I wanted to ask what you thought of this newly developed Fanfiction.lol if you’ve heard of it? For me it kind of looks like a ao3 knockoff with double standards (like allowing “dark themed fics” but not allowing things such as underage sex?).
It also says that ai isn’t allowed (and I haven’t fully read the details about the website yet) but it seems like the situation you often talk about how real authors could get damaged by witch hunt situations.
I’ve never heard of it before. that said, “we’re allowing this thing but we’re not allowing that thing” is pro-censorship — even though underage stuff makes me uncomfortable and it’s what I avoid if I ever come across it, when I say “no censorship” I mean no censorship — so that alone tells me the platform is not something I’m interested in (why would I be interested in a pro-censorship version of ao3 when I have ao3?)
also I can already see genuine writers getting wrongly accused of using ai because they write about ships or topics that are disliked by others.
I figure pro-censorship folks and bullies who like to harass others over fiction would enjoy it though. so I guess it’s a good thing if it means these people finally leave ao3 alone.
the dev is hosting it literally just for fun. Also works aren’t allowed if they’re illegal in Canada, which has different laws on fiction than the USA. Calling it censorship to just abide by a different country’s law is kinda very fucked up ngl
ngl I specifically said I've never heard of it before so how tf am I supposed to know which country it's from lmao. what I originally knew was what the anon told me. and since I say I wasn't interested, I wasn't going to google it in the first place
"kinda very fucked up" personally I think this is very vanilla but to each their own
since the sendai colony was animated ive seen an uprising in yuta fics or even just yuta being included in headcanons and stuff. i included a visual representation of this phenomenon. thank you yuta nation!
ಇ. slightly suggestive parts (?) mention of period sex
gojo satoru
⟢ gojo’s approach to caregiving is a mix of chaos, unlimited resources and limitless affection. since he can perceive things on an atomic level with his six eyes, he is hyper aware of your physical and mental state
⟢ he absolutely skips meetings. if the elders call, he 'accidentally' drops his phone into a pond and calls yaga to say 'he can't teach a bunch of kids because he has boyfriendly duties to fullfil for the next few days'
⟢ if you’re feeling down because of hormonal shifts he becomes a total clown. he becomes purposefully annoying in a way that is actually therapeutic. it's his way of making sure the dark side of your hormonal effects don't swallow you completely
⟢ he puts on your favorite romcoms and provides a constant stream of hilarious, biting commentary just to keep you laughing, he does bad 'magic tricks' with his techniques and he tells you the most scandalous secrets about the jujutsu world just to keep your mind occupied, making fun of the elders until you’re giggling
⟢ gojo is impossible to offend because of his massive ego and power so your anger doesn't scare him—it just makes him feel protective
⟢ if you snap he doesn't argue back. if you yell at him he just stops talking, doesn't interrupt you or try to defend himself, he just lets you get it all out
⟢ depending on what comes next he either uses a bit of humor to show you that you haven't pushed him away with your anger attack
"wow! my infinity didn't see that one coming! you've got a deadlier ct than sukuna when you’re on your period."
"my, my! someone’s spicy today. i like it but let’s get you some cookies before you decide to execute me."
⟢ or if your nervous system is really on fire he gets behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder. he uses a tiny bit of his ct to literally pull the heat out of your skin if you’re flushed from anger. he holds you firmly, in a way that says 'you can scream all you want, i'm not moving'
⟢ if he sees that you’re actually on the verge of tears after yelling he just holds up his hands in a surrender gesture and softly say something like
"okay, okay. i'm the worst. i'm a big, annoying idiot. what do you need me to do? leave the room? stay? throw this tv out the window for you?"
⟢ if you yelled because he was being too much (too loud, too clingy, too annoying) he actually listens. he transitions into 'silent satoru' mode. he sits on the corner and just stays there like a loyal guard dog. he doesn't make a sound but he brings you food and make sures you're comfortable, showing you he heard your need for space without actually leaving you alone
⟢ he doesn't make you feel guilty later. if you try to apologize an hour later when the mood wave passes, he just waves his hand dismissively
"apologize for what? being a human? don't be boring babe. besides, you looked kinda hot when you were yelling at me. very authoritative."
⟢ if you cry, he drops all the act immediately. he second he hears your breath hitch or sees a tear he stops whatever he is doing. because of his six eyes he sees the cortisol spike, the physical exhaustion take over and the way your body is curling in on itself from the cramps without having to ask you what happened
⟢ he reels you into his space. if you’re sitting on the couch, he slidea behind you and pulls you back against his chest, or he liftsy you entirely into his lap like you weigh nothing. he uses his height to wrap around you, tucking your head firmly under his chin. he creates a pocket of space where it’s just the two of you
⟢ if you break down and start crying he doesn't tell you to calm down, he actually encourages it. he treats your crying as a necessary biological release. he rubs slow, heavy circles into your back, letting you sob until the hormonal wave finally breaks
"there we go. get it all out. my shirt's dry clean only anyway. let's see if we can ruin it."
⟢ since he doesn't cook (he’d probably blow up the kitchen trying to make toast) he uses his wealth and speed to feed you
⟢ he brings you high end wagyu (the best iron source) and organic berries that cost more than a car and ridiculously delicious mochis for your sugar crawings
⟢ if the cramps get bad he uses his rct to generate a perfect, steady heat and transmits it to your body by resting his hand or head on your lower stomach or abdomen
⟢ with the six eyes, he sees your blood flow changing so if a hot flash is coming, he activates a tiny blue to pull the heat away from your skin, acting like a human air conditioner
⟢ if you wake up in the night cramping he is awake the moment he senses your discomfort. he scoops you up entirely and pulls you into his lap like you weigh nothing
⟢ he starts talking in a low, soothing hum, telling you ridiculous stories about his day or gossiping about the school. he rubs your stomach in slow circles with his large hands, using his cursed energy to create a sensation of warmth. he peppers your face with tiny kisses until you crack a smile, even if you’re annoyed
"oh honey, no. is it the internal cursed spirit again?"
"rest easy babe i'll protect you even from your period."
"do you know what yuji did today at school? you couldn't IMAGINE-"
⟢ if your cramps reach a point where they leave you unable to breathe or hyperventilating he doesn't panic because he can't afford to, he becomes the air you're missing. he is used to being the strongest person in any room but seeing you unable to catch your breath triggers a rare, dead serious side of him
⟢ he immediately clears the room. if there’s noise, he shuts it off. if the lights are too bright, he flicks them down. he creates a literal void of sensory input so your nervous system can stop firing
⟢ he pulls you into his chest so you can feel the rise and fall of his ribs against your spine, he makes you feel or listen to his own breathing and heartbeat. deep, slow, and steady. he uses his six eyes to monitor your vitals, knowing exactly when your heart rate starts to dip back to safety
"listen to me breathe, okay? just me. nothing else. you're okay, i'm right here."
"feel the way my heart beats. see? it's beating for you, yeah. you're safe. i got you."
⟢ if you’re overheating from the pain induced panic, he uses a flick of his cursed energy to drop the temperature of the air around you, providing a cooling sensation to help shock you out of the hyperventilation
⟢ once you can breathe again, the cocky attitude stays gone for a while. he tucks your head under his chin and whispers
"that was a scary one for the both of us, princess. nothing is getting to you now. just keep breathing for me."
"there we go... see? you're back. i'd never let you go anywhere."
⟢ since he is a massive cuddler, gojo never takes his hands off you. he wraps his long limbs around you like a literal human cocoon. he likes it when you hide your face in his neck
⟢ even if he is playing a game or he is on his laptop, he has his leg hooked over yours or a hand resting on your ankle. he needs to be touching you to monitor your status—making sure you're still okay
⟢ if you’re feeling insecure about skin flare ups or bloating, he looks you dead in the eye with those mesmerizing six eyes and admire you
"you know i can see everything, right? i see the way your energy moves, the way your heart beats... and let me tell you baby, you’re glowing. if i can’t find a single flaw with these eyes, then they don't exist."
⟢ since pcos fatigue can feel like your brain is completely shut down, he handles all the 'thinking' for the day—ordering food, handling any calls, and filtering out any noise. he takes your phone and puts it on the highest shelf
"you are on pause. if it's really important, they can call me."
⟢ when the pcos depression hits he doesn't spread toxic positivity. if you can’t get out of bed, he gets into the bed, sliding under the covers with you and just stays there until you wanna get up
⟢he puts up a curtain around the house. no noise from the street, no sunlight if you don't wanna see it and absolutely no intruders. he creates a safe, silent bubble where the world cannot reach you
⟢ if you can't function by any means your boyfriend strongestoru scoops you up and carries you around the house, washes you with expensive soaps and shampoos, dresses you up in his oversize hoodies
⟢ he wraps his entire 6'3" frame around you. he lets you feel or listen to his heartbeat. it's his way of grounding you when your mind is drifting into dark places
⟢ if you spiral and start overthinking he gives you firm but loving reassurances
"listen. i'm the strongest. nothing is a burden to me. not a skyscraper, not a special grade curse and definitely not the woman i love. you aren't difficult to take care of, you're what makes my days better. so stop trying to do my thinking for me, okay?"
⟢ when it comes to sex during period, gojo is the definition of zero taboo. he can't be grossed out under any circumstances, he is the type of guy that defends the idea that 'the sword of a warrior must have blood on it.' in fact, he sees period sex as a tactical advantage for managing your pain
"princess, i've been covered in the blood of special grade curses for ten years. you think a little bit of yours is going to scare me? if anything, it’s just proof your body is doing its thing. now, come here."
⟢ since he can see through you with his six eyes he can tell instantly when your libido rises. he slides his hand under your shirt or the waistband of your shorts. if you try to pull away hinting at the bleeding he just pulls you closer
"i know. and i can feel how much you want this, too. don't try to hide it from me."
⟢ he treats it like a mission to help you relax. he focuses entirely on your pleasure knowing that the uterine contractions during an orgasm can actually help lessen the cramps
⟢ he prefers positions that give the maximum intimacy and don't put pressure on your abdomen
⟢ he doesn't bother to put a towel on the sheets he just buys new ones
⟢ he is gentleman enough to make offer to 'put a stop on this period thing for 9 months'
⟢ gojo treats aftercare like a grand production. he doesn't want you to move a single muscle once you've finished
⟢ he carries you into a pre drawn bath and washes you like you're the most fragile thing in the world while joking about stuff. once you're back in bed he sprawls out all over you and stays like that for a while
okkotsu yuta
⟢ the most empathetic and emotionally attuned caretaker you could evet ask for. since he is hyper sensitive to the weight of emotions because of his past and immense cursed energy he doesn't just see your pain, he feels the shift in the air when you’re hurting. so for a person with pcos yuta is not just a boyfriend—he’s a protective sanctuary
⟢ he absolutely stays home. he is a naturally anxious person when it comes to the safety and well being of those he loves so the idea of you being home alone and in pain while he is on a mission is a nightmare for him. he checks in with gojo or maki to say that he is staying with you
⟢ he keeps the house dim, puts on soft music and makes sure it lacks loud noises that can trigger a headache
⟢ he prefers playing cozy games together while his arm is wrapped around your shoulders or watching funny and 'so bad that it's good' movies of early 2000s and 90's since they're more comforting than high brow cinema in times like this. he makes soft jokes about the plot holes or the fashion choices
⟢ if you snap or yell at him his approach is total de-escalation
⟢ he gets a little closer to you, not away from you. he doesn't flinch or look offended. his shoulders usually drop, and his expression softens into something weary but infinitely patient. he lets you finish. he understands that pcos driven irritability feels like a physical pressure that needs to come out. he doesn't interrupt you
⟢ once you’re tired of the anger attack, he doesn't say something like 'are you done?' instead he reminds you that your attitude hasn't drawn him away and he is there for you
"i'm sorry you’re dealing with all this, love. i'm not going anywhere. if yelling at me helps even a little bit, then keep going. i can take it."
⟢ since he knows that anger can turn into guilt immediately after, he acts like nothing happened. if you try to apologize he smiles and offers you a gentle touch
"i know it's a hard thing to manage. you're allowed to let it all out. i'm not mad at you, i promise."
⟢ if you cry, this is where yuta's protective instincts go into overdrive. seeing you cry because you're exhausted, in painnor just feeling everything all at once makes him move with a very specific, quiet urgency
⟢ since he is a very physical comforter he pulls you into his lap or wraps himself around you from behind and lets you feel his heartbeat. he wants you to feel the physical weight of his presence as an anchor
⟢ he presses his forehead against yours or bury his face in your neck to ground you. he matches your breathing to his by slowly deepening his breaths until your heart rate starts to follow his lead
⟢ he cuddles you or entwines his fingers with yours and keep them locked there for hours while you watch a movie as a distraction
⟢ he is careful about what he feeds you, he makes iron rich or anti inflammatory food and teas that can possibly help ease the cramps or your blood to flow more smoothly. if you crave something specific it magically appears in his hands
⟢ when the cramps get bad he uses rct to target the inflammation in your pelvic floor and the muscle tension in your lower back and abdomen while cuddling you and talking about his week to distract you
⟢ he is very observant of your body temperature. if you’re having a cold flash, he turns into a human blanket and wraps himself around you. if you're too hot, he opens a window or the ac and
⟢ if you wake up in the middle of the night cramping he instantly wakes up, looking a bit worried with his eyes soft and full of concern. he pulls you into a tight embrace, murmuring apologies as if he is sorry he can't take your pain away for you
"i'm so sorry, love. i know it hurts so much. if could take this pain for you i'd do it in a heartbeat. i hate that i can't fix this for you... but i'm not leaving your side for a second until it stops. i've always got you."
⟢ if the cramps get you unable to breathe or hyperventilate his reaction is visceral and empathetic. you can actually see pain in his eyes because if you're hurting he is hurting too
⟢ he gets right in your face. not to crowd you but to catch your eyes. he takes your hands and press them flat against his own chest, making you feel his heartbeat
"look at me. look right into my eyes. you're okay. can you feel my heartbeat? it's gonna pass."
"you're safe, i'm right here, love. nothing can get to you while i'm here, okay?"
⟢ once that sharp gasping phase starts to soften into shaky, regular breaths yuta's posture relaxes, but his focus remains entirely on you. he doesn't pull away and leans his forehead against yours, his own breath hitching slightly in relief
"i'm so sorry it hurts this much. i'm right here. i'm holding onto you. i won’t let go until you’re completely steady."
⟢ while you're struggling for air, he uses his thumbs to rub the pressure points in your palms or the back of your neck. it's his grounding technique to force your brain to process a different sensation than the abdominal pain
⟢ he puts his hand on your abdomen and whispers assurances while playing with your until you fall back asleep. he doesn't sleep for a while just in case until he is sure that you're comfortable and watches over you to make sure the pain isn't returning, he silently holds you
⟢ when the fatigue and brain fog hits he steps in to handle the thinking so your brain can rest
⟢ since yuta knows that brain fog makes simple decisions feel like impossible problems he switches to offering two options, narrowing everything down to simple choices
⟢ he remembers things you're likely to forget and reminds or does them without you realizing. he also handles the calls and texts coming your way if you don't have the energy to do it
⟢ he touches you all the time even in subtle ways to reassure you that he is there.
⟢ absolutely cuddles you. he is the ultimate big spoon, he tucks his knees behind yours and wrap his arms around your stomach while you're cuddling
⟢ he kisses your forehead, your face, your temples and the palms of your hands. he makes you feel like you are something fragile and precious that he’s been tasked to guard
⟢ when the pcos depression breaks you down yuta becomes a human shield. he blocks everything that makes you uncomfortable or might make you spiral even more, he puts himself between you and the rest of the world
⟢ he doesn't try to fix your depression with logic. he lets you be and he silently accompanies your mood
⟢ if you stop functioning entirely, he functions for you. he picks you up and carries you wherever you wanna go in the house, he decides the menu, washes you and brushes your hair
⟢ if you enter an overthinking spiral he doesn't just listen to you, he absorbes your anxieties. since he is an empath by nature he senses the negative energy of your thoughts before you even speak
⟢ when he notices the distant, distracted look in your eyes his first instinct is to ground you. he gets closer to you. he gently takes your hands and brings them to his lips or pulls you into his lap, burying his face in the crook of your neck and just breathes with you
"i know what your brain is telling you right now. it's telling you that i'm tired of this, or that you're too much to handle. but it's lying. you aren't a task to be completed, you're the person i love. being with you is all i want, no matter how tired you are."
"we'll figure everything out together. you don't have to worry about it all by yourself, love."
"i've been through the dark parts of my own mind too. i know how it is to be alone there and i'm never going to let you be alone in yours. if you’re lost in the fog, i'll stay in the fog with you until it lifts. i'm not going anywhere. i love you, all of you. especially the parts you’re afraid of and don't like."
⟢ if you feel unattractive he looks at you with such genuine, watery eyed devotion that you can't help but to believe in the things he says
"i see how hard your body is working for you. it's beautiful to me. you're the strongest and the most beautiful person i know."
⟢ he is in favor of period sex if you wanna, the blood doesn't phase him at all. if anything he seea it as a way to manage your pain and show you how attracted he is to every possible version of you
⟢ yuta never assumes. even if you usually have a high drive during your period, he asks every single time with zero pressure while cuddling
"i know you’re hurting, but imalso know you said this helps sometimes... do you want to try? we can stop the second you feel a cramp."
⟢ he is focused completely on the sensation it creates on you. he watches you carefuly and stops at the very moment he feels like you're uncomfortable
⟢ prefers positions that don't put pressure on your abdomen so it doesn't worsen your pain
⟢ his aftercare is deeply emotional and extremely tender. he doesn't let go of you even if he is looking for a towel to clean you up. he stays tucked into you and plays with your hair while whispering soft thing into your ear
fushiguro megumi
⟢ megumi doesn’t see your period like a problem to be solved or a burden to endure, he treats it like a shift in weather
⟢ he stays home if he doesn't have a very urgent mission or if there's someone else available for it instead of him
⟢ he prefers low energy bonding like reading together, rewatching comfort movies and sometimes he summons one of his shikigamis (the demon dogs mostly) just to distract you or give you something soft to pet
⟢ if you snap or yell at him he adapts the stoic wall strategy. his first instinct is to freeze and observe. he doesn't interrupt you or shout over you. he just stands there, hands likely in his pockets or crossed over his chest. he listens and tries to figure out the source of the outburst
⟢ once you finish your vent he usually responds with a very quiet, level headed question but not meant to be condescending, he genuinely wants to know if there is a logic based problem he needs to fix
"are you done?"
"do you really mean that or are you just hurting?"
⟢ if he feels the air is too tense he silently walks out of the room. not like he is storming off, hee is just giving you the room to breathe so you don't say something you'll regret. he goes to the kitchen to prepare food or check on the dogs, returning ten minutes later as if nothing happened
⟢ he isn't the type to demand an apology. he reappears with your favorite snack or a drink you like in his hand. it's his way of saying 'i'm not mad at you and i know you're struggling.'
⟢ if you start to cry, megumi's reaction is a mix of slight panic and immediate, protective focus. he is not the most emotional person so he doesn't give you a long, poetic speech but he is entirely devoted to making the crying stop
⟢ when your eyes get watery, for a split second he freezes. he has a deep seated instinct to protect the people he cares about and sadness is an enemy he can’t fight with a cursed technique. he blinks, his expression softening from his usual stoicism into something more vulnerable and concerned
⟢ he moves into your space quietly. if you’re sitting he sits next to you, shoulder to shouldernso you don't feel observed while you're vulnerable. he offers a grounding touch. he rests a hand on your waist or offers you his shoulder to lean on. if you reach for him, he immediately pulls you into his lap or chest, holding you with a surprising amount of strength
⟢ since megumi is a man of few words, he is an excellent listener. he doesn't tell you to 'chill' or 'it's not that bad' he stays silent and lets you sob it out. he understands that sometimes the pain (physical or emotional) just needs to vent
⟢ if he feels like he is not enough to comfort you, he might cheat and bring in backup. sometimes a divine dog suddenly appears and rests its heavy head in your lap. megumi knows their fur is soft and their presence is soothing in a way humans can't always replicate
⟢ he is health conscious so he makes iron rich meals and anti inflammotary teas but if you crave something specific he immediately goes out and gets it
⟢ when the cramps get bad sometimes he summons a divine dog to lay across your mid section or he hugs you and rests his hand (which is surprisingly warm) on your abdomen if you want him instead. he also tracks the timing of the painkillers and appears with a glass of water and a pill when he senses your discomfort
⟢ megumi is a light sleeper so the moment you shift or let out a small gasp of pain, he is awake. he doesn't bolt upright, he just opens his eyes and assesses the situation instantly
⟢ he reaches out a hand to find yours under the covers, checking your grip strength to understand how much pain you’re in. he doesn't ask if you're okay because the answer is obvious. instead he whispers to wait there and he appears again with a glass of water and a painkiller in three minutes
⟢ he plays with your hair or trace absentminded patterns on your skin while letting you listen to his heartbeat until you drift back off. he doesn't sleep until he's sure you're sleeping comfortably
⟢ if it gets to the point where you can't find a position that allows you to breathe or start hyperventilating, megumi doesn't panic. his voice remains a low, grounding hum, the kind of tone that cuts through your internal panic
⟢ he lays behind you or pulls you into his chest, still leaving room for you so you don't feel trapped. he holds you gently but firmly, making you feel or listen to his heartbeat either by placing your hand on his chest or leaning your head against it
"hey, hey... look at me. focus on me. we're gonna breathe, okay? slowly. i'll count to four."
"focus on my voice. just my voice. i'm right here, i'm not letting you go. just keep focusing on my voice."
⟢ the second he feels your heart rate start to dip and your lungs relax, the tactical edge in his voice softens into something much more intimate. he leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes in a brief, silent moment of relief and stays still for a while
"there... that’s it. you're okay now. just stay still, don't move yet."
"i wish i could take that struggle off your hands. it's frustrating... seeing you have to fight that hard just to breathe. you're incredibly strong, you know that?"
⟢ or he presses a lingering kiss to the back of your neck and keeps his hand resting firmly on your hip or stomach until he feels your muscles finally relax and your breathing evens out
⟢ when the pcos fatigue hits megumi steps in as your external processor. he doesn't find it annoying, he finds it a logical problem to solve
⟢ if you’re mid sentence and lose your train of thought, he doesn't rush you or finish your sentence in a way that feels condescending. he waits a beat, then gently offers a prompt or a word
⟢ since brain fog can make even small choices feel monumental once he realizes the glassy look in your eyes he doesn't ask you questions like 'what do you want?' he switches to binary choices or directly takes the lead
⟢ he silently takes over your mental load. if you have things to do and he can do them, he handles it
⟢ if the pcos depression hits he just lets you be because he knows it's not something to be fixed
⟢ he doesn't ask why you're sad because he understands the answer is often 'my hormones are imbalanced.' instead, he just accepts your mood as a current fact. he brings his work or a book into whatever room you are in. he doesn't force conversation if you don't wanna talk. it's his way of letting you know that your depression hasn't driven him away
⟢ if you get to a point where you lose the motivation to do even the basic things megumi steps up. he carries you to the bathroom, washes you, brushes your hair, dresses you and tucks you in, brings your safe foods
⟢ if you explore body image issues he looks you dead in the eye and say something simple but heavy with truth
"you're still the most beautiful person i know."
⟢ he becomes more physically affectionate in a steady way, holding your hand or resting his head on your shoulder to prove he still wants to be near you regardless of how you feel about yourself
⟢ if the overthinking phase hits he becomes an anchor. he holds you gently but firmly as he offers simple but effective reassurances
"i'm not going anywhere, okay? your brain is lying to you but i'm telling you the truth. you're enough."
"i chose to be here. i know exactly who you are, even on the days you don't recognize yourself. i'm not going anywhere so you can stop trying to push me away with those thoughts."
"taking care of you isn't a difficult, it’s what i wanna do. it's one of the few things in my life that actually makes sense. so when you feel bad for needing me, you’re being sad for giving me a reason to stay. don't. just let me be here."
⟢ he is up for period sex if you wanna do it. megumi is not the slightest grossed out since deals with messes on daily basis. your bleeding is just a natural, biological process of the person he loves
⟢ megumi usually starts with a very functional, caring gesture that slowly melts into something more. he rubs your lower back or your stomach while you're laying against him and he pays close attention to your reaction. he whispers into your ear
"do you wanna rest instead or am i continuing?"
⟢ or if he sees that look on your eyes he doesn't even ask. if you bring it up or if things start getting heated and you stop to warn him just looks at you with a steady, neutral gaze
"i don't care about that. it's nothing but your body doing what it's supposed to do. if you're comfortable and you're not in too much pain, then i'm fine."
⟢ he pays extreme attention to your reaction and is focused entirely on practicality of the sex and your pleasure, he prefers positions that you'd be comfortable in. if he senses muscle tension, hears your breath hitching or ses that you're in pain he stops instantly
⟢ megumi's aftercare is about efficieny and grounding. his actions are incredibly loud
⟢ he is the first to move but only to take care of you. he returns with a glass of water, painkillers just in case and a towel so he can gently clean you up. if he needs to go to the kitchen to get food he summons kon so he doesn't have to get out of bed and leave you
⟢ he wraps himself around you and gently rubs your back
itadori yuji
⟢ yuji is essentially a human golden retriever with a high powered heater built in so he is the absolute gold standard for a person with pcos
⟢ he stays home without a second thought. he checks in with megumi and gojo before you can even finish the sentence that hints him you aren't feeling good
⟢ he puts on a bad movie marathon with funnier reactions than the movies themselves. we're talking about things like dramatic gasps on the things he didn't see coming, getting super excited during certain parts or he plays stress free games with you
⟢ if you end up snapping or yelling at yuji, his reaction would likely be the most disarming thing in the world. he is not the type to get defensive or yell back, he has an incredibly high emotional IQ and a very thick skin
⟢ he just blinks, tilts his head, and lets the words wash over him. he doesn't take it personally because he knows it's the pain and the hormonal exhaustion talking, not you. instead of arguing back, he waits for a beat and says something that hints he gets you
"whoa, okay. you're really feeling it right now, huh? i'm sorry, i didn't mean to get under your skin."
⟢ he is very intuitive. after you snap, he tries to gauge what you actually need
"i hear you. if you need some total yuji-free time i'll go in the kitchen and prepare food but just call me out if you change your mind or want anything, deal?"
"do you want a hug or should i stay on the other side of the couch?"
⟢ one of the best things about yuji is that he doesn't keep score. when the anger washes off you still find him where he already was, ready to hand you favorite drink or show you a funny video. if you attempt to apologize he just waves his hand and gently smiles at you
"we all have our moments hun. i know you're dealing with a lot, you don't have to apologize for being a human in front of me."
⟢ if you start crying because of hormonal imbalance his first instinct is physical comfort. he immediately drops whatever he is doing and comes to you. he knows it's the hormones so instead of asking he wraps his arm around you in a firm, bear hug. his voice drops into a low, steady tone he uses when he is being serious and protective
"it's okay angel. you've been holding in a lot today, haven't you?"
⟢ yuji is an excellent cook. he does a quick research of what your body lacks during period and what might ease your symptoms, then he gets to work
⟢ when the cramps hit bad his cheerful caretaker attitude shifts into a very focused and protective one but he doesn't panic. since he is a walking heater he lays down and spoons you, putting his hands on the area that's cramping
⟢ if you wake up at night cramping he wakes up instantly with you, he instinctively reaches for your stomach, his large hand acting like a heating pad to try and soothe the muscles
"hey, hey... you okay? is it the cramps again?"
⟢ he keeps an emergency kit of painkillers and a glass of water at the nightstand, he gives you a pill if he can't help you
⟢ he talks about school, the missions and his week to distract you, he only sleeps when he is sure you drifted off first
⟢ when the brain fog hits and even deciding what to wear or what to eat feels like solving a complex equation he takes the executive function off your hands
⟢ he decides the menu, handles the chores, puts the items you might need like your laptop, phone or charger in front of you so you won't have to look for them. if you're struggling to find your words he doesn't force you to communicate. he encourages you to let your phone blow up if you don't feel like dealing with people
"your body is working ten times harder than mine right now just to keep things balanced. of course you're tired, hun. you have every right to be."
⟢ yuji's one of greatest strengths is that he doesn't need you to be 'on' for him. if you’re stuck in a depressive episode where you can’t get out of bed or stop crying, he doesn't look at you with disappointment, he matches with you. he takes over the executive part of the day with actions such as climbing on the bed with you and quietly bringing your safe foods
"you don't have to be happy today. you don't even have to talk if you don't wanna. i'm just gonna hang out here with you, okay?"
⟢ yuji's view on period sex would be defined by his trademark combination of high emotional intelligence, zero squeamishness and an intense focus on your comfort. as someone who has spent his life around blood, injuries and the physical realities of being a sorcerer, he is not grossed out by natural bodily functions
"it's just blood, honey. i've seen way worse just a few days ago. if you’re feeling up for it, I’m definitely up for it."
AUTHOR NOTES / These took a while for me to get down on paper. Trying to write as a female character using Todo's personality....not easy. The others were not as bad. I did have a lot of fun with Takuma Ino's and Toge Inumaki's :)
I'm still pretty new to all of this, but I’m making a tag list for my fanfiction general writing and headcanons! You will be tagged in every single piece of writing I post.
If you’re interested in being on my taglist, please let me know by commenting on this post 'Tag Me' or DM me directly if you are more comfortable with that!
warnings: yandere themes, yuta is obsessed, sexual content below, implied murder at the order of yuta
explicit content — mdni 18+ (future au where yuta is head of the gojo clan. everyone in this story is 20+)
yandere clan leader yuta who, even before you’ve signed your name away in pen, has silently staked his claim. with just a single glimpse over your plain, unblemished skin. features that don’t need accentuating. your elders (your mother) had been so insistent on such a clean face. yuta’s already convinced himself he’s the only man to ever have seen you so vulnerable. no layers of powder or foundation to hide away the blush that blooms across your cheeks. you couldn’t escape him—not even in the most simplest of ways. besides, masking had never been your strong suit. you were a terrible liar.
yandere clan leader yuta who thinks about you day and night. every minute leading up to your ceremony. unwittingly unashamed at how vulgarly he daydreams of you. in clan meetings that run on too long. restless nights when the sheets feel suffocating. especially in the solitude of the ofuro. where’s he’s found himself, more often than not, dick in hand and a whimpering mess. your name aimlessly falling from his lips, damp black hair sticking to his forehead. a haze of steam swirling up around him, as he chased that sweet release. eyes closed, head laid back to fully immerse himself in the image of your pretty lips closing around him.
yandere clan leader yuta who carefully selects a range from modest to extravagant gifts. diamond encrusted jewelry to specially handcrafted kanzashis. all apart of his (self-convincing) plot to lure you in. because yuta had never been more certain. of course he had hand picked every item with you in mind. sure he’d hold off on the luxurious sets boutique lingerie he purchased, with help of your mother for measurements. but that was all in due time and he was ever the patient gentleman.
yandere clan leader yuta who’s grossly familiar to jealousy, but had not since been driven to the point of near insanity. not until now—mere moments before you’re nearly in his clutches. precious little minutes he’d rehearsed for weeks and it’s being ruined. by an annoying, nameless man who unfortunately you shared too many toys with. childhood friends who owed it to each other, to see if a brief romance would outlast a summer on the outskirts of shibuya.
yandere clan leader yuta who sees the faintest hint of tear stained cheeks on his lovely little bride, and tells himself it isn’t because of dread, but rather that this man has upset you. has come between you.
yandere clan leader yuta who doesn’t waste another moment to have the man escorted from grounds of the compound. his stress fluttering away like pink blossoms off branches, as your ceremony resumes without anymore distractions. he’s almost forgotten the rude intrusion when your sweet, wide eyes look up to meet his. his chest more full with every vow, every promise you utter. but your signature in ink is what truly pleases him most of all. delicate letters written with such pretty fingers, as you signed your new name. his name. yuta swears he could get hard just looking at it long enough.
yandere clan leader yuta who has you crying for entirely different reasons. your clean white tabi covered feet hanging over his toned forearms. pieces of your bridal kimono carelessly discarded beside you. toes curling as he drives into your cervix with mean precision. his tired eyes are fixated on the way you swallow him at this angle, folded up and pinned against the tatami like a helpless slut. yuta hadn’t yet known you were a virgin. no, because he likely would’ve taken his time. he would’ve been oh-so gentle in easing you into it. instead of splitting you open, and swallowing every pathetic noise that chokes out of you.
yandere clan leader yuta who has no choice but to slow down, otherwise he’ll come too fast and he’s barely gotten to feel your sweet cunt. he’s waited so many days, so many hours for this. he can’t possibly blow his load now. you’re being so good too. so submissive and sweet. pliant and ready for him to stuff you full, until he’s positive you’re expecting his heir.
yandere clan leader yuta who absolutely relishes having you in missionary. he gets to see your pretty face, after all. and he wouldn’t dare miss a moment of every sinful expression you make, while he relentlessly thrusts into your needy, greedy pussy.
yandere clan leader yuta who whispers the sweetest and somehow most vile words to ever touch your ears. warmth spreading beneath your skin with every dirty encouragement, every praise.
“pretty, pretty girl. You take it as well as I thought you would.”
“how did i get so lucky?”
“why are you still crying, angel? you know i’ll take care of you.”
yandere clan leader yuta whose patience doesn’t last long when your walls flutter around him, at his filthy words. a proud grin spreading across his face when he discovers you love his praise, love it when he talks to you. doesn’t bother to question you may be crying for other reasons. your body speaks to him instead, gives you away in ways that leave you mortified. because how could you give in so easily? this isn’t what you wanted… was it?
yandere clan leader yuta who fucks every thought right out of your pretty head. dumbed down to a pitiful mess of whines and babbles. all the while, somewhere beyond the walls of safety in the compound, yuta’s men are busy handling your early ill-mannered and uninvited guest. unknowingly in unison with every little pant, back arching up into your husband—your past lover gasping, thrashing against wire. life draining, your pleasure snapping.
yandere clan leader yuta who tends to you with the utmost care. such a stark contrast in how he manhandled your hips (finger prints evidence of that) and abused your poor, swollen cunt. he remedies it all with tender kisses and hot tea. coaxing your lips apart to pour the liquid in. “good girl…” he says, genuinely so proud of the woman you’re becoming right before his eyes.
yandere clan leader yuta who doesn’t fall asleep before you do. memorizing every last detail of your peaceful face. whispering sincere, twisted promises upon your deaf ears. assurances he knows he’ll have no problem committing to. no fear of what lengths he may take in order to keep them. even if prior to ever having laid eyes on you, did he despise the idea of a wife chosen for him. but, well… letting you go now seems unfathomable.
Imagine being prince! Caleb arranged marriage spouse. part 2
Imagine Caleb chose you. That was the part no one ever understood.
Imagine out of all the noble daughters presented to him. Bright, ambitious, eager to be seen, he chose you. The quiet one. The foreign princess who did not linger at the center of the ballroom, who did not laugh too loudly or reach for attention that was never offered.
Imagine it happened years earlier, in a ballroom he barely remembered attending. You had stood near the edge of the hall, dressed in something pale, hands folded, posture perfect in the way people learned when they had been taught never to draw attention to themselves. You did not laugh loudly. You did not seek his gaze. You existed carefully, as if the world had already taught you that visibility came at a cost.
Imagine he had heard whispered about you then. A fallen royal. Politically useful. Quiet. Safe. So when the list of candidates was laid before him, your name did not feel like a risk. It felt like mercy, for you, and for himself.
Imagine he chose you because he thought you would understand. On the night the engagement was announced, he told you the truth because he believed honesty was kinder than false hope. He told you his heart already belonged to another, MC, his childhood promise, the girl the court adored, the future everyone had already written for him.
Imagine he expected anger. Hurt. At least something sharp enough to punish him. Instead, you smiled. Small. Polite. You nodded and said you knew. That you had always known where your heart stood and where yours did not belong. Something in him tightened then. But he ignored it.
Imagine at first, he was distant. Not cruel, just careful. You were too gentle, too perceptive, too composed. He did not trust kindness that did not demand anything in return. He assumed it hid a blade. But you never raised it.
Imagine you became his ally without claiming the title. You stood beside him without pressing closer. You shielded him without asking for gratitude. Somewhere between councils and correspondence, between horseback rides and sleepless nights, he stopped bracing himself around you.
Imagine then came the hunt. The one you had insisted on coming on like it is the most ordinary thing in the world.
Imagine the way Caleb pauses mid-motion, one brow lifting slowly as he looks at you, really looks at you, still in riding clothes meant more for propriety than pursuit. Noblewomen did not hunt. Not like this. Not with rifles slung over shoulders and horses already restless beneath the morning fog.
"You'll turn back halfway." He says, not unkindly. More curious than dismissive. You only smile and swing into the saddle without help. That, more than anything, makes him watch you the rest of the way.
Imagine the forest is cold and alive, hooves thudding softly against damp earth, breath fogging the air. He expects hesitation, expects you to flinch at the recoil, to tire when the terrain turns unforgiving, to slow when the others press forward. You do none of it.
Imagine your rifle settles against your shoulder like it belongs there. Your posture is steady. Controlled. When you fire, it's clean not reckless, not showy. Just precise. You ride as if the horse understands you instinctively, knees guiding, hands light but sure. No wasted movement. No fear.
and Imagine, Caleb feels something quiet shift in his chest. You are not like the others trailing behind him. Not laughing too loudly. Not seeking attention. Not clinging to safety. And you are not like her, either, gentle, admired, protected without question. You move through the hunt like someone who has learned how to survive.
Imagine at one point, he rides closer without realizing it, watching the way your eyes scan the treeline, how you listen before you act. Silent. Strong. Reliable in a way that doesn't demand praise.
Imagine when the moment finally breaks, when the hunt slows and the tension eases, he exhales and says, almost to himself. "You're… Good." It surprises both of you. Then you turn to him, and then you laugh. Not polite. Not restrained. A real, startled sound that spills out of you like it hasn't been used enough.
"My brother taught me." You say, still smiling, still breathless. "He said if no one plans to protect you, you learn how to do it yourself." The words land heavier than you intend. Caleb doesn't reply right away. He only nods, something unreadable in his eyes, something like respect settling into place.
Imagine as the hunt continues, the forest opening wider before you, he notices something else, something that stays with him long after. This is the first time he has ever seen you look free. Not careful. Not quiet by necessity. Not standing at the edge of someone else's story.
Imagine it was just you, riding ahead, laughing softly to yourself, alive in a way the court would never allow. And later, much later, when people say he never loved you, he will remember this instead. The way you did not need saving. The way you never asked to be chosen. The way he fell without realizing anyone was watching.
and Imagine that was when it became dangerous. Because one day, without noticing when it began, he started looking for you. Not urgently. Not desperately. Just instinctively. If you weren't in the council chamber, something felt off. If your voice was absent from a discussion, decisions felt heavier. If you weren't nearby at night, the palace felt too large.
Imagine, at the time, he told himself it was trust. He told himself it was reliance. He told himself it was duty. He told himself anything except the truth.
Imagine then came the rebellion. The fire. Screams. Chaos unraveling everything he thought he could control. And when he was told MC had been taken, something primitive and desperate took hold of him. He needed to prove, to her, to himself, that she was still the one his heart belonged to.
and Imagine, you followed him, as you always did. Not because he asked, but because you never needed to be asked. And he would replay that choice for the rest of his life.
Imagine the cliff was in chaos. Blood. Smoke. Shattered orders. And then he saw you. Hanging. And for a moment, his mind refused to accept it. You were there, but not there, not safe, not solid. Your body was braced against the stone, one arm wrapped around MC's limp form, the other clawed into rock already dark with blood. Your fingers were torn raw. Nails broken. Skin split. Your arms shook with the small, violent tremors of a body pushed far past endurance.
Imagine he did not register MC at first. All he saw was you. Alive. And relief hit him so hard it made him dizzy. He dropped beside you, knees slamming into stone, breath ragged as he reached. And you shook your head.
"She's slipping." Your voice was calm. Unnaturally so. Detached, like someone already measuring how little time they had left. "Take her first." He hesitated. Barely a second. Not calculation. Not cruelty. Instinct tearing him in two.
because Imagine in that moment, something terrifying surfaced. If he chose you first, he would not be able to deny it anymore. If he chose you, he would have to face everything he had buried. That single second was enough.
Imagine he saw it in your hands, the way your fingers slid just slightly, the way your jaw tightened as pain finally broke through your composure. Blood smeared beneath your palms as the stone betrayed you.
"Please." You said. Not begging to be saved. Begging him not to make you choose for him. And he moved. He dragged MC up with a sound torn from his throat, muscles screaming as he hauled her to safety.
and Imagine the moment her weight left you, your body lurched forward violently, chest slamming into the edge. You gasped, not in pain, but in exhaustion so complete it bordered on surrender. Then your grip failed. And Caleb turned back instantly, lunging without thought. His hand closed around your wrist, warm, solid, familiar.
"I've got you." He meant it. Holding you there, suspended between falling and living, something inside him cracked wide open. He saw you clearly, your face pale, bloodied, eyes dulled by fatigue. And still, you were calm. Not brave. Not stoic. Resigned.
and Imagine when you looked up at him, there was no accusation in your gaze. Only understanding. That was when the truth finally reached him. Not duty. Not loyalty. Not trust. Love. A love that had grown quietly, patiently, without demand while he was too afraid to name it.
"I can't lose you." He said, voice breaking. He didn't know if he said it aloud or only in his mind. And he felt your fingers loosened. Just slightly. And in that moment of release, fate struck.
Imagine the way an arrow hit his right arm with a wet, brutal sound. Pain exploded. His muscles spasmed violently. His grip failed, not by choice, not by weakness. He felt you slip. Felt the warmth of your wrist vanish from his palm. Your name tore out of him like something ripped from his chest. And you fell.
Imagine the way time fractured. He saw your face as you dropped, not screaming, not terrified. Smiling. Soft. Content. As if you had finally laid something down. And that smile rewired something inside him permanently.
Imagine the way he screamed until his throat bled and tried to follow you. Fought the hands dragging him back. He would have jumped after you. He would have died with you.
Imagine the way they had to restrain him as the water swallowed you whole. They searched for days. They found nothing. No body meant no ending. Only possibility. And that was worse.
because Imagine, now every waking moment was haunted by the knowledge that you never believed he would choose you.
Imagine, people waited. They spoke gently. Told him grief took time. That shock dulled loss. That eventually, he would return to what was meant to be. They meant MC.
Imagine they expected him to go to her. To mourn properly. To resume the story they understood. He didn't. He avoided her, not cruelly, just impossibly distant. He could not look at her without seeing the cliff. Without hearing your calm voice telling him he didn't have to choose. MC mourned too. She cried. She wore black. She spoke of you kindly. And still, when she reached for him, something in him recoiled. Not because of her. Because she was not you.
Imagine time passed. And he did not move on. He did not seek her bed. He did not seek her hand. He did not seek anyone. The chambers you once shared remained untouched. Your things were not moved. Your chair at council stayed empty. He did not replace it. He did not allow anyone to sit there.
and Imagine the way the court began to realize something was wrong. They began to look backward instead of forward. They remembered the way he had always found you in a room, even when he claimed not to notice. The way he listened when you spoke, even when he disagreed. The way his temper flared only when you were insulted. The way he sought your counsel before every major decision, long before MC was taken.
Imagine the way they remembered the rides. The late nights. The way he trusted you with things he never entrusted to anyone else. They remembered the cliff. How he screamed your name. How he had to be dragged away. And the truth settled like ash. They had been blinded by the beginning. By the childhood promise. By the romance they understood. By the story they wanted to believe.
Imagine Caleb had not fallen in love with you loudly. He had not claimed you. He had not chosen you when it mattered. But he had loved you. Slowly. Quietly. Completely. Long before the cliff. Long before the fall. And when that realization reached him, when he finally allowed himself to name it, it did not bring relief. It destroyed him. Because loving you had never been the problem. It was realizing that you had loved him knowing he might never choose you, and still stayed. And now, there was no one left to forgive him for that.
Imagine that day, two hearts stopped beating. Only one died. The other was sentenced.
Imagine Caleb ruled for one year after the rebellion, long enough to stabilize the kingdom, long enough to ensure it would survive him. When order was restored, he abdicated. The crown passed to the Grand Duke of the North, Zayne. Caleb left without ceremony, without farewell, without absolution.
Imagine some said it was due to him missing an arm, some said there was a greater reason for that. But the truth was that the physicians said his arm could be saved. But he refused. Not from grief, but judgment. Some failures, he believed, were not meant to heal.
Imagine they say he lives by the sea now. That he walks the shore at dawn and dusk, staring into the water as if answers ever return. Because the calm in your smile, that quiet acceptance was the moment he lost you. And the moment there was nothing left to save in him.
[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2026°
: happy new year, I have a shift today to wish me luck and tips :(:
/ˈnītˌmer/ · noun · 7.06k words.
— a horrifying dream in which the dreamer experiences feelings of helplessness, extreme anxiety and sorrow, and in some cases, causes the dreamer to wake up with feelings of absolute terror.
"Was it so wrong, to want just one thing for yourself? You didn't think so. You didn't think it would be that much of a nightmare, to want."
synonyms (see also: tags)
— obligatory this is all fiction tag!! reader is an unreliable narrator. royalty au. purposefully nonsensical. purposefully vague. all characters are unhinged, & yes, all means all, sans maybe tara & simone. insane moon/sun symbolism, because fuck being normal abt the amazing lunar & solar bodies in our sky.
antonyms (see also: explicits)
— major character death. violence. betrayal. manipulative tactics. insanity. threats. vomiting. blood descriptions. suicide, both idealized and described. war. angst. no comfort. when i say no comfort, i mean no comfort.
notes 🜲₊⊹⚚ thank you, thank you, thank you to my beloved beta readers, @souliloqui @deepspacenova & @princesspeachi3. i could not have done this today with the three of you. i am forever indebted. now, it is time for me to disappear & promptly throw up from anxiety about this being perceived. meow! (๑>◡<๑)
— SEVENTEEN DAYS UNTIL.
"The defendant has been adjudged as guilty."
Silence fills the room. It's so loud, the towering marbled pillars almost quake in the demanding sound of it, suffocating and heavy and straining to keep itself from snapping into two.
Clearing his throat, the Judge of the High Court drones on as if he were merely reporting on the soft streams of sunlight fluttering in. "As per custom, I, the Judge of the High Court, thus sentence the defendant to five years in the dungeon. His title will be stripped and his rights to his lands and authority revoked, to ensure he partakes in proper reflection of his treason."
That gets people clamoring. Suddenly, it's all bared teeth and clenched fists, the courtroom growing restless with countless protests.
"There must be further investigation!"
"This is preposterous—the Ruler's Advisor would never—"
"Your Radiance, surely you are mistaken!?"
Amongst it all, you stand eerily still. The nobles' clamors are nothing but whitening, dull thuds against your ear drums, mere background noise that would lull you to sleep otherwise if not for the context of the situation.
Your hand raises to the crowd. Immediately, the voices cease, limiting themselves to hushed whispers and mumbles of disagreement. To this you give the room a sharp sweep of your eyes, cocking your brow at the resistance.
Behave.
The silence is back at once, roaring and deafening to your senses. Satisfied, you swallow back what you hope is simply a cough and set your lips in a straight line.
"Very well, then. See that he is taken to the dungeons at once."
And as you speak, tone chillingly calm, you finally allow yourself one last look.
Zayne, eyes undiscernable, is roughly shoved to stand up by a guard. His raven locks hang in front of his face, mussed and oily from numerous days rotting away in a prison cell while waiting for his trial to commence. You take note of how he's only clad in a brown tunic and trousers fit for that of one below a peasant's station, hands situated behind his back with rusted iron cuffs. The chains clink rather irritatingly against the handcarved hardwood floor.
Hmph. It seems you will have to call for cleaners after the nobles take their leave.
There are no further words spoken as your ex-royal advisor is led away through the doors. They creak under the pressure of the guards, all serving to be knights in shining armor to your elegance, before falling shut with a resounding bang.
And just like that, he is forever gone from your future.
You do not know whether to sink to the floor in relief or let the flood gates break open.
"Your Radiance," Tara bows her head, stepping up with soft clicks of her heels. She interrupts your dilemma by extending her hand out to the doors that Zayne had just been heaved through. "Marquess Rafayel requests your presence in the tea room at once, to discuss next steps now that the… ahem, traitor, has been apprehended. You were meant to receive him a little over an hour ago."
With a composed nod of your head, you beckon forth Simone, allowing her to escort you and Tara out of the courtroom. No one dares to breathe when their ruler passes by; all unite under the blinding light that is you, inclining their heads with the utmost respect.
You suppose it only makes sense. After all, you muse, there is no one else around to treat with nearly the same level of regard.
Not anymore.
—
The marquess wastes no time once you are settled into the cushioned loveseat, his blue-violet eyes aflame with fervent frustration.
"Your Radiance," he musters, running a hand through his purple hair and expelling a very exasperated exhale. "You are much too impatient. Your precious knight's presence around the castle still lingers from his recent leave, yet you move forward with our plan as if there will be pitchforks at your gates any moment otherwise."
You sip at your tea disinterestedly. "Is it not a virtue to be adaptable, my lord?"
He only scoffs. In that one breath, his demeanor lightens as he shifts back to relax, as if resignedly agreeing with you, and you find your shoulders loosening. A corner of your mouth picks up in a smile, feeling the most normal you have yet in the past few days.
"Xavier is quick on his feet and one-track minded, especially when given solo missions," you vow, giving a slight nod to the man across from you. "I assure you, he will not catch wind of what is happening in the palace for at least another fortnight. Your people will keep him too busy for such a thing to occur, will they not?"
He opens his mouth, a retort quick on his tongue, but the tapping of a polite knock stops him from spilling any further words.
A lady-in-waiting enters the tea room with cups full of freshly steeped jasmine tea. Tendrils of steam rise and curl in the air, filling the room with the scent of a calming balm, but you promptly stiffen.
"Bring that out at once."
The girl startles. "Y-your Radiance—"
"I said at once." Your shoulders, they feel tangled up and knotted together all over again, a mess you cannot even begin to try to clean. "Tell the kitchen to prepare a pot of mint-kelp tea instead. You people forget the Marquess of Lemuria is the one who visits today—not some traitor."
Immediately, she stammers out an apology, bowing before hastily exiting the room. When she's gone, your back slumps against the velvet, rubbing your temple. All of a sudden, you are back in the courtroom, hearing those sickening words drip from the Judge of the High Court's mouth.
The defendant has been adjudged as guilty.
"Your Radiance." A warm voice brings you out of your reminiscence. Your eyes snap up to Rafayel's, finding yourself surprised at the genuine concern laced into those pools of sunset-ocean.
"Even if the ex-royal advisor did not… act upon it himself," he starts, voice low and picking his words carefully. "You know as well as I that there were conspiracies flitting about concerning him, especially after he so brazenly spoke against your will. It was best to rid of him early on in the plan, should he not understand your… good-willed intentions."
A stumbling part in you finds irrational reason within the man's words; after all, Zayne had been known to challenge your every decision, even if it was in private and away from prying eyes. You push out the desperate pleas that claw at the walls of your brain, arguing that no, that was simply his act of caring, of making sure you had thought everything out thoroughly, and focus on the image of Zayne's arched brow and his broad back turned away from you.
Yes. He had always meant to one day go forward and leave you behind. This was simply the consequences of his to-be actions.
Yet as the marquess speaks, your heart aches for the scratching of ink against parchment paper and quiet jokes when the instructor was not looking. It yearns for the shared glances at an incorrect history fact laid out, defenseless, in a textbook trying to promote war propaganda of an Empire already long gone. It craves a soothing, guiding tone that once stood by your side, ready to support your every endeavor.
As per custom, I, the Judge of the High Court, thus sentence the defendant to five years in the dungeon. His title will be stripped and his rights to his lands and authority revoked, to ensure he partakes in proper reflection of his treason.
Very well, then. See that he is taken to the dungeons at once.
These emotions—you do not know what to do with them. They sit, poised and ready to lurch out of you at the first chance to do so, arduously testing the limits of your composure as the newly crowned ruler of your Empire.
So you do what you do best.
You pretend.
"Marquess Rafayel, it would be in your best interest to carry out the third stage of our plan sooner rather than later." Your hands dust off imaginary crumbs from your attire, smoothing down the wrinkles that had appeared from sitting much too long for your liking. Rafayel stares up at you with surprise, his delicate, slender fingers still reaching out for you.
You respond by turning away. "Do stay for when the servants return with the mint-kelp tea," you continue, making a hand gesture to Tara who had been stationed all this time in the corner of the room. "I'm afraid I have much to attend to now that the former royal advisor has finally been put behind bars. Report back once the third phase has been completed."
She opens the door for you, and you throw one last smile over your shoulder. Marquess Rafayel, remembering his purpose, lets out a dramatic sigh before he appears in front of you.
"As you wish, Your Radiance," he croons, stooping low to press a chaste kiss to your hand—and those damned fingers of his, they linger, brushing just a moment too long across your knuckles before pulling back. "I do look forward to our next meeting, when the path forward for us has been cleared for further travel."
You pay no mind to his honeyed words; there was intent behind them, but not the one you used to long for. The marquess had his reasons for his actions, and so did you. That was why you two made such a perfect pair: two desperate souls, finding solace in the crazed passion of each other's ambition.
And that is also exactly why you had to keep your distance—for those fingers, no matter how soft they appear, will soon be forever stained with the blood of your betrothed.
— FOURTEEN DAYS UNTIL.
Three nights later, blood is spilled and life is drained.
It is a funny thing, life. Nine months are required for a child to be healthily brought into the world, and an even longer amount of time is demanded to nourish that child into a life force to be reckoned with. The child will create memories, feel vast amounts of emotions, and curate a personality that is tailored to them and them only.
All for it to be taken out by one, tiny, cruelly insignificant cut.
"Marquess Rafayel…?"
Her voice is quiet. Stunned. There is nothing else in the air but the haggard breaths of the marquess, his back pressed tightly against the wall as he trembles with the character of a tree amongst a thunderous hurricane.
His chest—it feels like the wind has been knocked out of it and there is no amount of oxygen he can intake again to replenish himself.
Rafayel flinches at a thick huff of air. The betrothed of the kingdom's Radiance, Second Prince Sylus from Onychinus, kneels on the floor with an unsheathed blade resting just near his thigh. It glints in the moon's illumination, but his own crimson eyes are dim, flickering, fixated on the sight before him.
On her.
"You reckless guard," Prince Sylus snarls, one hand cradling the back of her head and the other swiping at the beads of blood dripping down her cheek. "How many times have I warned you about your inability to stay still?"
She does not respond, breathing growing shallow, and Rafayel's heart leaps in his throat when she drags her gaze to him. He finds nothing but silent shock in her rapidly clouding eyes.
It had meant to be the prince. It was going to be the prince, he swears. The poisoned blade, it had just been resting at the tip of your betrothed's throat, before he had been shoved aside and the edge had crowned a new victim.
"Marquess," she rasps once more, eyes never leaving his. "You…?"
The prince shushes her, shifting back on his haunches and gripping her to his chest. "I said to be still."
Rafayel swallows. He wants to say something, anything—but then Prince Sylus whips his head, and his tongue feels like lead.
Yes, Rafayel had heard the spiraling rumors, but he had never seen a member of the Onychinus' royal family truly up close like this—and it terrifies him, the way the foreigner's eyes are a blinding, bright red flame, glowering and sweltering with the deepest pits of hell's fire.
All directed at him.
"You. I will deal with you once she is taken to the infirmary."
The infirmary is no use. Rafayel knows, and he watches with unadulterated horror as she, too, recognizes Prince Sylus' fruitless attempts to call for help. Her hand fumbles to push against the broadness of his shoulder, muttering out something indiscernable.
"Stop. I will you to stop, your Majesty." She's gasping for breath now, limbs falling limp to her sides. "Focus… on the Marquess…."
"You come first," the prince croaks. "What will your Radiance think of me allowing one of their most trusted guards to die from some measly poison?"
And she laughs.
Her last laugh, a hollow one, laying in the arms of a foreign crown prince while a betraying noble stands bystander in absolute fear.
"It matters not what… they think…"
"Stay awake!" Prince Sylus orders. The command falls on deaf ears.
It is at that moment that Rafayel decides he cannot bear to observe any longer. He flees, hands scraping along the castle walls and letting the thorny, prickled vines gnarl their way into his pale skin. The striking, thin crescent moon climbs higher with him, taunting him with an unreachable destination, staying just a breadth out of his reach. Like her. Like she forever will be.
No.
It cannot be.
She will be fine, she will be—
She has to be.
As he stumbles over sharp-edged grooves, initially made to ward off trespassers, the blood flows freely from his hands. The stones bruise his knees. He welcomes the pain in the way he cannot welcome her death.
"As long as they are happy," she is now sighing, so low the prince must bow his head to hers to hear her murmur; her assailant is long gone by this point.
"As long as I have protected them, as I was molded to do."
A hobbling, unsteady foot over a marbled windowsill into some unknown room. Injuries that cake him with dried sins and a heart that beats much too fast, much too lively, for his liking. He stumbles for the nearest shelf, the taste of salt and iron in his mouth raw and hot and grimy and leaving his tongue stinging. It's all far too much. There's far too much of it all.
His hands—they are gripping something shiny, something sharp, something welcoming.
A sword.
Rafayel does not even hesitate.
The moonlight is thin, but frames the pooling red liquid with its beautiful shine all the same. He sees the celestial being now, there, past the grandiose red curtains that loom over his dying body. And he sees the curvature of her gleaming smile in it—akin to a freshly-cleaned scythe—and the sight reminds him of someone who once gave him the pleasure of experiencing simple humanity amongst all-knowing immortal gods.
And, of course, as fate would have it, it is only when he draws his last breath that Marquess Rafayel finally hears the faint scream that marks the beginning of the end.
(Or, perhaps, the end of what was supposed to mark a beginning.)
"Your Majesty! What on earth is the meaning of this!?"
— TEN DAYS UNTIL.
You meet Crown Prince Caleb's flames with scorching tendrils of your own, like an eager fire does when one dumps more tinder on its rapidly flickering embers.
The blazing heat should scare you. He stands at full height, lips drawn back in an ugly snarl, and smoke fills your lungs with each breath you take. It's searing, his hatred, threatening to engulf you, to swallow you whole and force you to face the life-changing consequences of your actions.
But, instead, you take a step forward, raise your balled fists and strike—because his flaring fury is more than gladly received in comparison to the ice that has been slowly frosting you over.
"Do you have nothing to say for yourself, your Majesty?"
Second Prince Sylus looks devastatingly handsome for someone who has just been accused of murder. He surveys the interrogation room with a relaxed, almost bored gaze, hands tied behind his back and guards positioned on either side of him. The single overhead candle flickers in a vain attempt to stay alight.
You raise your chin. "Answer me, Second Prince of Onychinus. You forget who you are in the presence of."
It seems he still has the nerve to chuckle. "Quite the contrary, actually, your Radiance."
His lackadaisal tone had infuriated you, and now, you drive your fist a little harder into the chest in front of you as an outlet for your anger.
Caleb, however, is not your target. He is not the Second Prince Sylus of Onychinus.
"What is wrong with you?!" The crown prince grabs you by the wrist and yanks you off of him. "First, you imprison your royal advisor with baseless claims, and now you are telling me the deaths of Marquess Rafayel and—and—"
He chokes on his words, giving you the chance to jerk your hand away from his burning touch. You grit your teeth and shove your face so close to his that you can see the sparks of ultraviolet in his eyes; flaring, marvelous, and bordering on exploding into supernovas.
"There is nothing wrong with getting rid of those who poise a threat to the throne," you murmur, voice dripping with sticky sweet venom. "You of all people should understand where I am coming from, Prince of Skyhaven."
The blade clatters to the floor almost gracefully.
At first glance, it seems innocent; a dagger made for self defense, the handle intricately carved from the wood of a cherry blossom tree giving way to the beautiful sparkle of ivory in the room's low lighting. Small enough to be concealed within the overflaps of a shirt tucked into a belt, yet dangerous enough to provide safety should one need to use it against a foe.
Yes, innocent is what it should be, if not for the stain of blood that breaches the tip of the blade.
A beat of silence passes between you and the second prince. Then, he lifts his eyes to yours.
"So you found the murder weapon. Good for you, your Radiance. Would you like a bountiful feast held in your honor?" He snickers, jutting out his lips in a fake pout when you intake a sharp breath. "Oh, it seems I have misspoken. Pray, do tell then, what might I have to do with a dagger such as this?"
"This is the marquess' personal blade, gifted to him by me." You begin to stalk in a slow, wide circle around the tool, taking great care to keep your expression composed.
"Yet, it was found in your bedchamber, with the knight I entrusted to you dead in your arms and Marquess Rafayel grotesquely slain in a room not even fifty steps away."
Your footfalls gradually halt as you take your place before him. He meets your burning irises with wintry, collected ice, something that had you irked the moment he stepped out of the carriage from Onychinus for the first time and greeted you with a mere nod—like you were some servant to be casted aside rather than his betrothed.
Like it would pain him to even consider you an equal.
"Then you must know as well as I, ruler of Linkon, that this is not as simple as swatting away pesky flies with a broomstick."
Caleb takes you head on, voice growing heated. "There is no reason for the Second Prince of Onychinus to murder his guard or the Marquess, much less both of them in one night. And there is no reason for Royal Advisor Zayne to conspire against you of all people—you are his Radiance, someone he is meant to serve until his last breath."
"So explain to me, my dear Radiance," he scoffs, mocking your title and pushing an accusatory finger against your chest; it lands right near the dip in your collarbone, right where he had kissed you lifetimes ago, after a hazy summer day of sneaking through the palace orchards.
"What in the absolute hell are you scheming?"
"You have truly bested yourself this time, your Radiance. I think I quite like this side of you."
You curse whatever universal beings are above and turn around. The handle to the interrogation chamber chills you to the bone, but you clutch onto it as a reminder of your soon-to-be escape.
Second Prince Sylus tilts his head, the barest form of a smile on his face—if it could even be called one. His mouth is all teeth, catching the low light of the candle whose life slowly fades with every tick of the clock. You want to strangle him.
"Your kingdom will be hearing of your mutiny," is what you say in substitute. "Our engagement and the trade deal are off. Consider yourself lucky I am not declaring war, for we all know who would win and who would lose everything he has oh-so carefully worked for until this very moment."
Turning back to the door, you steel yourself and hold a breath. One, two…
Three. There are no more sounds from behind you.
Exhaling, you give a sharp nod to the guards outside the desolate room, welcoming the light that flutters in from the hallway windows. "Take him to the prison cell that Zayne was held in and alert the Judge of the High Court that this trial must be attended to with the utmost priority. See to it that his shackles are locked properly, and that he does not bear any other arms on his body before leaving him be."
Freedom. You could taste it.
"Your Radiance," Sylus calls from inside the chamber, and you squeeze your eyes shut in an attempt to stay calm. "If I may speak once more… a word of advice, perhaps, from one royal to another."
Keeping your back to him, you will the strain in your voice to quiet. "Speak."
You can almost imagine that toothy grin all over again, the image making your skin crawl. He had looked at you with something new, then; not with blasé, like before, but something more akin to… eagerness. To hunger.
"You are right," he rumbles. "I have lost everything I have bled to build. But heed my warning: men, like me—with nothing left to lose—we become desperate. And desperation does not stop for mercy, your Radiance."
"It simply takes, whether you will it to or not."
The door slams shut before he can utter another word.
Tara finds you on the floor of the tea room, hunched over your spilled lunch that had exited your stomach only moments prior.
"Your Radiance!" She cries, dropping to your side and worrying over the globs of tears that streak down your cheeks.
Crown Prince Caleb stands stiffly behind the loveseat you kneel in front of. His neck is ticked with a popped out vein, dilated pupils and harsh breaths echoing in the stuffy suite. He has a hand on the apple of his cheek, covering the red mark blooming across his skin, saying nothing as your lady-in-waiting attends to you.
"Escort Skyhaven's Crown Prince to another waiting room," you rasp, throat feeling rather itchy from hurling out the contents of your stomach. "He will wait there with guards outside until his carriage is ready for travel."
"Travel?" Tara's eyes widen, and she looks between you and the prince with barely hidden bewilderment. "But, your Radiance, the Crown Prince's guest chambers are nearly ready for his stay in the pala—"
"It is quite alright, Tara," Caleb finally speaks, chuckling. It holds no warmth in it. "There is no need for me to stay in a kingdom with a ruler who does not wish to have me. I will speak with my men before they ready for my departure."
You scarcely recognize the scuffing of his boots against the carpeted floor, briskly taking him farther from you than he had ever been before. There is no goodbye; no pleasant hug or ruffle of your hair, either.
Just the silence that you so dearly hate.
"Ruler of Linkon."
You blearily blink and raise your head. Crown Prince Caleb, the heir to the Skyhaven kingdom, beams with unbridled rage from the doorway to your lavish tea room. He is nothing short of seething, pure wrath coming off of him in waves that crash over you with the force of a tsunami. The look in his eyes scares you deep to the bone—it is the one Second Prince Sylus had warned you about only hours prior.
"You have until the full moon to atone for your betrayals to your kingdom. To Royal Advisor Zayne. To Marquess Rafayel." He manages a rugged breath. "To her."
A raw, disbelieving laugh escapes you. "And who will hold me to this punishment of mine? Or, better yet, who will pay if I do not meet your expectations?"
Caleb's eyes narrow to slits. He turns, beckoning to the guard outside of the suite, voice clipped with coarse hostility.
"You do not wish to find out."
— SEVEN DAYS UNTIL.
Xavier returns as the moon fills up halfway.
You sit with your head resting against the doorway to your balcony, the curtains drawn away and tied with silk ribbons to make way for the light. The stone is cool against your feverish skin, and your toes curl slightly as a gust of wind plays with the threadings of your night gown, goosebumps prickling along your arms from the chill.
"I know you are here," you mumble, fingers picking at a hangnail. "Reveal yourself, Sir Xavier."
He slinks into the moonlight from the shadows, swaying on unsteady feet, sword drawn. It falls to the floor with a broken clang, rusted with blood and dulled to the point that it no longer reflects the celestial body's shine.
"Your Radiance." His voice is too serene for a man who arrives back to a country on the brink of war, but you hardly pay mind to it. "Lemurian territory is now back under our control. The borders have been stabilized, and troops make their way to restore order to the land there."
Now, Xavier drops to his knees, bowing until his forehead kisses the hard-lined floor of your balcony. The sight makes your stomach twist. You open your mouth to command him to sit and regard you accordingly, but his shaking voice stops you in your tracks.
"Your Radiance," he implores. "Please, do not cast me away like you have the others. My faith and devotion still lies with one ruler only, and it is you. I swear by my sword to fulfill your every order and request… so, I beg of you. Let me be of service."
The offer has your heart hammering and breath catching in a sob. With trembling, sweaty hands, you reach for his wrists, pulling him to face you and cradle his cheeks. Underbags line his eyes, and you thumb over a cut that has yet to properly heal.
"Sir Xavier, you do not mean what you say," comes your heartbreaking reply, bottom lip wobbling with a cry that threatens to spill at any second. "My hands are colored with the blood of our people. Marquess Rafayel is dead—"
"He brought it upon himself," Xavier mutters sharply.
"Zayne remains waiting for his execution day—"
"The advisor should not have conspired behind your back."
"Prince Sylus and Crown Prince Caleb, they—"
"Are not of one of our kind." Xavier's fingers grasp your own, holding them steady; the moon, just a sliver away from being full, makes his silver hair reflect like a halo around his head. "Your Radiance, you only act with the kingdom's best interest in mind, do you not?"
There once was a time when you would have agreed with no hesitation.
It was long ago—when you were still unable to balance a book on your head and waltz at the same time, and your days were made up of back-to-back lessons on the history of your kingdom with your royal advisor. Your eyes would still light up at every knight who dipped their head in recognition, and you were still giddy at the prospect of receiving what you hoped to be your first, true friend, coming in the form of a young guard with bright blue eyes and a knack for dueling.
Now, though, as you work to stand and Xavier remains kneeling on the floor of your balcony, you find yourself pausing in your response.
"So you have heard what happened with the marquess and Prince Sylus." You swallow thickly, pushing away the memories of a past life. "And… and with her."
His lips tense at their lingering position just above your knuckles. With baited breath, you watch as that hauntingly familiar frost begins to harden his edges, icing him over until he's merely a shell of the boy who once promised to show you how to wield a sword.
After a heartbeat, he speaks, dangerous and low. "She was simply doing her duty to the kingdom as any knight should. Her sacrifice to protect what was once dear to you rings clear and true through her actions, and I could not admire her more for it."
What was once dear to you. The phrase rings empty. Hollow.
You want to laugh—shriek, even, with hysteria. You know Xavier better than the performance he was putting on for you at the moment; know that the second he heard of his beloved equal's death, he had catapulted into a fit of rage, exceeding your expectations of his secret mission by taking his madness out on the innocents of Lemuria.
He would never be at her eye level again. He would never be able to parry her hits with his own sword, challenge her to another jousting round, or call her by a name with no title, ever again.
The mere thought delights and petrifies you all at once.
You pull away from his touch, leaving him exposed under the bright moon. Until now, his sword lays battered away to the side of the balcony, but you pick it up and wipe the dried bloodstains off with the hem of your night gown.
"Bow before me, Sir Xavier."
Under the waxing gibbous moon, you knight him once more, the cutting edge of his blade becoming a soothing balm to his shoulders. He sighs and welcomes the feeling.
"You have proven time and time again your loyalty to me," you whisper. "As the Radiance that shines down on this eternal kingdom, I hereby appoint you with the new position as my Right Hand. You will serve me, until death, as a combined force of all the other roles that those who came before you failed to thrive in."
He inclines his head, just as he was meant to do. You speak a prayer into the air, just as you were meant to do. There are chains that bound the two of you together to your respective stations, forcing him to kneel and you to stand, and you now understand the weight of it all—how he was never your equal, but still yours regardless.
And you would be damned if you did not put that notion to use.
— ONE DAY UNTIL.
The sky preens a clear crystal blue, the clouds wisp to and fro with the merciful air, and former Royal Advisor Zayne is to be executed by the time the sun reaches high noon.
He could not even keep track of the time if he wished; that silly daydream is nothing but long gone, tally marks falling behind schedule as he struggled to remember the difference between day and night. All that kept him on high alert were the sporadic visits you paid him to deliver news about the state of the kingdom.
Or, as you were so adamant about during your last visit, the soon-to-be Linkon Empire.
"The kingdom of Onychinus has declared war on us for keeping Sylus hostage in the dragon dungeons." You had spoken softly, so soft that Zayne had to strain his ears to hear through the bars of his enclosure. Torches lined the dungeon walls and bathed your figure in golden light—something he was not used to. "To make matters worse, Crown Prince Caleb has pledged an allegiance with them. They are to strike on the first day after the full moon if I do not surrender the right to my crown."
He wanted to press you for answers. What have you done to the kingdom? Where are your royal guards? What will you do next? How long until he is finally put out of his misery of learning only through the grapevine of lies?
If you had wanted him to provide some sort of response, however, you had never made the initiative to show it, instead rambling on as you pressed your cheek against an iron rod.
"Yet my kingdom persists," you murmured. "And soon, it shall be not them who rises above, but the newly named Empire of Linkon."
Now, it is the day before the moon reaches its grandeur peak.
He only knows because the guards that stand watch at his jail cell whisper uneasily to each to other when they change shifts. The same set of actions, repeated twice now—a hushed undertone, a wary glance at his deteriorated state, and a shudder of relief that it is not them who is the victim to such a cruel fate.
They talk just loud enough for him to hear swapped secrets, too. Words he no longer recognizes.
Our Radiance plans to court the Right Hand after the demolishment of Skyhaven and Onychinus.
Hah, court? As if the Right Hand would even consider refusing. He has no choice in the matter.
But have you ever heard of such a feat happening before in the books?
When it comes to our ruler, the books are merely a guideline for what not to do. It has been this way ever since the Royal Advisor—er, the traitor, was convicted. Now hush. Someone might overhear.
Zayne does not stir, does not even give them a hint of an idea that he is eavesdropping on their conversation. Instead, he steels his jaw that wants to clench in fury. A winter storm of emotions swirl up in his chest, roaring to be let loose, but he restrains.
He cannot show any more weaknesses.
Not when this… horrid nightmare is the aftermath of such an action.
The former Royal Advisor remembers the day that he doomed them all. It had been a clear, sunny day, quite like today—if what he heard from the guards was correct, about it being too nice of weather outside for a public beheading.
Your eyes had been teary with frustration, overwhelmed with the weight of the Lemurian district pressuring you about its problems, and he had just stood there. Watched, with his indifferent, calculating eyes, as one of your most trusted guards soothed your grievances.
"Your Radiance," she had smiled, firm yet gentle, steadying your shoulders with her hands. He recalls how you let her coddle you, just short of the way a mother would pacify her child. "The answers you seek are already within you. You know this as well as I. Do not be afraid."
"It is not that I am afraid of Marquess Rafayel and his people." You furrowed your brow; it resembled a crater in the moon that he wanted to smooth over with his thumb. "I am simply worried about if this is the right decision for the kingdom. His forces have been acting too independently as of late, and now he requests for more funding due to missing cases of Lemurians off the coast near the trade port with Chansia? There seems to be more to this than what meets the eye."
To his carefully kept surprise, you had turned to him then, eyes wide with hope. "What are your thoughts on the matter, Royal Advisor Zayne?"
He shifted his feet and cleared his throat.
"It would be best to refuse the Marquess' requests with strict reminders about the careful checks and balances we have in place to keep one governmental body having too much power over the other. Even better would be to send military officials to investigate the missing persons cases themselves, rather than letting Lemurian officers be in control of the investigation."
The man knew he had said something you did not agree with when hesitation flickered across your face, akin to the sweep of a cat's tail in indignation. You had wrestled with your hands in nervosity.
"But that would be improper use of power, no? The other territories may see it as a cruel way to enforce my reign, especially since I have only been crowned so recently. What would they think of me, then?"
And there it had started: the prick of irritation, bubbling just underneath his skin. He wish he had known better than to let it float to the surface. Perhaps then, this entire catastrophe could have been avoided.
Instead, he had taken in a sharp breath. Something he regrets to this day. Your guard flashed him with a warning sign clear in her eyes, but he had missed it terribly, instead letting his mouth fall open and the barest of feelings spill out.
"Your Radiance, your power comes before anything else," he cuts in to your rambles with cold facts that were hammered into you since childhood. "You are the ruler of the kingdom. Not them. You hold the power, the throne, the sceptre—not them. You are seen purely as the light that shines eternal on our kingdom. Not them."
"For your own crown's protection, it would do you good to finally digest this information and react accordingly. You will be held back by complacency otherwise, and I see no other end to this path than your untimely demise."
It had meant to be comforting, really. He wanted to assure you that your standing was one no one could argue with; that you had secured the very thing that people dreamed of one day attaining, just by being born. Your ideas were brilliant, and your heart held good intent, but you simply needed a reminder of who was in charge—and that person was you.
Unfortunately for him, words had never been his strong suit.
The room had grown tense. Uncomfortable. You had blinked in rapid succession up at him, as if trying to process his words as anything other than a deadly implication should you not take his advice. Beside you, your guard's jaw clenched slightly.
"Royal Advisor Zayne," she had clipped in a much too high-pitched tone. "A word, perhaps?"
But the damage had already been done. When he re-entered, your shoulders were squared stiff, and you were hunched over the map that visualized all that was yours. There had been a sun in the corner of the cartograph, and in the other, the moon, the linework tracing the edges of the paper with intimate delicacy that only the best mapmaker could produce.
To this day, he does not know why your fingers curled so tenderly over the solar body, staring at it with eyes full of longing, of yearning. Even more perplexing was the murderous glare you had sent its foil, before turning your back on the lunar's curved smile.
"Zayne Li."
The name snaps him out of his reverie. He had not been referred to with such formality in many, many years.
He looks up and is unsurprised at the man who looms over him, all luminous, as if he was some sort of savior.
Ah. So this is your Right Hand.
"It is time." Xavier kicks at his chains with disgust. "Up, before I haul you out of this cell myself. And you do not wish to know of my methods for completing such a chore."
The darkness, it has shrouded him for too long. He squints in the blinding, drowning sun, scorched by the heat that threatens to smother him with false promises of warmth. Zayne finds himself craving the moon's shadowing reprieve, instead.
Oh.
Oh.
— ONE MILLION, FOUR THOUSAND AND THREE HUNDRED DAYS AFTER.
The history books mark it as so:
On the day breaching the full moon, the Ruler of the Linkon Kingdom executed their Royal Advisor for committing treason by conspiracy. A chronicler recalls the scene as clean cut and precise; the Royal Advisor—blindfolded, of course—made no complaints or moves with ulterior motives, and yielded his being to Linkon's Radiance with the quiet obedience of a lapdog.
The executioner blade was one of the Right Hand's, kept dutifully tucked away in its holster until the right moment. It gleamed wickedly in the sunlight, as if propelled by some aura not of this planet, and almost seemed to test the limits of gravity when being delicately passed from the Right Hand to the Ruler.
"Heed my words, people of the Linkon Kingdom," they had boomed, voice larger than life itself. "For today, you will see what will become of those who defy the crown's will."
"It is I who holds the power here; the throne; the sceptre. I am the light that will eternally shine on our kingdom, and as such, it is my duty to protect those who thrive under my warmth, and burn who try to cover themselves in shadows."
"Now then," the everlasting sun had muttered in a finishing line. "Let us vanquish our foes, one by one."
Schwing!
Thud.
When prompted for further discussion following the execution, such as the war between the newly named Linkon Empire and the combined forces of Onychinus and Skyhaven, the chronicler had only chuckled.
"I safely escaped to Chansia afterwards, too put off by the bloodshed," he bitterly smiled. "And that was the last I ever heard of Linkon's Eternal Radiance."
— DAYS SEEM SOMETIMES AS IF THEY'LL NEVER END
SUN DIGS ITS HEELS TO TAUNT YOU
BUT AFTER SUNLIT DAYS, ONE THING STAYS THE SAME
RISES THE MOON
/həˈmärdēə/ · noun
— a fatal flaw or crucial error that leads to the downfall of a tragic hero or heroine.
"You had never asked for this, any of it; all you had asked for was love, and yet what you obtain in return is the suffocating burden of a kingdom amidst war threats and relationships that slip through your fingers with the cruel passage of time. Perhaps that was your hamartia—your hope, your longing, and your naivety that what you once shared with him could last even a moment past your coronation day."
{ a crown-heir!reader (they/them) and personal-knight!mc (she/her) au, featuring the lads men who walk the careful line between love & hate, life & death. }
ⓘ read: the post that started it all and a snippet of an ending
part i — nightmare.
the bad "ending."
part ii — loyalty.
personal-knight!xavier x crown-heir!reader
part iii — indifference.
royal-advisor!zayne x crown-heir!reader
part iv — caprice.
neighboring-crown-prince!caleb x crown-heir!reader
part v — daydream.
the "good" ending.
part vi — passion.
marquess-turned-assassin!rafayel x crown-heir!reader
part vii — blasé.
foreign-betrothed-prince!sylus x crown-heir!reader
part viii — reality.
the end.
DISCLAIMER: this series is built upon layers of angst and will contain mentions as well as descriptions of: death, blood, violence, assassination, suicidal ideation, underlying themes of mental health issues, and more should the story call for it. you guys asked for this, so… reader discretion is advised. :P
NOTICE ABOUT UPDATES: until late may i will only be writing for this series & my smau event, TTYLXOX. i am a full-time undergrad and part-time grad student, who has two jobs & various extracurriculars. please be patient with me, as i want to do this world proper justice! my goal is to have this series done by the end of summer, 2026, latest.
summary. with all the time apart, spending the new years with caleb sounds like a great idea.
pairing. caleb x reader
cw. pseudocest (gege/foster brother), nsfw, dubcon, smut, guilt, obsessive/possessive behaviors, gideon makes a cameo because i love him, possibly inaccurate cultural portrayals (chinese new years) (sorry in advance) 18+ viewer discretion is advised + this is dark content
note. ummm like a week late, but happy new years!! first oneshot in a hot minute! thanks for the patience yall :,) 🧡 now i don’t wanna hear ANY rigaramoo about me being an unreliable writer….. ya girl is trying to be more consistent i swear! 😭 hope u enjoy this lil thing that’s been in the works for MONTHS and conveniently synced with new years haha. btw this is like 9k~ words so buckle up. title inspired by radiohead song. pls ignore mistakes
Anxious isn’t the word for it.
No… Thirty minutes from your brother’s place, you think it’s more of excitement and less of unease that’s got your heart fluttering in your chest, palms sticking on the wheel.
Anxious is not the word for it.
In the backseat, your little one pokes at the other and squeals, but she- Summer, your girl, two years older than him and a bit of a diva- isn’t having it. She calls your name to tattle.
“Mommy! He keeps pulling my hair!”
A forbearing sigh on your end, and a brief glance sent to the rearview mirror to quickly survey whether or not she’s telling the truth. You can’t risk a full-on turn behind you now what with this traffic, but one look tells you what you need to know:
Your youngest is misbehaving.
Predictable. And… cute, in a way, that despite all his unintentional (mostly, at least) pestering, he’ll still follow her everywhere, stuck to her side no different than a lost puppy.
It reminds you of something.
Better times... Perhaps not for your life as a whole, but for a relationship long left in the dust of your adolescence.
“Skye- leave your sister alone,” you scold from the front, tone motherly but firm. With a hint of exasperation, perhaps, but being on the road for three hours unbroken, with young children in the back, will do that to anyone.
“But Summer, be more patient, okay?” You add with a honeyed drawl.
She moans, practically withering in her tiny, elevated booster seat, “I want the Ipaaaad!” A no-go, because you already let the pair have too much screen time today and you won’t budge now, especially when you’re in the home stretch.
“Are we almost there?!” She whines before you can let her down easy. Such a smart thing she is, that she can spot your lecture to come and nip it in the bud.
A faint smile tugs at your lips. You hum. “Yes, baby, just hold on a little bit longer for mommy, okay? Once we get there,” you start, and God only knows the reason for your hesitance, why it takes an extra second or two to settle on the title, darting your tongue out to soothe where you’ve been nibbling on your lip, but it does.
“Uncle Caleb will have a nice, fancy dinner for us... You remember his house still, don’t you?”
You risk a loving glance in the mirror once more, quietly hoping it’ll encourage some patience on her side. They can be so high maintenance at times, and you pray this isn’t one of them.
You love your children and wouldn’t trade them for the world, don’t get that wrong, but caring for them- managing their each individual needs while also assuring you don’t coddle them too much- is taxing at best.
It’s why having some help- your attentive, considerate brother’s help- will do you good this New Years.
Should everything go well, anyway. And… And it will.
Why wouldn’t it?
The past is the past.
That’s what you tell yourself, anyway, but the mantra, for as short as it is, is somehow not sticking. Truth be told, the better piece of you is incredibly thrilled to see your older brother again (foster, brother, something in a recess of your brain clarifies)- 25 or not, you don’t think you’ll ever quite retire from that girlish excitement.
But another piece is, with all its might, resisting. Saying to turn back and go home.
And home— that place you made far from him. A deliberate decision made with both rue and determination.
The distance from your family was as heart wrenching as it was necessary. You wouldn’t have done it otherwise.
Summer perks up, and that thing that’s been gnawing at your insides like a chewtoy is temporarily quelled, even if only for the next few moments.
She laughs, her brother kicking his dangling feet with innocent delight as memories of their last visit- a thrilling escapade to their amazing Uncle Caleb’s place- flood in.
“Yes, yes!” She beams, her little sibling joining in with hollers of his own, and you can’t help but laugh along as their joy fills the den of the car.
She turns to Skye, giggling as she peers into his wide eyes, “We’re gonna see Uncle Caleb’s big big house again! And his new puppy!”
“A pup-py!”
What wouldn’t you do to see them happy?
✦
The puppy is too young to be on guard.
Coming in through the front door, he yips at your feet- but only out of the desire to be held.
Summer immediately coos at it. It’s a little Samoyed with a red collar, barely more than a ball of white floof as his tail slices the air behind him, but as you lower Skye from your arms, your eyes remain fixated on the man before you.
In that moment, seeing him again, there’s no distractions to be had, adorable pet begging for your attention or not.
At first, there’s no words. Just… silence, almost to the point of being awkward.
The brunet processes you, cataloguing everything he sees while scouring your face in a breath.
All the while, you do the same.
His shoulders are just as broad, if not a little tense. His brown hair is neatly swept to the side. You briefly wonder if he actually took advantage of that gel you’d always kept under the sink- back at Gran’s, anyway- and you resist the urge to ask him what’s so special the occasion. Maybe a piece of you already knows.
Violet eyes, warm as ever, ripple as they drink you in.
You: a little windswept, with flakes of snow in your lashes, melting at their leisure and blurring the sight of him. Not enough to miss the kilowatt grin that lights up his face, though.
How long has it been, again?
Whatever the answer might be, it doesn’t matter.
Your world narrows down to him, the way he’s looking at you.
You’ve no time to wonder if the joy is mutual, because as soon as he closes the door behind you and your limbs are no longer otherwise occupied by a small child, he pulls you into a hug.
It’s just as you remember it, with his telltale scent of fresh laundry and cinnamon (in a word, comforting). His strong, lean arms. You think there’s an extra bit of bulk to his triceps, but the weight is healthy.
He noses into your hair, breathing you in like it’s not been a year since he’s seen you but rather an eon.
“Fuck,” he whispers, and you’re glad it’s muffled into your temple because the kids are still at your leg, doting on the puppy. You scold him for it anyway, thankful for the excuse to apply some distance as you pull back and laugh.
“No cussing, Caleb,” you murmur just loud enough for him to hear.
In lieu of a real response- or a playful jab back- he answers you in the same, hushed tone, brushing away an unruly lock with a tenderness that makes your heart wallop in your chest.
“I missed you,” he dazedly says.
In the wake of his earnest confession, butterflies draw their wings within your belly.
And recognizing them, quietly knowing that shouldn’t be the reaction your foster brother elicits from you, doesn’t stop it from happening anyway.
“Missed you, too,” you recover- and then he’s wrapping you up again.
While he’s stooped over and embracing you like his life depends on it, you feel the tension in his built shoulders, the stiff muscles. Burrowing your head to his chest, you listen to where his heart lies hammering.
He’s warm.
Even more so now that you’re spared the February cold outside, the howling winds no more than an afterthought.
“How was your trip?” He suddenly asks overhead, probably realizing the standard platitudes are in order. As they roll in, he means them. “Nothin’ went wrong?”
One hand cradles the back of your head while the other rests around your middle, lassoing you impossibly closer. With a soft, wry huff, you prepare to endure one of his lectures. “Nothing went wrong,” you reassure, choosing the more patient route (because you know how he can get) as you give his back a small, soothing rub.
“Don’t worry. The trip was nice. The kids got a little fussy towards the end, but… it wasn’t anything their IPad couldn’t handle.” He leans back an inch, just enough to stare at you and raise a playful, questioning brow, grinning ear to ear and helpless to control it.
“Ah,” he drawls curiously, “I see… So you’re one of those parents, huh?”
“Oh, be quiet. When you have kids one day, you’ll realize how difficult it can be, too. Besides,” you add on, carefully averting your gaze as his becomes a despondent thing that makes you feel terribly uncertain for the split second it’s there.
“It’s not like I just leave them to a device for hours unattended,” you continue. He looks to you again. “I only let them have a little bit of screen time- and I let them watch movies in the car only because I didn’t want them to die of boredom. It’s not an easy trip, you know.”
He pats your head, humming. The onset of a whine is cut short when you realize he’s not ruffling your hair per usual- like he did way back then- but rather fixing the melted clumps in it.
“Suuuure,” he smiles like it’s the easiest thing ever. And maybe it is, maybe he’s willed himself into forgetting, too, “Save the excuses for later, Pipsqueak, kay? Let’s get you inside for now. You can take a shower and wear my PJs, just for tonight. I’ll get the rest of your suitcases first thing in the morning, yeah?”
The parroted ‘yeah’ on the tip of your tongue shrivels as soon as Summer barrels by, knocking into you and Caleb and hollering for his attention now that her introduction to his pet has been complete.
“Uncle Caweb!”
Flailing his arms, Skye follows suit, waddling in with grabby hands and a shriek.
Caleb lets out a warm chuckle, happy to oblige.
“Well, well, well, look who it is... Finally payin’ your Uncle Caleb some attention, huh? You squirts have grown pret-ty big since the last time I saw you,” he muses, “Guess your mama just needs to drop by more.”
He lifts them both in one fell swoop to their sheer delights. And maybe it’s just accidental, something done out of lack of thought or the mere fact that it’s late and your tired from travel, but your eyes rake over him as he cheerfully twirls them around.
The two of them erupt with laughter, clinging to him and pinching his face- booping his nose- and God should smite you as your mind falls to the gutter in a moment of solitude.
You blink, and all those summer nights you’d spent with him in his bedroom, his limbs tangled with yours as he lazily kissed you, murmuring your name to the sound of the whirring, cheap fan on the floor, pour in with a vengeance— unbidden and so, so vivid.
“I love you, always. So much.”
“But Caleb- I still just… What about Gran?”
A furrow of his brow. The tranquility on his face shattered by a mention. “What about her? I told you, you don’t have to worry about her- about anyone. It’s just me and you. I’ll… figure it out for us, kay? But you and me? We will always,” he emphasizes, long, slim fingers roving over your cheek, mapping it out meticulously.
“Belong to each other.”
You wring your hands at your front, as if that could will them all away.
A shaky sigh slips past your lips. You turn away, toeing off your boots, mentally chiding yourself even if the thoughts were intrusive, beyond your control and nothing more.
While he’s swept up with the reunion with the kids, genuinely just as thrilled to see them (something your ex-husband could never quite nail the act for), you flit over towards the living room and unravel the scarf from your neck, lowering your personal bag.
The bare necessities are in there: your and the kids’ toothbrushes, a charger and your phone and the like, but everything else, the bulk of your luggage, is in the trunk. A job reserved for Caleb, apparently.
The home is large, even more so considering its one inhabitant. You’re proud of him, though, really. He’s done well for himself.
As the moment of peace presents itself, after such a hectic day, you’re happy to take it, allowing yourself to simply… come down.
Something delightful wafts in from another corridor, and it’s right then that you realize just how hungry you are. Sun setting or not- you’re happy to pretend it’s still time for dinner.
Your window of peace (or reprieve after the chaos that is traveling with small children) isn’t here to stay, though- because as Caleb trails you in, a callous hand isn’t long from settling on your waist.
The little quaver in your voice is because of fatigue. Nothing more.
“A-Already tired of your niece and nephew?”
Caleb chuckles, “Never,” Tugging you toward his chest once more. You don’t fight him off. Frankly, you’re too exhausted to even think of doing so.
“Where are they anyway?” He silences your ask with a peck to the crown of your forehead, and it’s only a smidgen difficult to pretend the thing stirring in your gut isn’t romantic in nature as he rocks you on his heels.
No, no- you’re both… Fine like this. It’s fine.
That was a long time ago, after all. Things have, across your respective timelines, fortunately come into play and intervened, meaning that whatever juvenile thing you shared long ago holds no further revelance. None.
You’d went one way, and although there was a bit of resistance at first- oh, plenty- he ultimately went the other. I mean, last you heard, Gideon was introducing him to a nice girl. If that’s not proof of progress, what is?
“Relax, Pipsqueak. Turn off your mother hen instincts for the week. You’ve got me here to lend a hand now, and I intend to do just that,” he whispers, a stroke against the shell of your ear. You swallow, nodding.
You lean away again- for as much as he’ll allow, anyway. “And what about that welcome meal you promised?”
He smiles, rubbing your back thoughtlessly, “Mhm, already on it. Don’t you smell it? Tempting, right?”
“Yeah, I do. Will it be finished by the time I’m done showering?”
If you didn’t know any better, Caleb has something he wants to say on that subject, but he apparently thinks better of it. His violet, glittering eyes flit down and away, his thumb caressing your shoulder as he huffs to himself.
“Something funny?” A wrinkle appears between your brow.
“Nope,” he says, matching your stare with unrivaled joy, making something in your heart flip in the process. Why your old partner could never look at you with such love and adoration, you never quite figured it out, but there’s no point in dwelling on the past.
None at all.
“It depends, though…” he answers, kind of snarky, kind of light. It makes you hold your breath. Does he hang on your every word too? you briefly wonder before nudging the silly thought aside.
“Will it be a long one where you steal all the hot water? ‘Cause if so, I bet the food will be cold by then. I might even have to eat it for you.”
A small, humoring nod, and a smile as the placator. “I’ll be quick, I promise.”
A beat of silence comes, and then with his lashes fluttering down at you, watching what he sees with barely concealed wonder, it goes.
Rather than using words, Caleb regards you for a few seconds more before extending a pinky, awaiting with a hope that’s boyish.
“I’ll watch the kids while you’re gone, don’t worry.”
Then, you’re laughing breathlessly and lacing his pinky in your own. When his forehead presses to yours, though, your smile dies where it spreads. His name escapes you in a wary breath.
“C-Caleb.”
A warning; or a plead to not cross the proverbial line drawn in the sand.
He shushes you, murmuring, “I know. I’m just… glad to see you.”
Whatever’s taken ahold of him, he shortly snaps out of, breaking away from you with quickness.
Not bothering to hear a response, or perhaps just afraid of one, he’s thumping up the stairs in a blink, helpfully throwing over his shoulder, “I left a towel in the bathroom for ya- you know where it is. I’ll head to the room and check on the kids... See how they’re gettin’ along with Apple.”
You’re left with the bag at your feet and the fluffy scarf still hanging pitifully from your fingers. The mess he’s left of your drumming heart.
Every part of you tingles in his absence, your skin crawling beneath your wooly jacket and jeans… though not it in a wholly unpleasant way.
Smothering a yawn in the back of your hand, you decide to push whatever just transpired to the metaphorical backburner, walking towards the hall.
On your pass around the kitchen, you pretend not to see the thick, red envelope lying on the counter for you; the handsome wad of cash surely tucked inside.
A soft, defeated sigh. Then following it, a slow, deliberate smile that lifts your cheeks.
Ever the cosseter, your older brother.
✦
Gideon’s glass clinks with yours.
With Caleb putting the kids down for bed, it’s his childhood bestfriend that keeps you company in the kitchen after dinner.
Despite your insistence to make yourself useful, the brunet nonetheless refused each of your offers to do the dishes, reminding you of your guest title. So instead, you prop yourself against the counter and hold conversation over a flute of wine.
It’s been a while since you’ve seen your brother, yes, but even longer still since you’ve seen Gideon, yet he’s as unexpectedly charming as you remember him.
A little rough around the edges, with his sharp, square jaw and dark cropped hair, but you think his real allure lies in his gauche sort of sincerity. It’s easy to like him, even easier to call him handsome— both of which your teenage self did enthusiastically in pages of your diary.
You can distinctly recall the moment when Caleb first discovered the object of all those callow, lovesome poems, the flash of his eyes and then the anger settling. Finding out your crush was his veritable best friend might as well have been the same as finding out there had been a death in the family, but it was envy more than anything else that clung to his voice after the glance of betrayal had passed.
“You like Gideon?” A disbelieving scoff, and a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes to pair with it. The last thing you wanted after getting home from school was to be put through yet another lecture, by your brother no less.
“Sis: I told you about guys my age, didn’t I? They’re not a good influence-“
“Then why d’you hang out with him all the time?”
“Don’t,” he henpecks, lifting the tacky journal when you make an attempt for it again, “Change the subject, little missy. It doesn’t matter if we hang out or not. He’s still a man, sis, okay? And you remember what Gran said, right? About the birds and the bees-“
“Caleb- gross!”
“Yeah, exactly, gross,” he agrees, light but pointed. “But that’s all they want.”
At the time, you’d been a flustered mess and furious he’d took the liberty upon himself to snoop; being exposed for your crush was the worst thing that could’ve happened during your sophomore year. But it’s hard to do anything but laugh thinking back on it now.
“I heard you’re seeing the drone show?”
You hum, lowering your glass with a smile. “Yeah. Caleb’s gonna take me and the kids for New Years,” you add solely out of curiosity, “You coming too?”
The reaction he gives you, one of faint fluster as a shade of pink dusts his hewn cheekbones, isn’t expected.
You sort of marvel at it, raising a curious brow as he rubs his neck and chuckles. “Um, I don’t think so… I’d hate to intrude, you know? But otherwise, I would’ve been down.”
Ah. It seems his gift of being funny without trying hasn’t faded with time. “Why would you be intruding? You’re practically family to us, Gideon. You wouldn’t be intruding on anything. Besides,” you stick on with a harmless giggle, “I’m sure Summer and Skye would like it if both their cool uncles tagged along.”
If it’s possible, his blush deepens.
He hides his dreamy sigh with a cough, averting his gaze elsewhere. His career path has always been something he’s took great pride in; you’re sure soaring the skies all day long is only made better by the fact that he gets to do it with his childhood buddy.
“Ah, well honestly? I’d really like to, it’s just-”
As if on cue, another figure walks in right when you’re about to get to the bottom of it, his voice trailing off with what you think might be guilt as a new one chimes in.
“It’s just…?”
Warmth invades your senses. A cloud of cinnamon enveloping you.
An arm slings across your shoulder, tucking you to his side. Before you can so much as register what’s happening, Caleb reaches for the drink dangling in your hand and knocks half of it back with an exaggerated sound of refreshment.
“You-!”
“Mission ‘get the kids to bed’ is complete,” he informs blithely, and you take what’s left of your wine back with a somewhat amused glance at him.
Swallowing down an objection to his offense, or moreover the hand that dips to rest at the small of your back, you thank him for the accomplishment. “It’s always a hassle to get them to lay down.”
“Oh, no need to thank me,” he chimes, turning his head to regard you with a rather vainglorious smirk. “That’s what I’m here for. You’re my guest for the week, Pipsqueak. I’d be a pretty lame host if I made you do all the work.”
Sure, they’re his niece and nephew, but ultimately, although you’re sure he’d jump at the offer, they’re not his to care for…: Something you don’t voice, preferring to bite the reminder down as he pries his gaze from you to Gideon. You follow in suit.
Those wide, dark eyes trend over you both, watching with an excessive amount of interest.
When you catch him, he glances away, chugging the beverage in hand with renewed thirst.
You clench your jaw and look down, idly thumbing at your glass as you casually extricate yourself from the brunet’s side. If Caleb is upset about the space, he doesn’t comment on it, but the final glimpse you catch of him reveals a slightly kicked expression.
He recovers from it with a cock of his head, lilting, “Now, where were we again?”
“Gideon wants to come to the show with us,” you immediately regret saying because Gideon appears almost betrayed when you shoot him a confused glance, like you’ve thrown him under the bus rather than invite him to the city event that’ll mark the celebration of the new year.
Somewhere at your side, Caleb muses, “Oh, really now? Funny… What made ya change your mind from the last time we talked about it?”
“Just-“ Gideon fumbles out between sips, motioning with his hands to no particular thing, “You know, man. I wanna see the lights. It might be cool.”
“I’m pretty sure you can watch the drone show from your window. Orrrr… anywhere else.”
Your guest’s behavior was a little suspicious, yes, but now the pieces fall into perfect place.
You throw an elbow to your brother’s arm, snipping. “Caleb, what’s wrong with you? Why can’t he go?”
A strained laugh, and then Gideon’s moving forward to grab the neck of the bottle off the island, pouring another out. During so, he tries to assure you all is well, but as you glare at the brunet with equal parts confusion and disappointment- maybe embarrassment on his behalf for being so damn rude- you’re not convinced.
“It’s fine, really. I’ll probably be invited by somebody else before then, so…”
You frown. “But it’s in two days… Don’t you think you’d have been invited by now?”
A delicate rose flushes his handsome face, burning the tips of his big ears. Caleb snorts at your right, stepping out to refill his own glass but listening intently.
“W-Well—“
A holler cuts through the otherwise relaxed atmosphere. The kids are fighting, if Summer’s annoyance was the least bit clear- and in a heartbeat you’re foregoing your drink, the conversation, padding up the steps.
Seamlessly, Caleb turns to raise a thick eyebrow, tone almost longanimous in your absence.
“You’re not going, got it? You’re watchin’ the pup for us.”
Gideon deflates. The tension lifts on the spot.
“Yeah. I figured.”
✦
With all the traffic, it’s a hike to get to City Square.
Once you do arrive, the plaza is packed, spilling into the outskirts of town, handheld lights speckling the crowd.
You’re immersed in a sea of star-like flashes, and as Caleb hefts Skye over his broad shoulders to sit, your daughter’s fingers keeping an iron grasp around yours as you navigate as close to the front as possible, you can’t help but laugh.
By a small miracle, although perhaps helped by the fact your brother is so tall and quietly commands respect wherever he goes, his Colonel rank or whatever, you make it to the front.
A lake looms before you, its flat, icy surface a mirror for the clear, dark skies overhead. Beyond it, the workings of the show are being prepared on the grassy patch across.
Bundled up in your winter wear, you grab the rail and wait for the show to begin.
Excited chatter bounces between the kids in those intervening moments, loud enough to hear despite the horde of people around you.
Caleb humors their endless stream of questions relating to fireworks and aircrafts- his life as a pilot- putting into layman’s terms what his job entails while also omitting the bits too elaborate for a six and four year old to handle.
He’s always been good with them. That’s true, definitely.
Always treated them like his own.
But he’s different now— you’re different now— And then again, you find yourself thinking God should smite you as those flashes of debauchery trickle back into the forefront of your brain, eager to meddle with your night of peace.
“My turn: You wanna know what I think? You’re worryin’ for nothing, Pipsqueak. Since… we’re not related by blood, it wouldn’t affect them. Gran only took us both in, remember? So me n’ you can do anything we want-“
“There. Can you see where they’re settin’ it up now, buddy? Pretty cool, right? You’re so high it’s like you’re flyin’.”
“And… you know…” he whispers seductively, a stirring of warmth at your neck. His long fingers skim the smooth pouch of your belly, tracing there appreciatively. Or meditating, maybe.
“That includes…”
A chilly breeze swoops low, over the lake. And you should be glad for the mittens that warm your hands and the scarf meticulously looped around your neck- a knot you could never do- but as a layer of sweat forms on your palms, it’s hard to feel anything but uncomfortable.
“Hey, don’t worry- I gotcha. Uncle Caleb’s not gonna let you fall on his watch. Just watch your head up there, kay? Lots of activity tonight… Don’t let go of your mama, Summer, stay just like that.”
“Settling down. Havin’ kids of our own one day- our own big family- isn’t out of the equation,” he flicks your forehead far too light to even hurt, “So don’t go gettin’ all existential on me.”
The sound of your name being called pulls you from your unbidden reverie with a start.
“Y-Yeah?”
A smile greets you, warm and gentle. Just inches from your face as a thick arm curls around your midriff, his other steadying the small boy atop his shoulders. A mite amused by the lack of general awareness you’re exhibiting.
“Show’s startin’. Eyes up, babe.”
Babe.
The petname, said so casually, rolls off the tip of his tongue and might as well scald you as soon as it registers. Yet if Caleb realizes his error, or even cares for it, he doesn’t express it with any sign of remorse; when your eyes widen at him, he’s not the picture of scandalized or even mildly shocked, no, he’s just beaming that stupid, mellow smile at you and then-
As the drones lift, a million colors dotting the vast sky, rotating into depictions of ancient tales and creatures- coiling dragons and intricate faces- Caleb leans in.
And with your little boy propped on his shoulders while Summer tugs at the hem of your sweater, the pair of them far too absorbed in the spectacle to so much as glance at you, he captures your lips with his.
What kills you the most, though, isn’t his mouth pressed against yours or even the murmured “Happy New Year, sis”- no.
It’s the fact that you can’t say you didn’t see it coming.
✦
White knuckles clench the sink.
The mirror, squeaky clean, ripples before you. Blurs through your tears- the ones you refuse to let go of.
Bedtime is in a few minutes. No mother wants her children to see her cry.
The plan was to visit for the week, celebrate the new year with your brother: a fun, seemingly harmless plan despite all the red flags being there in retrospect. Maybe you’d be lying to say a piece of you, deep down and having long been buried, didn’t know what would happen.
In your head, quietly staring at your reflection and feeling nothing but the raw sting of disappointment and disgust with a healthy side of self loathing- you compare Caleb to a wound reopened.
And whatever the two of you had before is what you have now. Bleeding for the umpteenth time, dragging you down with it.
First thing tomorrow, you’ll leave.
Two days earlier than originally intended, sure… but you already spent the last 24 hours since he kissed you fighting tooth and nail to pretend he didn’t- a test of sheer endurance if you’ve ever experienced one- and this isn’t an act you want to keep up for long.
Let alone in front of the kids.
Any more and you might do something you regret.
Like slap him across the stupid, handsome fucking face for ruining six years of staying sober from each other. Or perhaps the greatest fear you have is that you’ll end up kissing it back instead.
Long, slender digits twine with yours.
You’d be hard pressed to find a place in the airport that isn’t flooded with chatter and passersby; most are too absorbed in the haze of travel to notice you, but still, it feels… wrong when Caleb pulls you closer in a melting pot of people and presses his forehead to yours.
All the more when your husband is here accompanying you, and there’s no telling when he’ll get back from the food stall with Summer.
The look on his face if he ever found out- the utter devastation and then abhorrence- would kill you.
“Caleb-“
Your yelp of startle, or fear, perhaps, is truncated by the look you’re met with. Tender, though clearly not far off from being emotionally derailed. So much he reminds you of that boy you once knew, two grades ahead of you and protective as a mama bear, never far away.
And God- he knows you have everything to lose, what with your spouse and the recent addition of a little one; that once distant dream of eloping with some dashing, princely man is quite literally right in front of you. Not to mention, Caleb is doing alright for himself too, climbing the ranks of his workplace at breakneck speed.
You’re both doing well for yourselves. More than that, even. You finally have the chance to put the past- put Caleb- behind you, and move on with your respective lives.
For good, this time.
So you wish he’d show some enthusiasm about it, even if it grudges you to admit it’s a little bittersweet on your end, too.
“Caleb,” you go to say again, but it’s useless. A large palm slips between your bodies, hidden by the cluster of bags he’d been so kind to carry off his shoulder. It settles over the soft, nearly imperceptible swell of your belly.
Not even your husband has noticed yet.
Mere inches from your head as you bow it, he thinly murmurs.
“It… should’ve been mine.”
So strange, right then, how the tone of his voice sounds both like heartfelt regret and a promise to come.
With a shaky breath, you dot at the unshed tears clinging to your eyes and flick off the bathroom light.
The hallway one will follow suit- just as soon as you tuck the kids in and crack their door. You’re not afraid of them exploring at night, wandering off on their lonesomes in their Uncle’s super duper big house: with the puppy around now, he keeps a partition by the steps, and it keeps more than just the pet from going up and down the steep staircase.
Besides, you bet they’ll be out like a light tonight. You suppose a day’s worth of running around town, scampering from shop to shop as their Uncle spoils them rotten will tire out even the most spritely of six and four year olds.
Pausing by the open door, you’re met with the vision of the brunet bidding the kids goodnight.
Knelt down, Skye tries to curl up on his knee while his sister enthusiastically shows off the beloved stuffie she managed to slip under your radar while you packed the essentials.
A soft, tormented exhale. You allow yourself the moment to lean against the door and fold your arms, observing the admittedly endearing sight without making yourself known, but it’s not fondness that coasts through your chest— or heartache as you picture all but abandoning him again. It’s definitely not.
That’s… what he called it once, anyway. Abandonment.
The accusation slipped out in the heat of the moment, but even those award-winning puppy dog eyes of his couldn’t quite mend the wounded look you’d given him in turn.
He can play a cruel game, you know that well by now. Manipulative to a fault and wildly possessive. But he’ll be slow to admit his devotion to you often lands less on romantic and more on…
Frightening.
Granted, a hard trait to assign to him when he stands up- six foot something of lean mass- and laughs when your youngest clings to his leg and refuses to let go.
Neither of the kids have noticed your hovering yet, and you don’t think Caleb has, either, but right when you’re about to force down your unease and finally step in, the whimpering pleas of your children stop you short.
“Pweaaase Uncle Caweb? Convince our mommy to stay!”
Skye firmly parrots, “Stay! Stay!” And it’d be nothing but untrue to say the sweet sounds don’t tug on your insides.
Your brother huffs through his nose. It’s hard to decide whether it’s out of amusement for their antics, or exasperation at the mention of your leaving tomorrow. Very well could be both.
Yet there seems to be a sense of sadness to his voice when he ruffles their hair each and announces, decidedly resolved,
“Uncle Caleb will see what he can do, kay?”
✦
Funny that.
See what he can do.
You hadn’t given him much of a chance to convince you, though, hurriedly skittering away before he could catch so much as a glimpse as you made a beeline for the lower floor, so maybe you’re afraid he’ll suceed.
Even so. You’re smart enough to anticipate that surrender- that final offering of yourself to him in whole- and have acted accordingly to stop it.
Turning your back and scurrying down the stairs before he could get a word in might be the trademark of a coward- but when it comes to transgressions, that childhood ledger you used to carry around holds no shortage of ammo against him, and Caleb is far from better.
Very far.
And you’re a saint, right? A self-critical voice offers somewhere in the back of your head, and yeah it makes you a little bitter. With another sigh, you lift on your tippy toes to grab the cup from the cabinet, and then fill it at the fridge.
Maybe you’re no good, either, but the truth is that you tried. Tried to change. Tried to improve. Tried-
To quit him.
That plan went smoothly for all of a whopping six years before the backbone of it collapsed. Since then, things haven’t gone exactly… swimmingly. But you kept the distance between you and Caleb, and that effort, no matter how cruel a measure it seemed taken against family, meant something.
Up until a couple days ago. When he kissed you, and single-handedly undid everything you’d ever worked towards.
A scoff. You angrily set down your cup and look towards the clock above the oven, its numbers glowing. It’s very, very late, and you should be asleep, but rest didn’t come easy to you- not when you were half expecting your foster brother to barge in unannounced to serenade you with some bullshit apology.
Some bullshit apology, yes- because you don’t want to imagine the alternative.
You’d managed a couple hours of sleep before something or another woke you up- your inner torment, probably- and then decided you were thirsty. That, and restless. Rolling out of the comfy, foam bed didn’t seem all too convenient, not when it felt like entering the rest of the house was akin to stepping over enemy lines, but there was no way you’d spend the rest of the night tossing and turning, and your throat was begging for water.
Everything is packed up. The kids’ clothes and the plushies they dragged along, the toiletries.
Your own personal bag sits at the foot of the guest bed, zipped. All that’s left to do is sling it over your shoulder and go.
Getting all of the luggage crammed in the trunk is another matter entirely, and how you’ll combat Caleb’s attempts to help with it this time, you don’t know. But you refuse to let him.
He’ll be fucking lucky if he even gets to say goodbye to the kids. Let alone you.
Because this is unfair. He can’t just- kiss you and turn your world upside down and then act like you’re the bad guy for ducking him in return.
Receiving that initial text from him, organizing the trip and then physically making the drive, it was all so… believable. You really began to feel hopeful that the distance was paying off in leaps and bounds.
Caleb made a convincing act.
So did you.
Wincing at your own internal struggle, you swipe a hand over your face and take the moment while it presents itself to just… be.
A million emotions whirl inside you at once with an intensity you’re neither awake enough nor mentally there enough to quell.
Frustration, however, is the one that compels you to mutter “Dummy” underneath your breath, sighing over no one thing in particular.
Indignation sears through the stronghold of your heart, bitter to the point of flooding your tear ducts, and then guilt ravages whatever’s left. Reaching again for your near depleted drink, you’re far from prepared when a droll voice rings behind you.
“Dummy, huh?” He comments. “And who are you callin’ that, Pipsqueak?”
You startle. Spinning around so quick that the water splashes up and wets the front of your gown. You hiss under your breath, searching for the dish towel immediately, blotting the fabric with your back to him because you refuse to let him see you fluster.
“What do you want?” You announce. Civil or not, you don’t care. He lost the privilege of your manners, and you can’t be bothered to be nice to him right now.
Galactic eyes sweep over you incredulously, if not a little possessive. “Didn’t I teach you about respectin’ your elders?” He says after a pause, pursing his lips. Still, you’re not so deluded to miss the spark of amusement there.
…Yeah, you’re just a little embarrassed he caught you like this… You can try as you might to act unfazed by his appearance, but evidently- what with the stain cooling on the front of your negligee- he has an effect on you.
You scoff, throwing his words right back at him. “Elders? Wake up Caleb, we are the elders. And if anything- I’m more of one than you,” you snip, spinning around now to cross your arms over your chest and glare at him to the best of your ability. Unwarranted or not, childish or not, the cruel accusations are spilling out. This whole situation has been simmering to a point for years now, and it’s finally boiling over.
“Twenty-eight and still no kids. N-No wife.”
You don’t expect him to snap back, really, you don’t- not with any true heat, anyway. You’ve only spent all your formative childhood years with him: more than enough to know he’s slow to anger albeit quick to participate in banter. Per usual, he’ll take your jabs against him like water off a duck’s back, and then return them with a casual but direct hit against you. Friendly fire.
Caleb’s face darkens.
Whatever playful, cheerful brother you knew growing up disappears in a cloud of smoke.
Indigo eyes, ever bright as they stare at you, fall into a heavy look, then, as he takes his hand off his hip. His handsome features betraying what you understand to be real, raw frustration.
Although, that word doesn’t quite do it justice... He looks…
Wounded.
Guilt churns inside you— and regret, undeniable regret. But it’s too late to take back your reckless statement. There’s something terribly offensive in what you just said and it compels Caleb to stride forward and- much too quick for you to react- snatch your wrist.
His long fingers loop around your skin, not hard enough to leave bruises but just enough to let you know who holds the reins here.
There was always a certain hierarchy in the house, your non-acknowledgment of it as a little girl irrelevant. Gran was at the top, of course, your guardian when all was said and done, the one who supplied a roof over your head and paid the bills. But as you grew older, oddly enough, you quietly realized that it was your older brother who resembled a parental figure the most.
For a good while, up until you split ways, tied the knot with your now ex-husband and moved out of the family home, Caleb was the man of your house.
Right now, you’re quietly convinced he always will be.
Deceiving yourself for all this time was such a sweet, devastating game to play. But the present leaves you with no other choice but to own up to your mistakes- your sheer fucking stupidity- and face him head-on as he looms over you and puts a match to your heart.
“And that’s my fault?” He retorts, purple hues holding a challenge, “Do you honestly think I wanted this, Y/n?” A harsh laugh, a shake of his head.
“For all this time I’ve had to sit back and watch you fool around with a guy who couldn’t care less about you,” shame burns your cheeks, but he continues on, knowing all the right places to apply his blade and cut, “And you’ve spat in my face for every attempt I made to pull you out of it. What other choice did I have but to be alone?”
Anger floods to the surface, prickling under your skin and burning. You have every reason to be upset with him, to want to grab him by his stupid broad shoulders and shake, but you’re thrown the curve ball of intense, sudden sadness.
For lack of better response, you laugh along, too. “Oh, so it all falls back on me, huh? Your fucking misery-?”
“And so what if it does?” He whispers. Your glare wavers when he leans in closer, the tip of his nose no more than an inch from yours. Whatever outburst you’d prepared to unleash on him dies in your throat.
This is your brother, yes, but the boy you once knew has long been put in a coffin and lowered into the dirt. What you’re staring at now- what you’re brainlessly challenging without the faintest idea of the consequences to be reaped from it- is no more than a man, deprived of what he’s always wanted most, might you add.
Deprived for a very, long time.
Caleb practically snarls, “Everything was fine until you-“
A hot flash of panic grips you, raw and dizzying, and then-
Releases in an instant.
Knuckles caress the slope of your cheek, the other hand loosening from your wrist though not falling away entirely, and the look of ill intent, or hurt, vanishes from the brunet’s face. It’s an overwhelming softness that mellows out his expression, and you watch on with wide eyes as he exhales sharply. He’s the picture of reverence, of adoration.
But not of repentance.
Thick lashes brush over his cheekbone, his fingertips like butterfly wings against your own as he maps out your stunned look.
Compared to just seconds ago, his voice is an unrecognizable, tender thing, “We were perfect, sis. Don’t you remember our promise we made to each other?”
Oh, you remember many. But you were kids. Stupid and naive and unprepared- you most of all.
A full breath gusts out of you in a sigh. Quickly looking down, you shake your head and make a pathetic little sound. That’s more than enough to tell Caleb you don’t want to have this conversation during the wee hours of morning, let alone when tomorrow is an early day for travel- but he takes your visible conflict as a cue to rest his hand over your lower back and pull you in like it’s instinct.
And you can’t blame him, because it is. He’s used to protecting, to being your shield. There’s many times where Caleb’s been at fault: locking you in the attic as kids and stealing the leftovers with your name on it just a couple to name, but to be honest, you kind of pity him when he gets like this… even if he’s still just as bad.
To anyone else, the outsiders looking in, he’s nothing more than possessive. A dog hoarding a bone. But you can recognize your foster brother for what he really is.
Afraid.
Terribly, wretchedly afraid.
And God, you love him, you do, there’s no amount of time spent apart from him that can undo that, but your bond was never meant to be what he wanted it to be and you just-
“I can’t do this, Caleb,” you croak out. It’s a weak, juvenile protest at best, but you press your palm against his front and refuse to look at him, even when he props a gentle, yet no less firm hand under your chin and draws it up with need.
“Why not?” He breathes. When you finally muster enough courage to open your eyes, a knot has appeared between Caleb’s thick brows, and he looks just a few mean words away from crying- those manipulative tendencies on full display.
Jerk. Your fingers twirl the fabric of his sleep shirt; futile retaliation.
You go to respond but he stops you, lips grazing against yours and your whole body locks up. “You’re right. We’re… not kids anymore,” he pits your own words against you, but it’s done in a voice too sweet to warrant anger, “Nobody can tell us what we can and can’t do. So… stop hiding from this, yeah? Haven’t I always taken care of you?”
You wince, voiceless. “You’re my brother.” The closest thing you’ll ever have to one, anyway.
A syrupy hum. He twines his fingers in your hair and painlessly tugs you in by the handful until your foreheads touch. “N’ I always will be. It’s my job to always be at your side.”
“N-Not like this.” You want to shrink, silently praying that the floor opens up a hole that can swallow you on the spot- but you’re not so fortunate.
Slightly chapped lips brush over your tightly closed eyes, then, and the hand he has on your lower back trails even lower to cup your ass through your night gown.
“You never complained before though, hm?” He mumbles, as comforting as he is malicious. “When we fooled around back then. You… liked it, didn’t you?”
He gives a little squeeze to your pert ass as if to test his point, measuring your reaction, but then before he gets it, he hefts you up by your legs and sets you on the marble counter.
“Caleb-“
Hot breath fans at the shell of your ear, weakening whatever it touches, the nerve endings beneath his lips lighting. They dive along your neck in a slow, sensual assault, the wet column of his tongue melting the dregs of your composure, striping under your jaw.
There’s no warning. You feel him all over, everywhere, carving a hole from the inside out.
“When I touched you like this,” he adds, grabbing you by the hips now and slamming your core to his abdomen. The bulge lying beneath his thin sleep wear comes as a small shock to you, but though it’s unfamiliar, it’s not completely foreign. Semi-hard, but fast to fatten up as he thoughtlessly begins to rut himself against you, palms groping soft skin, mouth suckling on your neck all the while.
The hickies will last. So will your guilt once the sun pops up tomorrow and you’ve actually agreed to let this happen, but it’s progressively hard to say no.
“When I put my fingers inside you…”
His touch moves to the apex of your thighs (trembling, though you willfully ignore that), easily accessing the lacy seat of your panties with an effortless push of your gown. He slips the cotton down until it hooks off your ankles, but contrary to his promising words, doesn’t force his digits in.
No, instead he fully pries your legs open with a desperate, ragged moan-
“When I got on my knees and ate this sweet, little pussy.”
-and sinks to the kitchen tile to bury his head between your thighs and feast.
You cry out immediately, stilting your arms to pull at his ash-brown hair— that which he rewards with a breathy grunt.
Without any preamble, his tongue delves between your folds, washing over your clit to suck, and although it’s been years since he last took you this way and you’re far from in your right mind, you wonder if he’s gotten better, because fuck it feels that way.
He heaves, “I know I liked it.”
That doesn’t come as a big surprise to you. Despite your best efforts to convince yourself whatever fling you shared was long gone, lost in the dust you kicked behind you, deep in your heart, you knew the painful, dirty truth.
Your brother was never ready to let you go. He wasn’t then, and he sure as hell isn’t now.
Distantly, you realize that while you might’ve been able to wriggle out of his hold before, you were younger then, more immature but given a sort of grace period because of that- and though he was far from reasonable, he still had some sense to know pursuing you when you ran wasn’t possible.
That was before.
The option to right your wrongs is no longer available to you in the present, though. And Caleb, you know, as much as it grudges you to admit, is right.
Free from prying eyes, he can do whatever the hell he pleases.
Expert hands, knowing you best, rend you apart. Your taste is divine and your skin is so hot it’s practically melting the callous span of his palms, but it’s the delicate little whine of his name you can’t help from falling in time that makes the thinning thread of his composure snap completely.
“Fuck,” he snarls. The sound stirs a fresh wave of arousal in your belly- maybe fear, too.
Without any warning he climbs to his feet and pushes you by your collarbone, your back meeting the cool countertop with ease. The haze clears ever so slightly now that your pussy has reprieve from his lips, but that fog isn’t altogether gone. You’re still only half aware of what’s happening, and even less sure of whether you can afford to say yes to him or not.
Because no, this isn’t like before. Two reckless teenagers with the safety-net excuse of ‘young and dumb’ to bounce back into should you regret your actions. No, you’re adults now, with an established foothold in the real world and if you mess up, if you go through with this, there’s no fresh start.
For fuck’s sake— This. This was meant to be the fresh start.
Pulsing in your chest, thudding like steel-toed boots over solid ground, your heart throbs.
With labored breaths, you shakily lift yourself up by an elbow, watching with misty eyes as the brunet fumbles with his pants- reaching over only to nudge you back into submission.
Not a hard task. The truth of the matter is that the fiercest of your resistance is gone, abandoned in the wake of his obsession, his own twisted form of love.
Your foster brother is many things. Just as bound and determined as he is tender and considerate- and so as your last ditch effort, you appeal to that side.
“Please,” tears well up in your eyes, but they don’t fall, and even if they did, you’re not sure if they’re from the emotional trainwreck you’re experiencing or just the sheer overwhelm he’s causing your body.
Violet, nebulous eyes flick up at that, though, regarding you with a cool sort of clarity, and as they flash with… something like uncertainty, you wonder if it’s worked.
In the next moment, whatever you thought you saw is gone.
“Don’t worry. I’m here.”
His broad hands find purchase on the fat of your hips, and then with a slam of his mouth against yours to hush your disoriented cry, he’s driving himself home.
It’s a cocktail of momentary pain and then searing pleasure- his thick cock barreling inside with a choked moan of your name. The ceiling spins. The dimmed light of the kitchen fuzzing away. And fuck it’s like you can almost swear you feel the very veins on his shaft, pulsating within your soaked walls, the long absence of him only highlighting just how good it feels to have him this way again.
In that moment, you remember him. You remember everything like you’d never forgotten.
“Shh,” he murmurs, fingers reverently trailing up your arm before tangling with your own, but you’re only half cognizant of what he’s saying.
“I’ll fuck you nice and good, sis. Give you what I- nghh- know you need... It’s this, right?” He husks, looking all too satisfied with himself and the effect he has on you, “You just needed me back inside you, right? Filling you to the brim…”
A gasp. You tremble, arching into him despite yourself. And God, with whatever’s left of your rationale, you pray the kids won’t wake, that Apple won’t start yipping in his cage or Gran won’t barge into the room this very instant and uncover the nakedness of the ones she brought up with her own hand.
For the millionth time, you remind yourself that this was the second chance; your only real shot at contributing to a functioning society as a normal human being, and you’ve blown it.
All your efforts—
Ruined.
And you’re so screwed for it, especially tomorrow when this slaps you in the face like a bag of bricks, but Caleb makes it feel sweet. Rewarding.
“This pussy is mine. Not that asshole’s… Not Gideon’s… Not anyone else’s but mine. Say yes. Be a good girl and- fuck- say yes.”
“Y-Yes,” you bluster out, clinging to his shirt like it’s your lifeline, burying your face in his shoulder where you’re safe from the world, silently hoping it’s a place that God’s judgement too can’t reach.
Caleb lets out a ragged, delighted groan. The shudder that racks through him is palpable and erotic. Assured, he sets out anew with the goal in mind to pleasure you, bringing his other hand down toy with your clit- rubbing the puffy, wet bud with sloppy tilts of his wrist.
“Ngh... I waited for so long to have you like this again. You’ve been runnin’ away from me, sis. So you can’t blame me for wantin’ to make up for lost time, yeah? Besides…”
For dirty talk, his words sure sound ominous, but you choose to overlook them- on top of the fact that he never bothered to so much as mention a condom, and this is very, very dangerous.
Caleb draws away some from the dip of your neck to stare at you unabashed, and the glint in his eye, then, can only be described as tenacious. So much to the point that you distantly hear a few alarm bells sound- but the idea that warnings alone are enough to save you is foolish.
He’s a dog with a bone and sometimes you wonder if he’d rather bury you than let anyone else get their hands on what’s his.
Knuckles dote on the side of your cheek, feather-light like you’re something to be worshipped. But that adoring touch belies the quickness in which he pulls the rug from underneath your feet when those fingertips drop, meeting your smooth belly a second later.
For the moment, devoid of life.
“I’ve got some other things to make up for too, huh?”
✦
In the morning, the kids greet you with breakfast in bed- delivered to you on a wooden tray with sides far too fancy to be comfortable with, and a kiss to your cheek as greeting.
“Thank you mommy!” They squeal, but you just rub your eyes and sigh, mustering up the weakest of smiles.
He must’ve told them already.
Honest to God you don’t remember much of last night in your exhausted state- and you’re fine with it staying that way. Yeah sure you were… persuaded into staying a couple more days, but you plan to spend the rest of this one forgetting what happened last night, and you don’t have much of an appetite right now, as delicious as his cooking is.
So you accept the gift with a peck to their foreheads and send them off, the puppy scrambling after them on their way out, and then set the plate on the nightstand at your side.
It’s fine to sleep in just a little bit more. I mean, the kids will be occupied, and-
There’s no knock to signal his appearance, not even a hello. Caleb steps in like he owns the place (and you grumpily suppose he does), and leans over to press a chaste kiss to the crown of your head. You willfully ignore the bare skin beneath the words painted onto his corny apron, the hard planes of muscle you were so acquainted with last night, gleaming with the sweat of his labor.
“Mornin’, honey. My bed’s waaay comfier than the guest room’s, don’tcha think?” A rascal’s grin etches into his cheeks. You softly groan.
“I’m sleeping, Caleb.”
You grab the nearest pillow and, though you seriously consider throwing it at him, pile it over your head and burrow into the sheets.
That earns a smooth chuckle; a gentle rub against your back. “Yeah, yeah, Pipsqueak, I hear ya. I’ll leave you alone for now, just because I’m still busy in the kitchen. But you can’t hide in here forever. Kay?”
Whatever he has to say next is apparently important, because it’s enough to warrant his immediate presence at your side and a dip of the mattress as he flattens himself over you and removes the pillow to access your toasty face.
He whispers against your temple with a playful, languid drawl, “Wouldn’t wanna leave our kids alone for too long, right?”
royal!non-mc reader. knight!mc. angst. self deprecating thoughts. based off of this vaguepost of royal!au. just something i wanted to write, not really sure where to put it... so, on my blog it goes.
"I never asked for any of this!"
The crown is yanked off, clunking to the floor with a heavy thump and the subsequent ripples of it teetering on its side before rolling to a stop next to your grand bedpost. Your breathing is heavy, vision swimming as you grip your vanity with a strength only known to you when your horse is on the edge of losing control during a joyride.
Tara, your closest lady-in-waiting, hurries to pick the crown up off the velvet carpet with careful, gloved hands. "Your Highness, the ball—"
"I will not show up to the ball," you sniffle, beginning to wipe snotty tears that run down your face and tear cracks in the makeup your servants had spent hours perfecting. "I refuse. Tell them I have fallen unexpectedly ill. That I must rest from the day's activities."
"But your Highness!" Tara cries. "The kingdom, they are waiting for your first appearance as ruler—what will they think of you if you do not show face? What will he think—"
"Silence!"
The word is ripped out of the deepest pit in your stomach. It's tainted with green, ugly and raw, sharpened only by the anger stored in your fists. You clench them lest it rises again.
"Call for my two best royal guards. Explain the situation, telling them I am unwell and in no state to face my people. She will know what to do. She will take my place."
As if she already hasn't.
Your lady-in-waiting trembles. You feel her presence close to you, too close. Spinning your head around, you're shocked by the desperation reflected in her eyes. Was that really your expression? How unfit of a ruler.
"Well?" You prompt, voice thick.
Tara stares at you, her brown eyes teary. You think she will say more, but she only bows her head in resignation.
"Yes, your Highness."
When she leaves, the door shutting behind her with a dull thud, you sink to the floor with a sob.
An outstretched hand from a boy with violet eyes and ruffled brown hair. A quiet smile from your personal knight, his blue eyes reassurance of your safety. The recited words from a history book. Lyre lessons on the beach. A ring, gleaming with pristine ruby crystals.
Though these memories are all yours, they feel distant—unattainable. Like they have slipped through your fingers with the passage of time.
You never asked to be crown heir. You never wanted the exhausting, aching, burdening weight of a kingdom on your shoulders. Your only reprieve to these expectations was the time spent as someone else other than crown heir: a childhood friend, a studying partner, a mentee, a human. Not a pawn, a human.
And though you could not find it in your heart to fault her for your downfall, you certainly hate the way she took up these roles in your life as you grew closer and closer to your coronation day.
Gods, she fit into them perfectly. Her laugh rung out through the training grounds as you were seated to be doted on like a doll. She came back with sand on her boots sometimes, humming a once-familiar melody, as you were swept away to the study for diplomatic training. One by one, the freedom you so beautifully craved was struck down, given to her as if the universe was apologizing for their mistake. As if the universe was apologizing for your existence.
And with those roles… she took the people closest to you.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair.
A knock on your door startles you. You quake as his voice rings, clear as day even though he is on the other side of the mahogany wood.
"Your Highness."
No. No no no no.
"Go!" You sob, squeezing your eyes shut and rocking back and forth like a child in a cradle. "Leave me alone!"
A pause. Then, "I am coming in. As your—"
Something snaps. That word, your, strikes as a whip to your face, and you find yourself snarling face to face with him in mere seconds.
"Do not use that term with me." Your voice is low, dangerous, scathing.
He stares down at you, lips parted in surprise. At one point you would've liked to know what they tasted like. Now, you wonder how many times she has claimed them.
"You are not mine. You were never mine. Leave. And do not ask for me again."
hii royalty au has officially taken over the last spaces of my brain (that aren’t filled w freaky shit or music)
i’ll be (trying to) make a series/world out of this so let me know via commenting/rb/ask if you’d like to be tagged in the masterlist! thank u all for the support i really did not imagine this to blow up in the way it did 😭
royal!non-mc reader. knight!mc. angst. self deprecating thoughts. based off of this vaguepost of royal!au. just something i wanted to write, not really sure where to put it... so, on my blog it goes.
"I never asked for any of this!"
The crown is yanked off, clunking to the floor with a heavy thump and the subsequent ripples of it teetering on its side before rolling to a stop next to your grand bedpost. Your breathing is heavy, vision swimming as you grip your vanity with a strength only known to you when your horse is on the edge of losing control during a joyride.
Tara, your closest lady-in-waiting, hurries to pick the crown up off the velvet carpet with careful, gloved hands. "Your Highness, the ball—"
"I will not show up to the ball," you sniffle, beginning to wipe snotty tears that run down your face and tear cracks in the makeup your servants had spent hours perfecting. "I refuse. Tell them I have fallen unexpectedly ill. That I must rest from the day's activities."
"But your Highness!" Tara cries. "The kingdom, they are waiting for your first appearance as ruler—what will they think of you if you do not show face? What will he think—"
"Silence!"
The word is ripped out of the deepest pit in your stomach. It's tainted with green, ugly and raw, sharpened only by the anger stored in your fists. You clench them lest it rises again.
"Call for my two best royal guards. Explain the situation, telling them I am unwell and in no state to face my people. She will know what to do. She will take my place."
As if she already hasn't.
Your lady-in-waiting trembles. You feel her presence close to you, too close. Spinning your head around, you're shocked by the desperation reflected in her eyes. Was that really your expression? How unfit of a ruler.
"Well?" You prompt, voice thick.
Tara stares at you, her brown eyes teary. You think she will say more, but she only bows her head in resignation.
"Yes, your Highness."
When she leaves, the door shutting behind her with a dull thud, you sink to the floor with a sob.
An outstretched hand from a boy with violet eyes and ruffled brown hair. A quiet smile from your personal knight, his blue eyes reassurance of your safety. The recited words from a history book. Lyre lessons on the beach. A ring, gleaming with pristine ruby crystals.
Though these memories are all yours, they feel distant—unattainable. Like they have slipped through your fingers with the passage of time.
You never asked to be crown heir. You never wanted the exhausting, aching, burdening weight of a kingdom on your shoulders. Your only reprieve to these expectations was the time spent as someone else other than crown heir: a childhood friend, a studying partner, a mentee, a human. Not a pawn, a human.
And though you could not find it in your heart to fault her for your downfall, you certainly hate the way she took up these roles in your life as you grew closer and closer to your coronation day.
Gods, she fit into them perfectly. Her laugh rung out through the training grounds as you were seated to be doted on like a doll. She came back with sand on her boots sometimes, humming a once-familiar melody, as you were swept away to the study for diplomatic training. One by one, the freedom you so beautifully craved was struck down, given to her as if the universe was apologizing for their mistake. As if the universe was apologizing for your existence.
And with those roles… she took the people closest to you.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair.
A knock on your door startles you. You quake as his voice rings, clear as day even though he is on the other side of the mahogany wood.
"Your Highness."
No. No no no no.
"Go!" You sob, squeezing your eyes shut and rocking back and forth like a child in a cradle. "Leave me alone!"
A pause. Then, "I am coming in. As your—"
Something snaps. That word, your, strikes as a whip to your face, and you find yourself snarling face to face with him in mere seconds.
"Do not use that term with me." Your voice is low, dangerous, scathing.
He stares down at you, lips parted in surprise. At one point you would've liked to know what they tasted like. Now, you wonder how many times she has claimed them.
"You are not mine. You were never mine. Leave. And do not ask for me again."
