who better to possess protect you than your devoted knight?
synopsis: you've spent most of your life sheltered and spoiled as the youngest member of the royal family. a pretty princess protected by the palace's highly-trained knights. including a certain dark-haired one who appears to have taken his duties a little too seriously. when suguru geto steals you away from your home and sticks you in a replica of your room at the top of a tower with no one but your captor for company, you soon realized that no one is coming to find you. will you try to escape? return to the world he swears is out to get you? or perhaps chose the man who put you here in the first place?
pairing: yandere!geto x rapunzel!reader
content: mdni. angst. smut. porn with plot. dubcon. HEAVY YANDERE ELEMENTS, kidnapping, imprisonment, heavy petting, brushing hair, reader is a bit oblivious and spoiled, getting a really fucked up version of the princess treatment, prolonged captivity, stockholm syndrome, falling in love, geto is devoted and delusional, unprotected piv sex, restraints, breeding kink, degradation, pet names (princess, angel), mating press, creampie
a/n: this will be for this event by @/jazzthatonewriterchick !! art is by @/xxgojoxx on x btw :3 preview for oneshot below!
The sad thing was you didn't even realize you weren't home the first time you woke up.
He'd gotten almost every detail right. Down to the little scuffs in the floor and the jewelry scattered across your nightstand.
The dimensions were wrong though.
A subtle feeling of something being off when you yawned and stood up, squinting around at your stuff until you realized that somehow your room had shrunk in your sleep.
The last thing you remembered was stumbling back to your bedroom, drunk on the wine your family had served at dinner, celebrating your betrothment to a prince from a neighboring kingdom. Clumsily kicking off your heels and nearly falling over, your knight sweeping you off your feet and carrying you back to your bed, tucking you in and softly scolding you when you asked for a goodnight kiss.
Your head was throbbing.
Aching as you rubbed your temples and tried to sort out why you felt so strange.
It was only really when you glanced to the side and found only a small curved window where your balcony should be, that it struck you that you weren't just suffering from a hangover.
Your legs felt like jelly, wobbling underneath you as you struggled with each step between you and the door. Leaning against the wall as your fingers shakily wrapped around the knob.
You twisted.
But it didn't give.
"Hello?" You called out, your voice coming out surprisingly small. Not scared. Yet.
No, that didn't come until later.
After pacing the floor had led you back over to that strange window, and peering out of it revealed a stomach-churning drop far fucking higher than the normal view out of your second story bedroom.
You think you screamed.
Made some strangled sound, at least, tripping on your own feet and falling backwards, scraping your hands on a rough plank on the floor, a subtle sign of hasty construction, you were sure.
You didn't recognize any of the landscape around you. Had never seen the thick, tall trees that appeared to surround this...tower you were in. No sign of the salty ocean or sandy beaches you'd grown up beside.
"Princess," a warm voice spoke up behind you, familiar hands on your side hoisting you back up, dusting off your dress as your head whipped around.
Relief flooded you at the sight of your favorite knight's face. The soft crinkles by his pretty purple eyes, the tender upturn of the corner of his mouth as he looked down at you.
Suguru would know what was going on.
He'd never let anything bad happen to you.
"What's happening?" You huffed at him, attempting to reclaim a fraction of your dignity despite him seeing you in far worse states than this before. Swallowing hard as the panic still freely pounded in your chest, holding onto his strong forearm to steady yourself. "Where are we?"
He smiled at you, letting go of your side to caress your cheek, your heart stupidly fluttering at the gesture you both knew he shouldn't be doing. Not when he was meant to stand guard for you.
You were his duty. His life.
He was only ever supposed to be a supporting role in yours.
"Somewhere safe."
COMMENT TO BE TAGGED WHEN THE FULL ONESHOT COMES OUT!!
summary: you were raised to always get what you wanted. then you married baelor targaryen, who says no to you with the patience of a saint and the immovability of a wall. it was funny, once. it isn't funny now. (5k)
pairing: baelor targaryen x fem!reader
content: canon divergent, reader is from house rowan, grief, fear of loss, stubborn baelor and reader (yikes), protective!baelor, angst with a resolved ending, hurt/comfort, arguing, fluff, and unedited work cause i wasn’t bothered with editing.
Your father had never said no to you. Not in any way that actually stuck.
There had been nos, technically, over the years–the soft kind, the ones that came with a but and a maybe and a let me think on it, the one that always, without fail, ended with you getting exactly what you had asked for. The horse you’d spotted at the marked when you were nine and pointed at until your mother told you to stop pointing. The third puppy from the hunting dog’s litter when your mother had already said two was plenty. The yellow dress with the embroidered hem that your father jad bought you the day before your wedding, because you’d said quite reasonably that you couldn’t possibly get married without something new to wear.
Lord Aldric Rowan of Goldengrove had three sons before you came along, and he loved them well enough. But you were his daughter, and that had always been a different thing entirely, and everyone in the household had understood it without it ever needing to be said out loud. You weren't spoiled in a mean way. You'd never been cruel about it. You simply had a very poor relationship with the word no and a father who had never seen much reason to improve it.
You hadn't known any of this was unusual until you married Baelor.
Baelor Targaryen says no to you like it's the simplest thing in the world. Not coldly, he's never cold about it. He just says it the same way he says most things, quietly and without any indication that he expects it to go differently, and then he waits for you to finish responding to it with the patience of a man who has genuinely nowhere else to be.
In the beginning you didn't believe he meant it. You'd assumed, reasonably enough, that his nos were like anyone else's nos, a starting position rather than a final answer. You'd tried waiting him out. You'd tried rephrasing. You'd tried the look, the one that had worked on your father without fail since you were old enough to know you had it, where you look up through your lashes and say nothing and let the silence do the work.
Baelor had looked back at you with those mismatched eyes of his and said, "No, my love," and that had been that.
It took you most of the first year to truly believe he meant it every time. A few months after that to stop trying anyway, mostly because the habit was so deeply set you did it without thinking. You still try sometimes. It's less about winning now and more about the shape of the thing, the back and forth of it, and somewhere along the way you'd stopped minding as much as you thought you would–because Baelor's nos always come with something else. He listens. He takes you seriously. And then he finds another way, always, and he delivers on it, and there is something in that you hadn't been expecting and have never quite gotten over.
This particular morning you’d found him in his solar after breakfast, sitting at his writing table with the focused stillness of a man who had a great deal to do and intended to do all of it. He looked up when you came in, giving you a small smile.
“I want a thing,” you say, because the preamble with Baelor is pointless. He sees through it before you’ve finished building it.
“Of course you do,” he says, and sets his quill down.
You come and sit on the edge of his writing table, which he allows from you and nobody else, and he looks up at you with a patient expression, knowing something is coming.
“There’s a market in the lower city today,”
“Is there?”
“A travelling one. From the Reach.” You fold your hands in your lap. “One of the kitchen girls said they’ve brought silks.”
"Mm," he says, which is not a yes but is not yet a no either, and you take it as encouragement.
"I want to go."
He sets his quill down. "Alone."
"With a guard."
"One guard is not a proper escort."
"Two guards, then."
"No."
"Baelor, it's a silk market—"
"Two guards is still no." He says it the same way he always does, no particular weight on it, just the word sitting there. "You're not going into the lower city today."
"Other women go into the lower city all the time."
"Other women aren't you."
"That isn't a reason."
"It's my reason," he says, with the perfect untroubled calm that you find both deeply reassuring and deeply maddening depending entirely on the day. "When the market comes through the city again I'll take you myself."
You kiss your teeth, rolling your eyes. "You say that every time."
"I took you to a market three months ago."
"That was three months ago." You look at him. He looks back at you. This is the part where your father would start to soften — you could always see it happening, the way his shoulders would drop a little, the way he'd look away first and when he looked back his face would have changed. Baelor doesn't soften. He just sits there. "The silks will be gone by the time you find a free afternoon," you say.
"Then I'll send someone down to buy them for you."
"It isn't the same."
"No," he agrees, pleasantly. "It isn't."
You make a sound that's somewhere between a sigh and a groan and slide off the table. He watches you with what you're fairly certain is amusement, though he keeps it mostly off his face. "Fine," you say.
"Thank you," he says, and picks his quill back up.
You stop at the door. "You'll actually send someone today. Not next week."
"Today," he says. "Tell me what you're looking for."
So you tell him. In considerable detail. The colour, a specific dark green, not just any dark green, the weight of the fabric, roughly how much you'll need. He listens to all of it without looking like he finds it tedious, writes something down, and nods. You go back to your morning.
The silk arrives before supper. It's exactly right. You don't tell him it's exactly right–he'd only be unbearably calm about it, but it is.
The puppet show had been the talk of the keep for nearly a week.
It had started with the kitchen girls, then spread to the stable boys, then somehow made its way up through the household until even some of the younger knights had mentioned it in passing, the way people mentioned things they assumed you already knew about and could simply go and see if you wanted. A travelling group from Lys, apparently, setting up in the square just beyond the main gate every evening after dark. Elaborate puppets, someone said. A full retelling of the Tragedy of Florian and Jonquil, with music.
You had mentioned it to Baelor on the second day, at supper.
"There's a puppet company in the square," you'd said.
"Mm," he'd said, reading something.
"From Lys. They're doing Florian and Jonquil every evening after dark." You'd reached for your wine. "I'd like to go."
He'd looked up then. "Outside the gate."
"Just to the square."
"At night."
"It's just beyond the gate, Baelor, it isn't—"
"No," he'd said, and looked back down at whatever he was reading, and that had been the end of it. You'd sat across the table from him and finished your supper in silence and felt the frustration of it sit in your chest like a stone.
That had been four days ago.
That had been four days ago. The group was leaving at the end of the week.
You'd thought about it every day since.
The thing was, you weren't asking for anything unreasonable. It was a puppet show. It was just beyond the gate. Half the keep had already been, freely, without anyone telling them they couldn't, and you had sat inside the walls every single evening watching the candles burn down and listening to people talk about it the next morning and thought about how unbearably unfair it was to be the only person in all of King's Landing who wasn't allowed to simply go and see a thing.
Baelor was in council meetings all day. He was always in council meetings all day. You'd had breakfast alone, which you did most mornings, and then sat with your embroidery for two hours, which you did most mornings, and then walked the same stretch of garden you always walked, and then sat in your chambers and stared at the ceiling for a while, and then it was supper and Baelor came back tired and preoccupied and you had an hour together before he fell asleep.
That was most days. That was nearly every day. Yes he always did make time for you, but you always thought it was merely never enough time.
You'd put on a plain dark cloak, the one with the deep hood that you used in winter, and told yourself you'd be back before the last bell.
The square was everything everyone had said it was.
The puppets were extraordinary, large and intricate, moved by six puppeteers in dark clothing who seemed to disappear into the shadows behind them so that the figures appeared to move on their own. The music was live, a lutist and a woman with a small drum, and the crowd was thick and warm and pressed in close around the low stage, and you'd stood at the edge of it with your hood up and felt, for the first time in what felt like a very long time, like a person who was simply somewhere, watching something, with nobody expecting anything from her.
Florian was wonderful. Jonquil made you cry a little, which you would deny if anyone asked.
You were back at the keep gate before the last bell, which felt like a technicality worth holding onto. Your cheeks were cold and your slippers were damp from the cobblestones and you were in a better mood than you'd been in all week, and you were very nearly back to your chambers with your plan of a hot bath and immediate sleep fully intact when one of the younger serving girls appeared in the corridor looking deeply uncomfortable.
"My lady," she said, not quite meeting your eyes. "His Grace has asked for you in his study."
You stopped walking.
"Has he," you said.
"Yes, my lady." She was very pointedly not looking at the cloak or the damp slippers or your windswept hair. "He said–he said as soon as you returned."
As soon as you returned.
You stood in the corridor for a moment and thought about the very small possibility that this was about something else entirely and knew, with the deep certainty of someone who had been married long enough to know things, that it was not about something else entirely.
"Thank you," you said, and turned around.
His study was lit when you got there, many candles flickering in the room, and Baelor was standing with his back to the door looking out the window when you came in. He didn't turn around immediately. You came to a stop just inside the doorway and waited, which was not something you were naturally good at, and the silence sat there between you and stretched.
"Close the door," he said.
You closed it.
He turned then. His expression was not the one you were used to, the patient one, the one that waited you out with perfect equanimity. This was something else. His jaw was set. His eyes were very steady and very still in a way that made something small and cold settle in the pit of your stomach, because in all the time you'd been married you had never quite seen this particular version of his face before.
"Where have you been," he said.
"I went for a walk," you said, which was technically true in the way that most things you said were technically true.
Baelor looked at you.
"Outside the keep," you amended.
"To the square," he said.
You said nothing.
"Three separate people have told me they saw a woman in a dark cloak in the crowd tonight who looked very much like my wife," he said. "Would you like to tell me they were mistaken."
You looked at him. He looked back at you with that still face and those serious eyes and you thought very briefly about saying yes, they were mistaken, and decided against it because Baelor always knew and lying would only make it worse.
"No," you said. "They weren't mistaken."
He was quiet for a moment. "You walked out of the keep alone," he said, slowly, like he was making sure you understood each word. "At night. Into a crowd of strangers. Without telling anyone where you were going."
"I had my cloak."
"You had your cloak," he repeated, as if it were the stupidest thing he has ever heard.
"Nobody knew it was me."
"Three people knew it was you."
"Three people thought it might be me," you said, "which is different—"
"It is not different." His voice was still low but there was something in it now that you had not heard before, something tight underneath the surface of it. "Do you understand what could have happened? Do you understand—" He stopped. Pressed his lips together. Looked away for a moment and then back at you. "You are the Princess of Dragonstone. You walked into a crowd of strangers at night, alone, and you didn't tell a single soul where you were going."
"I was back before the last bell," you said, which came out smaller than you intended.
"That is not the point."
"I know," you said, even smaller.
He looked at you for a long moment. You looked back at him and felt your eyes go wet, which you hadn't been expecting, the sting of it catching you off guard, and you blinked hard because you weren't going to cry about this, it was a puppet show, you were not going to stand here and cry about a puppet show.
"It was Florian and Jonquil," you said. Your voice came out very quiet. "Everyone in the keep has seen it except me and I just — I only wanted to see it. That's all. It was just a puppet show."
Baelor was still looking at you. The tight thing in his jaw hadn't entirely gone.
"I know that I'm not supposed to go outside without an escort," you say. "I know that. I've always known that. But Baelor—" You stop, and the words that come out next are not the ones you'd planned on saying, are not really about the puppet show at all. "You're in council from morning until supper every single day. I have breakfast alone and I sit with my embroidery alone and I walk the garden alone and then supper comes and I have an hour with you before you're asleep, and that's–that's every day. That is every day." Your voice is doing the thing again, tightening somewhere in the middle. "I'm not asking you to change everything. I know you have duties. I know the kingdom doesn't stop because your wife is bored. But I've asked you for things, small things, just to have somewhere to go or something to see, and the answer is always no, and I understand why, I do, but sometimes I just–" You stop. Press the back of your hand against your mouth for a second. "I just needed to go somewhere."
The study is very quiet.
Baelor looks at you for a long moment. Something has shifted in his expression, the tight thing in his jaw less rigid than it was a moment ago, and he crosses the room and stops in front of you and looks at your face in that way of his, reading all of it.
He's quiet for a moment, the anger in his face settling into something heavier. Then he reaches out and takes your face in his hands, tilts it up toward him. Your eyes are very wet and you're fairly certain at least one tear has escaped, which is embarrassing for reasons you can't entirely articulate. His thumb moves across your cheek.
"I didn't know," he says. "That it was like that for you."
"I didn't say," you admit.
"No," he says. "You didn't." He's quiet for a moment, his eyes on yours. "I'm not going to pretend I'm not angry about tonight. I am. What you did was dangerous and foolish and you know that."
"I know," you say.
"But I hear you," he says. "The rest of it. I hear it."
You look at him and feel the thing in your chest that had been tight since the corridor loosen, just slightly, not all the way, but enough. "Are you very angry," you say.
"Yes," he says, plainly.
"How angry."
He looks at you for a moment. His thumb is still against your cheek but his eyes are serious, no warmth in them yet, not the usual kind. "You had no reason to do what you did tonight," he says. "I understand that you're lonely. I hear that. But when I say no it is not a suggestion and it is not a starting point and you do not get to decide that it doesn't apply to you because you want something badly enough." His voice is low and even. "That is not how this works."
You look at him and say nothing.
"Go and have your bath," he says. He drops his hands from your face and steps back and the warmth of them goes with him. "We'll speak in the morning."
You nod and go.
In the morning he is up before you, which he always is, but he doesn't talk to you the way he usually does. He answers when you speak to him. He isn't cruel about it. But the easy back and forth of it, the morning stories, the complaints about Daeron, the small warm ordinary thing that is your favourite part of the day–none of that comes, and you sit across from him at breakfast and feel the absence of it like a bruise.
You don't push. For once in your life you don't push.
You take your embroidery to the garden instead and sit with it and say nothing and wait for it to pass.
You're in the garden some days later with some embroidery you're not making much progress on when one of the serving girls finds you, a letter in hand.
You see your father's seal before you take it. The rose of Rowan, pressed with the same signet ring he's worn your entire life. You break it and read it.
It's short. Much shorter than his letters usually are. His handwriting is shakier than you remember, the lines uneven in a way they never usually are, and you read it once and then read it again because the first time doesn't seem possible.
He's ill. He's been ill for some time, he says– in that careful way that means longer than some time but he's chosen not to say so. The maester is doing what he can. He wants to see you, if it can be arranged.
If it can be arranged.
Your father, who had rearranged the entire world on a regular basis to make sure you had whatever you wanted, is asking if it can be arranged.
You sit in the garden for a long time without moving. The sun moves. The letter stays in your hands. The embroidery sits forgotten beside you.
When you finally go inside you go straight to Baelor's solar. He's at the window with a cup of wine, a small frown creasing his brow, and he turns when the door opens. Whatever he sees in your face makes him set the cup down immediately.
"What's happened?"
You hold the letter out. He crosses the room and takes it from your hand and reads it, and you watch his face the whole time. The way his eyes move down the page slowly. The way his jaw tightens. The way a stillness settles over him, the particular controlled kind that means he's keeping something off his face on purpose.
He looks up and meets your eyes and you already know what he's going to say.
"I need to go to Goldengrove," you say.
"I know."
"Then I can go."
"No."
It lands differently than it ever has before. Every other no had been the silk, the market, the puppet show–small things, things you'd pushed back on out of habit more than anything. This is not that. This is your father's shaky handwriting on a short letter asking if it can be arranged, and Baelor is standing there saying no and looking at you like he's braced for what comes next.
"Baelor." Your voice is low and tight.
"No, my love."
"He is ill." You take a step toward him. "He is asking for me. Do you understand that? He has never in his life asked me to come home, not once, and he is asking now, and you are standing there–"
"I understand."
"Then act like it." Your voice cracks on the last word and you push past it. "He could be dying. He could be dying and you're telling me no like it's the same as everything else, like this is the silk market, like this is–"
"It isn't the same."
"Then why is the answer still no?" You're in front of him now, close, your eyes burning. "Give me a reason. A real one. Not the roads, not the timing, not whatever careful thing you're about to say–give me something real or get out of my way."
Something flickers across his face. His jaw is tight and his eyes are steady and he says, quietly, "The roads are not—"
"I don't care." The words come out before you've decided on them and you mean every one. "I don't care about the roads. Send fifty men with me, send a hundred, come yourself if you have to, I don't give a damn how it's arranged–but you do not get to tell me no on this." Your voice is rising and your hands have curled into fists at your sides and you're aware distantly that this is not how a woman of court is meant to speak to her husband and you cannot bring yourself to care about that either. "This isn't a silk market. This isn't a puppet show outside the gate. This is my father."
Baelor looks at you for a long moment. He doesn't flinch at the volume of it, doesn't step back, just stands there and takes it with that infuriating stillness of his, and the muscle in his jaw works once.
"I know," he says. His voice is very quiet. "I know what it is."
"Then tell me why." Your eyes are filling now and you hate it, hate standing here crying when you're trying to be furious, but you can't stop it and you're not going to look away. "Because I have trusted you every time. Every single time you've said no I have found a way to accept it because I trust you and I love you and I know you don't do things without reason. But you have to give me something, Baelor. You have to give me something to hold onto right now or I swear to you I will walk out of this keep tonight and you will not stop me."
A beat of silence.
Baelor's eyes move over your face. He's reading you the way he always reads you, carefully and completely, and whatever he finds there makes something shift in his expression. The tight set of it loosens, just slightly. He exhales through his nose.
"Sit down," he says.
"I don't want to sit down."
"Please." The word comes out differently than his usual pleases, less patient, more like it costs him something. "Sit down and let me tell you."
You look at him. Your chest is heaving and your eyes are wet and you're still furious but there's something in his face now that wasn't there before, something heavy and careful, and it makes you go still.
You sit.
He pulls a chair across and sits facing you, close, his elbows on his knees, and is quiet for a moment like he's deciding where to begin.
"Your father has debts," he says. "Significant ones. He has been carrying them for years, managing them carefully, and then about eighteen months ago he stopped being able to manage them."
You look at him. "What does that mean?"
"It means he borrowed from men who are not patient about repayment." He holds your gaze. "When the payments slowed, they started taking an interest in Goldengrove itself."
Something cold moves through you. "What kind of interest?"
"The kind that comes with threats." His voice is even, giving you the facts without wrapping them in anything softer. "Specific ones. Against the estate, against your brothers." A pause. "I became aware of it some months ago. I have had men watching the roads to Goldengrove since. That is why I cannot send you there alone–not because of the roads themselves, but because of who is on them."
The room is very quiet.
"Months ago," you say slowly.
"Yes."
"You've known for months."
"Yes."
You stare at him. "And you didn't tell me."
"Your father asked me not to." He says it plainly, without apology, but his eyes don't leave yours. "He came to me himself. He asked me to handle it quietly and to keep it from you. He didn't want you to know he was in difficulty." A beat. "He was very clear about that."
You open your mouth and close it again.
"I should have told you regardless," Baelor says. "That is on me. But I want you to understand that he asked me not to, and I thought I was honouring that." His jaw tightens slightly. "I was wrong to keep it from you this long."
You sit there and let it all settle into shape. The cheerful letters. The shaky handwriting on this one. Your father at the door when you left, holding on a beat too long.
"He's been carrying all of this," you say quietly. "This whole time."
"Yes."
"Alone."
"He had me," Baelor says. "For what that's worth."
You look at him and feel something complicated move through your chest that isn't quite anger anymore and isn't quite grief and sits somewhere between the two.
"The debts," you say. "Are they–can they be–"
"They're already being settled." He says it without any weight on it, like it's already done, which it nearly is. "Within the fortnight Goldengrove will be safe. The men watching the roads will be gone." His eyes are steady on yours. "And then I will take you there myself."
You look at your hands in your lap.
The room is very quiet when he finishes.
You look at your hands in your lap. You think about your father's letters, the cheerful ones, the ones about the estate and your brothers and whatever small ordinary thing had happened at Goldengrove that week. You think about the shaky handwriting on the letter in your hands. You think about how long he must have been carrying all of it alone, smiling in ink across the distance, not wanting you to worry.
"He didn't want me to know," you say. Your voice comes out very small.
"No." Baelor's mouth presses together briefly. "He didn't want you to worry."
You look up at him. "Is he dying?"
"I don't know." He holds your gaze and doesn't look away from it. "I think he's more ill than the letter says. I think he wanted to see you and didn't know how to ask for it plainly." A pause. "The debts are already being settled. Within the fortnight Goldengrove will be safe. When it is, I will take you there myself and we will stay as long as you need to stay."
"The fortnight," you say.
"The fortnight." He holds your gaze. "I give you my word."
You look at him for a long time. This man with the grey in his beard and the careful eyes and the particular way he says I give you my word, like it is the most serious thing a person can say.
"I'm angry at you," you say quietly. "For not telling me sooner."
"I know."
"And at him."
"That's fair."
"I'm angrier at you."
"Also fair," he says, without moving.
You look away, at the wall, at your hands. Your eyes are still wet and the anger has gone somewhere quieter now, turned into something heavier that sits low in your chest and doesn't have a clean name.
"I said I would walk out tonight," you say. "I meant it."
"I know you did."
"I still might."
"I know that too." He reaches out and covers your hands with one of his, warm and unhurried. "But you won't."
You look down at his hand over yours. "You're very sure of yourself."
"I'm sure of you," he says simply.
You sit there with his hand over yours in the quiet of the solar and feel the last of the fight go out of you, not cleanly, not all at once, but slowly, like something that had been held at full stretch finally being allowed to rest.
"The fortnight," you say again, more quietly.
"The fortnight," he says. "I promise."
You lean forward and press your face into his shoulder and his arms come around you and he holds you there, and you cry properly, the slow exhausted kind, and he says nothing and lets you.
You believe him. You always believe him eventually, even when you'd rather not, even when it would feel better not to. He has never once said something he didn't mean.
Your father had given you everything you ever asked for and you had loved him for every bit of it. But sitting there with Baelor's arms around you, you think there's something to be said for a man who knew when not to.
How the DoL LI act when you go missing longer than usual.
Reader characteristics not mentioned.
TW - Usual DoL Shenanigans
Alex The Farmer
Man, they want to come and find you but they're so unsure of themself. Maybe they're just over reacting and you'd be pissed off at them if they came looking for you. Maybe you are in danger but if they try to help it'll just make things worse. Besides, they've got the farm to look after. You'll come back on your own….. eventually… right..?
Avery The Bussiness Person
Avery has as many connections as they have cash in the bank. I feel like they would be able to track you down fairly easily and even bail you out if need be but whether or not you deserve it in their eyes is a different matter. If you're not that important to them then you're not going to get a second glance from them. If you have anything in the way of a criminal record then maybe they decide that you need to suffer a bit before being saved.
Eden The Hunter
Eden has pulled you out of sticky situations before, whether that's Remy's farm, the asylum or even one of their own traps. Point is, wherever you are, Eden. will. find. you. Whether you want them to or not
Kylar The Loner
Oh god every second you spend away from this poor soul they are in hysterics trying to devise ways of getting you alone with them again. If you've properly disappeared to the point that they can't find you by regular means (stalking) then it's time for they'll be on a warpath to get you back. Kylar will probably get their parents involved if the situation is dire enough
Robin The Orphan
It's not uncommon for you to disappear for a few days, or hell even a few weeks sometimes. Robin trusts you and knows you can take care of yourself but this time is different. They can't tell why but it just is. Of course the wanted posters go up, right next to all the others but they know that's not going to cut it. They honestly don't know what to do or where to start looking but after all the effort you've put in for them, they can't just let your disappearance slide without trying to find you themselves. Even if that means resurfacing some old wounds
Sydney The Faithful
Thoughts and prayers :)
Whitney The Bully
If you think you can rely on Whitney for anything I hate to break it to you but you're gonna learn your lesson the hard way. Whitney cares for you on some level, sure, but they care about their reputation a whole hell of a lot more. They're certainly not going to talk to anybody about how their favourite slut hasn't been seen in a while, they won't even mention your name. They maybe might linger by a few dark alleys a little bit longer than most hoping to catch a glimpse of you but don't expect much else than that
can’t stop thinking abt this so needed to share. imagine taking care of whitney when he’s sick. he’s trying so hard to act tough and doesn’t want his slut to him so weak. but he’s grateful for your help secretly. and he gets a high enough fever that he’s all silly and is all soft and snuggly hnnngh
Sick Whitney
Note: Loved this so much I had to write a short fic about it. (pc definitely gets sick afterward and he takes care of them)
I woke up and was greeted by the sound of rain hitting my window. I quickly got dressed and made my way to the park to see Whitney.
I couldn't spot his umbrella anywhere and spent a good few hours checking all the spots where he normally hangs out to no avail. I huffed, where the hell is he? As a last ditch effort I went to his house.
I went around the side and to his window, not wanting to have to deal with either of his parents. The curtains were shut so I couldn't see in, I knocked anyway. The curtains were pushed aside, revealing a grumpy Whitney. He was still in his pajamas and looked miserable, “What do you want slut?” His voice was muffled through the window.
I rolled my eyes and gestured for him to open the window. He grumbled but opened it and stepped back. He laid back down on his bed as I crawled in, shutting it behind me. I noticed tissues were strewn about and some cough medicine on his bedside table. I looked at him curiously, “You ok…?”
He had his eyes closed and was rubbing his forehead, “Fuck off.”
I sighed and closed the curtains, bathing the room in darkness. I sat beside him and moved his hand and felt his forehead, he grumbled but seemed too weak to stop me. “Jesus Whit, you have a fever.”
“I’m fine, I don’t need your fucking help.” He grumbled, shoving my hand away. He tossed on his side with his back to me, “Leave.”
I sighed and stood up, “I’m going to get you some medicine that will actually help you.” I didn’t wait for an answer and left through the window.
When I got back Whitney looked even more pitiful, if that was possible. “Ok,” I said and sat my bag down and got out the medicine, “this should help.”
“I don’t need your fucking help.” He groaned, sounding worse than he did earlier.
“Don’t care.” I said while opening the DayQuil. I pored out the dosage into the little measuring cup. “Come on.” He huffed but sat up, looking miserable. “It’s not going to taste good but you have to take it.” He looked at the little cup with anger, like it offended him in some way.
He forcefully grabbed the cup and drank it with a grimace, “You can leave now.” He said, still as stubborn as ever, a sign that he wasn’t horribly ill.
“Nope.” I said and started to clean up the mess he had made while he laid back down. When I was done I noticed he had fallen asleep, I smiled and tucked him in. I sat down, leaning against the bed, and took out a book to pass the time.
It was dark out when groaning interrupted my reading, I sat up on my knees to see Whitney tossing and turning. I put down my book and stood up fully. I grabbed his shoulder, holding him still and feeling his forehead again. I guess it’s time for more medicine.
I poured out another dose and sat him up, he was half asleep and didn’t fight me. He drank it with no qualms and I laid him back down. He weakly grabbed my arm when I started to stand up, “stay…” He mumbled sleepily.
I sat the cup on the bedside table and took off my shoes and pants, then joined him in bed where he curled into me. I smiled and petted his head, “S’okay.”
He nuzzled into my chest, “I’m sorry…” He mumbled and held onto me tighter.
“About what?” I asked confused, I don’t think he really knows what he’s saying. I didn’t get an answer as he breathing evened out and he fell back asleep. I sighed to myself and continued to pet his head.
At some point I must have fallen asleep because I woke to the sound of a door opening and closing. I sat up and saw Whitney leaving his bathroom. He didn’t look at me as he flopped down on the bed and cuddled up next to me again, “You ok?” I asked while holding him.
He grunted and nuzzled back into my chest, “Tired…”
I chuckled and started to pet his head again, “This is what happens when you stay out in the rain.”
He softly hit me, “Shut up slut.” He tried to sound intimidating but he just ended up sounding sickly.
“Don’t worry I won’t tell anyone.” I assured him. He nodded into my chest and started to mumble about whatever was on his mind. It wasn’t all coherent but I could make out some of what he was saying. I didn’t get him like this often, soft and vulnerable. I smiled, knowing only I got to.
thoughts on being engaged to duke!sunday, the head of the oak family, an incredibly influential figurehead within society, the close subordinate of emperor gopher wood who brought him and his sister in and raised him like his own, and the villain who faces a tragic ending in a novel you recently finished — the very same one you just so happen to find yourself transmigrated into. he is as cunning as he is blinded, a trait which brought ruin to many in the empire, and one which ultimately brought ruin to himself at the hands of the protagonists.
as luck would have it, you became a barely mentioned side character from a marquis family, whose role was to be the villain's wife stuck in a one-sided love who, too, would get caught up in the tragedy alongside him. however, now that it's you who is stuck in this position, you're determined to try any means necessary to deter him from going down that path, all in an effort to escape your predestined doomed fate!
of course, you didn't expect it to be easy. the day of your arrival in this world was already the night before your wedding, so you had little time to prepare yourself for the nonchalance of your supposed family, how they viewed you as but a means — a tool — to boost their influence and prosperity, the dismissive mannerisms of the household servants, and the absolute beauty of a man you will be married to.
(seriously. the novel descriptions did not do him justice. he was like... like... like he was handcrafted by god himself! and not to mention his sister, robin, was the very epitome of an angel! perhaps you're destined to perish by the god-tier visuals instead...)
to say the least, the wedding ceremony went by quickly. safe to say you didn't spend the night; he was cordial and gentlemanly upon letting you know that he won't do anything until you're ready, that you can take this relationship slow, but somehow you ended up feeling a tad insulted. like, who leaves their newly wedded alone in a big cold bed as they walk out on their own? a sick bastard that's who!
well, whatever. it's not like you need nor want to consummate with him! besides, you have bigger things to worry about — things such as your impending death. and, of course, the only way to stop sunday that you can imagine working is by chipping away at his resolve bit by bit, and opening his eyes to reality.
he is a tragic character, one who cares more about the well-being of penacony and its people than anyone else, but was manipulated into getting his hands dirty in the emperor's stead. you knew this. you sobbed over his story, cursed out the protagonists, and even fought internet randos on novel forums about sunday's motivation and how,
no, he is not just a stupid villain. he is a complex character with flaws and humanity and was cruelly taken advantage of by someone he considered family. he was deceived through the suffering the emperor wanted him to see to make him easily manipulated, creating a rift between him and robin to have that prominent separation. you know what? maybe you're just a !%#@ who can't even #@?"% read properly!
and yet you still find yourself at a loss when faced with the walls he has in place. your initial efforts went as well as it possibly could have; you trying to earnestly help him, while he "kindly" dismisses your offers! well, "kindly" being more condescending since you could read between the lines of his mannerisms and amiable demeanour, but that's fine! you expected this! that just means you have to double down on your sincerity, get through to his heart (somehow), and help him realise humanity isn't as weak as he's led to believe!
you have three years until the novel's plot officially starts, and another year after that until your demise. that's plenty of time to get him to warm up to you!
it was easier said than done, but after your valiant effort and abundance of time put into this relationship, which admittedly you could do with some of that lost time back, you could give yourself a pat on the back with the progress you made! while you definitely could have done without a lot of the headaches, it's safe to say sunday has significantly warmed up to you in comparison to your wedding day. he now willingly eats all his meals with you with some real conversation, takes garden strolls with you in the early evenings, invites you out for dinner at a restaurant at least four times a week, hell he's even joked and laughed with you more frequently! but most importantly, he has begun asking for your opinion before finalising any decisions he is required to make. and he actually listens and considers your side! now, that certainly is the best outcome you could hope for after all this time, and it most definitely will help in your endeavour to save you both from the protagonists!
however, you've noticed he's been more... affectionate? well, at the very least he now willingly holds your hand when in private (not just in moments when you're in the public eye and he has to make sure the family's reputation is spotless), sometimes he will hug you out of the blue ("i just need to... recharge. you have a way of calming me down. i hope you don't mind." ...how could you say no to his supreme god-tier face card? that's just a losing battle you won't even bother fighting against.), oftentimes he opts to just gaze wordlessly at you (robin had mentioned over one of your tea times how it almost appears as though there is no one but you in the world when sunday gazes at you with, in her words, "the eyes of a man so deeply in love!" ...whatever that's supposed to mean...), but a more recent development has been his sudden interest in kissing you; well, more specifically giving you a kiss to the back of your hand or on your forehead — certainly not anywhere near the lips! (besides, he's probably just gotten comfortable with you, enough where he can freely act without judgement. nothing more, nothing less.)
well, either way, development is development! soon enough, the time for the main plot to start has arrived. it of course follows what you remember, from the organised balls to the protagonists meeting to the political aspects of it all. the only difference is sunday's less active involvement in all the schemes and the emperor's ploy. rather, he seems more focused on you and the future of your marriage and even displayed a sudden interest in your practically non-existent relationship with one of the foreign diplomats, aventurine— wait...
"[name]," he calls your name out so sweetly you nearly disregarded it as someone else he was talking to. well, perhaps you would have done had he not suddenly appeared before you, a tight-lipped smile tugging the corners of his lips as he steadily approaches you.
oh. he doesn't seem very happy, if his tense figure is anything to go by. you wonder if one of the nobles grated his nerves a little too much this time?
sunday comes to a halt a step away from you. "i don't like that... gambler being so close to you. it... it brings me a rather unpleasant feeling." there's a slight, trembling pause. not a moment later does he close the gap between you, one knee on the ground as he matches your seated height on the fountain rim, your hands gently enclosed in both of his.
you idly wonder if this is what robin meant by the so-called "eyes of a man so deeply in love" she constantly gushed about, for the way in which he gazes up at you is enough to render you breathless.
"tell me, [name]," he begins once more. there is an underlying desperation woven within his tone, one which has your head spinning and heart thumping wildly as his trembling gaze holds you in place. "tell me, what am i to do with this fervent love and overwhelming adoration i hold for you?"
oh.
...oh.
perhaps your impending doom should be the least of your concerns when you now find yourself in the arms of a clingy husband...
(though, it's safe to say you did, in fact, manage to prevent him from succumbing to his tragic fate! you just gained a loving, yet slight slightly emotionally challenged husband along the way.
well, you can help him work through it; you have the rest of your lives now to figure it out, after all.)
men want a girl who watches anime, but only if they were the one to introduce it to her. she cannot bring her own knowledge into the relationship, in case she embarrasses the man by simply knowing more or caring more than him. this applies to other niche and nerdy habits as well, including video games, Star Wars, and Dungeons and Dragons.
a woman must like metal music, but only if he dad introduced her to dad rock, and another man hardens her tastes further.
a woman must love sex and crave it always, as not to be a prude, but only if it revolves around her (male) lover. if it is on her own, its a threat to his comfort.
a woman must be cool, but only as an extension of a man's superior coolness.
note: im so lazy to write these days so hopefully this kickstarts motivation or else imma have to QUIT BSJHSKKSD
── SAWAMURA DAICHI
The brunette male sighed quietly as he entered the quiet, dark home that belonged to him. It was nearly three AM and he was beyond exhausted. Exhausted didn’t even begin to cover how tired he was after a long day at work. All he wanted right now was to curl up in bed with his girlfriend and fall asleep with her warmth on his skin.
His footsteps were rather noisy as he plodded down the hallway, pushing open the door of their bedroom, feasting his eyes on the [h/c] female who laid up in their bed with the sheets up to her chin. The way she laid gave away that she had been sleeping for a while, which is why he made sure to keep quiet as he snuck over to her bedside to gently touch her cheek with the back of his finger.
He slightly jumped when she turned her head in his direction, nuzzling her cheek into his hand. The small action made his heart skip a beat at how cute his girlfriend really was. Bringing the pad of his thumb to her lips, he gently traced her mouth, kickstarting the part of her brain that recognized his touch.
A soft kiss was placed on his thumb, and another on his palm. She kissed him ever so softly, almost as if she knew it was him although she was fast asleep.
Daichi swallowed thickly, looking down at his hand that trembler with pure happiness. My girlfriend is seriously cute!
── OIKAWA TOORU
“Go to sleep early for once.” Those were the words his girlfriend had muttered almost three hours ago when she saw her boyfriend pick up a lengthy novel that he probably shouldn’t have started at midnight. He truly had meant to stop when 1AM came around but things had gotten so interesting that he refused to put it down until he finished it all. Now that he did, he was no longer tired and wanted to bother his sleeping girlfriend for a bit.
“[y/n], you look so pretty.” He murmured as he wrapped his arms around her body, pulling her into his chest. A soft hum escaped her lips as she buried her face in his neck, finding his skin to be very warm as opposed to the cold temperature that surrounded the room. He moved away for a moment to get a good look at her face. “Very pretty.”
They were very much dating, yet he felt a sense of hesitancy when he neared her face, wanting to place a gentle kiss on those luscious pink lips that called out to him. She wasn’t awake to say okay, so he didn’t know if it was allowed or if it was an unspoken rule to still ask first, even after six months of dating.
Peeling open her eyes very slightly, she could see a vague picture of her handsome boyfriend. Part of her thought it was her imagination but the other told her that it was real. Which is why she didn’t hesitate to tenderly plant a soft kiss on his lips before snuggling up into his chest with her legs entangled with his.
He remained frozen in his spot until she stopped moving and was fast asleep again. As soon as he knew the coast was clear, his heart began to soar. The uppermost part of his cheeks flared bright red as he screwed his eyes closed whilst trembling like a leaf in the wind.
[y/n], you’re too cute!
── KITA SHINSUKE
Kita placed a hand over his mouth as he yawned, welcoming the new day. His eyes were slightly puffy from just waking up merely moments ago but he seemed unaware of it since his attention was on something completely different. The [h/c] haired female laid on his chest with her cheek flush against his pec. Her arms rested awkwardly beside his body but she didn’t seem to be in an discomfort from it.
Lifting a hand, he gingerly touched her head, checking to see if she’d awoken upon being touched. Seeing as she didn’t even budge, he rested his entire hand against her head and gently stroked her hair. The action itself was entirely pleasing to both [y/n] and Kita who found himself enjoying how she’d softly hum in her sleep.
“Wake up, [y/n]. We have to go to work soon...” He trailed off towards the end when the female stirred, lifting her head off of his chest for a mere moment. She simply turned her head and rested her other cheeks against his pec, snuggling back into his body.
Turning her head ever so slightly, she kissed his chest sweetly before slipping back off into sleep land while Kita covered his mouth when a strange emotion filled his chest.
He has no idea what just happened nor what he was feeling right now but he did know that his girlfriend sure as hell was cute.
note : uh... yes goodnight <3
A heart has no shape, no limits. @akaash1n - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
