Synopsis: You’re a witch known for making love potions. They're fake. The reviews are real. Your track record? Immaculate. Until a duke walks in, covered in blood, and demands you reverse the spell you cast on him.
You didn't cast anything.
He doesn't care.
And now you live in his mansion.
Love Potion or Love at First Sight?
"Are you sure this is it?"
"Yes yes! This is the love potion. Now pay up or leave because I have other customers to attend to!"
You groan at the woman hesitating in front of you, wasting your time.
You're an infamous witch known in the black market for selling all types of spells and potions for a hefty sum.
Your most popular item? The love potion.
Which is actually just… an aphrodisiac.
But after selling 170 potions? You've only ever received positive reviews. All from noblewomen, lovestruck and happy with the results.
What can you say? You've always known men to be lustful creatures, barren from emotions. After selling a 170 with zero bad reviews? Your ideology is proven correct.
"Are you sure it works?" the woman whispers.
"100% customer satisfaction guaranteed!"
She still looks nervous.
"And if it doesn't work, you can come back and I'll give double your money back as refund."
The woman nods, pays with a pouch of gold coins, then leaves.
Another positive review, you think to yourself confidently, already marking this as your 171st success.
…
You just didn’t expect your first bad review to appear right in front of your face.
The door slams open.
A man stands in your doorway. With black hair and red eyes; blood plastered across his face, clothes, and most importantly his sword.
"So," The bloody man starts, one hand going up to wipe some blood off his face. “You're the witch selling cheap love elixirs all over the market?”
You don’t answer, your hand sliding toward the defense charm under your counter instead.
Because this wasn’t just any man, this was the war-crazed duke feared by all of society.
"You better pay for this."
…Guess you'll be closing the shop for a while.
___________
And… you've been working at his mansion ever since.
Tasked with reversing whatever spell you supposedly casted on him. Despite all your protests, swearing up and down that you never did anything.
He doesn't believe you.
He won't believe you.
Because how else do you explain what he felt when he walked into your shop? That made his sword hand waver and his heart stutter, and his threats turn into something softer?
Obviously, you’ve cursed him. There was no need to investigate this any further, nor did he feel the need to tell you about all these symptoms.
So now you're stuck in a massive estate with a madman who thinks you cursed him, brewing antidote after antidote, watching nothing work.
You could only curse that woman, muttering bitter insults under your breath.
The one who bought the potion and slipped it to him. The one who left you with this mess and then promptly left this world, if the blood on his sword was any indication.
Damn her.
What the hell did she see in this man anyway?
Because here's the thing you're learning, piece by piece. The duke? He's not just some nobleman. He's the nobleman. The one everyone whispers about, who keeps a dungeon beneath the east wing and a graveyard in the west garden. (Allegedly.)
The madman of high society.
If only you'd known he was the target that woman was after, you would've never sold her that potion. Never agreed to the commission or opened your stupid mouth about the satisfaction guarantee!!
But you didn't know.
And now you're stuck with the aftermath…
___________
At first, the madman kept you confined to a workspace somewhere within the mansion.
Close enough to monitor. Far enough to ignore.
Then, he started calling for you more often. Checking on your progress. Standing just a little too close while you worked. Watching you with scrutinizing red eyes.
And then, he started sticking around you 24/7, following you from room to room like some clingy puppy who couldn't bear for you to leave his sight.
Even that wasn’t enough. At some point, you stopped being assigned a room at all.
Wherever he was… that became your workspace.
You’d turn around and he’d be there.
In the doorway. Behind you. Leaning against the wall like he’d been there the whole time.
Like he had nowhere else to be. Don’t dukes have better things to do? Go tend to your paperwork or something!!
Through it all, he's never kind. Still angry, demanding, and barking orders about reversing the damn spell.
But he never hurts you.
His threats are loud. And his hands are rough, just like his voice that could shatter glass.
But you've started to notice something.
He always stops. It’s all bark but no bite…
And it becomes a routine.
You work. He watches. You brew. He hovers. You try to leave. He blocks the door.
At some point, he has you working in his bedroom.
No, like, actually. He stooped to this level of stupidity, needing allowing you to stay in his chambers at night.
He's sleeping on the bed and you have to sit beside him. On the floor. With your books and your herbs and your constantly dying patience.
You don't know when this became normal.
You hate that it feels normal.
__________
Tonight, you try to get up.
His hand immediately shoots out to grab your wrist.
"Where do you think you're going?"
You don't flinch anymore. The first few times, you did. Now? You just sigh.
"I'm trying to study for a reverse spell. Or a cure. For you, remember?"
"Stay."
His voice is flat. Unreasonable. Like he's not even considering the possibility of you leaving.
"I can't work if I'm stuck by your side, Your Grace."
"Leave and I'll rip your throat out."
You've heard this before. It had you frozen and crying the first few times, but then you realized…
He never follows through.
Not with you.
"Your Grace," you say, calm as anything, "you can't do that. Who will reverse your spell if not the caster?"
His jaw tightens, though the grip on your wrist doesn't loosen.
But he knows you're right.
He's quiet for a long moment, thinking. And you can see the exact second he shifts tactics.
"Then I'll slit the throats of all the guards outside who allow you to leave this room."
"…I'm sat."
You sit back down on the floor. Head leaning against the bed where his hand lingers limbly. Sometimes brushing your hair unconsciously, like it was to make sure you were still there.
And you work on the spell in his chambers all night long. Barely getting a blink of sleep.
He, on the other hand?
Dead to the world.
The madman who threatened to rip your throat out twenty minutes ago is now curled up on his ridiculous silk sheets, snoring softly.
His face is slack and peaceful. Innocent in a way that makes you want to throw a pillow at his head.
You've noticed this before. The way his eyes get heavy when you're nearby, how his shoulders drop when you enter the room. And the way his threats get lazier the longer you stay.
At first, you thought it was the potion's side effects.
Now you're starting to think he just… can't sleep without you.
Which is not your problem. You didn't sign up to be a nobleman's sleeping charm. You're a witch. A busy one! One who is currently being held against her will in a mansion that smells too much like old money and fresh blood.
And yet… Here you are, watching him sleep.
Because if you move, he wakes up. And if he wakes up, he gets grumpy. And if he gets grumpy, he threatens to kill someone.
Usually the guards.
You've started to feel kind of bad for the guards.
"I hope you wake up with a stiff neck," you mutter, dipping your quill in ink. "I hope you stub your toes when you wake up. I hope your breakfast is cold and your tea is bitter and your horse steps on your foot."
His lips curl up softly. Like you're singing him a lullaby.
Your quill scratches to a halt.
"…I hope you dream about spiders," you try, weaker this time.
His smile deepens.
He doesn't wake up. He just… rests. Still peaceful and content. Like your curses are the sweetest words he's ever heard.
You stare at him.
Then you look down at your notes, page full of failed antidotes and useless counter-spells. A truth you’ve been avoiding for a while manifests to the surface of your mind once again.
Nothing is wrong with him.
The potion didn't work.
He's just like this.
You set down the quill to press your palms to your eyes.
And wonder, for the thousandth time, what in the hell you did to deserve this.
Maybe its time you suggest a psychiatrist.
___________
Little did both of you know.
The potion didn't work on him.
It never could have. Years of assassination attempts had made his body resistant to poisons, potions, drugs… Basically anything ingested.
The drink that woman slipped him? It passed through his system like water. Barely a flicker of discomfort, a vague pulling in his chest that he dismissed as irritation.
He came to your shop that day ready to kill the witch who made it.
Not because the potion had affected him. But because he was annoyed.
Someone had tried to enchant him. Someone had failed. And he wanted to make an example of the person responsible.
Until he saw you.
And something in his chest pulled again.
Not the potion, that was already gone.
Something else he didn’t have a name for.
He still doesn't have a name for it. He calls it a curse. A spell. Your fault.
…
It's not.
He was just love-struck at first sight.
And he's been falling harder and harder with each day that passes.
Deep in his sleep, one thought surfaces in his mind.
King!Simon had never been very affectionate. He didn't believe in it. There was no point in being frivolous with his love. It was stupid. It was for the weak.
That was until your child was born. She was small, so small it scared him. He was sure she was ill or something was wrong, but here she was dressed in what he considered to be the world’s most needlessly opulent dress for a little baby girl. She babbled happily and smashed her wooden toy horse into the stone floor of your shared chambers.
He huffs, eyes looking over your happy baby. “She looks ridiculous.”
“She looks royal. Like a little princess should,” you retort. You had dressed her in the finest clothes you could find, sent as a gift from your family. It was customary to show wealth and power with lavish clothing for your people. Simon did not feel the same way.
“Your people are strange. I see no need for this drama.” He mutters, sighing. He would never say it out loud, but he found her extravagant clothing to be entirely adorable.
You turn your nose up at him, scooping the little girl into your lap and adjusting her dress so it didn't wrinkle. “It shows she is important, Simon.”
“Important people have many furs or weapons. Things of strength, not… a little gold dress.” He insisted, patting the girls back as she coughs.
You roll your eyes and hand your daughter over to him when she starts to fuss, little hands making a grabbing motion at her father. “Oh hush. She is darling.”
“Mmm. Sweet child." He nods in agreement, poking her cheek with his finger, earning a squeal and laugh from her.
He indulged her at every chance. Toys and dresses filled the chest he had made for her with his own hands. He had even started a second to fit more of her possessions. In her short 8 months she had already accumulated quite a collection.
Simon took her everywhere, even if it wasn’t deemed “appropriate." Your little baby sat in on war meetings, happily chewing on her father’s collar, interrupting the council with happy shrieks or hungry screams. He even took her to the training ground, letting her watch the young soldiers train and practice their swordsmanship.
For Simon, there was no place that she didn’t belong. He has her on his lap while he tears his food apart, relishing in the large plate delivered to him. She also is very enthusiastic, shrieking and trying to take bites from his hands. “No, little one. This is not yours.”
“Bahhh bahh!!” She shrieks in growing frustration, tiny little hands slapping at his chest.
He shakes his head, adjusting her away from the food. “Yelling will not make me give you any. You are spoiled enough."
Your little, furious girl wails, face turning red as she starts to cry, confusion and anger overriding her usually calm demeanor. Her chest heaves as she tries to throw herself backwards in her dramatic display.
"Oh fine, child." Simon huffs and pulls her closer, handing her a piece of cheese that is far too big for someone so small. Her shrieking halts immediately, using her tiny little teeth to bite a chunk off of the wedge. She shakes the cheese up and down in delight, tilting it for you to see as you watch.
"Daddy spoils you again, I see," you joke, smiling at the exchange.
He looks scandalized by the claim, putting a hand to his chest. "What? She is a princess. She must be strong."
"And cheese will make her strong?" Sometimes you swore he said things just to justify gifting her things and spoiling her beyond reason.
He nods with full conviction. "Yes. Besides, she wants it. Best to keep 'er happy."
He lifts the girl so he can look at her chubby little face. He smiles as she takes another bite of her cheese. "She knows good food when she sees it." He plants a kiss on her cheek and adjusts the little bonnet you had put her in. "There we go, princess."
No thoughts just knight!ghost stumbling upon fairy!reader during his travels protecting the king....
He had been securing the perimeter like normal, still in his full plate despite the other gaurds stripping down to leather and mail. Ghost liked to be prepared, though others rumored his skin so disgusting it had to be hidden under metal.
It was during his walk around the deeper forest that he saw you.
A glowing, tiny thing about ten feet ahead of him. Sprawled out on a leaf, little translucent wings shifting in the breeze only you could sense. Ghost has never seen a creature quite like you.
Soft, delicate, pure.
Both human in appearance and distinctly magical, ghost isn't sure how long he stood over your form. A silent watcher. He held his hand under the leaf, and marveled at the sheer miniscule size of you, like a little butterfly.
Ghost is a knight sworn to the crown by blood and favors alone. Whatever pledge he took has long since eroded and rotted with every bad thing he's done to keep the crown safe.
A vow of chastity hasn't meant anything to him in years, though only tavern where's are willing to entertain him if he plays nice.
You shift on your leaf, wings fluttering in your sleep and legs stretching out in content. Ghost wonders what a tiny thing like you would sound like kept close to him, a pure pretty creature all for his own.
Ghost closes two plated hands around you and, despite the gasps and squeaks you make, doesn't let go. He's got a good place for you to stay, a little piece of a better world just for him. A fairy trapped by a knight who wants nothing more than to destroy.
