heart and Back Again Part 1

Count Julian Pankratz, a chronically ill man who has more love than he knows what to do with with his short life. That was until he met his new nursemaid, a mysterious new man in town, Geralt. They grow to love each other, each thriving off each other, each learning to love, to live, to truly feel alive because of each other. Geralt had been around for so long he didn't even know he could love. Julian had been convinced no one would ever love him. Soulmates, they were crafted for each other at their very cores.

But unfortunately destiny had other plans. Julian gets sick, he grows weaker and weaker, and he leaves Geralt. The white haired man doesn't know what to do with his empty heart, empty hands, and wish only to bring his one love back.

There was only one person for him in life. Julian. And he was dead.

Or is he...? One stranger's trek up a mountain a few hundred years later might just change Geralt's mind.

“I can stand, good first impressions.” Julian said as he leaned heavily on his cane. He waited for the door to open for the new nursemaid. He shooed the maid away once she dropped off some food, she laughed at him and made her way through the side doors. He was leaning on his cane trying to get other the pain that was dragging at the base of his back.

The door did open and he was shaking, straining, heart starting to speed up.

“Hello, welcome, hurry up and shake my hand before I pass out. Thank you” he said quickly and grabbed the man’s huge hand in his own and then sat back down in his wheelchair. He started getting some big breaths in trying to get his heart to slow back down.

He then took in the man’s looks. He was large, strong looking, had silver nearly white hair, golden eyes, and his clothes were dirty. He was extremely handsome where his hair hung over his forehead and was held back by a small black tie.

“It’s an honor to serve you count.” He said and bowed which Julian shushed and waved his hand at.

“Oh pish posh, now come sit down with me. I had Lizzy bring up some really good stuff. She's a witch in the kitchen, literally but also she cooks so well I’ve cried. I personally have a sweet tooth but also I love eggs scrambled or omelets, those are French. Do you eat eggs?” Julians asked and wheeled himself over to his breakfast table, only one other chair at the table.

Geralt was confused but followed him awkwardly standing by the table before Julian leaned over and patted the seat and removed the cloches from their plates. There were two plates of scrambled eggs, some pan fried meat, small loaves of bread, and a cup of something melted and spiced looking.

“Do you not eat eggs? We have a large coop and a lot of livestock on the estate, feel free to explore as you please. I personally would love to get back there to see the sheep, I’ve always loved them.” Julian said as he picked up a fluffy spiced egg and popped it into his mouth smiling at Geralt. He hoped the man would stay, he felt some kind of… change in himself at just the sight of the man. Something ws changing in his heart.

Geralt, who sat down, remained confused. There’s a plate set in front of him but… why? What? He’d heard of the “Flower” of the rich estate family but… the weak shaky young man wasn’t what he’d imagined. He’d been around for a very long time and he’d yet to meet someone like Julian.

Julian stared at him waiting but then shook his head and looked down. Soft smile on his lips and kindness running pure in his eyes.

“Dig in my friend, I’m a lonely man, I treat my servants well. I don’t expect you to stay for the rest of my life, I don’t expect you to feel loyalty to me. I only request you be kind. So in return for your kindness, you have free rein of the estate. Choose a room for yourself, no matter where, make food to your taste, slaughter what you please, grow what you please, just include me please.” Julian said in a sad voice that hurt Geralt's heart. He was just a boy, a kid wanting someone to play with him.

He’d never met a count as… souled as Julian. He thought he’d be a chamber maid to some priss, to clean and be quiet. He’d never met someone so… honest and full of humanity's best quality, compassion and companionship, friendship and love.

Geralt should have known Julian would be good. The other servants seemed happy, like a community. All chatting as they worked, some laughing and others humming tunes as they did their business leisurely.

He was confused, though. Why?

“Count-” He started just for Julian to groan and shake his head.

“Julian, please.” The boy said and took another bite of food. He hated being called ‘ count’ ; it made him feel old.

“Julian, why? Why share your wealth?” Geralt asked and watched the boy drink from a cup it looked like... milk? What wealthy person didn't drink wine with their meals?

"My father brought home a sickness, when I was younger. He gave it to my entire family, my mother, my sisters, me. They all slowly died around me. And I survived. Why? My father was one of the wealthiest counts in this entire land. My sisters were more beautiful than precious gems, my mother had acres and acres of land. I was the youngest, and most uninterested in growing our wealth and taking on more land. Why did I survive if not to share? One day I will die, I can't produce an heir, who will take care of me? Who will make sure I am happy in my final days? Who will take over this home? I'm a creature of society, Geralt, dear, I surround myself with good company. I surround myself with friends . I think you're supposed to be nice and share with your friends." Julian said and leaned forward against the table, smiling, and Geralt was shaking his head. Astonished. He was just a kid, poetic words made from a luxury life.

"Are you quick to befriend someone like me? You have no idea where I've been, where I'm from, what I've done. Why do you welcome me like a long lost friend?" Geralt asked and Julian was huffed and laughed as his eyes glittered. He looked right at Geralt’s face, cheeks chubby and joy coursing through him. Geralt felt a bit younger himself, his boulders lifting slightly from his shoulders just meeting the kid.

"You are my long lost friend. I can feel it here in my heart. We are meant to be together, our destinies entwined. Like soup!” Julian said and broke out in a big smile, hands coming to grab Geralt’s across the table. Geralt didn’t pull his hands back but he was nervous until Julian squeezed their hands together. Julian looked right in his eyes, solidifying how serious he was.

“Now!" The boy said and dropped his silverware and clapped his hands together. Geralt watched him curiously. Julian rubbed his hands together excitedly.

"Have you ever had a honey cake baked with pork fat instead of butter?" Julian asked and lifted the glass cloche off the small cake that had been sitting to the side. His bottom lip was caught in his smile, a hunger filling his eyes that Geralt only ever seen in brothels.

"Pork fat instead of butter?" Geralt asked and Julian was quick to cut him a large piece and put it on a separate plate, handing it to him before getting a big piece for himself.

"Yes! It'll make you cream your trousers, I've never had anything better. Now, you're being rude by not eating so dig in before I start crying." Julian said and shoved a big bite into his mouth. Geralt thought he was funny, the way the boy’s cheeks puffed out and crumbs stuck to his soft looking lips.

Geralt lifted it up and sniffed it before taking a bite. He moaned and chewed, looking at the boy’s smug look. It was… incredible. Sweet and indulgent and fattening oily and rich. Something Geralt hadn’t tasted since his days of stealing from royals as a young man.

"I told you!" the boy said and they ate in silence. Until Julian leaned back in his chair, rubbing his belly, he wasn’t very round just kinda… plush. Like a feather pillow or fresh baked buns.

He watched Geralt eat like a man starved, looking a bit starved. He hated seeing hungry people. That’s why when he went into town he made sure to fill his pockets with sweets for the kids. He liked Geralt, the way he shoved food into his mouth and flashed his eyes around like a feral dog. He had nice hair and big hands and looked strong under his tattered clothes.

"It's a nice day out today. My last nurse, she would put me out on the balcony usually. She wasn't a considerably strong woman, usually she'd call the yard boy, Edwin, to carry me down the stairs if I needed to be on the floor of the estate. I do miss being able to be around the animals. I rather like them." Julian said and laughed and shook his head. He hadn't been able to see the animals in years since his last nurse couldn't really wheel him out in the dirt. When he was a child he liked to go run around in the sheep pens, petting them and feeding them and feeling their soft noses. He did miss it terribly…

Geralt swallowed the large bit of egg and bread that was in his mouth and wiped his face with his sleeve. He didn’t much care about manners. He had them, just didn’t use them.

"I could take you, easily. Even if I had to pick your chair up, it wouldn't be very hard." He said and was almost blinded by how bright Julian’s smile was.

"Oh that would be wonderful. Not today though, today I think you need a tour and to get a good wash up and perhaps we can find you some clothes that fit you better. Perhaps we wear the same!" Julian said giddily. He loved sharing, clothes, food, anything. But it would be so fun to dress Geralt up, maybe do his hair, polish his nails, all the things that Julian loved to do. All the pampering things.

Geralt nodded, blush burning under his skin. He couldn't imagine how... dirty he must seem. He’d not been able to buy new clothes since his own had been stolen. He didn’t think to try and scrub the stains from his clothes before coming, assuming he’d just be put to work without meeting the head of the house.

"I apologize for my appearance I-" Geralt started to apologize, nerves ebbing into his voice. He knew most wealthy people hated the look of dirty clothes in such a pristine home. Julian just waved him off, thin hand pale, nails shiny.

"Nonsense, If I could I'd be rolling in the mud half my days. I love the outdoors, the fresh air, I’d adore just one more walk through the orchard... but we all live life as we can. We have a large bath downstairs or you are welcome to pick a room and we can manage a bath in there for you. Though downstairs I hear is the best for baths." Julian said and smiled, he would love to go downstairs and see everyone.

Most of the people who worked never really made it up to Julian room. Usually leaving the young count to himself and his nurse and even then she was usually preparing his medicine and his bed and such. Sometimes they’d come by to show him something or ask if they could do something with the house. Bringing him fresh fruit from the orchard or asking to repaint the lattice. He’d like it more if he could actually go see them all and talk with them, be a part of their day to day, but… well he was okay with how things were.

Geralt nodded and stood up, dusting the crumbs off himself.

"Do you want to give me a tour?" Geralt asked, and Julian was glad to be pushed about, cane held between his knees. He wasn't strong enough to walk but he stood for a moment a few times. He liked being able to see the house, he told stories from when his sister painted on the walls and how he once climbed onto the roof to scare his mother but instead fell and landed on her.

Geralt smiled and listened intently, helping Julian to sit back down when he started to tremble. He enjoyed the flowery and detailed way Julian described everything, as if he was writing a poem as he spoke. Each detail being told like it held the whole story together, words mixing like perfume in the air. Geralt liked it.

----

Geralt liked living beside the Count. He easily found a place in the home, the room next to Julian’s own. He found a schedule and stepped easily to it. He found out that most clothes Julian wore he could fit into also, though a bit snug on the shoulders.

It was easy day to day.

He would wake up with the sun, wash his face, comb his hair, go down to the kitchen and find something to eat, usually eating some dried meat from a very old dusty box in the pantry. He’d get dressed in a nice outfit, a coat, shined shoes, clothes too rich for someone like him. He’d go wake up Julian by knocking lightly on the door, and going to the large cushy bed and finding one of Julian’s fragile hands.

Julian warned him that he slept heavy and that he also bruised easily so a good shake to a shoulder would… not be the best option. So Geralt would find a pale hand and give it a good squeeze and some gentle rubs and Julian would be yawning and blinking awake.

“Oh good morning, dear, how did you sleep?”

“Good morning Geralt, dear, have you eaten?”

“Mornin’ Grlt, I feel a bit drunk still, are you hungry?”

“Good morning, dear”

Julian always had to welcome Geralt to the day. Always had something to grumble out first thing, always started the day with words. And each day Geralt felt closer and closer, he started sitting on the edge of the boy’s bed to hold his hand before waking him up.

Each day Julian would marvel at Geralt, telling him that somehow just seeing his ‘pretty golden eyes’ made him feel better. Julian would tell Geralt about the books he’d read, play his harp or his lute when he could, sometimes he’d ask Geralt to bring him things. Sometimes it was puzzles, or chess. Geralt found Julian was a very very good chess player but he preferred checkers.

And his dolls. Julian had a mountain of beautifully crafted dolls. Some were wood, others glass, others porcelaine. Julian had a story for each one, where it was from, who got it for him, when he got it, everything. Julian loved his dolls, he had a few that had on simpler outfits that he occasionally liked to carry around with him when he was feeling especially bad. He liked to brush their hair and put different outfits on them. He knew all their names, Amice, Joy, and Helewis being his favorites. Those three sat by his bed and often in his bed and were often moved around and carried.

Geralt never really had toys but when a fever delusional Julian placed a doll in his lap and told him to take care of her, well damn it he was going to figure it out. Geralt learned that you have to be careful when combing their hair and how you have to dress them so they don’t break and how to clean them when you drop a cup of tea on them. He learned how to keep them nice but also love them.

Each day Geralt spent with the boy, each day he heard the rumbly good morning, each day he ate three meals with him, each day he helped the boy into the warm tub, each day Geralt felt like he had never before. Warm and happy and his heart… his heart felt full . And it was all because of Julian.

----

"Geralt? Would you please get me something to eat? I'm feeling oddly hungry." Julian said as he sat down from where he had been standing against the rail of the balcony. Somehow he felt... better today. He yelled hello to Edwin who was working in the garden and had been able to walk from his bed to the balcony. He had been feeling better each day it seemed these last few months. He’d been up more that was for sure. Geralt often told him that the sun would help him but also that the balcony was boring. So he was down, being rolled through the gardens or being pushed to the end of the driveway, laughing at the way the rocks bounced him around, or he was being carried down the stairs and sat at the large dining table to socialize with the servants.

Geralt really did help him.

Julian wasn’t usually embarrassed but he felt more comfortable asking for help with certain things. He no longer struggled to wash himself, simply asking Geralt to wash his back or help rinse the soap off his skin, he didn’t feel shy asking for the bedpan or hurrying to the bathroom, Geralt would simply put him there. He felt easy saying that he didn’t want to wear pants to bed or that it was warm and he didn't want to wear a shirt in the bedroom.

He was just… content and happy with Geralt. The stoic man’s short comments and quiet nature. It was comfortable.

"Do you want me to make you some eggs?” Geralt offered from where he was sipping tea in the sun, opposite from where Julian sat at the small table. The boy smiled and looked over at his friend.

“That sounds perfect, dear” Julian answered and Geralt was slow to finish his tea and stand up, walking away only to turn back.

“Come on, I’m taking you with me.” He said and soon Julian was in his chair being carried down the stairs.

He felt… alive. Warm, welcomed, happy, alive.

-----

"Geralt here gives me strength. Now, let me pour you all a drink. Do not help me." Julian ordered as he stood up from the head of the table. He left his cane behind, instead picking up a quite heavy brass pitcher. Eleven people. He just had to pour eleven drinks.

He’d been feeling better and better, each day he saw Geralt, each day that he saw everyone and got to do something fun, he just felt stronger.

Geralt had been bundling him up and taking him out into the snow, or at least getting him out into the patio. Julian had even made a little snowman, and Geralt had never felt happier sneaking out at night to make a whole group of snowmen, right under the balcony so Julian could see them. He had even given them little leaf hats made from old cabbage.

Geralt was the fuel that kept Julian trying. Kept the boy from wasting away in bed. Even on the worse days Geralt would at least bring him the little dolls and keep busy nearby.

Everyone knew it too. That’s why when Julian proposed they all have a nice big winter feast together, they all knew Geralt would be picking at them all. ‘ Be on time’ ‘Show up’ ‘Don’t help him’, That was the oddest thing. Geralt went around telling everyone not to help Julian at all.

Now they knew why. The count wanted to show his strength and independence.

A few of them held their cups up to the spout to make it a bit easier as he shaked heavily with each pour. His arms were aching by the time he got to the other end of the table. Geralt held his cup up for Julian who let the pitcher rest heavily against its rim, knowing Geralt wouldn’t let the pitcher fall.

Finally as he fell back into his chair, pitcher set hastily against the table, tears streamed down his face, he smiled and nodded, fixing his posture.

"Goodness me, Geralt's cured me hasn't he." Julian joked as his body shook and hurt horrible and tears streamed down his face from both pain and joy. Everyone clapped and raised their glasses to him. It was a good thing, to see the count so happy, so active. It was a good thing to see.

Even as he tried to pick up his cup only to have it drop from his hand and splash over the rim a bit.

"To my friends, who share their strength with me, who's companionship gives me life." Julian said, voice shaking. He smiled and they all raised their glasses, cheering a bit before digging into the feast laid across the table.

The dinner went on for hours, stories shared freely about travels and chance meetings. Some stories about even the darkest of margics, Julian was enthralled. He laughed and ate and drank and enjoyed the warmth of family around him. A warmth that he had only felt the barest of with his actual family now burn warm and white around him. He stayed until everyone else retired to their rooms, except Geralt who cleaned up.

The alcohol sparked enough confidence in himself that he started to walk to his own room, he made it halfway to the stairs before Geralt had an arm around his waist.

“Come on, princess. Up to bed with you.” Geralt rumbled, he was dead on his feet and Julian had run off on him. Julian was happy to be picked up and carried against Geralt’s chest, a much more intimate pose than how Geralt usually carried him in his chair.

Julian giggled and hugged onto Geralt’s strong broad shoulders.

“Are you the dashing prince that’s come to save me? I didn’t know I was so lucky.” Julian giggled as Geralt carried him up the stairs. The boy was dead asleep by the time he was being laid gently onto his bed. Geralt just watched him, his soft face relaxed, his chest rising and falling slowly.

Geralt let himself indulge and petted through the soft chestnut hair that fell across the boy’s face. Geralt let himself enjoy the moment for just a second longer before gently stripping Julian of his day clothes and pulling on his thick winter pajamas and tucking him in under the thick blankets.

“Gerlt? Geralt, are you here?” Julian asked sleepily as he heard the fire being built up for the night. Geralt hummed.

“Yes, Julian?” He said softly, in a way that had Julian smiling into the darkness. The boy snuggled back into his bed, warm and full and a little drunk.

“Nothing, just wanted to say thank you. Goodnight dear, I love you.” Julian said before rolling onto his side and falling fast asleep.

Geralt was a statue. I love you . Geralt felt struck by lightning. Because… well…

“I love you too, Julian.”

----

“Geralt are you- have you- have you ever-” Julian tried to ask one night as he read through one of his more dirty novels, it was french, of course.

Geralt was scrubbing the wine out of some shirts, it was a hot day out and Julian had knocked over the whole pitcher. Geralt was shirtless, sitting by the wash basin in nothing but a pair of light pants. Julian just… well he didn’t really know. He was feeling… a certain way.

“What was that?” Geralt asked as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He looked over at Julian who was under the simple musin sheet, book held up so only his eyes were visible.

“Have you ever… are you a virgin?” Julian finally asked, voice turning squeaky. Geralt raised a brow at him and huffed a laugh.

“I am not. I haven’t been for a long time. Why?” Geralt responded and went back to scrubbing, knowing Julian was a bit… timid when it came to anything sexual. He’d once said he’d been betrothed to a young countess when he was born but she’d left him when his family passed. And that he hadn’t had a girlfriend since.

“I was um… I was just wondering. Um cause, oh you know, um… because I am.” Julian said, eyes just peaking over the top of his book. Geralt nodded, not looking at him.

“I know.” Is all Geralt responded with. He was curious, of course, but he knew Julian was sensitive about his sexuality, or rather his lack thereof.

“Is it… did you have sex w…with a girl?” Julian asked, hoping he wasn’t chasing Geralt away. He hoped he wasn’t overstepping; he just… he wanted to know.

“I’ve had sex with girls, yes.” Geralt answered, his back was facing the boy now. Geralt grinned, it was just like talking to his younger brothers. Julian was just a young man, not really a count, just a teenager who wanted to know about sex.

“Oh… have you… um… just girls?” Julian asked quietly, face burning up. He waited, staring at Geralt’s strong back, spattered with odd scars and marks. Geralt was so… fetching to look at. Strong and solid and confident and… handsome. All over handsome. Julian would bet his cock was handsome, too.

Julian shook his head, getting that thought away from him when Geralt turned around. Now facing him, Geralt let a small smile grace his lips as he shook his head with a sigh.

“No, not just girls. Why? Do girls not… interest you?” Geralt phrased carefully. Julian swallowed and shook his head from where he still hid behind his book. Geralt nodded with a hum and kept his eyes on Julian. He let his head cocked to the side, giving the boy a look.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to like girls. Do you like anyone ?” Geralt asked, head tilted like a curious cat. He tried not to smile at the way Julian’s eyes flitted around the room from where they peaked over the book.

“I um… I might.” Julian said, trying to sound confident in himself like Geralt did. He failed miserably though, ending up squeaking like a bad hinge. Geralt nodded and went back to scrubbing shirts.

“Good.” Is all Geralt said before they fell back into a compioned silence. Julian went back to his book not really reading the kissing scene anymore, rather thought about Geralt… oh Geralt.

------

“Geralt, do you…. Can I sit with you?” Julian asked as he made his way out to the balcony. He was leaning on his cane waiting. Geralt was confused, Julian never asked to sit in his own chair at his own table on his own balcony.

“Go ahead?” Geralt said in a confused way but was soon letting out an exacerbated chuckle. Julian flopped down in his lap, legs thrown over the arm of the chair. He wasn’t a very heavy boy, not even half of Geralt's own weight.

“Hmm, so much more comfortable.” Julian hummed and laid his head against Geralt’s shoulder, he loved the springtime.

He loved how the sun was warm and the breeze was cool and how nice his heavy pants felt when they got warm from the sun but his light shirt kept him nice and cool. He loved how Geralt would pick him flowers and how the bees and butterflies were coming back slowly. He loved how in that moment spring meant that Geralt would sit on the balcony and read and had an open lap to sit on.

Geralt set his book on the table, letting his arms wrap around the boy. He let his head fall to the side, laying against the top of Julian’s. It was… nice.

“You’re heavy.” He said and Julian giggled and let his hand rest against Geralt’s chest, feeling the strong muscle hidden under his shirt.

“You’re warm.” Julian said and snuggled deeper into Geralt, taking in big deep breaths of his smell, Geralt smelled a bit like horse but he always did and he smelled like dirt and blood and sweat and well… Julian liked it. Geralt smelled like living life and journey, it was nice.

They sat there like that, basking in the warm sun, enjoying the company of each other, in silence. They each enjoyed it, both enjoying the feeling of another person pressed against them, both feeling calm companionship calming them both down to their bones. The breeze in the treetops, the birds chirping happily, quiet noise, the only small buzz of nature being the only sound around them.

Silence though, was never Julian’s thing. At least not after his legs had fallen asleep and his heart hurt and his eyes watered. He sniffed but held still, still against Geralt’s strong body, eyes dancing across the horizon as the sun sank beyond the mountains.

“You know Geralt… I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy. Here, now, right here with you, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.” Julian said as tears flooded from his eyes. He turned and hid his face in the soft dark fabric of Geralt’s shirt, hand clutching where it had laid.

Geralt just hugged him, holding him against his chest, hands rubbing up and down his trembling back. Julian was so emotional, always saying flowery things and crying and laughing and… having such big emotions. Feelings always upfront. So unlike Geralt.

“I’m happy here, with you, too.” Geralt said, truth heavy in his voice. Julian huffed a laugh and wiggled so he was sitting up looking right into Geralt’s eyes. Julian’s blue eyes glimmered like diamonds, eyes rimmed red from crying. He flung his legs around so he was straddling Geralt as a serious look painted his face.

“You’re happy here with me?” He asked, hands coming up to rub at his face but his eyes kept on Geralt’s. Geralt let his hands rest on Julian’s hips, causing the boy to gasp and buck back away from him before relaxing. Julian’s mouth was hung open, breaths thin and faster than usual. Geralt looked him up and down and hoped he wasn’t reading the boy wrong.

“I’m very happy here Julian. I’m very happy being with you. You make me happy, Julian.” He said quietly, barely above a whisper. He didn’t want to risk leaning the few inches forward it would take to press his lips to Julian’s own. But he craved to just get a little taste, a tiny kiss, just to get the smallest.

Julian smiled and put his hands on the sides of Geralt’s face. Squishing his cheeks.

“Do you mean it?” Julian asked and stared into Geralt’s golden eyes, like he could see the truth if he just looked hard enough. Geralt moved his hands to pull Julians away from his face and held them in his own.

“Julian?” Geralt said softly and let his hands warm the thin cold ones within them. Julian swallowed and looked down at his lips before looking back into his eyes.

“Yeah?” Julian breathed out, his heart racing in his chest when he realized how they were sitting. They were…. So close.

Geralt leaned in, tilting his head to the side just a bit, warm breath cascading over Julian’s lips and cheeks. Geralt let his eyes fall closed and his nose rub against Julian’s. He opened his eyes after only a moment, lids heavy as his body became warmer with want.

“‘M gonna kiss you now” He warned and Julian was nodding needily. He pressed his lips gently, so so carefully against Julian’s own.

Julian was… not a bad kisser. Eager, pushy, but… soft and tender. Lips staying shut, just easy pushes and movements. Geralt’s hands fell down to his hips, only to squeeze gently and run up and down Julian’s soft sides. Julians own hands found their way to Geralt’s shoulders, holding on for dear life.

His eyes were tightly squeezed shut when they pulled back. Lips kissed red and plump where he was breathing shakily. He was panting from chaste, closed mouth kisses?

Cute, Geralt thought.

Julian opened his eyes, rimmed with tears, and grasped Geralt’s jaw. He looked into Geralt’s eyes, glowing like fire in the sunset’s light. He felt like his heart was beating out of his chest and his head was getting light but he wanted to kiss Geralt more. He felt like he could cry with how happy he was, he was nearly crying with how much love he felt.

“I’m gonna faint. But I wanna, wanna… will you put me to bed?” Julian said as his eyes started getting a bit fuzzy. Geralt was calm and gentle as he just stared at Julian’s bright blushed face. The boy just looked sleepy and rested his head against Geralt’s shoulder, hands falling into his lap.

“I’ll put you to bed, Julek, little bird, come on.” Geralt whispered more to himself than the unconscious boy as he carried him back into the house, back to bed.

Geralt busied himself around. Making a small fire, sweeping the floors, lighting the candles, bringing up fresh water to make tea, and he sat and watched Julian sleep, snuggled up under the covers.

----

They shared more kisses, Julian falling into Geralt’s lap asking for a few sweet kisses or to just sit and eat together or he’d just nap in Geralt’s lap.

Geralt was always grateful to have the other man near, chatting incessantly about anything from music to animals to pictures he’s seen of the far east. He liked to hear the boy explain how a new poet was rising a few townships over and that he was as senseless as headless chicken, or how there’s a new author and his books are written so well it’s like you’re actually standing amongst the jungles, hearing the monkeys, swimming under the waterfalls.

Julian would go on and on, sitting on Geralt’s lap, sometimes a blanket thrown over them. Sometimes they would sit on the balcony in a large wicker chair that Geralt had brought up from the library downstairs. Sometimes Geralt would help Julian out to the garden and they’d sit on the grass together, cuddled in the sun. Other times Julian would be so weak that they simply sat very close next to each other, feet touching or hands holding.

And each morning Geralt would make sure to clean his mouth and chew some mint before Julian was awake. Because each morning Geralt would sit on the edge of the bed, rub Julian’s hand in his own, and tell the boy it was time to start the day. And each morning Julian would pull Geralt down, usually by a hand on his jaw, and press a kiss to his lips.

“Good morning dear, you look lovely.”

“Good morning, darling”

“‘Morning, lovely, please close the curtains”

Every morning Julian would give him a kiss and welcome Geralt to the day. Each morning Julian opened his eyes and pressed a kiss to him, Geralt was more than just awake, he was alive. Each morning Julian brought him back to life, restarted his heart, brought breath into his lungs.

----

"Geralt? Will you come here to me?" Julian asked as he laid in bed, body aching and heavy. Ever since Julian's fall, Geralt would stay in the room until Julian was asleep.

The boy had gotten up after he’d said his goodnights to Geralt. He’d been feeling well, very well, so he thought he might just go downstairs and find a cookie or two and head right back to bed, right back to bed!

However after a day of playing checkers and playing his harp and going down to play the piano while the servants cleaned and worked, he was not as strong as he had been that day.

He fell in the hallway, nearly falling down the stairs. His ankle had swollen up and he had terrible black bruises. Geralt had lectured him, marching back and forth in the room while Julian wept in bed, saying he was sorry and that he wouldn’t do it again. Geralt also brought a cookie jar up and set it on the mantle.

But he also refused to go to his own room until Julian was asleep. So when Julian bathed and was ready for bed, Geralt bathed and got ready for bed. It was warm in the home now, no need to make fires at night, so Geralt would simply sit by the window, single candle light lit by the door, and wait until he could hear Julian’s soft snores.

But tonight… Julian felt… something felt heavy in his chest. Perhaps it had something to do with the book he was reading or maybe it was that his one act of independence had landed him with a swollen ankle and a bruised backside.

Geralt came over and knelt by the bed, holding Julian’s outstretched hand. Julian smiled at him, his eyes looked tired and he was pale.

Today had been a very hot humid day, the hours taking their toll on everyone. Even the housemaid had left behind some layers, all citing that Julian would be just fine seeing their bare feet or their hair not under a cap. Julian had spent most of the day laying atop the sheets in bed in nothing but a pair of light linen pants. Now he was tucked under the sheets, pants traded for his nighty.

Now he just looked… tired. The moonlight only working to make him look paler, his under eyes darker, his skin cooler. Geralt held his hand, the smooth soft skin feeling softer than air.

"Come lay under the covers with me." The boy asked and Geralt looked into his eyes in surprise. Julian’s bed? It was… the boy barely kept his few dolls on his bed, yet he wanted something like Geralt to marr its appearance?

"In your bed?" Geralt asked, bringing the soft hand up to rub his cheek against, eyes watching Julian’s as he rolled them and sighed dramatically. Such a dramatic boy.

"Well? I'm cold and I feel weak and I want to feel close. Come lay under my blankets, come lay with me." Julian begged, eyes brimming with tears. Geralt kissed his hand and warmed it between his own. He shook his head a bit and slipped his shoes off his feet

"Okay, only because I don't want you to cry." He said and pulled his dark shirt off and folded it, leaving it behind in his chair when he climbed behind Julian in bed.

The boy was staring. Geralt was… beautiful. Such pale skin, scars spattered across his body, muscles like the statues carved from marble. He looked like a character from one of Julian’s dirty novels, a real Adonis, all edges and strength and-

“What’s wrong, love? Am I… I can go sleep in my own bed. I can take another bath.” Geralt offered before he touched the bed, noticing Julian staring so hard he could feel himself shrinking. Julian just blinked at him, big bright eyes filled with something… light.

“You never told me you were the fairest flower in all the fields, that I might gp blind merely from a glance at you.” Julian muttered, pushing himself to sit up to get a better look at the scars that whipped across his abdomen and chest. He felt a bit dizzy with how his blood grew hot and swirled in his gut. Geralt was… unfair. So pretty, so perfect, how dare he ever wear clothes.

Geralt huffed and looked away, a light flush finding its way to his face. Julian… always with flowery words and and… compliments.

“Julian, go to bed.” Geralt said and climbed in behind the boy who rolled over to face the man. He was biting his bottom lip, hands brought up curiously but halted to wait a mere inch from Geralt’s chest.

“Can I touch you? I’ve never seen you… bare.” Julian said, looking at Geralt with a kind of… wonder. Wonder of how another man would feel under his hands, how Geralt’s skin would feel, would his scars feel soft or are they tender still, how would Geralt react if he just snuggled close.

Geralt sighed and nodded, looking away as his face burned up. Julian made a happy noise and let his hands gently lay on the other’s chest. Julian was taken aback, shocked.

Geralt was so warm, and he felt so solid, and he was so… everything. Julian let his hands press and feel and explore across the miles of pale skin, fingers tracing across scars, feeling Geralt’s heartbeat in his chest. Julian laid there, staring where his hand pressed into Geralt’s chest, feeling each heartbeat as if it was his own.

“I love you Geralt.” Julian whispered, he could barely tear his eyes away to look into the nearly glowing gold ones. Geralt smiled and let his own larger hand fall over Julian’s.

“It’s late, it’s dark, it’s time for bed. Go to sleep, Julian.” Geralt whispered so sweetly and Julian was nodding along. He was so sleepy and Geralt was so warm and in his bed and it was… it was perfect.

He cuddled in close, hiding himself away in Geralt’s chest, throwing an arm and leg over him. He let his eyes fall shut as he felt Geralt’s arm wrap around him, hand rubbing up and down his back.

“You’re not allowed to wear clothes anymore, by the way.” Julian muttered into the soft skin of Geralt’s collarbone. Geralt huffed and gave Julian a squeeze.

“Go to sleep, little bird.” Geralt said and soon Julian was drooling asleep, snores lulling Geralt into his own deep restful sleep.

-----

"Geralt let me, let me walk. I can make it. I've been working on my stamina." Julian said as he stood up from his chair in the hallway. He gave his love a wink and got his cane under him. Geralt shook his head and allowed Julian to walk in front of him.

Ever since they started sleeping in the same bed, they had both been getting much more sleep. Which meant Julian wanted to do everything together. They got up, got clean and fresh, dressed, and made their way down to eat with the rest of the household. Which meant going down the stairs. Which usually meant Geralt carrying Julian like a princess, or over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and then Julian sometimes walking in through the dining room doors.

However today Julian had decided he would walk to breakfast. Well… walk to the stairs that is. He had been walking more, getting stronger, and he was feeling especially confident.

"Sure thing, Julek, put your big girl panties on this morning?" Geralt teased and Julian blushed and didn't look at him. Geralt’s joking had grown from grunts to actual comments. And the nickname… It made Julian feel all soft and melty.

Geralt was a Slov, Julian had learned, and he'd begun calling Julian ‘Julek’, others called him Jewel, and an older lady who came to the house on Geralt's call to see Julian's progress called him Jaskier but she also only spoke polish. But Julek , hearing Geralt’s gruff voice say the name, it made Julian feel like a new person, a new thing, something just created.

“I sure did! And they fit me just fine!” Julian responded and took a steeling breath.

Julian started walking down the hall finding it was easier than the last time he'd tried. Each step steady until nearly to the stairwell. His legs began to shake as he grabbed onto the railing, his heart was racing in his chest and his head felt a bit light. He was trying to take big deep breaths, but he felt like his chest was squeezing.

Geralt was quick to put an arm around his waist, supporting him enough so he could catch his breath before scooping him up. Geralt gave him a I-told-you-so look and started walking down the stairs.

"Yeah, eat shit, I still made it." Julian teased as Geralt grinned as they made it down to the dining room.

-----

Loving was easy between them. Life was easy between them.

They spent days sitting together in the sun. Geralt once set Julian out in the rain, giggling like a kid until he began to shiver a bit and then Geralt had a warm fire and a blanket to wrap around him.

The summer was Julian’s favorite time of year. He loved the feeling of a sun warmed blanket and the scent of the gardens in full bloom. Geralt was there to bring him flowers and sit with him to watch the birds.

Geralt didn’t care about the weather. He just loved seeing Julian so happy. He loved to tuck a flower behind his ear, he loved to trade him fresh apples and berries for kisses, he loved to go out in the rain to bring Julian a hydrangea bloom just to shake it over his head to give the boy a shower.

Most of all he loved the way Julian laughed. Full and hearty like he had heard the funniest thing every time. He loved the way Julian smiled, bright and wonderful. He loved the way even when he was weak and sick Julian still gave Geralt shit and was a brat and gave sass.

He loved Julian more than anything.

And everyday Geralt was happy. Julian was happy. It was… good. Geralt had lived for a very long time and yet he’d never been so happy.

They more often than not shared a bed, Julian cradled against Geralt's chest. During the warmer months Geralt would strip them both down to their sleep clothes. Julian sleeping in nearly see-through linen nighties and Geralt in a pair of soft pants and no underclothes. In the colder months Geralt would sleep in heavy wool pants but never had the heart to put a shirt on, knowing Julian found comfort in skin-to-skin. Julian would wrap up in his heavy nighty and a pair of thick socks.

They both grew into their new schedule, they just fit together, like an easy rhythm.

----

Julian got stronger, he ate more, in the nearly two years since Geralt had arrived, he'd grown able to make it down the stairs, stay awake all during the day, and even ride into town and see the people, often only needing his cane. He could pour the whole table glasses of wine with just a slight tremble. He was so happy with life, he was so happy with everything. Even on his sickest days he felt everything was okay. Because Geralt was there and Geralt was… Geralt was strong enough for the both of them.

One night, he felt... viral . He felt alive and hot in belly for the first time in so long.

He was laying in bed, just under a sheet, waiting for Geralt to get done cleaning up after their baths. They’d begun bathing together, hualing the big tub up from the first floor up so they could sit front to back in the tub. Geralt claiming he didn’t have much shame, and Julian agreeing cause wow… Geralt had let Julian touch him, sort of. He never let him touch his cock but let the boy press their bodies together, half hard cock rub against his plush ass.

Julian had liked that feeling but they never had that… sensual atmosphere in their baths. But that night… he had a hot melty feeling in his groin and his cock ached. His head was full of images of Geralt, his body, the way he looked soaked from the rain, short hair flopping over his face, water dropping running down his chiseled muscles. The way he grunts when he has to haul something heavy around, the weak little huffs he makes when he has a bad dream, the sighs he lets out when he lays down after a long day.

He let his hand creep down to himself, under his chemise. He was hard. Goodness... that hadn't happened in years. He could barely remember the last time he was hard and awake. He’d woken up with a wet nighty many times but never woke up… hard. Nor had he worked up to a hardon while he was awake for so long.

"Geralt!" Julian called and heard the thundering quick steps of Geralt running to the room. Julian had his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Hand cradling the burning flesh of his cock.

"What? You scared me, you prick." Geralt said as he saw the boy was fine in bed. He took a calming breath and put his hands on his hips. Julian had an odd look on his face and he had his arms weird across his body… Geralt just stared at him and slowly walked up to the bed.

"My prick indeed." Julian said and pulled his hand away from himself after a quick squeeze.

"What're you on about?" Geralt asked. He was tired and just wanted to go to bed. Julian looked away from him, face turning a cherry red.

"Geralt... can we do something together?" The count asked nervously and brought his knees together under the thin sheet. He wanted Geralt so much, just seeing the other man standing there in his thin pants and light shirt, the feeling of getting down to Geralt’s skin, to feel his warmth.

Geralt looked down at the boy, his eyes blown big, cheeks cherry red and creeping down his chest. He wanted to pick the sheet up to see underneath, see what the boy was hiding. He felt the pull, the warmth in his own belly, he wasn’t a very sexual man but Julian was so soft. So sweet smelling and warm with the plushest body and the kindest hands.

"What do you wanna do, Julek?" Geralt asked, letting his fingers graze atop the covers beside Julian’s arm. He gave the boy a look, golden eyes warm and open, lips practically begging for a kiss.

"I um... not to be so forward but will you lay under the cover with me and well... l-lay with me?" Julian asked, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Geralt grinned, pointy teeth on display and crawled up on the bed, throwing a leg over Julian’s thighs, causing his legs to lay flat.

Julian had a nervous look on his face that was soon being washed away by biting tongue filled kisses. Geralt let himself go, hips grinding down onto Julian’s, savoring the feeling of a hard cock rubbing up against his own. He got washed away in the feeling of Julian yanking his shirt off and untying his trousers.

“You’re stunning, my dear, so pretty” Julian said and let his hands wander, rubbing across Geralt’s broad shoulders, down to squeeze his hips, back up to cup his muscular pec.

“Do you really want this, Julian? Do you want me to… to do this to you?” Geralt asked from where he had started sucking and nipping down the boy’s neck. Julian grabbed two fistfulls of his hair and yanked him up to face him, determination plain on his face.

Geralt sucked in a breath and dared not move from where Julian had an iron grip in his hair, the pain of it sparking something he rather not look into. He stared down at the boy, he wanted, gods he wanted , but… he couldn’t do anything until Julian said okay.

“Geralt, man who’s stolen my heart, man who’s the only one I’ve ever loved, if you don’t touch my cock in the next moment I’m going to cry. I can’t do much else but I’ll cry.” Julian threatened and tears already welled up in his eyes. He felt good and Geratl was so pretty and it was so so good and so so new.

Geralt shook his head and Julian let go of his hair. He leaned down and pressed a sweet kiss to Julian’s lips. Julian sniffs as tears roll down his face, breaths hiccuping as Geralt ground down again.

“I thought you wouldn’t cry.” Geralt said and leaned back to pull the sheet away and look down at where Julian’s cock was standing up against his belly, nighty rucked up to his sternum. He looked down and gave it a few light strokes.

Julian moaned and bucked up, hands scrambling down to grab at Geralt’s wrists. He cried out and looked up at Geralt who had a look on his face, like a starved animal.

“You gotta hold still for me, for just a minute, baby, just hold still, Julek” Geralt panted out and leaned back yanking his pants down, struggling just to get them down.

“Geralt, what- what’re you going to do? I don’t… you know I don’t know how this works. Not with… not with two boys” Julian said in a panic as he yanked Geralt’s pants off his feet and flung them away. Geralt was back on him, straddling his waist, huge heavy cock covering Julian’s own.

Julian just stared down at it… it was nearly the size of his forearm and it felt like fire on his skin. Geralt was so fucking perfect and… Julian felt so nervous, his belly twisting in a bad way.

That was until Geralt was rubbing his hands up and down Julian’s sides, shushing him.

“Just hold on, little bird, you just have to hold on for a second.” Geralt said and looked at Julian’s small bedside… oil. They needed some for this activity.

He thought about it just for a moment before remembering something he’d seen in Julian’s harp case. He leaned down and kissed the boy again, sucking on his tongue for a moment when he pulled back.

“Do you have that… that polishing oil with your harp still?” Geralt asked as he leaned back from kissing him. Julian was breathless, tears rolling down the sides of his face as he nodded, eyes unfocused and lips kissed red and puffy.

“Yeah, it’s- it’s in the drawer” Julian answered after a moment to process what Geralt had said. He watched the larger man move to climb off the bed and dig through the drawer in the corner that held all Julian’s instrument’s tools and such.

Gorgeous. That’s all Julian could think as he witnessed Geralt standing in the moonlight. One side of him, pale skin glowing in the light of the full moon, the other warmed by the candles. His hair was longer than it had been when he first arrived, now catching the light and casting the most stunning shadows across the man’s angular face.

“ Julian ~” The boy finally heard as he came back into his mind, noticing Geralt was speaking. He looked at him, all tall and strong and hot and his cock and body and…

“‘M a bit dizzy” Julian said and Geralt soon returned, laying Julian back down flat, wiping tears away from his face, shushing him.

“It’s alright. Do you still want to do this? It’s okay if you-” Geralt said and leaned down to wipe Julian’s eyes clean and looked down at him. He was cute. Plush and snuggly, adorable in his frilly nighty and his little socks. He was hard still, cock hard against his belly, dripping with need.

“Please, I want you to do it. I wanna do it with you. I wanna lose… it … to you. Please.” Julian begged, staring up at Geralt’s amber eyes. He didn’t wanna be a virgin a moment longer; he wanted Geralt more than anything else.

Geralt smiled down at him letting his hand go from wiping away tears to push the hair off Julian’s face. He crawled back up on the bed, straddling the boy once more, hands faced on his chest as he ground his ass over the boy’s hard cock.

Julian let out a long moan and grabbed Geralt’s hips, thick muscular hips.

“Be good, little bird, have patience.” Geralt whispered as he sat up straight, uncorking the bottle of oil. He looked down at Julian as he covered his fingers with the slick. Julian watched and looked confused.

That was until Geralt was letting his fingers rub and slip into his hole.

“I put my cock there? In you there? Won’t it hurt?” The boy asked as he watched Geralt’s hands move, one fingering himself open, the other holding the base of his cock, occasionally giving it a few tight strokes.

Geralt was efficient with stretching himself out a bit, Julian wasn’t really that big. He huffed a laugh at the boy’s questioning and pulling his fingers away, stroking Julian’s cock a few times getting the extra oil off on him.

Julian watched him, hands gripping the sheet below him. He stared down at where Geralt was kneeling over him, where Geralt was holding his cock to stand up.

“It’s not gonna hurt me, sweetheart, this is just how… how boys do it.” Geralt said, breathless as he guided Julian’s cock to press against his wet hole. Julian just made sorry little huffing sounds until Geralt was easing down onto him. Both then letting out long moans until Geralt was sat on Julian’s hips.

“You did it. ‘M not a virgin. Fucking gods, you feel amazing” Julian moaned, throwing his head back against the pillow under him, overwhelmed with the feeling. The feeling of being connected, of Geralt’s tight warm body, the feeling of them being together, matching and fitting together like puzzle pieces. They did match perfectly together.

And they could both feel it.

“I did, I took you. You’re mine, Julek, mine only. Promise me, promise your mine.” Geralt panted out and took Jlian’s hand, holding it to his heaving chest. Julian nodded, automatically agreeing.

“Yes, yes my dear heart, my love, I’m all yours. All yours. Now have me, please.” Julian said, desperation creeping into his voice at the end. Geralt stayed for a breath longer, feeling how his heart felt sparked alive.

And then the love melted away and the lust won over. He rose up on his knees till only the tip was still inside him and then he was letting himself fall back down, careful not to hurt the boy’s legs. Well as careful as he could be when Julian was clawing at his hips and moaning like he was putting a show on at a brothel.

Julian was quick to cum, as expected, and was nearly passed out when Geralt guided his hand to wrap around his own cock. He was stroking himself more than Julian was, but that was okay, it was better than okay when he came and a single drop reached up to Julian’s chin and the boy licked it off.

“That’s nasty, why do people swallow that stuff?” The boy said and made a face when the drop of cum hit his tongue. Geralt laughed, really laughed, as he sat beside the boy, feeling the cum drip from his hole.

He reached back and grabbed the water from the bedside and guided Julian to drink some. The boy drank some and laid back, eyes slipping close as his hands rested against his clothed chest.

He felt no shame laying in his bed with his wet cock out and his belly and nighty covered in another man’s cum. He only felt happy, and content, and tired, and wow… wow.

“I love you Geralt. Do you want to get another bath?” The boy asked without opening his eyes. He missed the way Geralt looked down at him, eyes full of love and devotion. He didn’t know what was touching him either before he was being lifted up and carried down to the stairs.

He didn’t open his eyes to see Geralt’s tears rolling down his face, or his smile, or his trembling lip. He was already asleep as Geralt filled a tub and held him close to his chest and wept as he cleaned them both.

“môj vtáčik, môj, zostaň tu, zostaň so mnou” ( my little bird, mine, stay here, stay with me ) He whispered quietly as he tucked them both back into bed, holding and cuddling close to Julian who only sighed and wrapped his arms around the warm body open to him.

It was perfect. So perfect. Warm and cozy and they both slept so well that night. Love was so thick in the air you could nearly see it. It was more than just perfect. It was nice. Geralt learned that nice was… so much better. So much better than being alive, than seeing, than hearing, than anything else. Nice was lovely. Nice was… alive.

However nothing nice ever lasts.

Julian got sick.

So, so sick.

He was pale, he barely ate, he was always cold, he had nose bleeds and his eyes went fuzzy and he was...

He was dying.

Geralt tried everything to help him, gave him meds, asked the mages, asked the warlocks, he tried everything but Julian would smile and kiss and tell him it would be okay.

"You knew this would happen when you came here. I'm sorry, Geralt. I'm so sorry I'm hurting you." The boy cried and held the man’s face in his trembling hands. He felt so terrible, not for himself, but for seeing Geralt be so worried. He could see the pain in Geralt's eyes each day when he wasn’t any better or when he struggled to breath or when he hacked up blood. He felt so terrible for hurting his beloved man.

"No Julek, you're not hurting me. I never knew I could love before you. I love you, Julian, I love you." Geralt said as tears slid down his face, hands holding onto Julian’s thin wrists. He smiled at the pale skeleton that was once his plush pudgy love.

He still loved him.

He’d love him a thousand times and a million times over. He’d give anything for him. He’d give him life, his heart, his body, anything. He just wanted Julian… to stay with him.

"I love you too, my gem, my handsome man. Don't weep, my love, don't cry. You've given me more in the past few years than anyone else has my entire life. I'm so grateful for you. Please don't forget how much you gave me, I can never repay you." Julian said and wiped Geralt’s tears away with his thumbs. He was happy, he supposed. He was happy to have ever had Geralt for a moment. To have ever met him, to have ever even seen him. He could never repay the gods, destiny, or whoever brought the man to his home. He was happy to have had the man in his life. It hurt his heart to know he was hurting the strong man who wept before him.

"You could stay. You could stay with me forever. Never leave me, please, please stay with me. I don't have anyone else." Geralt begged and begged. He’d do anything for Julian to stay. Anything. Julian only smiled and used his sleeve to pat away Geralt’s big tears. He shushed the bigger man and leaned forward to press a kiss to his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, and his lips.

"I'll stay. You're mine, I'm yours. We’re meant to be with each other. Our destinies are intertwined, our lives are melted together. Like soup." Julian said, remembering the first conversation they ever had, the feeling he had. Geralt huffed a sad laugh and nodded.

"Like soup." He agreed and laid Julian back down. He could rest for a bit before Geralt brought their dinner up, even knowing Julian wasn’t going to eat, he’d still sit the boy at the table and sit with him.

They went to bed, Geralt putting a nice clean nighty and socks onto Julian, and disrobing himself down to a pair of thick pants and socks. The seasons were changing and it was a bitter night. He made sure to cover Julian up, making sure he was warm.

“Goodnight, my love, try to get some sleep, you’ve been restless for so long now.” Julian said to him with a soft kiss before rolling over to be spooned and snuggled.

“I love you, Julek, my heart is yours.” Geralt confessed and pressed as close as he could to the boy and let exhaustion take over him.

When Geralt woke up Julian was gone.

He dressed him, put him in the middle of the bed, and made him look like a king. He got a cloth and washed him, ran a brush through his soft hair, and made sure he looked neat and noble.

Not a tear rolling down his face. He needed to go away, he needed to leave before the successor came. He needed to make sure Julian was treated properly and then he needed to leave.

He cleaned the room, face stone cold.

He was in shock really, his chest hurt. He walked down and called everyone into the dining room and they all already knew.

Geralt went into the town and informed them.

A cousin would be taking the estate and the power.

Geralt dug his grave and buried him the way he wanted to be, with his music notes and his childhood harp. He had cried over the boy when he was tasked with covering him in soil. He sobbed and sobbed, letting out the most pained sounds half the town had ever heard. He howled and cried out like an animal being shredded by wolves.

He slept there in the dirt over the boy, refusing to leave him until the leaves covered the grave. He carved a J out of a strong branch of wood and placed it over where Julian was.

Geralt was darker than night as he moved through the house, he would come at night and leave at dawn. Things were moved and changed, no one caring though. No one was going to question him and his grief.

He was told Julian had given him a house in the mountains and that was the last anyone ever seen of Geralt, Servant of The Flower of Lettenhoven. Lover of the Great Count Julian Of Lettenhoven.

No one knew where he went, assuming he had left just as he had arrived, in the darkness of night in silence. The house in the mountains had been destroyed by an avalanche years ago, no one went looking for trouble anyway.

Next Chapter ->

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