A/N: This is a one shot, and totally NOT canon, and doesn’t take place anywhere near or in Cordonia. Drake is a major hothead in this, and Riley is pretty whorish. This story is out there and may not be for everyone. I forgot to mention thanks to @karahalloway and @angelasscribbles for their pre-reads and feedback.
Word Count: 2194
Rating: 18+
⛔🚨⛔🚨Triggers/Warnings: I’ve been debating on whether or not to post this, but I just had to get this written and out of my head so I can go back to concentrating on In Astra. There IS a song that inspired it. I know it’s not for everyone, but whenever I hear the song I picture these guys. As you read this, if you think the story sounds familiar to you then you’ve probably heard the song at some point and you know how it ends; I changed a few things. If you’ve never heard the song, just take it with a grain of salt (probably a LOT of salt…and tequila…and lime juice 🍹😂). This is a work of FICTION. It’s not supposed to reflect reality. This story contains profanity, adultery, multiple character deaths, violence, murder/execution, all around fuckery. IF ANY OF THIS TRIGGERS YOU, THEN TURN AROUND RIGHT NOW AND DON’T CLICK THE CUT. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.🚨⛔🚨⛔
Drake had been in jail for two weeks.
He’d had an altercation with a couple of assholes who claimed they’d fucked his new wife, Riley, on several occasions. Drake didn’t care if it was before they’d been married; sure, they’d only known each other barely three weeks before running off and getting hitched; but she’d made him feel alive. They’d kept taunting him, telling him all the things she liked them to do to her. He didn’t like hearing anyone talk about her with such vulgarity, so he’d beaten both of them badly enough to land them in the hospital and he’d ended up behind bars to ‘seriously think about his actions’ - that’s what the magistrate had said anyway.
Now he was out, but before he went home to Riley, he was desperate for some whiskey. He stopped at The Crooked Crown and saw Liam sitting at the bar having a scotch. “Hey Drake, they finally let you out, huh?”
“Yeah, I really need some whiskey,” he sighed.
“Make it a double. I have something to tell you, and it'll probably piss you off,” Liam told him with apprehension.
Drake furrowed his brow. “What? Why?”
Liam hesitated again momentarily then let out a heavy sigh. “Look, you know you're my best friend, right?”
Drake swallowed his drink and nodded.
“Well…” Liam almost had second thoughts about telling him.
“Spit it out, Li,” Drake was getting irritated.
“Okay, okay! When you go home, Riley probably won't be there,” he admitted matter-of-factly. “Since you’ve been in jail she’s been fucking Maxwell Beaumont.”
Liam could see the anger fill Drake’s eyes and his grip tighten on the glass of whiskey in his hand.
“Calm down, Drake, before you break that glass,” Liam said. He took in a shaky breath and looked at Drake. “And I need to tell you, I…I’ve also been with Riley.”
Just as her name left his mouth, he felt Drake’s fist connect with his jaw and he landed on the floor.
“What the fuck, Liam?! I thought we were friends! I guess not,” Drake seethed and stomped out of the bar.
Liam got back on his barstool and rubbed his jaw. I guess I deserved that. He finished his scotch and decided to head home. As he walked home he began to think - he had a feeling that Drake wouldn’t forgive him for sleeping with Riley, but he still felt the need to be honest with his friend.
Once home he took a shower, then sat down to watch TV. He knew he’d probably lost Drake’s friendship and that bothered him. Drake was like a brother to him. He decided he would try to make amends after Drake calmed down. But if Riley was still cheating on Drake, he wasn’t sure how long it would take him to pull himself together.
In the meantime at Drake’s cabin…
Drake threw the door open when he got home, ready to tear into Riley about her screwing around. “Brooks!! We need to talk! NOW!!!”
He waited for her to answer, but there was only silence.
He stormed through the cabin searching for her. “Brooks!” Drake called out to her again, but there was still no answer. “RILEY!!!!” he bellowed, “GET THE FUCK DOWN HERE NOW!!!”
But she was nowhere to be found. He noticed her purse and phone were gone, along with some of her clothes.
“Well, FUCK!!”
He threw a vase across the room and charged down the hall to the study, knocking pictures off the walls as he went. When he got there he opened the small safe that was hidden behind a large portrait of the Walker family, taken just months before his father’s death. Inside the safe was his father’s Beretta M9 that he’d inherited after Jackson’s death, along with his father’s medal, the pocket watch Jackson received for saving his boss’ life, and Jackson’s will outlining the inheritance disbursements for he and Savannah.
He put the M9 in the waistband of his jeans, covered it with his shirt and strode out the door through the woods behind the cabin.
Meanwhile, back at Liam’s place…
Liam had dozed off while watching TV and got up to get himself another drink. As he was leaving the kitchen, he noticed that his back door was ajar. He started to close it, but instead walked toward the living room where he heard something shuffle and went to check on the noise.
He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide with fear when he saw the gun pointed at him. He put his hands up defensively, “You?!?! What are you doing here?? Wh–why are you doing this??” Liam had never been afraid in his life, until this moment.
“You know why. You were sleeping with her!!”
“Please, don’t do this,” he pleaded. “It was one time. It won’t ever happen again!”
“You’re so right about that.”
Liam saw his assailant’s finger start to pull the trigger.
“NO!! PL—-”
But before he could finish his plea, two shots were fired.
.
.
.
.
.
Drake was still fuming as he hiked through the woods towards Liam’s place.
The sun was beginning to set, leaving the woods bathed in low light. He had to sidestep a fallen branch, and it was only then that he noticed another set of tracks on the ground heading in the same direction.
Those can’t be Liam’s, they’re too small.
His anger began to subside the closer he got to Liam’s, and he could see that the tracks led up the steps to the back porch; that’s when he noticed the back door was slightly open.
He slowly crept up the steps and looked through the door.
“Li! Come out here!”
He paused.
“LIAM!!” he shouted again.
He stepped a little closer and moved to open the door wider when he saw the blood. His heart started beating wildly in his chest.
No, no, no!!! FUCK!!
He opened the door all the way and saw Liam lying on the floor with two gunshots to his chest.
Oh fuck! Oh Fuck! OH FUCK!!
He backed out the door and ran around the front of the house to the street. Darkness had begun to fall and he could see a patrol car making its way up the road. He pulled the M9 from his back and fired a shot into the air to get its attention. Lights and sirens immediately came on as the car sped to Liam’s driveway where Drake was waiting.
The sheriff jumped out of the car, gun drawn and pointed at Drake. “Put the gun down, son!”
Drake laid the gun down and put his hands up.
The officer walked up to Drake cautiously and picked up the gun where he dropped it.
“Please! My friend needs an ambulance! Come with me!” Drake pleaded with him.
The sheriff followed Drake inside the house and stopped when he saw Liam’s body lying on the floor.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” the officer grumbled. He clicked a button on the radio attached to his vest. “Unit 25D here, Sheriff Lykel speaking. We’ve got a 10-39 at my location. We’re gonna need an ambulance.”
Drake was staring at Liam’s body, not wanting to believe he was gone.
Before he had a chance to process what was happening, he felt his hands being forcefully wrenched behind his back and the cold metal of cuffs being secured on his wrists.
“Why’d you do it, son?” Bastien demanded as he began to lead him out the door.
“I - I didn’t! I came here to…” Drake paused. What did I come here to do? Was I really planning on killing my friend? Maybe I just wanted to scare him a bit, make him back off Riley? “I just wanted to talk to him. I found him like this I swear! Someone else was here! I saw their footprints as I was coming here,” he pleaded with the sheriff.
Drake began to struggle against his restraints but Bastien held him firm. “Don’t resist son, you’re in enough trouble as it is,” he warned, walking him to his patrol car. He put a hand on Drake’s head and settled him into the backseat.
“I DIDN’T DO THIS!! PLEASE! Check the trail behind the house!” Drake shouted at him but he shut the door in his face.
Once the ambulance arrived, and had Liam’s body loaded into the vehicle Bastien got in the car and drove to the station. The entire ride there Drake kept shouting his innocence, even as Bastien shoved him into a cell and uncuffed him. Then he sat at his desk and picked up the phone.
“Yeah, get me Judge Neville Vancoeur right away,” he told his assistant.
~*~
The next morning Drake was presented before Judge Vancoeur in a small office set up like a courtroom, still pleading his innocence. “I’M TELLING YOU I DIDN’T KILL ANYONE!!”
“You best quiet yourself RIGHT NOW, Walker,” Neville warned him. He looked at the arrest notice and an evil smile spread across his face when he saw the charge. “It says here you’ve been charged with the murder of Mr. Liam Alexander Rys. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty!! I’ve been trying to tell you people that for the last two hours!” he pleaded.
“According to Sheriff Bastien’s report the deceased took two gunshot wounds to the chest and he found you on the property holding a gun. Sounds like you killed him to me,” Neville stated flatly.
Drake was dumbfounded. “What?! You can’t seriously put this on me without evidence! The bullets need to be tested! Someone else was there before me! I saw their footprints on the way! I DIDN’T KILL HIM!”
Neville narrowed his eyes at Drake. “No bail! Take him away!”
Bastien watched with reservation as another officer led a still protesting Drake back to the station jail. “Judge Vancoeur, shouldn’t we test - "
He was interrupted as Neville clapped his shoulder and shook his hand. “Thank you so much for your help. I have dinner guests waiting at home.” Neville hurried out the door, relieved that his secret wouldn’t be revealed.
~*~
Three days later Drake was executed on Judge Neville’s orders, despite Sheriff Lykel’s protests.
Forty-five years later
Seventy-year-old Savannah sat down on the sofa in front of the fireplace at Drake’s cabin. She gestured to the younger man to take the seat across from her.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” she told him.
“You said you had something to tell us regarding a missing person’s case? A Ms. Riley Brooks-Walker?” the young sheriff questioned.
“That’s right,” she explained. “And I also need to set the record straight on the Liam Rys murder.”
The young sheriff raised an eyebrow at her. “Ma’am, that case has been closed for forty-five years. Why should we reopen it now?” he asked warily.
Savannah sighed, then furrowed her brows. “That sniveling weasel of a judge, Neville Vancoeur, made sure it would stay closed, even though he knew the truth,” she spat. “He’d always hated my brother; even slept with his trashy wife to spite him. He’d threatened me with serious retribution if I dared speak out against him. But now that Neville’s finally dead I want to set the record straight. My brother, Drake Walker, was innocent. He never killed Liam Rys. I did. I confessed to Neville before Drake was executed, but he wasn’t having any of it. He said Drake was guilty and the case was closed.”
She folded her hands in her lap and looked at the young sheriff, his eyes wide with shock.
“You killed Liam Rys? But why??” he asked incredulously.
“Liam Rys was my fiancé. I found out he’d slept with that bitch Riley while my brother was in jail on a previous charge,” she replied, with no emotion.
The young sheriff just stared at her, hand to his mouth, rubbing his stubble in thought.
“And what of Riley? She never claimed any of your brother’s estate.”
“Well, she couldn’t have, Sheriff. She would’ve had to have been alive to claim it,” Savannah stated coolly. “I killed her for betraying my brother, and for sleeping with his best friend - my fiancé, and for sleeping with Neville and everyone else. She got what she deserved. I hired some thugs to dispose of her body.”
Savannah closed her eyes and sighed, the weight of what she’d done finally being lifted after forty-five years. She looked at the young sheriff expectantly and put her wrists out to him.
“Ms. Walker, I’m so sorry,” he slightly hesitated. He didn’t want to put an old woman in jail, but he knew he had to take her in. He gently cuffed her and led her out the door.
“It’s alright, Sheriff,” she assured him. “I’m an old woman, and I’m tired. I can sleep tonight knowing that someone else knows my brother was innocent.”
The sheriff reopened Liam’s case and presented Savannah’s confession to the new judge appointed after Neville’s death. Drake was posthumously pardoned and Savannah’s trial was set for the following week.
Her trial never happened, however, as Savannah died in her sleep the day before she was set to appear.
Thank you to those who read Chapter 1. If you would like to be tagged in this series, let me know.
*************************
Liam
I tilt my ballcap down slightly, sneering at the neon lights. “You reserved us a private booth, right?”
“Of course,” Neville answers, “Do you think I’m an idiot?”
I’m not going to answer that.
“This is going to be great,” Tariq says, rubbing his palms together.
Neville and Tariq are just two more reasons I hate being king. Neither of these men is my friend, though they continue to think otherwise.
I should be living freely, but instead I’m in New York City for a conference, and since Neville and Tariq are part of the royal council, they had to attend. When Neville said he wanted to celebrate his engagement to Kiara with a bachelor party, a strip club was far from what I was thinking. But knowing Neville, I should be anything but surprised.
Neville’s upcoming marriage to Kiara is an alliance to secure wealth and treaties, not a marriage of love. If it were, their marriage wouldn’t last three months. He can’t keep it in his pants for more than six hours. I should know, I found him in a broom closet in my own damn palace with a maid.
Before I agreed to this ridiculousness, I made sure the owner, Brian, signed an NDA. The last thing I need is for word to get out that a king is in a strip club. Not that my heartless wife, Madeline, would care, thanks to our marriage alliance, but still.
As soon as we enter the building, Brian shakes Neville’s hand. “Good evening, sir. I’m Brian, and I assure you that everything is ready. I promised you nothing but the best, and the best you shall have.”
Spare me.
Brian has on a cheap suit, and his cologne smells like ass. His dress shoes are scuffed, and I can see where he drew over the marks with a black marker. He’s wearing a Rolex, but it was probably a gift after someone died.
If the man can’t afford a decent pair of shoes, there’s no way in hell he could afford that watch.
The three of us follow Brian upstairs to the VIP room, where a woman dressed in nothing but a bra and panties stands next to a bar cart. Three chairs sit in front of the stage with a closed red curtain, and I can only imagine what’s about to happen.
*****************************
Riley
I’m so nervous my knees are shaking. Tonight is a big deal because my job depends on it. If I can work weekends, I can rent a place. I have a couple of thousand now, but that’s pocket change compared to what I need to move into an apartment. Even the cheapest place would cost me a couple of grand just for the deposit and utilities.
I take a final look in the mirror to make sure everything is perfect. Thanks to the ten lightbulbs on Trixie’s mirror, I can see clearly, including the pesky nose hairs I made sure to pluck.
My uniform tonight consists of nothing more than a strapless, see-through bra and a thong, which I call butt floss. Both pieces are black with diamonds.
“Girls, you’re on in two!” Brian shouts while holding up two fingers.
Before taking the stage in my four-inch stiletto heels, I pull Brian to the side. “Remember our deal?”
“I remember,” he says kindly. “I promise I’ll move you to weekends. However, it’s up to you to stay there. Tonight is very different from the typical men you’re used to.”
What does that mean?
“If you want to remain a weekender, you’ll have to prove yourself. If you start costing me money, it’s back to weekdays. Got it?”
“Got it,” I answer nervously.
I walk onto the stage with Candy and Muffy, heading toward the third pole that belonged to Trixie. I wrap my leg around it and lean back, tilting my chin upward so my hair falls behind me.
Holding tightly to the pole, I shut my eyes and say a silent prayer as I hear the music start and the curtains open.
Drake sadly belongs to Pixelberry, Evelyn belongs to me.
A/N: This is going to be a one shot from my Drake/Evelyn story In Astra (they are about to meet face to face in Chapter 1 of my story) Thank you, @burnsoslow for the pre-read. Mwah!!
A/N 2: This is the fic I wrote for a different fandom that got thumbs down 👎; but I changed it from second to third person & revamped it to fit Drake & Evelyn
Song Inspiration: Feelin’ Love by Paula Cole
Word Count: 2523
Rating/Warnings: 18+/Profanity, female masturbation, very slight bondage, NSFW 🍋🍋🍋
Drake tried desperately to keep from speeding all the way home after leaving the airport. He had been in Athens for just over two weeks working on several deals to bring three more horses back to Cordonia; one horse for his own stables and two more champion horses for the palace stables now that Marabelle’s Dream and Twilight Dash had been retired after Liam’s social season. Two weeks...shit, that’s too fucking long, he thought to himself, I need to feel her so bad. He was supposed to be in Athens another week, but he’d worked hard to finish ahead of schedule so that he could get home early and surprise Evelyn, his Evie - his love.
Two weeks, two days, fourteen hours, twenty-eight minutes, and forty-six seconds.
Evelyn couldn't believe she was actually counting down to the second how long it had been since Drake left on his latest business venture. His last message to Evelyn promised that he would be home in another week, longing to show her just how much he missed her. That was a little over three days ago. Normally, she would be going out of her mind with worry at not hearing from him in so long, but something deep within her heart assured her that he was alright.
She looked at the clock once again and closed her eyes. "Stop it," she chided herself. "Looking at the clock won't bring him home any faster." She rose from the couch and strolled into their bedroom to change. Standing in the closet she let her fingers slide across the neatly hung clothes and paused at one item in particular. "God, I miss him so much," she sighed and pulled a black and purple babydoll nightie from its padded hanger.
Smiling, Evelyn recalled the day he left for Athens - when Drake presented the silver box to her with a promise to put it to good use when he returned. Upon opening it she found a stunning piece of lingerie. It was the most beautiful babydoll nightie she had ever seen. The bust was adorned with a sexy purple ruffle detail; the thin ribbon straps tied at the shoulder, making for easy removal. The rest of the nightie was black and very sheer, with a purple hem. There was also a pair of matching sheer string-tie panties. She couldn’t wait to wear it for him, but he’d had to leave right away.
"Why not?" she said to herself, and put the nightie on. Pulling her hair up in a ponytail she walked back into the living room and turned on the stereo. She grinned as she checked which discs were loaded in the CD player and found the one she was looking for. Pressing PLAY, she grabbed the remote, turned the volume up, and sauntered back to the couch as the pulsating music began. Leaning back with her head resting on the back of the couch, she closed her eyes and thought of Drake as the song played. Damn, this song is definitely about him, she thought to herself.
🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵
You make me feel like a sticky pistil leaning into her stamen.
You make me feel like Mr. Sunshine himself.
You make me feel like splendor in the grass where we're rolling, damn skippy baby!
You make me feel like the Amazon's running between my thighs.
🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵
At this last line, Evelyn let out a soft "Mmmmmm" and began to slowly caress her thighs. She spread her legs apart and slowly rubbed her hands over the tops of her thighs, then inward and back up, teasing herself slightly as her thumbs brushed softly against the thin panties. Eyes still closed, she bit her lower lip and thought, God, I want him so bad.
🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵
You make me feel love, love, love, love, love.
You make me feel love, love, love, love, love.
Love, love, love, love, love.
Love, love, love.
🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵
Drake pulled up to the cabin and couldn’t get out of his truck fast enough. He sprinted towards the door but abruptly stopped at the porch steps when he heard the sultry song playing. He grinned when he recognized the song, remembering his birthday present from Evelyn. He walked up the porch steps, ready to open the door and surprise her when his breath hitched as he caught a glimpse of her through the window. She was wearing the nightie he gave to her before he left and she was lying on the couch masturbating to the song.
Drake couldn’t stop staring at her, mesmerized by her moaning and writhing. His heart began to race and he could feel his cock growing harder the longer he watched her. “Γαμώτο” (Gamóto [holy shit]), he whispered to himself. He backed off the porch and went around to sneak in the back door of the cabin. Making sure Evelyn didn’t hear him, Drake crept up the stairs to their bedroom; he found several candles and arranged them around the room. He undressed down to his boxers and went back downstairs to watch Evelyn some more before letting her know he was home. Unable to wait any longer, Drake stripped off his boxers and slowly, quietly crawled to the couch and settled himself between Evelyn’s legs without alerting her to his presence.
The music continued its pulsating rhythm and Evelyn filled her mind with images of Drake and herself engaged in the most sinful of acts. She continued her slow caress and moved one hand up to her abdomen while she slid the other one under her nightie and grabbed her breast, sliding her thumb back and forth across her nipple. She slid a finger under her panties and gently caressed the aching nub, imagining him standing over her in all his beautiful nakedness, ready to devour her like a hungry predator.
🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵
You make me feel like a candy apple, all red and horny.
You make me feel like I wanna be a dumb blonde, in a centerfold, the girl next door.
And I would open the door and I'd be all wet with my tits soaking thru this tiny little T-shirt that I'm wearing,
And you would open the door and tie me up to the bed.
🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵
Evelyn rubbed her fingers against her swollen clit as she writhed in time with the music. Moaning, she pinched a nipple and imagined his soft, velvety tongue swirling circles over it. She envisioned him kissing her down her body, pausing at her navel to flick his tongue over it a few times. He continued kissing her, kneeling between her legs and kissing the inside of one thigh, then the other, slowly making his way to her center. She could feel his calloused hands slide over the barely-there panties and his hot breath just over her swollen nub. Mon Dieu, c'est si réel! (My God, it feels so real!) she moaned to herself.
“Starting without me, κούκλα μωρού (koúkla moroú [baby doll])?”
His voice penetrated her mind like a bright ray of sunshine invading a sound slumber, as she felt the soft, hot kisses on her center. She opened her eyes to see him staring into hers. Evelyn drew in a sharp breath, startled to see him actually there, planted between her legs. Her heart pounded with excitement.
"I...you...what are you doing here?? I thought you were gonna be in Athens for another week?"
"I missed the fuck outta you. I finished early and wanted to surprise you, but this," Drake eyed her hungrily, “this is so much better.”
"I...uh..." she blushed momentarily before flashing him her best what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it grin and wrapped her legs around him, pulling him to her.
He grabbed the stereo remote and pressed the REPEAT button so that the song would play in a continuous loop. He rose and stood above her, just as she imagined, in all his naked glory. Directly in front of her his glorious cock pointed and bobbed at her, letting her know just how much he missed her. Licking her lips, she sat up and moved toward him...eager to taste the bit of pre-cum that glistened at the head. He moved back before she could taste him and she pouted slightly. He undid her ponytail, letting her hair flow around her shoulders, and holding up a black silk sash, gave her a wicked grin.
"I believe that last line said something about me tying you up to the bed."
Evelyn wrapped the sash around her wrist and took his hand as he led her upstairs to the bedroom. "But I'm not wearing a tiny little T-shirt for my wet tits to soak through," she reminded him, smirking.
"It doesn't matter, baby doll...soon you won't be wearing anything at all,” Drake winked at her and her heart fluttered.
Once inside their bedroom she paused, taking in the candles that were lit throughout the room. Before she could ask him how he managed to do them so quickly, he kissed her softly and passionately. Gently squeezing her bound hand, he released her wrist and pulled her close to him.
"I've been away too long, Evie. I don't ever want to be without you," he whispered in her ear with immense passion and love. At these words, Evelyn’s knees turned to jelly and Drake caught her before she fell and swept her into his strong arms. She looked into his gorgeous chocolate eyes and ran her fingers through his silky brown mane, longer now since he'd been away. She had no doubt in her mind that he meant every word.
Drake carried Evelyn to the bed and gently laid her down. He propped a pillow under her for comfort, before he slowly took her right hand in his. He placed a gentle kiss on her palm, then slowly tied her wrist to the headboard with one end of the sash. Taking her left hand, he did the same...kissing her palm before tying both wrists to the headboard.
He hovered over her, his eyes never leaving hers. Slowly he pulled at the ties on her straps and they fell away from her shoulders. As Drake gently traced the bustline of the nightie back and forth across her sensitive skin, Evelyn shuddered at the sensation, goosebumps rising all over her body. With each back and forth sweep of his finger, he lowered the nightie until her breasts were bared to him.
"Christ, Evie, you’re so fucking beautiful. Η δική μου Ελληνίδα Θεά (I dikí mou Ellinída Theá [my own Greek goddess])," he whispered as he cupped her right breast before taking the nipple in his mouth. He nipped and suckled her, while he pinched and caressed her other breast. Evelyn arched her back into him and he suckled harder, giving each breast equal treatment.
"Ohhh, fuck yesssssss...Draaaaake," she moaned. He slid the nightie down her body, leaving a trail of kisses as he went. Evelyn lifted her hips and he slid her panties and nightie off her body. Positioning himself between her legs, he gently placed them over his shoulders. Turning his head slightly, he planted a kiss on her inner thigh while his fingers lightly traced their way up her center.
Drake shifted his body slightly and Evelyn gasped as she felt a soft, hot kiss at her core. She let out a soft moan, and he responded by gently flicking his tongue over her now-throbbing clit. He glided his tongue in tiny little circles, his hot breath driving her mad with ecstasy. Soon he began to gently suckle her swollen nub and Evelyn strained against her binds, wanting desperately to run her hands through his hair.
Drake pulled his mouth away and before Evelyn could protest, he slid a finger inside, then another. "Amazon indeed, θεά μου (theá mou [my goddess])," he smirked. He slowly began to piston his fingers, curling them to caress her g-spot, while he rubbed circles over her clit with his thumb. In and out, faster and faster, he would bring her just close enough to orgasm but wouldn’t let her fall over the edge.
Whimpering, Evelyn begged for him to be inside her, "It's been so long, please, Drake..."
Crawling up the bed until he was positioned directly over her, he leaned down and whispered in her ear. "Patience, κούκλα μωρού (koúkla moroú [baby doll]), you’ll have me. But first, I want you to taste..."
Drake slid his fingers in her mouth. The taste of Evelyn’s own juices drove her into a wanton frenzy. She sucked his fingers hard and he let out a feral growl. He pulled his fingers from her mouth and she flashed an evil grin. "Wanna taste?" she teased as she stuck out her tongue.
Fire burned in his eyes as he descended upon her mouth and began to suck the essence from her tongue. Their tongues danced around each other madly before they settled into a long, passionate kiss. Using her bindings as leverage, Evelyn raised her hips to find his cock...desperately wanting to feel him fill every inch of her.
Taking her cue, Drake positioned his cock at her opening, coating the tip with her flowing juices. In one deft move he released her bindings and buried himself deep within her. Evelyn tightly wrapped her legs around his waist and held him to her. He enveloped her in his arms completely and they just lay there for a moment, feeling each other breathe...not ever wanting to let go. With a tender kiss to her neck Drake rose up on his elbows and gazed lovingly into her green eyes. Never breaking eye contact he began a slow, steady rhythm...sliding in and out of her, rotating his hips so that he hit her sweet spot with every thrust.
"So...wet..." he rasped as his breathing became ragged. Evelyn knew he wouldn’t be able to contain himself much longer. Lightly scraping her fingernails down his back, she cupped his sac in her hand and lovingly began to fondle him. With her other hand she gave his firm ass a gentle smack, which caused him to growl and slam his hips into hers, harder and faster. With each thrust he rubbed against her throbbing clit and he could feel her body tense as she reached her climax. “Draaaaake!! I’m so close….s'il...te...plait...mon...amour (please, my love)....I….need…to…..” she gasped between breaths.
“Yes, Evie, come….for…..me……έλα...για...μένα...μωρό...μου.... (éla gia ména moró mou [come for me baby])” Drake rasped. With one final, hard thrust Drake and Evelyn climaxed together, simultaneously calling each other's name.
They collapsed in each other's arms, breathing heavily. He wiped a sweat-soaked lock of hair from her forehead and kissed her. "I've missed you so much, Evie, I love you forever," he whispered. "This was the best welcome home."
"Je t'aime tellement, ma guimauve (I love you so much, my marshmallow)," she whispered as she held the man she loved. “You are my dream come true.” Drake’s heart fluttered at her declaration. They held each other close as they drifted to sleep.
I’m amazed by the excitement of everyone for wanting to reboot the royal romance. So here’s some ideas 💡 but please feel free to list anything you’d like to see and/ or do.
I was thinking we could all blow up TRR on a certain day on Tumblr by everyone writing a story/ character art/ or just Reblogging to get the flow going again.
one of my favorite things was having to wait for the next chapter because the excitement that came with the curiosity. So… Do we want as a group to reread the Royal Romance book 1 and work our way up, kind of like a book club and write stories, create art, or if you only read that’s perfect because reblogging helps and gives fuel for the fun to continue.
we need to all be in this together for it to work. I’d love to see Pixelberry create a new story for TRR although it probably wouldn’t happen but should.
Did you miss me? I know it has been forever. But here i am!
I have been wanting to come back and life has been well you know what it does . Here's what I've been working on. It's not much but i'm trying to finish some story lines that have been out there for quite some time, and I finally think it's time. It also didn't hurt seeing a post about reviving the TRR fandom, if anyone still wants to read me. I know I like to push the envelope at times. Drama has returned. :)
Series: The Rotten Apple 🍎
Chapter: 17: Finale Part 4: The Wedding
The Pairings: Eleanor X Nico (Eleanor X M!OC / Liam X Riley)
“Her Mother and Her Father.” He whispered the word “Look.” to Ellie.
Elle blinked rapidly in confusion, as she turned to the audience.
Riley was standing right behind her.
“Mother…”
Riley said the first thing that popped into her mind.
“I didn’t RSVP. I know that’s absolutely horrible etiquette for a wedding. I'm sorry..”
“It’s okay….”
“You look…. Happy.”
“I am happy Mother.” She pulled Nico by his hand closer to her.
“Queen Riley.” Nico nodded to her.
“Nico, I told you then, you still cared for her. I could see it all over your face."
“And you were right.”
“You look so beautiful Ellie. I'm glad you decided to wear the necklace."
Elle surprisingly glanced down at herself, gently touching the necklace.
"It was your idea?"
Her mother nodded, and spoke in a matter of fact way.
"Yes, It looks beautiful on you, I knew it would."
“Thank you Mother……And thank you for coming."
Riley turned to walk away. Nico gently squeezed her hand again, whispering to Elle..
"She's extending an olive branch…."
She glanced at Nico, then Ana, her fearless little girl, at that moment smiled at her, giving her courage.
“Mother?”
“Yes?”
“May I hug you?”
Riley nodded. Both looked awkward as they closed in the distance to each other, neither making taking the lead to begin the embrace… Until one sweet little girl walked up to the two of them, wrapping an arm around each of them, pulling them closer to embrace.
Tears welled in Liam’s eyes seeing the three generations of the family finally come together as one. After a few moments, they pulled away from each other, Elle affectionately caressed Ana’s face.
Next up:
Spice Spice Baby
Part 3 of a Pretty Woman parody
The Pairings: Liam X Bebe (Liam X F!OC)
If you're interested in the previous parts Click here:
Part 1: Cinnamon Spice
Part 2: And Everything Nice
“That’s noble, you know. You believed in yourself enough to want more for yourself, to get away from a life you didn't want.”
“Still waiting on the more part.”
“Have you thought about college? Something you want to do with your life?”
“I mean I can think about college all I want, that doesn’t manifest enough money for me to go. Then, if I get there, what the hell would I even want to go to school for? Besides, I've never had an idea. It’s hard to dream, when the place you grew up in was nothing but nightmare fuel. Definitely not conducive to warm and fuzzy dreams. Just trying to survive from day to day. You know?”
She glanced around Liam's vast apartment and all of its splendor.
“You wouldn't, would you Ritchie Rich?” She commented with a smirk.
“You are right in that aspect. I’ve never had to worry about money or had any food insecurities of where my next meal was coming from. But I do understand getting away from a place where you felt you would never be able to realize your own potential, or be in the shadow of someone and never be able to learn who you really are. So we are similar in that aspect.”
Bebe yawned.
“Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”
“You’re right, we have our first big event tomorrow.”
When I woke up the next morning Liam had already left for work.
There was a little note on the night stand.
“Bebe I tried my best not to wake you, but apparently you didn’t hear me over your snoring :) . I’m joking. I promise. I’ll be home around 5:30 and we can get ready for the gala tonight, the car will pick us up around 7. Plan accordingly. I left my card, the salon downstairs is available for you whenever you decide to show up. Please use any amenities that you would like.
Yours, Richie Rich :)
P.S. I’d love it if you wore that silver dress and heels tonight.
The music that swirled around her felt less like a melody and more like a shackle, vibrating through the floorboards and tightening around her chest. The waltz continued, a relentless, dizzying spin of silk and pretence, but for Emilia, the notes had long since soured into a frantic, discordant pulse.
As the dance ended, she turned from Neville with a sharp, rigid movement that felt like a physical tearing of her own muscles. Her feet moved across the marble, but she felt as though she were wading through deep, suffocating water. The air in the ballroom—previously a mixture of expensive perfume and floral elegance—now tasted metallic, like blood in her throat. Every beat of the orchestra, every trill of the violins, sounded like a mockery, a soundtrack to her own undoing.
She didn't dare look back at the dance floor. If she looked at Neville, or anyone else for that matter, they would see her broken heart written all over her face. She knew the mask would fracture. She knew the tears that were stinging behind her eyes, hot and insistent, would spill over, and she would stand exposed in the middle of this vault of hollow splendour for the entire court to witness. Instead, she focused on a point in the distance—a heavy set of glass paned double doors leading to the terrace—and forced one foot in front of the other, each step a battle to keep her knees from buckling.
Behind her, Neville Vancouer stood unmoved, a jagged silhouette in the swirling crowd. He didn't follow her; not yet. Instead, he took a slow, calculated sip from a champagne flute he had plucked from a passing server, the crystal rim clinking softly against his teeth. A smirk, thin and bloodless, touched his lips as he watched the rigid line of her shoulders, the way she held her head with a defiance that was rapidly losing its foundation.
He felt a hum of triumph in his chest—a cold, oily satisfaction. He had seen the exact moment his words had punctured her, the split second where her eyes had gone vacant and then dark with a misery so profound it almost made his skin prickle with excitement.
He didn't care about the truth. The fact that Drake Walker spent his days working himself to exhaustion at the Château, his nights in a farmhouse likely pining away for her in silence, didn't matter. His words about the chambermaids were a blunt instrument, and he had wielded it perfectly. He took pleasure in the dissonance of it—that he could conjure such devastation in a royal princess within a few sentences, woven like poison into a dance.
Stable filth, he thought, his eyes tracking her retreat. He despised the very idea that she had ever looked at a servant with longing, let alone loved one. It was an insult to the station he coveted, to the royal bloodline he was determined to entwine with his own. But if she was truly in love with Drake Walker, if the man was a distraction to the princess, then Neville would simply have to be a greater one.
He adjusted his cuffs, his movements precise and feline, as he watched her reach the edge of the dance floor. She disappeared into the press of moving bodies, and he felt his heartbeat steady, rhythmic and predatory. She was wounded now. And Neville knew a wounded animal was always easier to track, easier to corner, and infinitely easier to catch. He wouldn't rush. He had the entire evening, the entire season. He had the leverage of her own heart.
He allowed himself a slow, lingering look at the space where she had been, savouring the scent of her perfume that still hung in the air—a ghost of her presence. Then, he turned back to the crowd, his face settling into a mask of polite, aristocratic boredom, biding his time until he would follow her.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Neville didn't flinch; he simply shifted his gaze, his expression smoothing into a practiced, easy charm.
"What was all that about?" The voice asked, dripping with the same bored, callous curiosity that Neville himself cultivated. Neville turned, his smile broadening into something genuine for the first time that evening.
"Lord Tariq," Neville said, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial register. "It’s been a long time, my friend."
The two men shook hands, a firm, calculated grip. Neville leaned in, his eyes gleaming with the anticipation of sharing his new, delicious secret.
"You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” he whispered, his smirk deepening. “I have so much to tell you."
*****
The gilded double doors of the ballroom loomed ahead like a mirage, but the distance between them felt infinite. Emilia’s chest heaved, her breathing shallow and frantic as she tried to navigate the sea of spinning silk and hollow laughter. Neville’s words echoed in her mind, a relentless, oily loop: making quite an impression on some of the chamber maids... the help should stick with the help.
It explained everything. The empty mail tray. The months of agonizing silence. While she had been rotting in her gilded cage, crying herself to sleep, Drake had simply moved on. He was smiling at other women. Touching them.
The heat of the room was suddenly volcanic, choking her. Tears blurred her vision, turning the massive crystal chandeliers into dizzying streaks of blinding light. Blinded by the moisture sting in her eyes, she stumbled forward, her heavy skirts twisting around her ankles.
She braced for a fall, but instead, she collided with a solid chest and arms which instantly caught her by the shoulders, steadying her.
"Em?"
Emilia gasped, looking up through a watery veil into the warm, familiar eyes of Bertrand. He looked immaculate in his House Beaumont dress suit, but his expression was creased with instant, genuine worry.
"Em, what's wrong? Has something happened?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low, protective murmur.
"I... I can't..." Emilia’s voice cracked. A hot tear finally spilled over, tracking down her carefully painted cheek. She cast a panicked, desperate look around the crowded foyer, terrified that some gossiping noble or her father’s watchful eyes would see her mask crumble.
Bertrand didn't hesitate. His grip on her arm tightened gently. "Come on," he whispered.
He guided her swiftly through the heavy gilded doors and out onto the sprawling stone terrace. The moment the heavy doors shut behind them, muffling the discordant swell of the orchestra, the biting autumn air hit Emilia’s skin. She shivered, but it was an immense relief against the suffocating, perfume-choked heat of the ballroom.
Bertrand led her to a shadowed alcove near the limestone balustrade, away from the glass doors. He turned to her, his face soft with concern. "Tell me what’s happened, Em."
The dam broke. Emilia buried her face in Bertrand’s shoulder, her frame shaking with silent, ragged sobs as he wrapped his arms around her, gently rubbing her back in a slow, soothing rhythm.
"It’s Drake," she choked out, her words muffled against his suit. "I still haven't heard from him, Bert. Not a single word. And Neville... Neville just told me that Drake has been popular with the chambermaids at Château Lumière. He's been seeing other women. I... I love him so much, Bertrand, and it’s killing me."
Bertrand let out a long, heavy sigh. He didn't pull away; he just kept his hand steady on her back, absorbing her grief. "Em... look at me."
Emilia pulled back slightly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, utterly uncaring of what it did to her taupe eyeshadow. She looked up at him, her chest still hitching.
"Drake loves you," Bertrand said, his voice quiet but incredibly firm. "I’m sure of it. Neville Vancouer is cruel, and he is highly calculating. I do not believe for a single second that what he told you is the truth."
"Then why would he say it?" she whispered, her voice raw. "How could he even know to make up such a specific lie?"
"Because he wants you, Em," Bertrand explained, a shadow of disgust crossing his features. "You know he’s been trying to win your hand, to secure the Vancouer line’s claim to the Crown, for years. And I am certain this is just his sick way of getting under your skin, of making you feel weak and isolated."
"But he doesn't know about Drake and me," Emilia protested, shaking her head.
Bertrand offered a small, sad smile. "I wouldn't be so sure, Em. He was at the Derby, wasn't he? I’m sure he saw you and Drake together there. He would have seen the way you looked at each other. A blind man could have seen how you felt." He paused, his eyes softening with memory. "I saw it myself that very night, the night I met him. When I took him into the stable office at Applewood to speak with him... do you know what he told me?"
Emilia blinked back fresh tears. "What?"
"He told me that he would give his life for you to be happy," Bertrand said softly. "He was willing to have his own life utterly destroyed if it meant you could thrive. He didn't care about the consequences to himself, only to you."
"I would be happy if he were just with me," she sobbed, her fingers gripping Bertrand’s sleeve.
"I know, Em. I know." Bertrand squeezed her shoulder. "He loves you. But... you must understand something. While Drake loves you with everything he has, he might be keeping his distance for you. He might be realizing that your relationship... that it could destroy the Crown, and destroy you in the process. Maybe he is trying to do what he thinks is the honourable thing. Letting you go, no matter how much he destroys his own heart to do it. But that does not mean he doesn't love you."
"No, no..." Emilia shook her head, a desperate, stubborn fire flaring in her chest. "I don't want him to let go. I don't care about the Crown. I want him!"
"Shh, I know, Em," Bertrand whispered, pulling her back into a brief, comforting embrace. He looked out over the dark gardens, his own eyes suddenly turning vacant and heavy. "God, I wish things were different. I wish we could both be with whoever we want. That we could love whoever we want without consequence."
Emilia pulled back, her breath catching as she caught the profound, aching sadness reflected in her cousin's eyes. It was a mirror of her own grief, but with a different, quieter shape.
"Have... have you met someone, Bert?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.
Bertrand looked away, running a hand down his face as a deep, tired sigh escaped him. "I have," he admitted, his cheeks flushing slightly under the moonlight. "He works for Ramsford, as part of our public relations team. He’s wonderful, Emilia. He’s handsome, and funny, and... well, he likes me."
Bertrand let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. "We’ve been working closely together for the last few weeks, pulling together the communications that will come out of House Beaumont during the course of the social season. He stayed late one night, about a week ago... just to help me with some last-minute minor details for my speech tonight. And... he kissed me."
A genuine, beautiful smile broke through Emilia’s tear-stained face. "Oh, Bert," she murmured, reaching out to squeeze his hands. "I'm so happy for you."
"I didn't want to tell you right away," Bertrand said, looking down at their joined hands. "Not after everything you’ve been through. It felt selfish."
"No, Bert. I’m so glad you did," she insisted, hugging him tightly. "You deserve happiness more than anyone."
"Thanks, Em," he whispered into her hair. "But... I know nothing can ever come of it. I am the heir to House Beaumont. I must marry a woman of equal standing, produce heirs... the scandal if anyone found out about us, about two men together..."
"So, you’re stopping it?” Emilia asked, her brows furrowing with worry. “Before it goes any further?"
"No," Bertrand said, his jaw tightening with a rare, quiet defiance. "I like him, Emilia. I’ve never felt like this before. I don't want to lose him. But the path ahead is..."
"Bert, we will work this out together, okay?" Emilia cut in, her voice gaining a sudden, fierce strength. "You and your...?”
“Daniel,” Bertrand replied, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Dan.”
“Dan,” Emilia nodded. “If it is meant to be, we will find a way. You cannot lose hope."
Bertrand looked at her, his eyes shining with gratitude. "Then promise me, Em. Promise me you will do the same. I know it hurts now, but you’ll be alright. Okay?"
Emilia offered a small, watery smile. "Thank you, Bert. I can always rely on you."
"Always, Em. Shall we head back inside?"
"Give me a few minutes," Emilia said, gesturing to her face. "I need to compose myself, and I want to be alone for just a little while."
Bertrand nodded understandingly, giving her hands one last supportive squeeze before slipping back through the heavy doors, leaving her in the quiet sanctuary of the night.
Emilia leaned her weight against the cold limestone balustrade, gulping in the crisp autumn air. The freezing wind peppered her bare shoulders with goosebumps, but the physical chill was a welcome shock to her system, dulling the frantic, suffocating heat of the ballroom.
She looked up at the pale crescent moon, Bertrand’s words swirling in her mind. A small, fragile spark of hope began to rebuild itself in her chest, fighting against the black poison of Neville's lies.
"I love you, Drake," she whispered into the empty night, fresh, silent tears spilling over her lashes. "I'm so sorry. Please don't destroy what we had for the Crown. It was worth so much more than that..."
A sob broke from her throat, and her hand instinctively flew to her neck, her fingers reaching for the familiar, comforting weight of Drake's ring.
But her fingers grasped empty air.
Her breath hitched in sudden, violent panic. Her hand scrambled frantically against her bare skin, searching, clawing at her collarbone.
Nothing.
The realization hit her like an icy plunge into frozen water. The ring is gone.
In her blind, hysterical fury in the bedroom, she had ripped the silver chain from her neck. She had stood on her balcony and flung it—the only physical piece of Drake she had left, the token of the greatest, most honest summer of her life—into the pitch-black darkness of the gardens below.
A wave of sheer terror washed over her. What have I done?
She had to find it. She couldn't lose it forever. If Drake never came back to her, if she had to live the rest of her life as a puppet princess in a silent cage, she still needed that ring. It was her anchor. It was proof that she had once been loved by the most incredible man she had ever met.
She spun around, her mind racing. She would have to rush back through the crowded ballroom, slip past her father’s guards, run out the front doors, and search the dark, frosty garden beds beneath her balcony with her bare hands. She didn't care how undignified it was. She didn't care if the whole court saw her on her knees in the dirt.
She took a frantic step toward the terrace doors.
But before she could reach them, the heavy glass door creaked open and a tall silhouette stepped out into the moonlight, cutting off her only path of escape.
"Good evening, Your Highness," a smooth, oily voice drawled, dripping with mock-reverence. "You look as lovely as ever."
"Lord Tariq." The name left Emilia’s throat as a frozen puff of air, her voice cracking under the sudden weight of her shock.
She stood frozen as his silhouette stepped fully into the silver pool of moonlight. The handsome, symmetrical features that the Cordonian court so highly praised were twisted into a look of mocking amusement. It was a face she had hoped to never look upon again. The memory of Applewood—of his heavy weight pressing her against the door of her suite, the stinging slap she had delivered to his cheek, and the white-hot rage with which she had threatened to ruin him as she defended Drake—flashed behind her eyes.
But here he stood, his posture dripping with an intolerable, preening arrogance that proved his pride had completely swallowed whatever shame her threats had once caused him.
Tariq took a slow, deliberate step toward her, his polished leather shoes crunching softly against the frost-dusted stone of the terrace. "I saw you leave the ballroom, Princess," he said, his voice dropping to that smooth, oily register that made her skin crawl. "You seemed... distressed."
Emilia instinctively tilted her chin upward, her spine snapping straight as she forced her shoulders back. She could feel the dampness of her tears cooling on her cheeks, and she was acutely aware that her carefully applied makeup was likely ruined, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of showing weakness. She would not let this vulture see her bleed.
"I am perfectly fine, thank you, Lord Tariq," she replied, her voice cold and sharp as a shard of glass. "I merely required some fresh air."
"Oh?" Tariq let out a soft, mocking chuckle, stepping closer until the cloying scent of his heavy clove cologne and expensive brandy invaded her senses, choking out the clean autumn breeze. "Silly me. Here I was, thinking that your sudden flight was because your beloved stable hand had left you all alone."
Emilia’s heart did not just leap; it hammered violently against her ribs, the sudden shock of his words stealing the breath from her lungs. "Excuse me?"
"I had a most illuminating conversation with Neville Vancouer this evening," Tariq sneered, his eyes gleaming with a malicious, vindictive pleasure. "He and I go way back, you know. We first met at one of these very balls, in fact. He was quite forthcoming about how your precious gutter rat is currently shovelling manure at his family’s Château in France."
He stepped closer still, crowding her personal space, his gaze dropping to the bare skin of her neckline with a predatory familiarity. "I warned you at Applewood, Princess. That degenerate Walker is not good enough for the likes of you and me. Tell me, did Daddy finally find out about your dirty little secret? Did the King not like that stable filth daring to touch what isn't his?"
A white-hot spark of rage flared through the ice of Emilia's grief, temporarily drowning out her sorrow. "How dare you speak to me like that," she hissed, her eyes flashing with a fierce, dangerous light. "Drake Walker is a far better man than you will ever be, Tariq. He has more honour in his little finger than your entire family line possesses."
Tariq’s face darkened, his jaw tightening as the insult hit home, his bruised ego from their Applewood encounter rearing its ugly head. He let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "I very much doubt that, Your Highness. A peasant who smells of sweat and dung? You threw away your dignity for a servant and look where it got you. Alone, crying in the dark."
Disgusted and suffocated by his presence, Emilia took a sharp step forward, intending to shoulder past him. "Get out of my way."
But before she could bypass him, the heavy glass door of the terrace creaked open once more.
A second silhouette stepped out, cutting off her angle of escape. Neville Vancouer stood in the doorway, a champagne flute held loosely in his fingers, his eyes gleaming with a quiet, feline satisfaction.
"Everything alright, Princess?" Neville asked, his tone dripping with a mock concern that was entirely hollow.
"No," Emilia said, her voice rising as a cold dread began to settle in her stomach. She was trapped between the two of them, the freezing stone balustrade of the terrace pressing against her lower back. "I’m not feeling well. I need to return to my suite immediately. Let me past, please, Monsieur Vancouer."
Neville didn't move. He took a slow sip of his champagne, his smirk widening as he exchanged a dark, knowing look with Tariq. "Oh? You do look dreadfully pale, Emilia. Perhaps you need an escort? The palace halls can be so terribly dark and lonely at night."
"I do not need your escort," Emilia said, her breathing growing shallow and frantic as she tried to find a gap between them. "I wish to be alone."
Instead of stepping aside, the two men began to close the distance. They moved in unison, their bodies blocking the golden light pouring from the ballroom doors, casting long, suffocating shadows over her. Tariq’s smirk was venomous, fuelled by the memory of her rejection, while Neville’s expression was one of predatory hunger.
"There's no need to be so hostile, Your Highness," Tariq murmured, his voice low and threatening as he stepped closer, forcing her to lean back against the freezing limestone. "We only want to help you. We can be your shoulder to cry on. Your... comfort."
"Indeed," Neville chimed in, his tone smooth and predatory. "You don't need that servant, Emilia. He was a distraction. A temporary amusement. But now that he's gone, you must think of your future. We can show you what a real gentleman can provide."
The physical proximity of the two men was overwhelming. The smell of their cologne, the heat of their breath in the cold air, and the realization that they were actively, physically trapping her made Emilia’s head spin. Her hand instinctively twitched toward her collarbone, a desperate, phantom search for the ring that was no longer there.
Trapped, her back pressing hard against the freezing limestone of the balustrade, Emilia slowly slid her free hand behind her along the rough, frosty stone. Her fingers frantically clawed at the masonry, searching in vain for a loose decorative piece, a heavy stone planter, or anything she could use to defend herself in the dark.
But there was nothing. Only the cold, unforgiving edge of the parapet.
Faced with her own helplessness, a fierce, primal instinct flared to life beneath her terror. She pulled her hands back, tucking them close to her chest and tight into hard, trembling fists. If they tried to touch her, she would fight. She would claw at their faces, scream until her lungs burst, and strike out with every ounce of strength left in her body. She would not go down quietly.
They were practically toe-to-toe with her now, the heat of their bodies suffocatingly close. Tariq reached a hand out toward her shoulder, his eyes gleaming, and Emilia tightened her posture, bracing herself to swing.
"What is going on here?"
A voice cut through the damp terrace air like a razor. It was deep, calm, and carrying a quiet, unmistakable authority that made both men freeze instantly.
Tariq and Neville snapped their heads around, clearly startled that their private, predatory corner had been breached. Standing in the soft golden wash of the ballroom doors was a young man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, clad in an impeccably tailored dark dress coat that seemed to absorb the moonlight.
Tariq responded first, his lips curling into a sneer of aristocratic annoyance as he stepped back slightly from Emilia, though he still blocked her escape. "Nothing you need concern yourself with, my Lord," Tariq drawled, dripping with condescension. "We were simply having a private, friendly conversation with the Princess."
The young lord didn't look at Tariq. His piercing blue eyes bypassed both men entirely, landing squarely on Emilia.
He took in the ruined trails of her makeup, the frantic rise and fall of her chest, and the way she stood trembling in her midnight silk—trembling from far more than just the biting autumn wind. Her eyes were wide, dilated, and glittering with a mixture of raw panic and defiance, like a deer caught in the blinding headlights of an oncoming car.
The stranger’s jaw tightened, a hard, dangerous line settling over his features. He stepped fully into the dim terrace light, his boots crunching softly on the frost.
"From where I am standing," the Lord said, his voice dropping to a low, icy register that sent a shiver down Emilia’s spine, "I am not at all convinced Her Highness is interested in your company. I suggest you leave. Immediately."
Neville let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, stepping forward to flank Tariq. "And who are you to suggest anything? Do you think you can just wander out here and claim her for yourself? I think not. Who are you anyway?"
The young lord didn't offer a name. His expression remained a mask of cool, unyielding stone. "That is of no concern to you. Leave. Now."
"Or you'll do what?" Tariq spat.
Ego and brandy fuelling his aggression, Tariq took a stride forward until he was practically nose-to-nose with the stranger. With a snarl of disgust, Tariq brought his hand up and pushed the lord’s shoulder angrily, trying to shove him back.
The young lord didn't even sway. He simply looked down at the hand on his coat, then up into Tariq's eyes. "Do that again," he murmured, his voice deadly quiet, "and you will find out."
Neville and Tariq exchanged a brief, mocking sneer, entirely misjudging the man before them. They turned fully away from Emilia, setting their sights on this lone interloper. Before Emilia could even scream a warning, the space between the three men vanished.
"How dare you?" Neville sneered, stepping up beside his friend. "Do you have any idea who I—"
Tariq didn't wait. He drew back his arm and threw a wild, heavy punch straight at the stranger's face.
The young lord moved with a fluid, terrifying speed.
With a practiced ease, he brought his forearm up, effortlessly deflecting Tariq’s strike outward. Before Tariq could recover his balance, the Lord pivoted, swinging his leg out in a swift, sweeping kick that caught Tariq cleanly behind the knees.
With a breathless grunt, Tariq’s legs gave out. He crashed heavily onto the stone terrace, his elegant suit scraping against the frost-bitten stone as he groaned in sudden pain.
Neville’s eyes went wide. Panicking, he lunged forward, raising his hands to strike. But the young lord was already moving. He grabbed Neville by the neck of his tailored jacket, utilizing Neville's own momentum to spin him around and slam him hard against the limestone wall of the alcove.
The thud of Neville's chest hitting the stone echoed in the quiet night. Before he could draw a breath, the Lord pinned him there, catching his right arm and wrenching it firmly up behind his back.
"It is entirely clear to me," the Lord hissed, his face inches from Neville’s ear, "that the men in this court lack the basic decency they were bred to possess."
He applied a sharp pressure to the arm lock, forcing Neville to gasp in pain, his aristocratic posture completely breaking.
"Princess Emilia clearly does not want your company," the Lord continued, his voice vibrating with a quiet, lethal fury. "You will leave this terrace now. And if you ever crowd her, speak to her, or so much as look in her direction again... I will make you deeply regret it."
Neville’s face went white, his breath hitching as the pain in his shoulder flared. "Okay! Okay, let go!" he whimpered, his arrogance vanishing in an instant. "You've made your point! Let me go!"
The young lord released his grip with a contemptuous shove. Neville stumbled, clutching his arm, his eyes darting frantically toward the terrace doors.
On the floor, Tariq was already scrambling back to his feet, nursing his bruised ego and looking at the stranger with a mixture of shock and sheer terror. Realizing they were utterly outmatched, both noblemen offered one last, hollow glare before turning on their heels. They scrambled past the stranger, practically running as they threw open the heavy doors and disappeared back into the protective, crowded warmth of the ballroom.
The doors creaked shut behind them, leaving the terrace in a sudden, ringing silence.
Emilia stood frozen against the balustrade, her hands still balled into fists, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps as she stared at her rescuer.
The young lord turned back to her. In the biting night air, his breath was a quick, pale mist rising from his lips, catching the soft gold light spilling from the ballroom. His posture had completely relaxed, his broad shoulders dropping as the violent energy of the fight drained away.
Emilia’s eyes remained wide. She didn't move a muscle, her heart still hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She didn't recognize this man. She had spent her entire life navigating the Cordonian court, and she had thought she knew every face, every title, and every lineage. Yet, he was completely foreign to her.
"Are you alright, Your Highness?" he asked, his voice a deep, steady baritone that carried none of the mocking cadence of Neville or Tariq.
"Y... yes," Emilia managed to whisper, her throat tight.
The lord offered a small, reassuring smile. He took a single step toward her, but as he did, Emilia instinctively flinched, her shoulders tensing as she braced for another threat.
He stopped instantly. Sensing her lingering panic, he raised his hands in a gentle, placating gesture, showing her his open palms to prove he meant no harm. "It’s alright, Princess Emilia. I’m not going to hurt you."
To prove his words, he deliberately walked away from her, crossing the stone terrace to lean his weight comfortably against the frosty balustrade several feet away. He gave her space—physical, unpressured space that let her breathe.
Emilia let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension slowly draining from her limbs. Her fingers uncurled, her trembling hands dropping back to her sides. "Thank you. Lord...?"
"Rhys. Liam Rhys," he said, his smile widening slightly in the moonlight.
"Thank you, Lord Rhys."
"Please, just Liam is fine," he said softly, looking over at her.
Emilia looked at him, her gaze lingering on his features. He was undeniably handsome—tall, broad-shouldered, with neat blonde hair that gleamed like spun gold under the crescent moon, and eyes of a striking, icy blue. But what struck her most wasn't his appearance; it was his demeanour. He wasn't polished to the extreme, hollow perfection of the other noblemen. He stood with a casual, easy grace, and his eyes held a genuine, clear warmth.
"Just Liam?" Emilia let out a small, breathless laugh, her lips curving for the first time in hours. "Forgive me, but it is rather unusual for anyone from the nobility to forgo their title. Most lords here carry theirs like a shield."
Liam chuckled, a warm, rich sound that seemed to banish the lingering chill of the terrace. "I know. But personally, I’ve always felt that a title is something that should be earned, not just inherited. And besides... Liam suits me much better."
Emilia felt the last of her defences crumble. "Well, thank you, Liam."
"You are very welcome, Your Highness," he replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Please, call me Emilia," she corrected gently, warming to his easy manner.
"You're welcome, Emilia," he amended, his voice soft. "I'm just glad I came out for some fresh air when I did. Are you absolutely sure you’re okay? Those two..."
"I am fine. Thanks to you," she said, taking a cautious step closer to him, though she still kept a respectful distance. "Really. If you hadn't stepped out when you did..."
"It was nothing," Liam dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Decency demands that much, at least. Though I have to say, your fists were looking rather formidable. I think you might have given them a run for their money even without me."
Emilia laughed, a genuine, light sound that made the heavy weight in her chest feel a fraction lighter. "Me too. I was fully prepared to swing." She paused, her curiosity getting the better of her. "I’m sorry, but I don't believe we’ve ever met. And I am fairly certain I know everyone in the Cordonian court, and most of the foreign ones, too."
Liam let out a self-deprecating laugh, shifting his weight against the stone. "Yeah. I’ve been... away."
"Away?"
"I’ve been in Italy for the past few years," he explained, looking out over the dark, frosty gardens. "Studying, mostly. Working a bit, too."
"Oh?"
"I wanted to do something for myself," Liam said, his voice turning reflective. "To learn about the world outside of this sheltered, gilded life we’re expected to live. Sorry, I don't mean to sound ungrateful for our privilege..."
"Not at all," Emilia cut in, her voice hushed and sincere. "I find myself wishing I could do the exact same thing. Every single day."
Liam’s blue eyes locked onto hers, filled with a deep, silent understanding. "I returned only recently. My mother requested—or rather, strongly insisted—that I come back for the social season, now that my studies are officially over, and I’ve learned a bit more about politics and business outside of Cordonia."
"And how are you finding being back?" Emilia asked, leaning her own lower back against the balustrade, mirroring his relaxed posture.
Liam huffed a dry laugh, shaking his head. "It is exactly as I expected."
"In what way?"
"Pretentious," he said flatly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Exhausting. That’s why I needed to slip out here for a breather. I just needed a little bit of freedom for a moment, you know?"
"Oh, I know. Believe me, I know," Emilia sighed, her gaze drifting down to her satin shoes. "That is exactly why I was out here when Tariq and Neville..."
"Yeah. They shouldn’t bother you again," Liam said, his tone turning momentarily firm, a shadow of the fierce protector crossing his features. "But if they do, you let me know. Immediately."
"I will," Emilia promised, touched by the protective instinct. "So... where did you learn to fight like that? That leg sweep was rather impressive."
"I took some self-defence classes while I was in Rome," Liam explained, a boyish grin gracing his lips. "The statesman I worked with, Signor Francesco, was a firm believer that one should always be able to protect oneself, regardless of status. So, I took some classes. To be honest, that is the very first time I’ve actually had to use any of it. I’m just glad my muscle memory kicked in."
"Me too," Emilia laughed softly.
Liam looked at her in the pale moonlight, his gaze softening. Despite the faint, ruined trails of makeup on her cheeks and the wind-blown strands of her perfect curls, she was beautiful. More beautiful than his mother had described, and far more captivating than the pristine, empty-headed debutantes currently spinning on the dance floor inside.
"So," Liam said gently, his voice dropping to a quieter register. "What was it you were trying to escape tonight, Emilia? Forgive me for asking, but you look like you’ve been through a lot more than just those two idiots." He gestured vaguely behind him toward the ballroom doors.
Emilia’s smile faltered, the cold reality of her heartache rushing back to fill the silence. "Oh. Well... it’s..."
Seeing her face fall, Liam immediately held up a hand. "I apologize. It is entirely none of my business. Please, don't feel pressured to explain."
"No, it's fine," Emilia said, swallowing the lump in her throat. She looked out over the dark gardens, her voice barely louder than the autumn wind. "I... I’ve been going through some very difficult things recently. It’s been hard for me the last few months, and I just... I needed to get out of that ballroom. I felt like I couldn't breathe in there."
"I understand," Liam said simply. There was no pity in his voice, no cloying sympathy, just a quiet, validating acceptance of her pain.
"I was actually just about to go back inside when Tariq and Neville showed up," Emilia continued, her fingers tightening around the cold stone of the balustrade. "I lost something earlier. A… a necklace of sorts... a very important necklace. I dropped it from my balcony before the ball started, and I was going to go down into the gardens to try and find it."
Liam looked out over the pitch-black lawns, the frosty hedges illuminated only by the faint silver of the crescent moon. "I'm not sure you'll have much luck in this light, Emilia. It’s freezing, and the shadows are incredibly long."
"No, perhaps not," she admitted, a heavy sadness settling over her features as she thought of Drake's ring lying lost in the cold dirt.
"Well," Liam said, turning his body fully toward her. "If you'd like, I could help you search for it tomorrow. There is a much better chance of finding something small in the daylight, and two sets of eyes are always better than one."
Emilia blinked in surprise. "Oh, I couldn't possibly ask you to do that. You hardly know me."
"You didn't ask. I offered," Liam pointed out, his blue eyes sparkling. "I would be happy to help you. Truly."
Emilia looked at his kind, open face, and felt a tiny, fragile blossom of comfort. Lord Liam Rhys was kind, and she desperately needed a friend right now. She loved Bertrand, but he was returning to Ramsford tomorrow. Olivia, Hana, and Rose loved her, but lately, they had a painful tendency to look at her with fragile pity, as if she were made of glass and might shatter at any moment.
Liam knew nothing of her broken heart. He didn't know about Drake, or his banishment, or her grief. He was just a kind stranger who offered help without expectation. It would be incredibly nice to have a friend who didn't look at her like she was broken.
"Okay," Emilia smiled, a genuine, soft expression that reached her eyes. "I would really appreciate the help. As long as you're sure you don't mind."
"Not at all," Liam smiled back, stepping closer and offering his elbow. "Now, shall we head back inside? It is getting rather freezing out here, and they will be starting those incredibly long, boring homecoming speeches soon. Personally, I would be deeply grateful to stand next to someone who hates them just as much as I do."
Emilia let out a bright laugh, the sound clear and lovely against the quiet night. She wiped her eyes quickly, trying to rescue what remained of her makeup, then reached out, her fingers resting lightly on the fine, dark wool of his sleeve. The warmth of his arm was a comforting, grounding contrast to the freezing limestone.
"That sounds wonderful," she said.
Together, they turned toward the heavy glass doors, ready to face the court side-by-side.
Stable filth, he thought, his eyes tracking her retreat. He despised the very idea that she had ever looked at a servant with longing, let alone loved one. It was an insult to the station he coveted, to the royal bloodline he was determined to entwine with his own. But if she was truly in love with Drake Walker, if the man was a distraction to the princess, then Neville would simply have to be a greater one.
This idiot...he needs to be dealt with.
Bertrand looked at her, his eyes shining with gratitude. "Then promise me, Em. Promise me you will do the same. I know it hurts now, but you’ll be alright. Okay?"
Emilia offered a small, watery smile. "Thank you, Bert. I can always rely on you."
Thank goodness for Bertrand. But I feel for him, too. At least he got Emilia's head back where it needs to be concerning Drake.
And Liam makes his appearance...just in time for Emilia's sake, but he needs to leave her to Drake now.
Hello everyone, I am an oldie who was part of this fandom group for years until too much negativity poured into it. I let go for a while and decided to come back, but seeing that the TRR fanbase has quietened down breaks my heart.
Not only was TRR fun, wild, and romantic, but it was so much fun because of the wonderful fanbase that supported it.
I MISS YOU GUYS!!!!
Some of you might roll your eyes or laugh when I say this, but coming onto Tumblr and engaging with you all was my therapy.
So..... I would like to get the ball rolling by starting a Royal Romance Writing Reboot.
Please share this post so we can reach out to everyone! Whether you enjoy reading, writing, artwork, or just like sharing your thoughts, I hope you'll jump on the train.
My hope is to get everyone involved again and launch some fun events. within the next couple of weeks.
Written with permission for @angelasscribbles blog.
Fandom: The Royal Romance
Characters: Drake Walker, Liam Rys, Riley Campbell and the rest of the gang
Rating: Fun
It’s karaoke night in Cordonia. Everyone is drunk.
Drake is on his 5th whiskey. Riley keeps looking at him, puzzled.
Drake: “Something on your mind, Campbell?”
Riley: “Why are you wearing a pink oxford?? That’s not your usual color or style.”
Drake: *shrugs, but hides a smirk as he takes another sip*
The last patron on stage exits, and Drake does a quick scan of the room. Seeing that Kiara is blessedly absent, he gets up and swaggers to the stage. He whispers to the DJ, who nods and sets up the microphone stand as Drake disappears behind the stage curtain.
After a minute or two, everyone wonders where he went. At that moment, an eight-note piano riff begins as Drake slides out with his back to the audience in just the oxford, socks, and his underwear. The riff repeats again, and Drake turns around and belts out Old Time Rock and Roll by Bob Seger. He mimics the dance from Risky Business as nearly all of the women in the club squeal.
Riley: *mortified* “Oh. My. God. What the fuck is he doing??”
Max: *wide–eyed* “He’s…he’s only had five drinks. He can’t be drunk….”
Liam: *laughing hysterically* “He’s always wanted to do that!”
Warnings – Language, Brief mention of sexual activity
The golden light of summer which had bathed the French countryside in a warm glow most of the season, did not dim all at once; it surrendered in slow, agonising increments. In the first few weeks of Drake’s tenure at Château Lumière, the late August sun had been a stifling, benevolent presence on his shoulders, the air thick with the scent of parched grass and the honeyed musk of wild lavender.
He had taken to the work at the Vancouer country estate with an easy confidence, grateful to be back to his full strength. He had taken Kiara and Zeke up on their offer, continuing to live at the Theron farm, which had become a sanctuary not just for him, but for those he’d left behind; Leo and Max made the trip from Applewood almost every weekend, their easy camaraderie a rowdy ghost of the life they’d once shared. Even his mother, Bianca, visited when she was up to it, her quiet presence in the farmhouse kitchen a tether to his past, though her eyes often held a knowing sadness Drake couldn't bring himself to meet.
During the weeks following his friends’ first visit to the farm, Drake’s world had felt ripe with a lingering hope, a world still full of the possibility that one of his letters to Emilia —the ones he filled with love and devotion—would finally be answered. But as the weeks bled into months, the vibrant emerald of the oaks began to fade into shades of bruised ochre and brittle, dying gold, mimicking Drake’s waning spirit.
The atmosphere at the Château Lumière stables had shifted with the changing season also. The sweet, dusty scent of sun-warmed hay was gradually being replaced by the sharp, metallic bite of encroaching frost and the smell of damp leather. Drake found himself grateful for the gruelling labour—the ache in his arms at least gave him a reason for the exhaustion that plagued his soul, the work provided a small distraction that masked the hollow throbbing in his chest. André was a fair man, treating his staff with a friendly, earned respect that Drake knew came from the man’s own humble beginnings. He was paid a wage that made his earnings at Applewood look like copper scraps, providing him with the means to pay Zeke and Kiara for his keep—home cooked meals each night, a warm bed at the Theron farm and the continued support offered by both siblings, especially Kiara—but despite the work and home life he had carved out for himself, none of it could totally silence the screaming absence of her.
Every morning, in the grey hour before the sun dared to crest the horizon, Drake sat at the small wooden desk in his room at the farmhouse. The wood was cold under his wrists as he wrote, a sharp contrast to the burning desperation which was beginning to take a hold around his heart. He told Emilia about the horses—the spirited bay mare whose fire reminded him of her own, the way the valley mist clung to the trees like a funeral shroud. He promised her, over and over, that he was waiting for her. Waiting for the day they could finally be together again. He sent the letters through the village post, watching them disappear into the mailbox with a desperate hope that felt more like a slow-acting poison in his veins.
Still there had been no reply. Still not a single word.
His mind often drifted back to a day nearly two months ago, shortly after he’d arrived at the Château. He had been pitchforking old straw when the head groom had approached, announcing that the Prime Minister was returning from a gala at the Cordonian royal palace and to prepare the horses should their master wish to ride. Drake’s heart had leaped into his throat; he silently nodded before dropping his tool and moving to the edge of the stable doors to watch. From a distance, he saw the sleek, black silhouette of the Vancouer family’s car sweeping up the long, gravel drive toward the main doors.
The sun had glinted off the polished chrome, bright and opulent, a blinding reminder of the world Emilia belonged to, and of a future he had dared to dream could be his before it was cruelly snatched away. He had watched from the shadows of the barn as André stepped out, looking every bit the aristocrat in his tailored suit. The urge to sprint across the manicured lawn, to grab the Prime Minister by the lapels and demand news of Emilia, had burned like lye in his throat. Did you see her? Is she safe? Did she ask about me?
But the questions had remained locked behind his teeth. André was a good man, but he was Constantine’s ally. To ask would be to pull a thread that could unravel the fragile refuge he had found here. If André mentioned Drake’s inquiries to the King, even in passing, the consequences could be swift and merciless. Constantine could see it as Drake trying to claw his way back, and Drake couldn't lead the King’s guard to the Château, or worse the Theron’s door. He couldn't risk making Emilia’s life even more of a prison than it already was. He couldn’t risk himself being silenced for good. Instead, he stepped back in to the shadows of the stables, vowing to keep his head down, to work hard, and to never give up on the love he knew still existed between himself and the princess.
Back in the present, Drake sighed— trying to keep his mind busy, to focus on the task in hand—whilst in the corner of the Château Lumière stable block, a battered, grease-stained radio sat atop a stack of crates, its speaker crackling with music and static. Suddenly the fuzz shifted, then stopped altogether, giving way to a slow, bluesy melody that caused Drake’s breath to catch in his lungs. He recognised the song immediately—the low, melancholic hum of the guitar and soft roll of the drums—it was the last song he and Emilia had danced to at the Starlight Swing in the village square. His hands faltered against the sleek, warm coat of a black mare. He froze, his fingers hovering just inches above the horse’s flank, as his heart began to pound against his ribs. He closed his eyes, tilting his head toward the shadowy rafters, and remembered for a moment how it had felt to hold her. For a heartbeat, the music and the phantom echo of her melodic laugh seemed to dance in the dust motes all around him, so real he almost called her name. He could smell her perfume, feel the heat of her body pressed against his own. But then the spell broke, the memory of her presence evaporated and the rafters became silent, home only to the spiders and the low, lonely whistle of the wind through the eaves.
*****
By early October, the transformation of the land was complete. The bright and beautiful love of their shared summer, which had blossomed into something more spectacular than Drake could have dreamed, was now a ghost; replaced by a skeletal reality.
He stepped to the stable door, wiping a mixture of sweat and grime from his forehead with a trembling hand. Outside, the sky was the colour of a leaden weight, pressing down on the rolling hills. The wind picked up, whistling through the rafters and swirling a handful of dead, brittle leaves across the cobblestones. Then, the rain began—not a cleansing storm, but a cold, dreary drizzle that turned the vibrant autumn gold into a muddy, sodden grey.
He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing the crisp edge of the letter he had written that morning. It felt anchor-heavy, like a stone he was forced to carry. As the rain intensified, blurring the line between the earth and the sky, Drake leaned his head against the cold, unforgiving stone of the doorframe.
The seasons had turned, the world had died to prepare for winter, and a darker thought, one he had tried to outrun for months, finally caught him in the damp shadows of the barn. Perhaps his mother had been right, perhaps their worlds were too different. Perhaps the glittering pull of the Crown—the weight of Emilia’s duty and the sheer, exhausting scale of her world—had finally eclipsed the memory of a stable boy in a summer garden. He wondered, with a heart-stopping pang of resentment, if she had simply looked at the gold of her palace and decided it was brighter than the gold of their shared sun, just the way Eleanor had when she had turned her back on his father.
*****
The transition at the Royal Palace was less an agonizing surrender and more a calculated, cold transformation. From the height of her private balcony, Emilia watched as the lush, vibrant tapestries of the gardens began to fray. The towering oaks that lined the grand promenade were no longer the deep, sheltering green of her summer at Applewood; they were turning a sharp, brittle bronze, their leaves rattling in the wind like old parchment.
Below her, the gardeners were already at work, ruthlessly uprooting the last of the summer roses. In their place, they planted rows of stiff, frost-hardy chrysanthemums—flowers that lived without the need for the sun’s warmth, much like the life she was expected to lead.
Emilia leaned against the cold limestone balustrade, her fingers tracing the intricate carvings with a restless, frantic energy. Two months. Two months since she had been torn from Drake’s arms, and every single morning had begun with the same crushing ritual. She would wait by her door, listening for the soft footfalls of Rose, only to find her silver mail tray empty of anything but formal invitations and dry diplomatic briefings.
In the beginning, the silence had been a wound that bled fresh every day. She had cried until her eyes were parched, whispering his name into her pillow, clutching the memory of his touch like a lifeline. But as the autumn air grew thinner and sharper, the raw grief in her chest was beginning to calcify. The hope that had once flickered was dying along with the summer blooms.
The sadness was being replaced by a low, simmering heat. Why haven't you written? The question echoed in the hollows of her mind, no longer a plea, but a demand. Had the distance been too much? Had he simply looked at the impossibility of their lives and decided she wasn't worth the struggle? The thought that he might have forgotten her, or worse, that he had never cared with the same soul-consuming intensity that she did, felt like a betrayal more cutting than any of her father’s commands.
A flash of light caught her eye. Over the crest of the distant hill, the first line of sleek, dark cars appeared, their headlights cutting through the deepening violet of the dusk.
The vultures were returning.
Tonight was the Homecoming Ball, the first glittering, suffocating event of the social season. During the height of the summer, the great halls of the palace had been eerily quiet as the Cordonian nobility retreated to their sprawling country estates to escape the heat and the rigid eyes of the court. Even the King’s ministers took their leave, trading their sashes and medals for the lighter burdens of family and sport. But by late September, the migration reversed. The heads of the Great Houses—Vescovi, Amaranth, and the rest—began returning to the capital, bringing with them the gossip, the schemes, and the relentless pressure of expectation.
Emilia had always dreaded this ball. In years past, it had merely symbolised the end of her summer freedom, the moment the heavy velvet curtains of court life were drawn shut. But tonight, it felt like the final nail in a coffin. The arrival of the nobility meant the palace would be a fortress of eyes and ears. Any hope of a clandestine letter, any chance of a secret word from the outside world, was being extinguished by the sheer weight of protocol.
She watched the cars sweep up the drive, a procession of polished steel and hidden agendas. Her summer of love was not just over; it was being buried under the silk and lace of a world that didn't care for stable boys or summer gardens.
Emilia straightened her back, her jaw setting into a hard, regal line. If the world expected a princess, she would give them one. But as she turned away from the fading light of the gardens to face the mirror, the fire in her eyes wasn't born of loyalty to the Crown—it was the bitter, burning heat of a heart that was tired of waiting for a ghost.
She turned to the bed where Rose had laid out her gown—a structured, heavy silk that felt more like armour than clothing. She reached for the garment, the fabric cool and unyielding against her fingertips. Stepping into the voluminous skirts, she felt the sudden, suffocating weight of the Cordonian court settle over her. She reached behind her; her fingers fumbling with the intricate line of hooks and stays. She had told Rose she wanted to be alone to get dressed, but without a maid's assistance, the task was a struggle, a physical battle against the very threads that sought to bind her. She pulled the laces tight, the structured bodice forcing her shoulders back and her breath into shallow, disciplined sips. By the time the last clasp was secured, she felt encased in a cage of midnight silk.
With steady, clinical movements, she began to apply her makeup. Gone was the playful winged eyeliner and the defiant red lipstick that had defined her summer; in its place, she applied muted, neutral tones—shades of taupe and dusty rose that looked elegant, expensive, and entirely hollow. She brushed her hair until it shone with a cold lustre, pinning it back into the perfect, shoulder-length curls expected of a Cordonian royal. The volumized, messy styles she had admired in the Hollywood magazines and had worn all summer, felt like a dream she had woken up from.
A sharp knock at the door broke the silence.
"Enter," Emilia said, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears—clipped and precise.
The door groaned open, and Olivia and Hana stepped inside. They looked like strangers, draped in similar court silks and rigid bodices that seemed to hold their very souls in place. The light, airy summer dresses of Applewood were gone, replaced by the heavy, opulent fabrics of the capital.
"How are you feeling about tonight, Emilia?" Hana asked softly, her voice laced with a caution that grated on Emilia’s nerves. "We know this isn't exactly your favourite event of the year."
"You’re right about that," Emilia scoffed, the sound sharp and ugly in the quiet room.
Olivia and Hana exchanged a fleeting, worried look. They had watched the transformation in their friend—the way the fire of her initial defiance had cooled into something sharper and more dangerous. For weeks, Emilia had been a ghost of herself, devastated by Drake’s banishment. But as the empty weeks had turned into months, that sadness had evolved. She wasn't just grieving anymore; she was festering. She was angry at her father, yes, but increasingly, that heat was directed at the silence from France.
"Have you still not heard anything from him?" Hana asked, stepping closer.
"No. He’s clearly forgotten me." Emilia’s voice didn't tremble; it was flat. "Clearly he thinks what we had wasn't worth the trouble."
"Don’t say that, Em," Olivia whispered.
"Why not? It’s true, isn't it!" Emilia snapped, spinning around from the mirror. The anger flared in her eyes, hot and bright, before she saw the genuine concern on her friends' faces and her shoulders slumped slightly. "I’m sorry, Liv. Hana. I… I’m not myself. I haven't been for a while."
"We know, Em," Olivia said, her voice softening. "It’s okay."
They moved to her side, and for a moment, the three of them sat on the edge of the bed, a small island of shared history in the middle of the cold palace. Emilia reached into the neckline of her dress, pulling out the ring Drake had given her. It hung on a delicate silver chain, a secret weight she carried every day. She rolled the cold metal between her thumb and forefinger, looking down at it with a mixture of love and loathing.
"I just honestly thought I’d hear from him, you know?" she whispered.
"So did we," Olivia agreed. "Have you tried writing to him? At the Prime Minister’s estate?"
"Yes. After André told me Drake was working for him at Château Lumière, I wrote." Emilia’s grip on the ring tightened. "I told him I loved him. I told him I hadn't forgotten. I asked him—I begged him—to write back. But I’ve heard nothing. Not a single word."
Hana and Olivia sighed in unison, a heavy, synchronized sound. "I'm sorry, Em," Hana said, taking Emilia’s hand.
"Thanks," Emilia managed a small, jagged smile. "I’m sorry too. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own broken heart... I’ve been so selfish. I haven't even asked how you two are doing. It must be hard for you both as well. You haven't heard anything from Leo or Max either, have you?"
Olivia and Hana looked at each other again, a long, silent communication passing between them that made the hair on the back of Emilia’s neck stand up.
"What?" Emilia asked, her eyes darting between them. "Have you heard something?"
"No, Em," Hana said gently. "But it’s... it’s different for us."
"What do you mean?"
Olivia took a breath, her gaze steady. "We knew that it would be over with them when we left Applewood."
Emilia felt the air leave her lungs as if she’d been struck. "What? Why?"
"Because, Em... they live in Ramada. We live here." Olivia’s voice was practical, and that practicality felt like a serrated blade. "We’re from different worlds. We knew it would never work. That it would only ever be a summer romance. It was beautiful and magical, but we knew it wouldn't last."
Emilia stared at them, her mind reeling. "Did Leo and Max know this?"
"Of course," Hana said softly. "We told them, and they agreed. Like Liv says... it was wonderful, but it wasn't love."
Silence crashed over the room. For a heartbeat, Emilia could hear the distant sound of car doors slamming and the faint, regal music starting in the ballroom below. Then, she stood abruptly. The fire in her eyes was no longer simmering; it was ice-cold and furious.
"So that’s all I was to Drake as well?" her voice was a hiss.
"No! Of course not, Emilia," Hana cried, standing quickly. "What you and Drake have, it’s different!"
"If it’s so different, Hana, then why hasn't he written to me?!" Emilia shouted, the sound echoing off the high ceilings.
"Em—" Olivia started.
"Is that all I was to him? Just a naïve, pathetic princess desperate for freedom who he could fuck then forget about? Just a summer fling he could boast about with his friends?"
"No, Emilia, I'm sure it’s not like—"
"You know what? If I meant nothing to him... if every word of love and devotion he said to me was a lie, then fine." Emilia’s face was a mask of cold fury. "He can go to hell!"
With a violent, sudden motion, she reached up and grabbed the silver chain around her neck. She pulled with everything she had. The metal bit into the skin of her nape for a fraction of a second before the link snapped with a sharp, sickening ping.
She didn't look at it. She marched out onto the balcony, the night air hitting her face like a slap. With a flick of her wrist, she flung the ring and the broken chain into the darkness. She didn't wait to hear it hit the ground. She didn't want to know where it landed among the frost-hardy chrysanthemums.
Emilia strode back into the room, past her stunned friends, her head held higher than it had ever been.
"Come on," she said, her voice as sharp as a diamond. "We have a ball to attend."
She flung the double doors of her suite open, the heavy wood thudding against the walls. As she marched down the long, gilded hallway toward the grand staircase, her heels clicked rhythmically against the marble—a steady, heartless beat that masked the fact that her heart had finally shattered into dust.
*****
The ballroom of the Royal Palace was a cathedral of excess. Huge chandeliers, dripping with thousands of hand-cut crystals, cast a blinding, artificial light over the room, turning the gold-leafed columns into pillars of fire. The air was thick with a cloying mixture of expensive French perfumes, the sharp scent of lilies, and the heavy, metallic musk of the Cordonian nobility.
Emilia took her place at the head of the grand staircase, flanked by King Constantine and Queen Eleanor. Her father looked every bit the formidable monarch, his chest a tapestry of medals that caught the light with every breath. Her mother, ever the picture of regal poise, wore a gown of shimmering silver that made her look like a statue carved from ice.
"Smile, Emilia," Constantine murmured, his voice low and devoid of warmth. "The people have missed their princess."
"They’ve missed the symbol, not the person " Emilia replied, her voice a razor-edged whisper, before she forced her lips into the practiced, hollow smile she had perfected since she was six years old. As the nobility began to file into the room, she stood beside her mother, offering polite pleasantries and graceful nods. Every "Wonderful to see you, Your Highness," and "You look radiant tonight, Princess," made her blood simmer. Each polite word felt like a physical weight, another stone added to the wall being built around her.
She hated this place. She hated the way the marble floors felt too cold, the way the music sounded too rehearsed, and most of all, she hated the people bowing before her. The young lords of the royal court, and sallow-faced counts from the northern provinces—all looked at her with the same hungry, predatory focus, their eyes lingering on her curves like appraisers, making her feel more like property than a person. They competed for her attention, offering pretentious compliments that felt scripted and hollow. Not one of them had an ounce of genuine personality; they were a sea of identical sashes, polished shoes, and practiced charms, each one blending into the next in a blur of privilege.
She stood there, playing the part of the dutiful princess, her mind a fortress against the thoughts of Drake. I hate him, she told herself as she nodded to a young Duke who was droning on about his family’s new vineyards. I hate him for the silence. I hate him for making me believe that our love was real. But as the words echoed in her mind, they tasted like ash. She didn't hate him; she loved him with a terrifying, soul-consuming intensity, and that love was the poison currently rotting her from the inside out.
Finally, the endless line of guests subsided, and the court moved into the banquet hall for dinner. The room was a shimmering expanse of white linen and silver candelabras. Emilia sat between her mother and a minor royal from a neighbouring kingdom, but her mind refused to engage. The entire meal became a disorienting blur of polite conversation, forced laughter, and the rhythmic clink of silver against porcelain.
The only reprieve was the wine. It flowed freely, a deep, blood-red vintage that felt heavy on her tongue. She drank thirstily, welcoming the way the alcohol began to dull the sharp edges of her anger. With every glass, the room softened. The bright lights became a warm glow, and the pretentious voices of the court receded into a manageable hum. She hoped, with a desperate fervour, that if she drank enough, the alcohol would finally soften the emotional turmoil in her chest—that it would make her forget the smell of summer grass and the feeling of Drake’s heart beating against hers, if only for one evening.
*****
The dinner ended not with a conclusion, but with a command. As King Constantine rose, the scraping of hundreds of chair legs against the marble sounded like a collective, jagged intake of breath. Emilia felt the wine—heavy and warm—settling in her limbs as she was swept along with the tide of silk and sashes toward the ballroom. The transition was a blur of golden light and the sharp, discordant screech of the orchestra tuning their instruments, a sound that grated against her raw nerves.
Then, the music swelled, a frantic, swirling waltz that felt more like a centrifuge than a celebration. Emilia was passed from one set of hands to the next, a doll in a midnight silk cage. The hands on her waist were too smooth, the skin too soft—nurtured by centuries of inherited ease.
She hated the way they moved, with a practiced, clinical perfection that left her cold. Every time a new nobleman leaned in, his breath a cloying cloud of peppermint and expensive brandy, she had to fight the urge to gag.
She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, seeking a sanctuary that didn't exist in this room. In the darkness of her mind, she felt the ghosts of his hands—the rough, hard-won callouses that had once grazed her skin, sending jolts of electricity through her. She missed the scent of him—not this heavy, floral rot, but the clean, sharp bite of Bay Rum and the honest musk of the stables. She remembered the way his stubble had felt against her cheek, a delicious friction that made her feel alive, grounded, and seen.
The song ended with a flourish of violins. Emilia curtsied, her movements liquid and precise, a mask of royal grace. "Thank you, Lord Bingley," she murmured, her voice a hollow chime.
She turned to flee the floor, desperate for the balcony’s biting air, when a shadow stepped into her path.
"Good evening, Princess."
Neville Vancouer stood before her, his tailored suit fitting him with a predatory sharpness. His eyes didn't meet hers; they raked up and down her body, lingering on the curve of her hips and the rise of her chest as if he were mentally calculating her value. "You look ravishing tonight. Truly a jewel in a room of common glass."
Emilia felt a familiar prickle of revulsion, like a cold wind on her spine. She straightened her back, her chin tilting upward. "Thank you, Mr. Vancouer," she replied, her smile small and brittle. It was a royal shield; one she hoped he couldn't see through.
"May I have this dance?" He offered his hand, his fingers devoid of warmth.
Emilia’s skin crawled. She wanted to scream, to shove past him and run until the palace was a distant, ugly memory. But she could feel her father’s gaze from the dais—a dark, suffocating weight that reminded her of the consequences of public defiance.
"Of course," she said, the words tasting like lead.
He led her back onto the floor as a slower, more intimate melody began. Neville didn't observe the traditional distance of the court; he pulled her closer, his hand splaying across the small of her back until she could feel the heat of his palm through the heavy silk. His breath, smelling of citrus and something sharp, fanned across her cheek.
"You know, Princess Emilia, I very much enjoyed your company at the Victory Gala," he murmured, his voice a low, oily drawl. "Jupiter was a worthy winner at the Derby. Your father should be proud of such a magnificent beast."
"Jupiter is proof that with enough hard work and training, one can overcome any obstacle," Emilia said. She meant Drake—she meant the man who had turned a spirited horse into a champion—but the words felt hollow even as she spoke them.
"Indeed," Neville chuckled, a dry, mocking sound. "My father was quite surprised the King allowed Mr. Walker to leave Applewood so soon after the win. It seemed... uncharacteristically generous of His Majesty."
The mention of Drake’s name hit her like a physical blow. Her breath caught, her heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against her ribs. She felt the sudden, stinging heat of tears behind her eyes and turned her head away, staring into the blur of the golden columns so he wouldn't see her composure shatter.
"Of course, my father jumped at the chance to have such a skilled horseman working at Château Lumière," Neville continued, seemingly oblivious to her distress—though in reality he was savouring every second of it. "Personally, I think one stable hand is much the same as the next. Nothing truly special about the help, is there? They are bred to serve their betters, after all."
Emilia’s anger flared, a white-hot spark in the centre of her grief. He is more of a man than you will ever be, she wanted to hiss. But the silence from France—the months of empty mail trays—smothered the fire.
"My father assures me he is doing a fine job, though," Neville added, leaning in so his lips were inches from her ear. "And I must admit, he seems to be making quite an impression on some of the chamber maids."
Emilia froze, her feet faltering for a fraction of a second. "What?"
"Oh yes," Neville said, his eyes gleaming with a cruel, feline satisfaction. "One hears the gossip in the halls. Several of the girls seem quite taken with the man. I don't see the appeal myself—he’s hardly a gentleman—but I suppose the help should stick with the help. It’s the natural order of things, wouldn't you agree?"
Emilia felt as if her heart had been gripped by a frost so deep it turned her blood to ice. The image of Drake—her Drake—smiling at another woman, touching someone else, made her feel physically ill. The room began to spin, the gold and light blurring into a sickening, chaotic swirl.
Neville watched her carefully, his thumb tracing a slow, insulting circle against her waist. He could see the devastation etched into every line of her face, the way her regal mask was finally, irrevocably cracking. It was exactly the reaction he had been fishing for.
His mind drifted back to a morning two months ago at the Château, to the moment he had found out exactly what had occurred between the princess and a stable hand…
Two Months Earlier…
Château Lumière was a monument to the Vancouer family’s ascent—a sprawling, white-stone fortress tucked into the rolling hills of the French countryside. To Neville, the estate was more than a home; it was a kingdom he intended to rule with a much firmer hand than his father ever had.
He moved through the high-vaulted hallways with a proprietary swagger, his silk-lined heels clicking against the parquetry. It had been a week since their return from the Victory Gala in Cordonia, and the air of the palace still seemed to cling to him—the smell of power, the weight of a crown he intended to draw closer to his own bloodline.
As he turned toward the east wing, a flash of white caught his eye. A maid, young and slender, was hurrying down the corridor toward the garden doors, a small wicker basket of mail tucked under her arm.
Neville slowed his pace, his eyes narrowing as they tracked the sway of her hips and the way her blonde hair had escaped its cap in soft, flyaway strands. She wasn't noble-standard, of course—her skin was a bit too sun-touched, her hands likely calloused from scrubbing—but she had a certain "fuckable" quality that made him pause. He was bored, and the Château felt stiflingly quiet after the excitement of the capital.
He followed her out onto the terrace, the late summer sun hitting his face with a warmth he found irritating.
"Going somewhere in such a hurry?" he called out, his voice a low, oily drawl.
The girl jumped, spinning around so quickly she nearly lost her footing. Her eyes widened, a flicker of genuine fear crossing her face before she dropped into a frantic, clumsy curtsy. "Mr. Vancouer! I—I’m sorry, sir. I was just taking the post to the staff quarters."
Neville stepped closer, invading her personal space until he could smell the cheap lavender soap on her skin. He leaned in, his gaze dropping to the swell of her chest beneath the cotton bodice. He offered a smile that didn't reach his eyes—a calculated, predatory display of teeth. "The post can wait, can't it? Surely a girl as lovely as you has more interesting things to do with her morning than deliver bills to the help."
He reached out, his finger tracing the line of her jaw. The girl recoiled slightly, her face flushing a deep, uncomfortable crimson. She looked flustered, her hands trembling as she tried to pull away from his touch.
"I... I really must go, sir," she stammered, her voice high and tight.
In her haste to step back, her heel caught on the edge of a stone planter. The wicker basket slipped from her fingers, hitting the gravel with a dull thud. Letters scattered like white petals across the grey stones—bills, postcards from neighbouring countries, and personal notes for the Château's army of servants.
"Oh! I'm so sorry, sir!" She dropped to her knees, frantically scrambling to gather the paper.
"No need to fret," Neville said, his voice dripping with a mock gallantry that made his own skin crawl with amusement. He knelt beside her, his movements fluid and predatory. He enjoyed the way she avoided his gaze, the way her breath was coming in short, panicked gasps. He wondered if he could squeeze a quick release out of this encounter—a blowjob behind the hedgerow, perhaps, in exchange for not reporting her clumsiness to the head housekeeper.
But as he reached for a stray envelope near his foot, his hand froze.
The paper was heavy, cream-colored, and bore a distinctive, raised crest in gold wax. The Cordonian Royal Seal. And beneath it, in a graceful, flowing script: Mr. Drake Walker.
A cold, sharp interest replaced his lust. He assumed it was a letter from King Constantine—perhaps a summons for the stable hand to return to Applewood. The King was likely trying to reclaim his prized horseman now that he had heard of Drake’s success at the Chateau. Not if I can help it, Neville thought, his fingers closing over the envelope with a practiced sleight of hand. His father was quite taken with the Walker boy, and the Prime Minister didn't like to lose his assets.
He slid the letter into the inner pocket of his jacket in one smooth motion.
"There you are," he said, handing the girl a few mundane letters he’d gathered. He stood up, his interest in her vanishing as quickly as it had arrived. "Run along now. And try to be more careful. My father doesn't pay you to litter the terrace."
The maid didn't need to be told twice. She grabbed her basket, offered another frantic curtsy, and fled toward the stables as if the hounds of hell were at her heels.
Neville didn't watch her go. He turned back toward the house, his mind buzzing. He retreated to his private study, locking the heavy oak door behind him. He sat at his mahogany desk, the stolen letter feeling like a live coal against his chest.
He broke the seal with a silver letter opener, expecting a formal royal command.
As he scanned the first few lines, the shock he felt was physical—a jolt of pure, unadulterated revulsion.
My dearest Drake...
It wasn't from the King. It was from the Princess.
I wake up every morning with the ghost of your touch on my skin... I love you... I haven't forgotten the promise we made...
Neville slammed the letter down on the desk, his face contorting into a mask of fury. "How dare he," he hissed into the empty room. "That stable vermin. That... filth."
The thought of the Princess of Cordonia—the woman he desperately wanted to claim as his own prize, a jewel for the Vancouer bloodline—being touched by a man who smelled of manure and sweat made him feel physically ill. Every word of love she had written felt like a personal insult, a stain on the natural order of things.
He stood up, his eyes wild with a cold, focused rage. He wouldn't just keep the letter; he would ensure it never existed.
He crossed to the fireplace, where a small fire was crackling against the morning chill. He held the cream-colored paper over the dancing orange flames and, for a heartbeat, he watched the ink—Emilia’s heart poured out in elegant loops—shrivel and blacken.
He dropped it into the embers.
The paper flared bright and hot, the gold seal melting into a puddle of leaden wax before the fire consumed it entirely. Within seconds, the only evidence of Emilia’s love was a handful of grey ash swirling up the chimney.
The seasons had turned, the world had died to prepare for winter, and a darker thought, one he had tried to outrun for months, finally caught him in the damp shadows of the barn. Perhaps his mother had been right, perhaps their worlds were too different. Perhaps the glittering pull of the Crown—the weight of Emilia’s duty and the sheer, exhausting scale of her world—had finally eclipsed the memory of a stable boy in a summer garden. He wondered, with a heart-stopping pang of resentment, if she had simply looked at the gold of her palace and decided it was brighter than the gold of their shared sun, just the way Eleanor had when she had turned her back on his father.
Oh, Drake, no!! Please don't give up!! There are evil forces working against you both! She does love you!!
She didn't look at it. She marched out onto the balcony, the night air hitting her face like a slap. With a flick of her wrist, she flung the ring and the broken chain into the darkness. She didn't wait to hear it hit the ground. She didn't want to know where it landed among the frost-hardy chrysanthemums.
Emilia! Not his ring!!
He crossed to the fireplace, where a small fire was crackling against the morning chill. He held the cream-colored paper over the dancing orange flames and, for a heartbeat, he watched the ink—Emilia’s heart poured out in elegant loops—shrivel and blacken.
He dropped it into the embers.
The paper flared bright and hot, the gold seal melting into a puddle of leaden wax before the fire consumed it entirely. Within seconds, the only evidence of Emilia’s love was a handful of grey ash swirling up the chimney.
Neville and Constantine are two of the most evil people. They are making me very angry.
Written with permission for @angelasscribbles blog.
Fandom: The Royal Romance
Characters: Drake Walker, Liam Rys, Riley Campbell and the rest of the gang
Rating: Fun
It’s karaoke night in Cordonia. Everyone is drunk.
Drake is on his 5th whiskey. Riley keeps looking at him, puzzled.
Drake: “Something on your mind, Campbell?”
Riley: “Why are you wearing a pink oxford?? That’s not your usual color or style.”
Drake: *shrugs, but hides a smirk as he takes another sip*
The last patron on stage exits, and Drake does a quick scan of the room. Seeing that Kiara is blessedly absent, he gets up and swaggers to the stage. He whispers to the DJ, who nods and sets up the microphone stand as Drake disappears behind the stage curtain.
After a minute or two, everyone wonders where he went. At that moment, an eight-note piano riff begins as Drake slides out with his back to the audience in just the oxford, socks, and his underwear. The riff repeats again, and Drake turns around and belts out Old Time Rock and Roll by Bob Seger. He mimics the dance from Risky Business as nearly all of the women in the club squeal.
Riley: *mortified* “Oh. My. God. What the fuck is he doing??”
Max: *wide–eyed* “He’s…he’s only had five drinks. He can’t be drunk….”
Liam: *laughing hysterically* “He’s always wanted to do that!”
Written with permission for @angelasscribbles blog.
Fandom: The Royal Romance
Characters: Drake Walker, Liam Rys, Riley Campbell and the rest of the gang
Rating: Fun
It’s karaoke night in Cordonia. Everyone is drunk.
Drake is on his 5th whiskey. Riley keeps looking at him, puzzled.
Drake: “Something on your mind, Campbell?”
Riley: “Why are you wearing a pink oxford?? That’s not your usual color or style.”
Drake: *shrugs, but hides a smirk as he takes another sip*
The last patron on stage exits, and Drake does a quick scan of the room. Seeing that Kiara is blessedly absent, he gets up and swaggers to the stage. He whispers to the DJ, who nods and sets up the microphone stand as Drake disappears behind the stage curtain.
After a minute or two, everyone wonders where he went. At that moment, an eight-note piano riff begins as Drake slides out with his back to the audience in just the oxford, socks, and his underwear. The riff repeats again, and Drake turns around and belts out Old Time Rock and Roll by Bob Seger. He mimics the dance from Risky Business as nearly all of the women in the club squeal.
Riley: *mortified* “Oh. My. God. What the fuck is he doing??”
Max: *wide–eyed* “He’s…he’s only had five drinks. He can’t be drunk….”
Liam: *laughing hysterically* “He’s always wanted to do that!”
Setting: ??? We’re in AU territory, who knows where we’re at, but we’re going to be following one Drake Walker as we go. It is a short mini-series - 7 chapters total.
Disclaimer: Pixelberry owns these characters, but I have fun playing around with them a bit.
This series has NS*W moments and lots of bad language. No one under the age of 18 should be reading this.
The aroma of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee filled Drake's spacious kitchen, a welcome comfort after the turmoil of the night. As Drake moved around the large island, skillfully preparing breakfast, Max and Hana watched, their initial anxiety giving way to a cautious sense of hope. Hana, taking in the cabin's rustic charm, looked around with wide, appreciative eyes.
"Drake, this cabin is incredible," Hana exclaimed, a genuine smile gracing her lips as she surveyed the open living space. "I've heard about it, but I never imagined it would be so... wonderful. It's so peaceful out here."
Drake offered a slight nod of acknowledgment, pleased by her reaction as he set a plate piled high with scrambled eggs and bacon before her on the island. Emilia smiled, seeing the quiet pride in his eyes.
They ate, the shared meal fostering a sense of camaraderie and normalcy amidst the extraordinary circumstances. Hana reiterated her parents' demands for her return to Shanghai, her voice heavy with reluctance, but Max's plan to secure her place on the engagement tour offered a tangible solution.
"So, if Liam invites her," Emilia mused, tapping her fork on the island, "her parents can't exactly argue with a royal command, can they?"
"Exactly," Max confirmed, finishing his last bite of bacon. "It gives them a face-saving way to back down while keeping Hana here, officially for royal duty."
As they finished eating, Emilia turned to Drake, a hopeful look in her eyes. "Drake, could I show Hana around the cabin? She hasn't seen the upstairs."
Drake's gaze softened as he met her eyes. "Of course, Em. My home is your home."
Emilia's face lit up, a bright, genuine smile spreading across her features. She leaned in and kissed him tenderly. "I don't know what I did to deserve you, Walker," she whispered, her heart overflowing with gratitude.
Max and Hana exchanged a warm glance, smiling at the easy affection between their friends. Then, Hana rose from her seat. "Come on, Em," she said, a new energy in her voice. "Lead the way. I want to see everything." With a shared look of determined optimism, Emilia and Hana left the kitchen, heading for the stairs.
Upstairs, Emilia led Hana through Drake's private sanctuary. Hana's eyes widened at the simple yet elegant design of Drake's bedroom, the rich wood and masculine touches. "This place is amazing, Em," Hana whispered, running a hand over a carved bedpost. "It's so... him."
Emilia smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through her. "It is, isn't it?" She then grew serious. "How are you holding up, Hana? Really?"
Hana sighed, slumping onto the edge of the bed. "I'm okay, mostly. Just... devastated about going back. And about all of this happening to you. It's so unfair." She looked at Emilia, her gaze filled with concern. "How are you? After everything?"
Emilia leaned against the doorframe, a small, sad smile on her face. "I was terrified, Hana. And so upset. When they dragged me out, I truly thought... I thought I'd lost everything. I wasn't sure if I'd ever see any of you again. But then Drake came. He saved me." Her voice softened, a profound gratitude shining in her eyes. "He just... he came."
Hana reached out, squeezing Emilia's hand. "I'm so incredibly glad he was there for you, Em. We were so worried. After you and Drake were dragged from the ball, and Liam chose Madeline... he just disappeared. Retired to a private room and didn't appear again for a while." Hana's brow furrowed. "Max and I tried to follow you, to see where they were taking you, but the guards wouldn't let us leave the ballroom. I'm so sorry we couldn't do more."
"Don't you dare apologize," Emilia said, pulling her into a quick hug. "The fact that you even tried means the world to me. More than you know." She pulled back, her voice firm. "And for the record, all those photos of me and Tariq? Not true. Not a single bit of it."
Hana scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Of course they're not! Max and I know that. We were there, remember? After Drake beat the shit out of Tariq and he ran. We saw the state you were in. We'd never believe something like that about you."
They hugged again, a silent affirmation of their unbreakable bond. Emilia pulled back, a new thought forming. "Hana, why do you think Liam chose Madeline? It makes no sense. He never seemed to favour her, or even like her much."
Hana shrugged. "I'm not sure. She certainly wasn't a front-runner, at least not that I saw. But maybe... maybe we can find out on the engagement tour."
Emilia's eyes widened. "The engagement tour? Hana, I'm not sure I'll even be invited back to join the court after all this."
"But you should come anyway," Hana insisted, her eyes gleaming with an idea. "You're still a member of House Beaumont, through Max and Bertrand being your sponsors. Being with the court, even in the background, might actually make it easier to find information, being close to everyone who clearly had something to do with setting you up."
Emilia's lips curved into a slow smile. "Hana, you're a genius." A spark of her old fire, fuelled by renewed purpose, ignited within her. "Let's go tell Drake and Max. That's our plan."
Meanwhile, downstairs, a different conversation was unfolding. Max slumped onto the couch, running a hand through his hair, his earlier relief for Emilia now tinged with guilt. "I feel like this is all my fault, Drake," he admitted, his voice low. "Bringing Emilia here. If I hadn't, she never would have been forced into this arrangement with Liam. She wouldn't be going through this scandal now."
Drake, wiping down the kitchen island, turned to face him, his expression serious. "None of this is your fault, Max. Not a single bit of it. And besides," a slight smirk played on his lips, "if you hadn't brought her here, I wouldn't be with her now."
Max laughed, "Thats true. Guess it was a lucky coincidence walking in to her bar that night, huh?"
Drake smirked, "not exactly..."
"What are you talking about?" Max said, his eyebrows furrowing together.
"I met her," Drake explained, leaning against the island, "in Hyde Park, before we went to her bar that night. There was a spark. Immediately. Thats why I wanted to go to that bar so badly."
Max stared, genuinely shocked. "You... you never said anything! Why not?"
Drake shrugged. "I thought she liked Liam. And honestly, I didn't think I could compete with a prince. A crown."
Max let out a short, surprised laugh. "You were so wrong, Walker. So, so wrong." He leaned back, a knowing look in his eyes. "You know, I knew there was something there between you two. Even before the Derby."
Drake's eyes widened in genuine surprise. "How? How could you know?"
"I saw the way you looked at her, Drake," Max said softly. "And the way she looked at you. That's the real tell. She never looked at Liam like that. Not really."
A wave of profound happiness washed over Drake. He hadn't realized their connection had been so obvious, even to others. "Thanks, Max," he said, a genuine warmth in his voice. "Thank you for that."
Just then, the girls returned, their faces alight with a shared determination. Emilia practically bounced into the kitchen, her eyes gleaming. "Drake! Max! We have a plan."
Drake looked at her, sensing the shift in her mood. "Oh yeah? What is it, Dawson?"
"I'm going to attend the engagement tour," she declared, stepping up to him and wrapping her arms around his waist, looking up into his eyes. "I need to. The closer I am to the court, the easier it will be to get information about who set me up and clear my name."
Drake's jaw dropped, shock briefly overriding his relief. "Em! Why would you put yourself in the firing line like that? It's too risky."
She squeezed him tighter, her gaze unwavering. "Some risks are worth taking, Drake. And the sooner I clear my name and move past all this shit that has happened, the sooner you and I can be together, properly, without all this hanging over us."
"Plus," Max chimed in, joining them with a supportive grin, "we'll all be there to help. And so will Bertrand."
Hana nodded emphatically. "Exactly. We'll be your eyes and ears."
Drake looked at all three of them, a slow smile spreading across his face. He was still apprehensive about the risk, but he saw the fire in Emilia's eyes, the unwavering support of their friends. "Alright," he said, a renewed sense of purpose filling him. "Looks like we've got some serious planning to do."
They spent the next hour in intense discussion, mapping out strategies. The consensus was clear: Emilia needed to make a powerful statement. She wouldn't sneak back into court; she would arrive with a bang. Their agreed approach was for Emilia to make a grand entrance at the opening event of the engagement tour, which was set to take place in just two weeks at Madeline's estate. She would turn up with her head held high, sending a clear message that she was not defeated. From there, they would all work together, subtly asking questions, observing reactions, and digging for any information that could expose the true culprits and finally clear Emilia's name.
Later that day, as dusk began to settle, Max and Hana said their goodbyes. Hana was leaving to return to Shanghai but as long as Max could persuade Liam to contact her parents, she would be back before the beginning of the engagement tour. Max promised to be in touch with updates and news from the palace. Soon after they left, Murphy's black sedan pulled up the track. He emerged with Drake's laptop, gun cartridges, and several bags filled with Emilia's clothes and toiletries. And, to Emilia's immense relief, he held up her phone.
"They finished examining it," Murphy explained, handing it over. "Found nothing relevant, of course. Just your usual chats." He winked at Drake, a knowing look passing between the two men, a silent acknowledgement of the "usual
chats" likely hinting at more intimate exchanges. Drake felt a blush creep up his neck but quickly recovered, returning Murphy's smirk with a subtle wink of his own. "Good luck, you two." With a quick nod, he was gone.
Emilia's fingers trembled as she unlocked her phone. Her first call was to her dad. He answered, sounding completely oblivious to the chaos. The scandal had been splashed all over the gossip magazines and less reputable online tabloids, but her dad had never been one to care for royal antics or celebrity gossip. Thankfully, the news hadn't reached him. She kept her update vague, just letting him know she was still in Cordonia but would be heading to see some more of Europe in the coming weeks. He was excited for her, wishing her a wonderful time.
Next, she called Dan. He answered quickly, his voice laced with concern. "Emilia! What in God's name is going on? The news here is insane! Are you okay?" Dan, always more attuned to current events and certainly not above reading the more salacious headlines, had clearly seen the reports.
Emilia took a deep breath and told him everything: about Liam's arrangement, the crushing weight of the coronation, the fabricated scandal, and Drake's dramatic rescue from the airport. Dan was shocked, listening intently without interruption.
"Can I... can I speak to Drake?" he finally asked, his voice serious.
Emilia handed the phone to Drake. "He wants to talk to you."
Drake took the phone. "Hey, Dan. Yeah, she's alright. A little shaken, but she's a fighter." He listened for a moment. "I appreciate that. No, I'll definitely look after her. Don't you worry." A smile played on his lips. "Yeah, she's pretty amazing. More than I ever expected... Yeah, no, I'll keep you updated. And thanks. Really." He hung up then handed the phone back to Emilia.
"He thanked you!" Emilia exclaimed, surprised and pleased. "And you talked about me!"
"He was just quizzing me a bit," Drake said, feigning innocence, though a twinkle in his eye betrayed him. "Like an overprotective brother."
Emilia laughed, a genuine, joyful sound. It warmed her heart to know that her best friend and the man she loved were already building a rapport. The night was still dark, but with Drake by her side, and Max and Hana's unwavering support, she felt a glimmer of hope. They had a plan, and they would fight.
The evening descended upon the palace, but for Liam, the hours had blurred into a haze of amber liquid and self-pity. He was still in his office, the large scotch glass clutched in his hand, a near empty bottle of the finest single malt his only companion. His usually immaculate clothes were dishevelled, his royal bearing replaced by a weary slump. He intended to drink until the image of Emilia's face, her betrayal, and the crushing weight of his forced engagement to Madeline finally faded into oblivion. The alcohol, however, only seemed to magnify the churning emotions within him: hurt, anger, guilt, and a profound sense of failure. He was trying to numb himself, but the pain was relentlessly there, a dull ache beneath the haze.
A sharp, authoritative knock broke through his stupor.
"Enter," Liam slurred, his voice thick.
The door opened, and Max stepped inside. He had just returned from Drake's cabin, the fresh air of the countryside still clinging to him. He was determined. Hana had left on an evening flight to Shanghai, but Max hadn't given up. He was here to get Liam to personally invite Hana back, a royal command that even her formidable parents couldn't defy, ensuring she could join the engagement tour and remain close to Emilia. And, he hoped, to him.
Max's gaze swept across the office, and he stopped dead. He was a little shocked by what he found. Liam was a mess. The King, usually so composed, so regal, was slumped in his chair, a near-empty bottle on his desk, his eyes glazed and unfocused. The air reeked faintly of scotch.
"Liam?" Max ventured, his voice betraying his surprise. "What... what happened to you? Why are you like this?"
Liam merely grunted, raising the glass to his lips again. He looked up at Max, his eyes bleary. "Just... a rough day, Max. A very rough day." He waved a hand dismissively. "What do you want?"
Max ignored the dismissal. "Hana had to go home tonight, Liam," he stated, his voice firm despite his concern. "Her parents ordered her back to Shanghai."
"So?" Liam slurred, taking another long swallow from his glass.
"So, Hana is a bright, intelligent woman," Max pressed, stepping further into the room. "She'd be a real asset to court. A personal invitation from the King for Hana to return would convince her parents she's doing well in Cordonia. They'd surely let her come back."
Liam stared at his glass, swirling the amber liquid. He liked Hana; he could see Max's point. "Whatever," he muttered. "I'll contact them tomorrow."
Max paused, taking in the extent of Liam's drunken despair. "Liam," he said softly, "why did you choose Madeline? What happened last night?"
Liam's eyes snapped to Max, a drunken fury sparking in their depths. He slammed his glass down on the desk with a thud. "Why do you think, Max?! I chose Madeline because Emilia betrayed me! She betrayed all of us!" His voice rose, slurring with anger. "She's been sleeping with Drake, I already know that, but now... now Tariq and God knows who else!" His bleary eyes fixed on Max, accusation blazing. "Who else, Max? Have you been sleeping with her too?! You two are close. How many men has she worked her way through in her time here, huh? You must know!"
Max took a step back, shocked by the venom. "That's not true, Liam! Emilia isn't like that!"
"I don't believe you!" Liam roared, pushing himself half out of his chair, nearly toppling. "Tell me! Who else?!"
Max held up his hands, realizing the futility of arguing with a drunk and heartbroken king. There was no getting through to him like this. "Liam," he said, his voice calm, firm, "Emilia isn't like that. And when you realize it, you're going to feel like the biggest idiot on the planet." Max turned and walked out, leaving Liam to his drunken rage and the bitter taste of his own accusations.
The next morning, Emilia woke early. The cabin was bathed in the soft, diffused light of dawn filtering through the forest, a stark contrast to the harsh palace glare. Drake was still sleeping soundly beside her, his breathing deep and even. She gazed at him for a moment, a wave of tenderness washing over her. After the immense stress and chaos of the past few days and weeks, she didn't want to disturb his hard-won peace.
Carefully, quietly, she slid out of bed. She was still wearing his t-shirt from the night before, despite Murphy having brought her own clothes. It was soft, comforting, and carried his scent, and she liked the feeling of being enveloped in something that was uniquely him.
She padded barefoot down the wooden stairs, the cabin cool and quiet around her. Heading into the spacious kitchen, she began by making coffee, the rich aroma quickly filling the air. Then, she started on breakfast: eggs, bacon, and grilled mushrooms and tomatoes – a hearty spread.
To break the silence, she put on the radio, keeping the volume low. A song came on, one she loved, with an rocky beat. She found herself swaying, then twirling, a small, genuine smile gracing her lips as she began dancing around the kitchen, singing softly along with the lyrics. For a few blissful moments, the world outside, with its scandals and betrayals, ceased to exist.
Suddenly, she got a delightful shock. A pair of strong arms looped around her waist from behind, pulling her back against a warm, solid chest. Drake's voice, husky with sleep, murmured into her ear, "Now this, I could definitely get used to."
She laughed, a joyful sound that felt foreign and wonderful after the tears of the previous days. "Oh, is that right, Mr. Walker?"
"Mmmhmm," he hummed in response, his breath warm against her ear before he gently nibbled her earlobe. Then, his lips trailed down her neck, leaving a warm, tingling path in their wake. Emilia forgot about the breakfast, the song, everything. All her focus narrowed to the exquisite sensation of his lips on her skin, her body melting into his embrace.
He reached around her, turning off the stove, before spinning her around to face him, his hands gripping her hips as he backed her up against the kitchen counter. His eyes were dark with desire, reflecting the same hunger she felt deep within herself. She reached up, tangling her fingers in his hair as he leaned down, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss. His lips were hot and demanding, coaxing hers open to allow his tongue to explore her mouth.
Drake's hands slid under the hem of his own T-shirt that she wore, his calloused palms rough against her soft skin as they moved upward, caressing her thighs, her hips, then higher still until he cupped her breasts. Her nipples hardened instantly at his touch, and she arched into him, pressing her body closer to his.
He groaned softly as her fingers tightened in his hair, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. One hand left her breast, trailing down her stomach to hook beneath the elastic of her panties. His fingers brushed against her mound, already slick with arousal, and she gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, his thumb finding her clit and circling it gently while his middle finger dipped inside her wet heat.
Emilia moaned softly, her hips bucking against his hand as he teased her clit with expert precision. Drake broke away from her mouth to trail kisses down her jawline, her neck, nipping and sucking at her sensitive flesh. He added another finger, pumping them slowly in and out of her while his palm ground against her clit. Emilia whimpered, her body writhing against the counter as pleasure built within her core.
His fingers continued to work their magic between her legs, her wetness coating his hand as he pumped them in and out of her. He growled softly against her neck, "Fuck, you're so goddamn wet for me, baby." His dirty words sent a thrill through her body, making her even hotter than before. She cried out softly when he curled his fingers, hitting that special spot inside her that made her see stars.
"Oh, God, Drake! Drake!" She screamed as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through her body.
With a grin, Drake withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking her juices clean. "So fucking delicious," he groaned. Emilia watched him, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Her legs trembled slightly as she stood there, her body still buzzing with the aftermath of her orgasm. Drake's hands gripped her hips once more, lifting her effortlessly onto the kitchen counter.
His hands moved to the hem of the shirt she wore, his knuckles brushing against her stomach as he slowly pushed the fabric upwards. Emilia raised her arms above her head, allowing him to pull the garment over her head and toss it aside. She sat there, exposed and vulnerable, her chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath. Her nipples were hard peaks, begging for more of his touch.
Drake's gaze roamed over her bare torso, his eyes darkening with lust as he took in the sight of her pert nipples standing at attention. He leaned down, capturing one pink bud between his teeth and giving it a gentle nip. Emilia gasped, arching her back to press her breast further into his mouth. He chuckled softly against her skin before swirling his tongue around her nipple, soothing the slight sting from his bite.
His mouth moved to her other breast, lavishing it with equal attention while his hand pinched and rolled her neglected nipple. Emilia's fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close as she moaned softly. She tugged insistently at his shirt, wanting to feel his bare skin against hers. Drake complied, straightening up long enough to pull the fabric over his head and discard it.
Emilia's eyes feasted on the sight of Drake's naked torso. His muscles rippled as he moved, and she could see the dark hair that trailed down his abdomen and disappeared into his pants. She licked her lips, her hands reaching out tentatively, tracing the lines of his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips.
Drake's breath hitched as her hands explored his chest, her delicate touch sending shivers down his spine. But when her fingers traced lower, dipping beneath the waistband of his sweats, he let out a low growl. He captured her wrists in his hands, pulling them away from his body. "Not yet, baby," he rasped. "I want to taste you first."
Drake pressed Emilia back against the counter, her legs dangling over the edge as he stepped between them. His mouth crashed down on hers once more, kissing her deeply while his hands roamed freely over her body. She moaned into his mouth, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer. He broke away from her lips, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her jawline and down her neck.
His lips blazed a path down her body, pausing briefly to pay homage to her breasts once more, before continuing southward. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties, looking up at her with a devilish smirk. "Lift your hips, baby," he commanded softly. Emilia obeyed without hesitation, raising her hips off the counter as Drake tugged her panties down her legs and tossed them aside.
Her legs fell open naturally, invitingly, and Drake stepped between them again, his eyes locked on her glistening core. He ran his hands up the insides of her thighs, spreading her wider as he crouched to his knees. Emilia's breath hitched in anticipation, her body trembling slightly as she waited for that first electric touch of his tongue. When it finally came, she cried out sharply, her back arching off the counter.
Drake's tongue delved deeper, exploring every fold and crevice. He lapped at her juices eagerly, groaning softly against her flesh as if it were the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted. Emilia writhed against him, her hips bucking wildly as she chased her second orgasm. Her hands fisted in his hair, holding him close as she rode his face shamelessly.
He slipped two fingers inside her, curling them to hit that magical spot while his tongue flicked relentlessly against her clit. Emilia's body tensed, her inner walls clamping down around his digits as another powerful orgasm tore through her. She screamed out his name, her hips grinding against his face as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her.
Drake lapped at her, savouring the taste of her release on his tongue, before he looked up at her, a wicked smile playing on his lips as he saw the dazed expression in her eyes. "Feel good, Dawson?" he asked, knowing full well what answer she would give. Emilia nodded breathlessly, her chest still heaving with exertion. "God, yeah," she whispered hoarsely.
Drake straightened up, his body pressing against Emilia's as he leaned down to capture her mouth in a deep, passionate kiss. She could taste herself on his lips, musky and sweet, and it sent a fresh surge of desire coursing through her veins. Their tongues danced together, exploring and teasing, as her hands roamed over his back, her nails digging into his flesh.
As they kissed, Emilia's hands wandered lower, pushing at the waistband of his sweatpants. He broke the kiss just long enough to step back and push them down, kicking them aside as his thick, hard cock sprang free. Her eyes widened at the sight of it, her mouth watering with anticipation. She scooted forward on the counter, her legs wrapping around his waist as she pulled him close once more.
Drake's cock throbbed against her stomach, the velvety soft skin of her torso contrasting with the iron hardness of his erection. He reached down, gripping himself in his fist and giving himself a slow stroke as he looked into her eyes. "Is this what you want, baby?" he asked, his voice husky with need. Emilia bit her lip, nodding eagerly. "Yes," she breathed.
Drake lined the head of his cock up with Emilia's entrance, rubbing it up and down her slick folds. She moaned softly, her hips rolling towards him, trying to impale herself on his length. "Patience, Dawson," Drake chuckled, smacking her ass lightly. He grabbed hold of her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he held her steady.
With a single, powerful thrust, Drake buried his cock balls-deep inside Emilia's welcoming heat. They both cried out at the sudden intrusion, their bodies joining as one. He paused for a moment, allowing her to adjust to his size before beginning to move. He pulled almost all the way out before slamming back into her, setting a punishing pace that had them both gasping for air.
"Harder," Emilia begged, her nails raking down his back. "Please, fuck me harder." Drake obliged, his hips pistoning faster, driving his cock deeper into her tight core. She wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her ankles behind his back as she met his thrusts with equal fervor.
"Don't stop, don't stop," Emilia chanted, her voice breathless and pleading. "Fuck me just like that, just like that." Drake grunted in response, his hips moving faster, harder, his cock pounding into Emilia's slick entrance. The scent of their sex filled the air, mingling with the lingering aroma of bacon and coffee from earlier.
Drake leaned down, capturing Emilia's lips in a fierce kiss as he continued to pound into her. His body was coated in sweat, his muscles straining with the effort of holding back his own release. He wanted to make this last, to draw out every ounce of pleasure for her before letting go himself. Emilia's moans grew louder, more desperate, as she clung to him, her body tensing beneath him.
"I'm gonna come, Drake," Emilia gasped out, her inner walls fluttering around his invading cock. "Make me come."
Drake groaned, his body shaking with the effort of holding back. "Come for me, baby," he gritted out. "Let me feel that tight little pussy milk my cock dry." His filthy words sent Emilia tumbling over the edge, her orgasm crashing over her in a wave of pure ecstasy.
Her inner muscles clenched tightly around Drake's cock as she came, her nails digging into his shoulders, drawing blood. The sharp pain was too much for him to bare, and with a final thrust, he buried himself deep inside her, his cock pulsing as he filled her with rope after rope of hot cum.
Drake threw his head back, a guttural groan ripping from his throat as he came undone. His cock jerked and twitched inside Emilia, painting her walls with his seed. "Fuck, Em!" he roared, his body shaking with the force of his release. He slammed into her once more, grinding his pelvis against hers as he emptied every last drop into her welcoming depths.
He collapsed against her, his body slick with sweat and his breath ragged. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close as they both rode out the aftershocks of their intense climax. His heart pounded in his chest, matching the frantic rhythm of hers. Slowly, their breathing returned to normal, and Drake raised his head to look down at her.
A lazy smile spread across Emilia's face as she looked up at him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. "Wow," she murmured, her voice barely audible.
Drake chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair away from her forehead. "Yeah, wow," he agreed, his own grin mirroring hers. He placed a tender kiss on her lips, then gently eased out of her, eliciting a small gasp from Emilia.
He stepped back, helping her slide off the counter and onto her feet. Her legs wobbled slightly, still weak from the intensity of their encounter, and she leaned against him for support. He held her close, placing soft kisses on her temple as he waited for her to regain her strength. Once she felt steady enough to stand on her own, Drake released her and began gathering their discarded clothes.
He handed Emilia her panties and t-shirt, watching as she slipped them back on before dressing himself.
With their hunger for each other temporarily sated, a comfortable warmth settled between them. Emilia, feeling lighter and more grounded, turned back to the stove. With renewed vigour, she began flipping the bacon and scrambling eggs, the scent of cooking food now a welcoming aroma rather than a forgotten task.
Drake, moving with an easy domesticity, busied himself pouring them each a cup of steaming hot coffee. He remembered exactly how she liked it, adding just the right amount of cream to hers before bringing it over. He set her mug on the counter beside her, leaning in to nuzzle her neck affectionately as she cooked, a silent reminder of the closeness they had just shared. A soft sigh escaped Emilia's lips, a tiny smile playing at the corners as she leaned into his touch.
Thanks to @boundlesspleasure for the constant inspiration ❤️
I literally love all of you, but as a Tumblr veteran, Tumblr's main feature is the reblog feature. It is the beating heart of the dashboard and the foundation for a chronological timeline. The For You page here should not be your default setting.
You guys have got to start reblogging stuff you enjoy, especially, specifically gifs and fan art but also fics and fan theories or even hot takes if you're not afraid of a lil discourse. I'm tired of being the first or third reblog for a person's post and then seeing my blog's followers do nothing but hit like, while blogs sit there with no new posts in months or years!
Reblog more stuff please. Thank you, have a good day.
You're not even going to reblog this post are you
