Pairings: Bang Chan × Princess!Reader (Royal Guard × Heir to the Throne)
w/c: 7.7k words (I KNOW)
Warnings: Violence, political tension, imprisonment, betrayal, mild blood mention, rebellion, emotional intensity, romantic longing, strong female lead
Genre: Historical Fantasy | Romance | Drama | Slow Burn
Trope: Forbidden Love · Knight x Princess · Loyalty vs. Love · Power Couple
Synopsis:
When the kingdom demands obedience, she learns to wield defiance like a blade.
And when her knight is taken from her, love becomes her weapon -- and the crown, her conquest.
requsted by 🍑anon!
Author’s Note:
this is the 3rd request of the 2k+ followers event!
this might be too much for many but i have loved history as a subject all my life and i always will so i wanted to create somewhere, wheare a queen could rule with a supportive partner so i went all out with this fic. it is extremely over-exaggerated and cheesy as per me but i really couldn’t help it -- i enjoyed writing this so much that now my head hurts and i’m off to bed 😭 i’ll edit the 2k+ followers event masterlist tomorrow! sorry
Taglist: @dknbvdb @prettypeachprincesz
The kingdom of Aeloria was a place gilded in beauty and bound by silence. From away, it looked like a dream--space piercing soft clouds, marble palaces catching the sun, and gardens blooming in delicate obedience to the crown’s will.
But inside those high walls, the air was heavy with unspoken rules. Lineage defined worth. Loyalty demanded blindness. And women of royal blood--like you--were not born to speak. You were born to be seen.
They called your kingdom prosperous, but prosperity often came at the cost of a heartbeat. You learned this too young too innocent, the day your mother’s laughter vanished from the halls and your stepfather’s rule began to echo in its place.
The King favored order over warmth, tradition over tenderness. He saw you not as a daughter but as a symbol--a seal of alliance, a pawn in waiting.
And yet, in that same palace where freedom was forbidden, a boy named Bahng Christopher Chan swung a wooden sword beneath the morning sun.
He was barely twelve then--disciplined, solemn, his father’s commands branded into his mind. “A knight does not question. A knight obeys.”
He lived by that spell, every motion a reflection of loyalty. His family had served the crown for centuries; it was said their honor ran deeper than their blood. E
ven at twelve, Chris was sharper, steadier than most men twice his age. And still, you noticed something restless in him--a quiet defiance that flickered beneath his discipline, like a candle fighting to stay lit.
You first saw him from behind a marble pillar, skirts brushing against the stone, curiosity a dangerous thing blooming in your chest. The clang of swords sang through the courtyard; sunlight struck steel and scattered into dust motes. He moved differently than the others--not just with skill, but with intent. Every strike, every pivot had meaning.
When he finally caught you staring, you did what no princess should have done.
You grinned.
“You swing like you’re dancing,” you said, mischief glinting in your eyes.
Chris froze mid-motion, utterly thrown off. “Your Highness--”
“Oh, don’t start with that,” you interrupted, stepping from behind the pillar. “I’ve watched you for days. You don’t need to bow every time I breathe.”
He didn’t know what to do with a princess who spoke like that. His ears flushed pink. His sword arm trembled slightly. “It’s not proper--”
“Proper,” you echoed, rolling the word on your tongue like it was sour. “Tell me something, Christopher. Does ‘proper’ make you stronger?”
He hesitated, gaze flicking down. “It keeps me alive.”
That was the first time you laughed in front of him--a bright, reckless sound that filled the training yard and somehow loosened something in his chest.
From that day, you found excuses to wander where you shouldn’t. You’d sneak into the training yard with stolen pastries, sit on the stone steps pretending not to stare, and tease him until he sighed and pretended not to enjoy it.
He’d call you reckless. You’d call him boring. Somewhere between those names, a bond began to form.
At fourteen, you told him you wanted to learn how to fight. “I won’t be just another caged princess,” you’d declared, chin raised like a challenge.
Chris had stared at you in disbelief. “You could be punished for that. So could I.”
“Then I’ll make sure no one finds out,” you’d said, and smiled in that way that made him forget every rule he was supposed to follow.
He gave in, of course.
The first lessons were a mess of laughter and frustration. You tripped on your skirts, swung too wide, missed your footing entirely.
He scolded you constantly, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him every time. “If you want to hold a sword,” he’d grumble, adjusting your grip, “you can’t close your eyes whenever I move.”
“I don’t,” you lied, and he chuckled softly, the sound rare and warm.
You learned fast--sharper, steadier with every stolen night. The palace slept as you and Chris trained under the dim torchlight, your giggles blending with the soft scrape of blades. You bled from knuckles, bruised your knees, and still asked for more.
He admired that fire in you--the refusal to shrink, the way you met pain like it was proof you were alive.
“A sword isn’t for destruction,” he told you once, when you nearly swung too hard. “It’s for choice.”
You tilted your head. “Then teach me how to choose.”
Sometimes, you’d both sneak food to the training grounds, sitting side by side on the cobblestone steps as you shared stolen fruit and whispered about dreams that didn’t fit the crown’s shape.
He’d talk about the stars; you’d talk about freedom. You were a princess. He was a knight. Yet somehow, it felt like you were equals there--two souls breathing outside of duty, even for a moment.
When the guards caught wind of your mischief, Chris took the blame. Every time. Bruised knuckles, extra drills, sleepless nights. He never complained. “Better me than you,” he’d say, simple and sure.
And something about that devotion carved itself into your heart long before you realized it.
Years blurred, and the friendship that once bloomed like spring began to change shape.
You started to notice the way his voice lowered when he spoke your name, the way his gaze lingered a fraction too long when you laughed.
He noticed, too--the way your smile could undo his composure, the way every breath near you felt like temptation wrapped in silk.
You were twenty-three when you rode beyond the palace walls for the first time, disguised in a cloak and defiance.
Chris rode beside you, his armor left behind, his laughter lighter than you’d ever heard. The dawn was breaking over Aeloria’s fields, fog curling around the horses’ legs like a whispered secret.
“The world’s bigger than this cage,” you said, watching sunlight spill over the horizon.
He looked at you, not the sky. “I know.”
You didn’t see the shift in his eyes that morning--the moment loyalty became something softer, more dangerous. But he felt it. Every word you spoke from then on made it harder to remember where duty ended and desire began.
Rumors spread through the palace--whispers of the princess and her guard, of stolen hours and lingering glances. The King warned Chris to “remember his place.” So, he did what he was told to do--he stepped back in daylight. But at night, he returned to you. Always.
“My knight,” you’d tease him once as he handed you your blade. It was a joke. Mostly.
He’d flinch, looking away, but never corrected you.
One night during sparring, your sword slipped and grazed his arm. Blood bloomed bright against his skin. You panicked, dropping your weapon. “Chris--I’m sorry--”
He caught your trembling hands. “Don’t look so sorry, princess. I’ve bled worse for less important causes.”
The way he said princess that night wasn’t formal. It was reverent. Soft. Dangerous.
Silence settled thick between you, full of something neither of you dared name.
When he left, your heartbeat followed him into the dark. That night, you dreamed of him--the warmth of his hand, the steadiness of his gaze, the way your name sounded like a promise when he said it.
Then came the drought. Villages starved while the court hosted feasts in your stepfather’s honor. You argued with him, voice trembling with fury, only to be dismissed with, “A woman’s heart has no place in politics.”
Chris had stood silently by, knuckles white at his side.
That night, you slipped through the kitchen halls, cloak heavy with stolen bread and grain. But when you reached the gates, he was waiting. “If they find out--” he began.
“Then they’ll find out,” you interrupted, matching his stubbornness.
He stared at you for a long moment before sighing. Then, wordlessly, he took half the sacks from your arms.
Under the pale moonlight, two shadows moved through the streets--one royal, one sworn--and for once, they were the same. When your hands brushed as you passed out food, you didn’t pull away. You didn’t have to.
“Why do you always help me?” you whispered as you walked back.
He hesitated, then said, “Because you make me forget the rules.”
That answer stayed with you far longer than it should have.
In the days that followed, the Queen’s old garden became your sanctuary--its roses wild, untamed, defiantly blooming against the King’s careful pruning. You met there often, speaking softly between sword practice and secrets.
“They remind me of you,” Chris said once, brushing a thorned stem with his glove.
“Then don’t let anyone cut me down,” you replied.
For a moment, he almost kissed you. You saw it--the flicker in his eyes, the tilt of his head--but then guilt strangled the space between you, and he stepped back.
The palace returned to coldness. Whispers of your marriage spread--alliances, princes, noblemen you didn’t care to meet. Every mention twisted a knife in his chest. One afternoon, he saw you laughing politely with a visiting lord. He excused himself before you could see the hurt.
Later, you found him training alone, every strike against the wooden dummy a confession he couldn’t voice.
“Why do you look at me like I’m something you shouldn’t touch?” you asked quietly.
His jaw tightened. “Because you are.”
“Then stop guarding me like i am some prisoner,” you whispered, before leaving him standing in silence.
That night, neither of you slept. He trained until dawn; you stared at the ceiling, wondering if he was thinking of you.
You began breaking small rules again--nothing dangerous, just enough to make him chase you through corridors and scold you like before. When he caught your wrist one night, panting and exasperated, you smirked, “There’s the Chan I remember.”
His glare melted into reluctant laughter. His walls cracked a little more.
Then came the storm.
Thunder split the sky, rain drumming against stone as the palace slept. You found him in the stables, brushing down his horse, hair damp, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked up when you entered--drenched, wild, breathtakingly alive.
“You’ll catch cold,” he murmured, slipping off his cloak to drape it around your shoulders.
You met his gaze. “Then warm me, my knight.”
The words trembled between you, reckless and unrepentant.
His breath caught. Lightning illuminated the space--the wet sheen of his hair, the pulse in his throat, the way his hand hesitated near your cheek.
“You don’t know what you ask for,” he whispered.
“I do,” you replied.
His fingers brushed your face, tentative at first, then surer--thumb tracing your jaw, knuckles grazing your skin like a vow. The air was all thunder and heartbeat. You leaned in, and for a moment, the world held its breath.
Then he stepped back, shaking, eyes burning with something that looked too much like love.
“I swore to protect you princess,” he said, voice breaking. “Not want you.”
You took a step closer. “Then protect me from everyone but yourself.”
But he couldn’t. Not from you. Not from what he felt.
By morning, he was gone. Only his cloak remained--heavy with rain and the memory of his touch.
You stood alone in the courtyard as dawn crept over the kingdom, realization settling like frost upon your skin.
The bond between princess and knight was no longer innocent.
It was a spark--quiet now, but destined to set the world ablaze.
--
Three years have passed since that storm-soaked night in the stables. The memory still clings to you like rain in your hair -- a night that changed nothing, and yet, somehow, everything. You are twenty-six now, no longer the impulsive girl who laughed through the thunder. He is twenty-eight, a knight forged into iron and silence. Time has turned you both into what the crown needed: polished, untouchable, and utterly lonely.
You’ve learned to hide your longing behind poise and diplomacy, to smile when your heart is a clenched fist. Chan has learned to bury his behind armor and obedience. And yet, every glance between you trembles with that unspoken memory -- the near kiss that never happened, the words you both swallowed because duty demanded silence.
The court has begun arranging marriage proposals for you. They parade you before portraits of princes like prized livestock -- faces painted in oil and arrogance. You nod, you smile, you pretend to listen. But your heart is anchored elsewhere, chained to a man who stands at your shoulder in silence.
Chan escorts you to every council, every garden, every suffocating feast. His movements are deliberate, disciplined -- a knight’s perfection. But his eyes tell stories he should never tell. The King praises him for loyalty, never realizing that loyalty no longer belongs to the throne.
Rumors stir like snakes in the dark. Of your “improper friendship” with your guard. Of how your gaze lingers too long. Of how his hand hovers protectively near your back, always too close. You hear it all -- and sometimes, you smile. Let them whisper. Let them wonder.
Chan hears them too, and they burn him like molten chains. “They’ll use it against you,” he warns one evening, voice low beneath the shadow of the courtyard.
“Then let them try,” you answer, tone sharp enough to cut through fear.
The tension between love and loyalty stretches taut, trembling, ready to snap. You begin to see how the palace thrives on silence -- how obedience is the prettiest kind of cage. So, you vow quietly: one day, you’ll speak loud enough to break it.
The King’s summons comes soon after -- a royal banquet, a celebration of alliances. Invitations flood the kingdom. Every noble family, every eligible son, eager to offer their names and their greed.
You dread it. You’ve never been more aware of how heavy a crown can feel when it’s made of expectations.
That night, you stand before the mirror as maids drape silver-threaded silk over your shoulders. The gown gleams like moonlight, regal and cold. When they leave, you stare at your reflection -- a perfect princess, sculpted for display. Somewhere deep beneath the jewels and frost, you search for the girl who once laughed in the rain with her knight. She doesn’t answer.
Chan stands by the ballroom doors when you enter, armored but unarmed, his face unreadable. He’s never looked more like a knight -- or less like the man you love.
The nobles whisper as you pass -- about your beauty, your defiance, your refusal to yield. Every prince who dares approach you finds your smile polite but your eyes glacial. You dance because you must. You speak because silence would offend. But every movement feels like a lie.
Across the room, Chan’s gaze never leaves you. You catch it once, twice -- fleeting sparks of something forbidden. Each glance feels like a blade pressed against your ribs, reminding you of everything you cannot say.
Then one prince, brash and spoiled, grows too bold. His hand lingers at your waist, sliding a fraction too high. Chan’s knuckles whiten around his goblet, veins standing taut.
You step back once, politely. The prince chuckles and leans closer. His fingers trace up your arm.
And before you can think, instinct moves first.
Your knee connects with his gut. He doubles over with a strangled noise -- then your fist finds his jaw. The sound echoes across marble and music. The orchestra stutters to silence. Gasps ripple through the hall.
Wine spills. The prince crumples. The world stops.
You stand tall, breath trembling, defiance gleaming in your eyes.
Across the hall, Chan looks at you -- and for the first time, he doesn’t hide it. He doesn’t look ashamed. He looks proud.
The silence that follows is short-lived.
“Enough!” The King’s voice roars across the chamber. The hall quakes beneath his fury.
“You’ve disgraced the crown,” he spits, red-faced with rage.
“I’ve defended myself,” you reply, voice steady. “Is that a crime now?”
Whispers explode through the crowd -- scandal, shock, disbelief.
Chan moves before he realizes it, stepping forward, his hand resting on his sword.
The King’s eyes narrow like a hawk’s. “You,” he says coldly. “You taught her this.”
Chan bows his head -- but doesn’t deny it. “I taught her to survive,” he says quietly.
The room freezes. The King’s fury turns molten. “A knight’s duty is obedience, not insolence.”
Chan meets his gaze, unflinching. “Then perhaps you’ve forgotten what a true knight is.”
Gasps sweep through the court. The sound of boots striking marble follows a heartbeat later. Guards move to seize him.
You cry out -- “No! Don’t--” -- but it’s too late. Chains snap around his wrists. He doesn’t resist. He only looks at you once, one last time, before being dragged away.
“Let him go!” you scream, voice breaking, but two maids hold you back.
The King doesn’t even glance at you. “Lock him away,” he says. “He’s poisoned her mind.”
The doors slam shut behind him -- and with it, the only light left in your chest.
By dawn, his armor is gone from the barracks. His chambers stand empty, bed neatly made. It’s as though he never existed.
You storm through the palace barefoot, silk dragging across stone, hair undone. “Where is Sir Bang Chan?” you shout, voice echoing down the corridors. Courtiers stare, whispering of hysteria.
When the King appears atop the stairs, he doesn’t even look surprised. “Enough of this madness.”
“Tell me where he is.”
“Where all traitors belong.”
The words hit harder than any strike.
“He’s no traitor,” you whisper.
“He defied the crown.”
You lift your chin, eyes blazing. “Then perhaps the crown deserves defiance.”
A collective gasp trembles through the court. The King’s glare sharpens. “Watch your tongue, child.”
“I am no child.”
The hall falls silent -- your words ringing like prophecy.
Days bleed into one another. You refuse food, refuse counsel, refuse to smile. Every knock on the door sparks hope; every silence leaves it hollow again. The roses in your garden wilt. You haven’t touched them since the night he vanished.
You sneak through the palace at night -- bribing guards, whispering threats, begging servants. But the dungeons stay hidden. He remains a ghost beneath the stones.
You start writing letters you’ll never send. Each begins the same: To my knight.
“They think they’ve broken me,” one reads. “But they only taught me how to fight.”
The rumors twist again -- the grieving princess, the broken heart, the rebellion in her blood. You overhear a maid whisper, ‘She’s her mother’s daughter after all.’ You don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
At the next royal feast, the King stands and raises his goblet. His voice cuts through the chamber like frost. “The Princess will be engaged within the month.”
You stand slowly, glass in hand.
“You want a confession?” you ask, tone cool, calm, deadly.
The room stills.
“Fine.” You meet your father’s eyes. “I love him.”
The goblet slips from your fingers and shatters. The hall erupts -- gasps, shouts, chaos. But you don’t hear any of it. You just turn and walk out, head high, heart blazing.
By dawn, the scandal spreads like wildfire. The Princess in Love with Her Guard. The King orders silence, but the whispers grow.
In the dungeons below, Chan lies bloodied but unbroken, whispering your name like a prayer.
Above, in your chamber, you press your hand against the windowpane, eyes searching the horizon.
And when you whisper his name back, it’s not as a princess to her knight -- but as a woman to her heart.
dawn spills like fire over the palace walls and the world you knew fractures along the heat of it. The morning light finds you in the same chamber that once felt like a theater of silk and obedience, but today the silk scratches like truth.
The day after your confession the court is a hive of panic--ministers with too-white faces, nobles whispering like rats in the rafters, emissaries being dispatched to patch a scandal with marriages and treaties.
The King sits at the head of it all, carved and cold, fury compacted into the lines of his jaw. He speaks of reputation and ruin, the crown’s safety, the illusion of order; his words are a blade he aims at you.
They lock your door “for your own good,” they say, and post guards outside your windows as if stone and gold could cage what is already a flame in your chest.
You strip the jewels from your neck one by one and let them clatter to the floor--sound like falling chains, like something breaking that cannot be mended.
Each jwel that hits the stone rings a little louder than the last, and in that noise a plan begins to form, fed by grief and sharpened into purpose. Where sorrow is cornered, it becomes something else. You will find him.
You do not sleep that night. You scream into pillows until your throat goes raw, then you crawl from bed and study the rhythms of the palace like a scholar of war.
Guards trade shift patterns across the courtyard; cooks stagger home at dawn, their doors swinging with secrets. You learn which sentries smoke by the east gate, which captain’s eye is always a fraction too kind to coin.
Your fingers map escape routes along the underside of velvet sleeves. Every plan begins and ends with the same vow: I will find him.
Below, the dungeons taste of iron and damp. Chan lies there, wrists raw from chain and interrogation, the black bruises painting his ribs like a map you cannot read from above.
Men with gleaming helmets demand treason and conspiracy and he refuses them each time. “You taught her this,” they hiss, desperate for a confession they can pin like a badge. He spits blood into the gutter and answers, “I taught her freedom.”
They answer with footfalls and fists.. even battered, Chan’s jaw sets like weathered stone. Between blows he slips into memory--your laugh tugging at the edges of darkness, the warmth of your hand against his cheek--and those memories become the ladder he clings to.
The King reacts as kings always do when something slippery threatens their polished reputation: he tightens his grip. He announces your betrothal to a distant duke, a bloodless arrangement meant to bury scandal under alliances.
He calls it duty; you call it theft. When his hand comes down across your face--sharp and public as a striking bell--the courtiers shuffle and pretend not to notice.
You have learned to hide your guttural responses, to tuck your fury where silk can’t see it, but the sting leaves a bright, ringing clarity in your ears. “You will marry who I say,” he tells you. “Then you will have to kill me,” you whisper back, and no one laughs.
The palace divides into factions: those who fear the King’s displeasure, those who watch you with new hunger in their eyes, and a quiet current of people who remember what the late Queen was and still whisper her name like a prayer.
Rumors of your defiance ripple through servants’ quarters and reach the city streets. Some murmur admiration. Others call you reckless. A stray title blooms--The Lioness’ Daughter--and it feels as much like a prophecy as a threat.
You begin to bribe. A ring for a guard, a hairpin for a kitchen boy, the careful exchange of old heirlooms for slumbering loyalty. At night you wear obedience like a mask for the King’s councillors: you attend meetings in gentle silk, offer bland nods and safe answers. But under the hems of those dresses are lockpicks, maps, and patience.
In their complacency they teach you their weaknesses: which gate creaks, which torch burns out at the third stroke, which ladder can be tired away from its stone. You keep a ledger of names and times in a book bound for the rubbish heap, and in the margins you write only one instruction: midnight.
Down where the sun never reaches, Chan listens to the stories of other captives--thieves with soft hands, scholars branded as heretics, women who speak in truths the crown could not handle. They are angry and hungry and, most disturbingly, lucid.
Their words seed him with a terrible clarity: loyalty to a throne that kills its queen is not loyalty at all. The man who trained him, who taught him that a knight does not question, looks like a stranger in his mind. From the cell’s damp, a new conviction is born: if he ever slips free, he will not kneel again.
An ally appears in the most predictable place--a guard who has stayed too long in taverns, whose mistress once wore the Queen’s necklace, whose pockets are hungry for coin and for the chance to spite a palace that chews its men. “At midnight,” he says, voice hollow with risk. “I can leave a post unguarded. But you didn’t hear it from me.” The plan is breath and hope and peril, and you stitch it together with trembling hands.
You steal out at dark with soot smeared on your cheek and a servant’s rag for a dress. You move through tunnels narrower than you expected, torchlight guttering and throwing your shadow long on the walls. The dungeons smell worse than rumor promised--old blood, wet straw, the slow rot of time.
You go on because the image of Chan’s wrists, the way he looked at you in that last exchange before they dragged him away, will not leave you. You will not be the quiet story of his loyalty. You were never meant to be that kind of woman.
You find him bound in the deepest ring of cells, gaunt and defiant, every bruise a testament. For a moment he does not believe you; the laugh that comes from his chest is broken and incredulous. “You shouldn’t be here,” he rasps, voice threaded with pain and a dangerous tenderness.
“Neither should you,” you answer, and your hands work on the lock with the practiced patience of someone who has been planning for months. Each click is a rebellion. When his chains fall away, his fingers find your wrist and hold on as if the world itself might slide off its axis without that grip.
“You’ll ruin yourself,” he whispers once your hands are free and trembling.
“You ruined me first,” you say, and the kiss that follows is neither gentle nor proper--salt and blood and the acrid tang of fear and love braided together. It is a theft and a salvation. He tastes like punishment and forgiveness, like rain on hot stone.
You cannot leave them all behind. Passing the other cells, you hear cursing and prayer and small, surprised sobs when you drag open an iron bar and the darkness breathes a woman free.
Faces, once bowed in defeat, suddenly flare with the wild light of possibility. One woman clasps your hand with weathered fingers and calls you "Your Majesty". For a heartbeat the title is heavy and real and not yet claimed, and then you shake your head because the crown does not save people--people do. “Not yet,” you tell her. “But soon.”
Under your orders, whispered and fast, the corridor becomes a river of escape. Chains fall and keys turn. You move ghosts out into the night: thieves and dissenters, scholars and midwives held for speaking truth.
Their mouths, once stilled by the King’s cruelty, swell with vows. The rebellion that will stain the palace began not in the market nor in a field but in the echoing clank of a dungeon lock and the press of a desperate kiss.
By the time you and Chan reach the Queen’s study, the first pale fingers of dawn are bleeding into the sky. The study is a reliquary left untouched for years--dust, an overgrown ivy in sunlight, the echo of a woman who loved the world too much and therefore was taken. You sift through drawers with hands that do not quite know how to be gentle.
There, in ink that has faded but not lost its venom, you find letters a pulse beneath the page: your mother’s hand, conspiratorial even in death. She wrote of tea with a trembling lip and a hand that refused to taste; she wrote of medicines that did not cure, condolences that were too precise, and a pattern that led to one truth--the King had poisoned her, drop by drop, until her heart failed.
The letters make the world tilt. Your throat clenches, not with grief now but with hot, clean fury. The King took your mother in slow, deliberate cruelty--the man who sits on a gilded chair and teaches propriety to grief. The study smells like lavender and lies. You hand a page to Chan and his fingers close around it as though it is a weapon. “He’ll pay,” you whisper through tight teeth.
“Let me be the one to strike,” Chan says, voice low, the hunger for justice finally uncaged.
“No,” you answer, voice ice and iron. “He took my mother. I will take his kingdom.” The palace that taught you to be small will learn in full measure what happens when a caged thing learns to hunt.
Outside, the first rays of dawn strike the banners and the gold seems to dim beneath the spread of red, as if the kingdom itself is shifting colors with uneasy slumber.
Guards stagger at their posts, drugged wine in their bellies; sentry ropes are cut; the city beyond the gates wakes to rumors and the sound of feet. The rebellion begins quietly, in the hush between heartbeats, but it is already loud enough to change the shape of things.
You stand at the window, fingers pressed to the glass that once mirrored only crowns and collars, and you glimpse in the courtyard the first of the freed men emerging like a slow tide.
Chan’s hand finds yours and squeezes--no knightly formality now, only the solid knowledge that you are two people who have chosen one another over law and lineage. In the wet light, his eyes are not iron but hunger and a dangerous tenderness that has softened into resolve.
The King will wake to a different world. You will not pretend to be a pawn anymore. The Lioness' Daughter roars in silence and plans with the patience of ruin. Dawn has become a beginning, and you will see the palace fall, not for vengeance alone, but so that those inside it can breathe without choking on fear.
The study goes dark as you close the letters and the map, as you fit the cloak over Chan’s shoulders and tie your hair back until it is a weapon.
The palace will not know what has been brewing in its bones until the first banner comes down. You step into the corridor, and where once you were paraded like a prize, you now walk like the woman who will take a crown apart and remake it into something that will not kill the people it is meant to hold.
Outside, Aeloria wakes without knowing it has been given to itself. The first day of rebellion begins with a doorway unlocked, a chain struck, and a whisper that will swell into roar: you will not be silent anymore.
Dawn rises heavy with gold and smoke. The palace gleams like it’s been gilded by sin, banners fluttering against the wind as if whispering secrets you already know.
The King laughs from the high table, voice thick with arrogance and wine. You watch from across the banquet hall -- serene, unbothered, the very image of dutiful grace. But beneath your sleeve, your hand trembles once, the weight of the ring on your finger pressing like a pulse.
“To the glory of Aeloria,” he toasts, his goblet raised high.
You meet his gaze, a smile soft and deadly curving your lips. “To its future.”
He drinks.
The world seems to hold its breath.
It starts with a cough -- small, almost polite. Then another. Then blood. The sound of it splattering against marble stills the music, freezes laughter mid-air. You don’t move. You’ve imagined this moment too many times to be startled by it now.
The courtiers gasp, the musicians drop their lutes, and somewhere, a servant screams. The King’s eyes find yours in disbelief, glassy and wide. For once, he looks human -- fragile, mortal. The way your mother must have looked when the poison took her.
“May you finally taste what you fed her,” you whisper, not loud enough for anyone else to hear.
His crown slips from his head, rolling down the dais and clattering onto marble. The sound echoes like thunder.
Silence.
Then chaos.
Nobles rise from their chairs, some kneeling in terror, others running for the doors. Guards rush forward -- but one glance from behind you stops them cold.
Chan’s sword gleams under torchlight, unwavering. His stance is that of a soldier ready to kill for you without hesitation. He doesn’t look at the King’s corpse. He looks at you. Always you.
You descend the dais slowly, every step deliberate, graceful. When you reach the fallen crown, you lift it from the floor. The rubies catch the light -- or maybe it’s blood. You turn the metal in your hand, studying the reflection of the dying hall in its curve.
“Aeloria belongs to no tyrant,” you murmur, voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the noise.
And then you turn away.
The throne that once towered above you now looks small. Trivial. A gilded cage pretending to be power.
“Burn his banners,” you say without raising your tone.
It’s enough.
The command ripples through the hall. Torches are pulled from walls, crimson silk devoured by flame. Smoke rises -- and from it, the shape of a phoenix seems to flicker.
Chan’s voice, low and rough with awe, breaks the silence beside you. “You always were meant to rule.”
Three days later, the bells toll again -- not for death, but for rebirth.
The coronation.
You walk barefoot through the great hall, the cold marble grounding you. No gold, no white silks. Only scarlet and black -- the colors of dawn and fire. Whispers fill the air. It’s not tradition. It’s not proper.
You smile faintly. “Then let’s make a new one.”
The crown is reforged in the courtyard’s forge, melted and recast by your own hands. When it cools, it’s no longer a symbol of conquest -- but of rebirth. One wing of a phoenix, gold streaked with ash.
Chan kneels before you, grinning. “Only because it’s you.”
You arch a brow, suppressing a smile. “You better remember that.”
The crown’s weight settles against your hair, but it doesn’t bow your head. It lifts it.
Your first step is simple. Freedom for the forgotten.
The dungeon gates creak open, the air thick with disbelief and dust. You descend the stairs with a torch in hand, light gilding your face. Faces rise from the shadows -- hollow, frightened, hungry.
“You stole bread. You fought back. You believed in power of women,” you say softly. “None of that deserves a cage.”
No one speaks. Then, slowly, a hand reaches out. You take it.
And just like that -- hope breathes again.
Above, in the courtyard, voices begin to chant your name. The guards lower their weapons. For the first time in years, no one looks afraid.
Chan stands beside you, leaning on his sword, lips curving in quiet pride. “You’re rewriting history,” he murmurs. “One cell at a time.”
The reforms follow.
The old council -- those men who spat your mother’s name like an insult -- are dismissed in silence. When they protest, you look each one in the eye. “You called her weak for showing mercy,” you say, voice like steel wrapped in silk. “Let’s see how mercy feels when it holds the blade.”
You open the palace gates to scholars, healers, and mages -- those once hunted now walking freely under banners of the phoenix. Magic, once a curse, becomes the crown’s new power.
The training yards fill with women -- uncertain, hesitant, clutching swords too heavy for their hands. You pick one up and step into the ring. “First lesson,” you tell them. “Don’t wait for permission.”
Laughter and steel echo through the air.
Chan leans against a column, grinning. “Should I be jealous of your new soldiers?”
“Only if you can’t keep up,” you throw back, and he laughs -- low, warm, reverent.
They start calling you The Crimson Crown.
Children run through the streets with ribbons of red and gold, pressing flowers into your hands. You kneel to meet their eyes. You listen to their stories. Mothers bless you. Fathers bow.
But in shadowed corridors, nobles whisper. She’s dangerous. Mad. Unpredictable.
You hear every word. You smile. “Good. Let them be afraid.”
Power, you’ve learned, can be gentle -- and still make men tremble.
Chan says it one night while the two of you walk through the torch-lit halls, his tone half amusement, half admiration. “You’ve become a menace.”
“Took notes from you,” you reply, a hint of laughter in your voice.
He leans close, smirking. “Then you learned from the best.”
The court pretends not to see the banter -- the way his gaze lingers too long, or the way your tone softens when you say his name. Pretend is easier. For them.
You name him Head of the Royal Guard. The court erupts in protest.
“A guard cannot hold that power!” one of them hisses.
You tilt your head. “Then who will protect you from me?”
Silence.
Chan bows -- theatrically, infuriatingly -- only to you. “My queen,” he says, eyes bright with mischief.
“You’ll cause a scandal,” you mutter.
“Too late,” he answers easily. “I already worship the ground you walk on.”
He flirts shamelessly through council meetings, drawing sharp breaths and spilled ink from startled scribes. You never tell him to stop.
The training yard becomes your shared kingdom. He corrects your stance by sliding his hands over your waist -- steadying you, guiding your motion.
“Focus,” you breathe.
“I am,” he murmurs, gaze steady.
The soldiers laugh. You throw him to the ground; he doesn’t even try to resist.
“I yield, my queen.”
“As you should.”
The tension simmers between you -- unspoken but heavy as armor.
That night, as he escorts you through the garden, neither of you dares to name it.
Whispers spread through the palace like wildfire. The Head of Security has her heart.
Chan hears it, smirks. “They’re late to the revelation.”
You sigh. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yours,” he murmurs just loud enough for you to hear.
Every time you enter a room, he straightens -- not because protocol demands it, but because reverence does.
When an assassin lunges from the shadows one evening, he moves before you can blink -- blade flashing, ending it before fear can even form.
“Always one step ahead,” you whisper.
“Always yours,” he replies.
And in that moment, you understand -- the crown may rest upon your head, but it’s his loyalty that keeps it steady.
Months pass.
The dawn burns brighter. The phoenix soars higher. And for the first time, you feel the weight of your crown not as burden -- but as promise.
--
The world breathes again.
Months after the rebellion, Aeloria hums with quiet peace -- the kind of silence that doesn’t ache, but heals. The palace gardens have begun to bloom again; vines creep up the marble, the air rich with lavender and soft wind. You walk through them alone most mornings, bare feet brushing against dew. The scent reminds you of your mother, of home… and of him.
Bang Chan. Bahng Christopher Chan.
He has been distant lately. Not cold -- never that -- but restrained, as though every glance must now pass through a wall of duty before reaching you. He kneels when he greets you, bows when you enter a room, even when you tell him not to. It feels like the world is trying to rebuild the same walls you both burned down.
“He thinks loving me dishonors me,” you murmur one night to the quiet of your chamber. “But he’s wrong. He made me free.”
The thought lingers. Then it becomes a decision. And like all your decisions -- it feels inevitable.
--
Dusk paints the palace balcony in shades of rose and amber when you summon him. Below, the city glows like a bed of embers -- alive, content. The wind is warm, the horizon kind.
He bows when he arrives, his armor glinting gold under the fading light. “You wanted to see me, my queen?”
“No.” You smile softly. “I wanted to see you.”
He blinks, caught off guard, lips parting as if to ask what you mean -- but you speak first.
“You’ve rebuilt the world with me, Chan. Yet you still call me your ruler.”
He hesitates. “Because you are.”
You step closer. The distance between you crackles with something unsaid. “And if I wish to be your equal?”
His breath catches. “Then the gods themselves would bow to you.”
“Good,” you whisper, eyes glinting. “Because I’m not waiting for their permission.”
--
He starts to protest -- something about tradition, scandal, propriety -- but you silence him with a finger pressed gently to his lips.
“Bang Chan,” you say, steady and sure, your voice carrying through the twilight. “Will you marry me?”
The world stops.
He laughs once -- breathless, stunned. “You can’t-- it’s supposed to be--”
“A proposal?” You tilt your head. “I just gave you one.”
“You’re the queen,” he insists weakly.
“And you’re the man who made me one,” you counter. “So I think we’re even.”
His knees hit the floor before he even realizes it, hands trembling. “You’re serious.”
“Always have been.” You smile faintly. “I’ve defied kingdoms for you. Let me defy tradition too.”
His eyes shine, voice unsteady. “You’ll have to live with me waking you at dawn and stealing your tea.”
“Done.”
“And I’ll kiss you before every battle drill.”
“Very Expected.”
“And I’ll never stop calling you my troublemaker.”
“Only if you never stop being mine.”
He rises, hands cupping your face. Foreheads press together, breaths mingle, and the world narrows to this heartbeat.
“Then yes,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “A thousand times yes.”
--
The wedding takes place at sunrise -- the hour of rebirth.
The kingdom gathers beneath banners of white and crimson. Instead of priests, the women you once freed stand before you, voices firm.
“Let no man bind this union,” they say. “Let it be chosen.”
Your gown glows gold and red, threads of flame woven through the fabric. His armor gleams in the morning light -- but he looks only at you. Always only you.
Children toss petals as you walk, calling your names together.
The Queen and Her Knight!
Halfway down the aisle, Chan abandons tradition entirely -- running to meet you, laughter breaking through solemnity.
“Impatient, are we?” you tease.
“I waited FOR years,” he says, smiling. “That’s long enough.”
Your vows are quiet things -- whispered, not declared.
“You protected me from the world,” you tell him. “Now I’ll protect you from loneliness.”
“You taught me duty,” he answers. “Now I’ll teach you peace.”
The rings are forged from melted sword steel -- relics of battle turned to promise. He slides one onto your finger. “For every fight we survived.”
You kiss him before anyone can announce it. The bells ring, laughter erupts, the city roars.
“That wasn’t very queenly,” he murmurs when you pull away.
“Good,” you whisper, breathless. “I’m done being only a queen.”
--
The celebration lasts for days.
Bonfires blaze across the hills, songs are written about rebellion turned to love. He lifts you onto his horse, and together you ride through streets overflowing with petals and cheers. The Phoenix and Her Flame! they cry.
You rest your head against his shoulder, heart steady for the first time in years.
That night, in your chambers, he almost drops you trying to carry you across the threshold. You both laugh until you can’t breathe.
“You’re heavier with power,” he teases.
“And you’re softer with love,” you counter, tugging him closer.
The crown falls to the floor, forgotten. You sleep in his arms, safe in a peace neither of you thought you’d ever earn.
--
Morning sunlight filters through silk curtains, warm against your skin. You wake to the scent of something burning.
You find Chan in the royal kitchen -- apron over his uniform, flipping something that might once have been pancakes.
“The queen shouldn’t cook,” you tease.
“Exactly why I’m doing it,” he grins, eyes bright with mischief.
You steal a bite and wrinkle your nose. “You’re better with swords.”
“You love me anyway.”
“Tragically, yes.”
--
Later, you spar barefoot in the courtyard. The guards watch, trying and failing to hide their amusement. You win -- barely -- and know he let you.
“That’s treason,” you tell him.
“Then arrest me,” he murmurs, kissing your knuckles.
You smirk. “Fine. You’re sentenced to a lifetime as my most dangerous distraction.”
He bows deeply. “An honor, my queen.”
--
The kingdom flourishes under your rule. New schools open, gardens bloom where prisons once stood, and laughter fills the markets again. They call this time The Era of the Flame.
At night, Chan writes songs on his lute -- quiet, golden things that fill your chambers with warmth. You dance barefoot while he watches, lovesick and smiling.
“You still stare,” you murmur, cheeks warm.
“Can’t stop,” he says simply. “I’m married to a miracle.”
--
The crown no longer feels heavy.
Because every time it does, his hands are there to hold it steady.
The court still gossips -- about your laughter echoing through the halls, about the queen who kisses her captain in daylight. You let them. You built a world where love is no longer treason.
And beneath its flame, the legend of The Queen and Her Knight -- of love born in rebellion and crowned in peace -- lives forever.
Rating: Slight Smut| Dark romance| Biting| Teasing | Blood
The rain fell gently on the cliff, sliding over Y/N's skin like an icy caress. The sky was turning gray, and the sea roared below, impatient, as if holding secrets only the night could understand.
She used to come here when she needed to think. It was her refuge.
Until she saw him.
A few feet away, standing in the biting wind, a boy gazed at the horizon. His silhouette was perfect, almost unreal: jet-black hair fluttering in the breeze, lips as pale as the moon, and a gaze that, even from a distance, seemed to pierce through her.
"You know, it's not very wise to come alone to a place like this," he said without turning around. His voice was low, almost a whisper, but so clear that Y/N felt it vibrate in the air.
She took a step back, surprised.
"I didn't know there was anyone else..." she stammered.
Then he turned slowly. Y/N met eyes that seemed to hold centuries of darkness and repressed desire. Bang Chan. She hadn't met him, but there was something... unnatural about his presence.
Something that chilled and attracted her at the same time.
"Don't worry," he added with a half-smile that seemed like a challenge. "I don't bite... unless asked."
Y/N's heart stopped for a second. She didn't know whether to laugh or fear him.
He took a step toward her, and the air seemed to grow thicker, colder.
"Who are you?" she asked, trying to sound firm.
Chan tilted his head slightly, amused.
"Someone who has seen more nights than you could possibly imagine. And you...
(he moved close enough for her to feel his breath on her skin)
... you smell too tempting to just wander around carelessly."
Y/N swallowed.
"What are you...?"
He smirked, revealing an almost imperceptible gleam in his fangs.
"Let's just say I'm not a big fan of the sun."
The silence was filled with the sound of the sea, and in the vampire's eyes, there was something that wasn't just hunger... it was curiosity, fascination.
"I don't know why, human," he whispered, "but I can't leave you."
The wind blew away the last vestige of silence, leaving only the sound of the sea crashing against the rocks. Y/N didn't know if she should run or stay. There was something about him, about the way he looked at her, that kept her rooted to the ground.
Chan took a step closer, close enough for the wet fabric of his shirt to brush against hers. His skin felt like marble, and yet there was an invisible warmth that drew her in, as if his presence stole her breath.
"You're scared," he said softly, with a crooked smile. "But you don't move."
"I don't know what you are..." she whispered.
"You don't need to know yet," he replied, his fingers brushing a strand of her hair. "Just remember my name: Chan."
His touch was as light as the brush of a feather, but Y/N felt an electric current run down her spine.
Chan watched her as if studying her every gesture, every breath, every beat of her heart.
"You're... different," he murmured, almost to himself. "I can hear hearts from miles away, but yours... it's louder. Like it's calling to me."
She looked at him, mesmerized.
"And that's a good thing?"
He gave a short laugh, one of those that sounded dangerous.
"That depends on how much you like playing with fire."
The rain began to intensify, soaking their hair and clothes, but neither of them moved. Chan watched her, his eyes shining in the storm, and for a moment, his mask of calm cracked.
His voice lowered to a husky whisper:
"You don't know how long I've been avoiding this... avoiding you."
"Avoiding me? But we barely know each other—"
She didn't finish the sentence. Chan had approached so quickly that she could barely react. His hand brushed her cheek, and Y/N felt the cold of his fingers mixed with the warmth of his closeness.
"I've spent centuries hiding from who I am. But you... you make me forget everything."
Y/N's gaze lowered, and for the first time she saw clearly what glistened beneath his lips: two fangs, barely visible, but so real that her breath caught in her throat.
"You're a..."
"Vampire," he finished, without taking his gaze from her eyes. "But don't be afraid. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it already."
The sea roared behind them, and Chan raised a hand to brush her wet hair away from her face.
"I don't understand why. I want to bite you, but I'm resisting..."
She, trembling, looked at him defiantly.
"And what will happen when you can no longer resist?"
Chan smiled with that dangerous mix of tenderness and malice.
"Then maybe you won't want me to hold back anymore."
Silence fell between them, tense, charged with something no words could name.
Chan slowly pulled away, his expression calm again, as if he'd put an invisible wall between them.
"You shouldn't come back here, Y/N," he said without looking at her. "You don't know what this place... or what I... could do to you."
She took a step forward, unable to stop herself.
"Then why don't you leave?"
He turned, his gaze flashing like lightning.
"Because it's too late for me..."
And without further ado, he disappeared into the mist, leaving only the echo of his voice and the frantic pounding in Y/N's chest....
DAYS LATER
The night air smelled of rain and danger.
Y/N couldn't stop thinking about him. His voice, his eyes, the way he'd spoken her name as if he'd always known it.
Three nights had passed since that encounter. Three sleepless nights, feeling his presence like an echo clinging to her skin.
And then, as she walked along the forest path toward home, she felt him again.
The air changed. The silence thickened.
"You should be more careful, Y/N." His voice sounded behind her, low, velvety, with that tone that seemed to touch her soul.
She turned, her heart racing.
Chan was there, under the shadow of the trees, his hair damp, his gaze darker than ever.
"Did you follow me?" she asked, trying to sound firm.
He smiled, tilting his head.
"Let's just say I couldn't stay away."
He took a step closer, and she stepped back. Another step. Another.
Until her back touched the trunk of a tree.
Chan watched her, every movement calculated, his breath barely audible.
"You don't know how hard I've tried to resist," he murmured, moving even closer. "But your blood..."
His voice cracked.
"...calls to me like nothing has in centuries."
Y/N swallowed, feeling the air between them turn electric.
"Then don't do it," she whispered. "Don't hurt me."
Chan placed a hand next to her head, trapping it without quite touching it.
"You don't understand..." he said, his eyes closed, his voice trembling between restraint and desire. "This isn't just hunger. It's something deeper. Something that scares me more than the sun."
His gaze dropped to her neck, where Y/N's pulse pounded. For an instant, her face changed: her eyes darkened, and her fangs gleamed silver.
Y/N didn't move.
Instead, she raised her hand and placed it on Chan's chest.
His skin was cold, but beneath her fingers, she felt something impossible: a faint tremor, as if his heart—dead for centuries—remembered what it felt like to beat.
Chan opened his eyes, and for a moment, his mask of self-control broke.
"You don't know what you're doing," he said in a hoarse whisper.
"Maybe you do," she replied, her voice trembling. "Maybe I want to understand you."
He smiled sadly.
"If you let me... if you let me even touch you, I might lose control."
"But...what if I want to be bitten? Don't you know how to bite without killing someone?" She said softly
"I couldn't contain myself... The desire to be able to touch your whole body, to feel how little by little you tremble more... how your warm blood enters my mouth and fills my senses... It's too much for me..." He said honestly, touching her neck softly with the tips of his fingers "You have a very nice pulse point..."
Y/N was paralyzed, one side of her was intrigued and attracted to that vampire and on the other hand, the rational side screamed at her to run away...
"You are doing it again" he said
"What?"
"Being scared of me." Without further ado, Chan walked away and looked her up and down one last time. "I'll come visit you another day"
"When?" Y/N asked softly
"You don't have to know" And without further ado, he disappeared before Y/N's eyes, making her heart beat fast with a pile of emotions that she couldn't name...
Kiki: wow, okay it's been so long since I wrote something hahah, well I hope you liked this shirt fanfic of Vamp chan (the new albums concept is so hot omg)
idk what this is. random. self indulgent. kinda shitty work honestly. daddy content ahead ofc. don’t feel like putting all my normal stuff. so here’s the texts.
Warnings: smut, oral m receiving, praise kink, mommy kink, Dom reader - Sub Chan, dacryphilla, sex toys, aftercare, pet names (mommy, good boy, babyboy, pup (though no pet play) hes called Channie in this)- I think that's it
A/N: Submissive skz is just chefs kiss. Had to do it hope you all enjoy!!
Synopsis ~ Chan has been so needy lately so desperate for you and when you finally get home from a long trip you decide to spoil your sweet boy.
•
You've been away on a business trip for over a week now finally making it home. Relief crashing through you, though no one's more relived than your boyfriend Chan. Poor baby has been missing you desperately and couldn't make it one day of your trip not calling you so needy for you. He hears the door click closed and he practically pummels into you. "You're home!" He exclaims nuzzling into your chest. He's breathing in your scent like you've been gone far longer than a little over a week. He tugs you farther into you two's home.
"You missed me a lot didn't you pup?" You ask softly already knowing the answer. He looks up at you with glossy eyes - his lips turned into that cute pout of his before burying his head into your neck. "Missed you s'much." He practically whines out holding you closer pressing desperate kisses into your neck. You pull back smiling down at him before pushing him down gently onto the couch.
"Have you been good while I was away babyboy hmm?" He nods quickly tugging you closer before you crash your lips into his nibbling a little on his plump bottom lip. He mumbles against your lips his voice practically a high keen at this point.
"M-mommy please... I need you, no teasing... please." "Aww Channie so needy for me tonight aren't you?" "Please... please... need you." You gaze down at him before pressing soft pecks at the corner of his lips. He whines softly when you pull away. "Be a good boy and wait here for me okay?" He reluctantly though obediently waits for you knowing if he argues he won't get his way.
You leave and soon come back with a special toy you know he loves to mess around with. It always leave him a crying mess under you and you love it. You move closer to him kissing down his neck, sucking little marks into his sensitive flesh as he lets out soft whines and moans. You smile into his neck before straddling his lap grinding down on his already hard sensitive length. He lets out a whiny moan his hands gripping your hips - just to ground himself as you continue griding down on him.
A plethora of tiny moans and grunts escape his swollen lips and you love every single one. You can feel him shaking with restraint beneath you. Before it can go any further you get up to help him out of his sweats and boxers. He's quick to help you even discarding his shirt in the process. He's laid bare before you now, skin already flushed a pretty pink hue his breath already a little labored. He looks up at you through his lashes, waiting for your next move.
"You look so pretty like this Channie, and you're all mine." You hum in desire feeling your skin heat up the tension between you two building. You take him in your hand pumping agonizingly slow. His back arches up off the couch a sharp gasp leaving his lips. "Mmm... just for you mommy... m'yours." Your eyes grow darker as you look down at him.
You take out your special toy for him a pretty little cock ring. His breath catches in his throat in anticipation. "You gonna be good babyboy hmm, gonna take everything I give you?" He nods quickly once more desperate to please you to feel you on him. "Y-yes mommy I'll be good I promise." "That's my good boy." You coo before sliding the cock ring on him setting it to the second highest speed - the vibrations coursing through him. He cries out, gripping the couch cushions below him. "No coming until I say so you got it?" He nods frantically eyes clamped shut as a chorus of moans escape him.
"F-fuck mommy... please- please I... I-" He's cut off when you take him in your hand again pumping him faster than before, feeling the vibrations through your hand. He tosses his head back with a loud whine bucking his hips up fucking your fist desperately. Though you squeeze his thigh and he instead grips the couch cushions again, so tightly his knuckles turn white. His eyes glazed over he's desperate to come but knows he's not allowed to yet. "Please... m'close- please mommy... I've been good." "Aww Channie wants to come huh?" "You think you've earned it yet?" He cries out again when you turn the vibrations up to its highest speed. His eyes pricking with tears, breath heavier now.
"F-fuck, fuck- mommy please, please can I come?" "I promise... promise I've been good- please." You just grin down at him pumping him even faster now. He's fully crying now needy babbles escaping his lips. He doesn't even know what he's saying at this point. Brains too clouded and fuzzy he can't think straight not when he's feeling this good and so, so needy. "Aww poor pups crying." You coo leaning down kissing away his tears sliding the cock ring off. He lets out a desperate gasp before you begin stroking him faster, nibbling at his earlobe now looking to get him off.
"Come on baby be a good boy for me and come." He groans the sound coming deep from within him. His head flies to the back of the couch. He's fucking up into your fist the most desperate little moans escaping him before he finally breaks. He comes all over your hand and his stomach - his breathing ragged as he tries to catch it. He sinks back down onto the couch, his under eyes damp from tears before you brush them away. You kiss the corner of his eyes for any lingering tears.
"Channie baby... you okay?" You ask softly so as to not startle him. He nods slowly a small smile dancing across his lips. "You did do good for me baby I'm proud of you hmm." His smile though sleepy grows wider his soft brown eyes opening up to you. "Lets get you cleaned up okay baby?" He hums in response letting you clean him up. You leave quickly coming back with a damp rag cleaning up his stomach and around his most sensitive spots.
~
Once you've finished cleaning him up he's in something more comfortable nestled up into your side in bed. He's slowly dozing off as you run and hand through his hair sweet nothings leaving you lips. "You did so good tonight babyboy." "Mmm thanks mommy." You smile down at him eyes warm and full of so much love it almost hurts. Kissing the top of his messy curls you tug him closer. "You know I love you... right Channie, because I do so, so much." You say so softly like the words feel delicate not wanting to break them. He nuzzles closer to you his voice a soft whisper against your chest. "I love you too."
And that was all that needed to be said in that moment before you two fall asleep in each other's arms. Your love wrapped round you two, it cascaded over you two like the sun, warm and so bright.
•
Thank you for reading!! I was kinda scared to post this one so hopefully it's received well. I hope you all enjoyed thank you as always to everyone who read and enjoyed do tell me what you though and reblog if you really liked it! ♥︎ ♥︎
a/n: Sorry if it seems a-bit messy ahah, i wanted to write out my thoughts without planning or editing like i usually do for my other pieces.
- Okay, so if you’re younger, he would probably have a daddy kink, I think we all agree on that lmaoo. He would definitely spank you and rough you up a bit, but I also see him being a service top and would do anything and everything you want to make you feel good. I don’t know, I think it depends on his mood.
- Okay, also hear me out. If you’re older, he would have the biggest noona kink and would totally sub for you. And if you had big tits, he would definitely melt. I mean, have you seen his bubble ‘Mommy Alice’? He’s literally the gooner all the Gooner games’ target audience is, aka, genshin, with all his favourite characters being the girls with massive tits (no hate, I’m also lowkey a Gooner as well).
- I just think he would want someone to take care of him and let him get away from all the stress and just let go.
Apparently, the racing track was huge. And with the on going races, it was next to impossible to find Shin-yu. But fortunately, one of the racers' bf, managed to give us info.
We rushed to the side lines, on the opposite side of the barricade, "He is fucking serious," I mumbled realizing he was actually racing.
-Tessa.
I stare eyebrows furrowing slightly as I look around before spotting something and tapping Johan's shoulder "hyung over there."
I slammed the breaks, my cars fingers away from touching you, my head slamming agaisnt the wheel. I winced blood trickling down the wound, the slammed the door open getting out to yell at you.
Apparently, the racing track was huge. And with the on going races, it was next to impossible to find Shin-yu. But fortunately, one of the racers' bf, managed to give us info.
We rushed to the side lines, on the opposite side of the barricade, "He is fucking serious," I mumbled realizing he was actually racing.
-Tessa.
I stare eyebrows furrowing slightly as I look around before spotting something and tapping Johan's shoulder "hyung over there."
I slammed the breaks, my cars fingers away from touching you, my head slamming agaisnt the wheel. I winced blood trickling down the wound, the slammed the door open getting out to yell at you.
Apparently, the racing track was huge. And with the on going races, it was next to impossible to find Shin-yu. But fortunately, one of the racers' bf, managed to give us info.
We rushed to the side lines, on the opposite side of the barricade, "He is fucking serious," I mumbled realizing he was actually racing.
-Tessa.
I stare eyebrows furrowing slightly as I look around before spotting something and tapping Johan's shoulder "hyung over there."
Apparently, the racing track was huge. And with the on going races, it was next to impossible to find Shin-yu. But fortunately, one of the racers' bf, managed to give us info.
We rushed to the side lines, on the opposite side of the barricade, "He is fucking serious," I mumbled realizing he was actually racing.
-Tessa.
I stare eyebrows furrowing slightly as I look around before spotting something and tapping Johan's shoulder "hyung over there."
Apparently, the racing track was huge. And with the on going races, it was next to impossible to find Shin-yu. But fortunately, one of the racers' bf, managed to give us info.
We rushed to the side lines, on the opposite side of the barricade, "He is fucking serious," I mumbled realizing he was actually racing.
-Tessa.
I stare eyebrows furrowing slightly as I look around before spotting something and tapping Johan's shoulder "hyung over there."
By the evening we were all huddled up in the hospital cafeteria with still no news of Shin-yu. Magnus had tried to track him down but Shin-yu had magic blocker spell done so he couldn't be traced.
I sighed leaning agasint the table trying to thinking of something my eyes focused the staffs coming and going.
"Hyung..." I mumbled. "Is there anyone named Tawan who work here?"
-Tessa
I look at you before rubbing my face frustrated "I think so"
Tawan blinked clutching his cheek looking at you, "Dr. Kang I—" then he noticed me. The one who slapped him. "Oh...." His race went as if he was admitting he deserved it.
By the evening we were all huddled up in the hospital cafeteria with still no news of Shin-yu. Magnus had tried to track him down but Shin-yu had magic blocker spell done so he couldn't be traced.
I sighed leaning agasint the table trying to thinking of something my eyes focused the staffs coming and going.
"Hyung..." I mumbled. "Is there anyone named Tawan who work here?"
-Tessa
I look at you before rubbing my face frustrated "I think so"
Tawan blinked clutching his cheek looking at you, "Dr. Kang I—" then he noticed me. The one who slapped him. "Oh...." His race went as if he was admitting he deserved it.
By the evening we were all huddled up in the hospital cafeteria with still no news of Shin-yu. Magnus had tried to track him down but Shin-yu had magic blocker spell done so he couldn't be traced.
I sighed leaning agasint the table trying to thinking of something my eyes focused the staffs coming and going.
"Hyung..." I mumbled. "Is there anyone named Tawan who work here?"
-Tessa
I look at you before rubbing my face frustrated "I think so"
Tawan blinked clutching his cheek looking at you, "Dr. Kang I—" then he noticed me. The one who slapped him. "Oh...." His race went as if he was admitting he deserved it.
