Gentle, Selfish
Yandere Prince x G/N Reader
Apple's Note : Idk why but this man made me redraw him like 7 times before I was happy with the results haha. Also this is a fictional, fantasy country so if it's historically inaccurate you can just point and laugh at me. Trigger Warnings : implied abuse, animal cruelty, Leopold has daddy issues, murder, patricide, implied forced marriage, generational trauma
Fine, beautiful things had always kept Leopold’s interest more than anything else. The fragile wings of a butterfly pinned on his wall, delicate and stunning. He had always been entranced by soft things, beautiful things.
When he was young, he would often struggle to know his own strength, to understand why a butterfly he had caught would die so easily, why a flower he picked would wilt and get crushed in his fist. His mother, with sad eyes, would try to explain to him that he needed to be gentler if he didn’t want to hurt them.
She had long given up on explaining that the butterfly did not want to be in a jar, and that the rose wanted to stay on the bush.
Each day passed by, and she would try to softly explain that pretty things are often easy to break, and so you have to be kinder to them. Softer to them.
His father, the king, was never a soft man. Not soft the way that Leopold’s mother was. Not soft the way that a butterfly was. No, if his mother was a comforting breeze that taught him to be gentle, his father was a harsh storm that taught him to be strong.
Leopold learned to grip things tight, then loosen his fist just enough that it won’t die. He had learned how not to rip and break a butterfly’s wings, but not to leave it alone. Not to let it fly.
Leopold was not a blind boy. He always saw the way his mother would flinch from his father’s hand. The way her eyes would dart around a room, as if lost.
And most of all he knew the look in her eyes as she’d watch him grow, each day looking more and more like his father. The slight frown when she thought he didn’t see. The hesitation in her hugs, the silent tears when she thought she was alone.
He felt nothing when he killed him. When Leopold poisoned his father’s tea, and watched him fall. As he called for help, practiced and calm, he faked his fear. He wondered if his father felt the same fear he gave his mother at that moment.
She didn’t say anything when he told her. Didn’t move. Just stayed at her chair as he sat before her, holding her small hands in his as he assured her that his father would never raise a hand to her again. That she was safe now.
Her only reply was a single tear that she tried to hide as she hugged him close to her, running her hands through his hair gently.
At times, despite being grown now, Leopold felt as if he was still the young boy who brought wilted dandelions to his mother. Who longed to see her brown eyes crinkle in a smile. Who felt a pain in his chest when he knew she was just as afraid of him as his father.
When he first saw you, delicate and beautiful at the Queen’s birthday celebration. Something about the way you moved, the way you spoke, it was so soft. He found himself reaching out for it, wanting to hold it, to keep it.
He hated this greed in his heart. This ugly, jealous monster in his chest, the need to keep you to himself, to watch you and dress you in expensive clothing. Delicate laces and ribbons and tulle to compliment the gentleness he had seen in you.
He kept himself away, at first. Afraid that if he held you, he would break you. That your fragile wings would tear and fold, and that he would crush your spirit and body just like his father before him.
He sent you letters, scented and poetic, complimenting you and your family, asking about your likes, dislikes, your hopes and dreams. He asks about your family and your studies.
He finds himself lost in you when reading your replies. Every cross of a “t” and dot of an “i” holding your handwriting, your education, your unique self.
He smiles while he reads your letters, a part of himself happy that you seem so eager to respond. He learns that you’re the child of a lesser noble in the south, one of many children. He learns that your land relies on livestock and crops for trade and that everyone contributes, noble or not.
He feels a warmth in his chest when you talk about helping with the goats, or your younger siblings’ latest shenanigans. A part of him looks forward to your letters each day, a pleasant way to calm himself after a long and tiring day of responsibilities and conflicts.
But there comes a day where it wasn’t enough.
A boy watches a butterfly and finds himself wanting to look closer, reaching out to grab it. Never intending any harm, but causing it none the less.
A man speaks to you softly, assures you that you’re safe and loved as he holds you just a bit too close, just a bit too tightly. He doesn’t mean to leave bruises on your waist and yet they bloom anyways, leaving the regretful evidence of his rough treatment of you.
Leopold resents the man he sees in the mirror. The golden haired, blue eyed monster that he hates most of all. A man who would touch what he holds dearest and leave them trembling, hurt, broken.
He seeks out his mother, tears running down his face as the older woman holds him gently, as if he had never grown up, as if he weren’t the towering wall of a man that he was. She shushes him and hums, asks him to take a deep breath and explain his woes. And suddenly, Leopold feels sick. He fears telling his mother of the things that he has done. The things he wants desperately to stop, but doesn’t know how to. He fears that if he does she will have the same look in her eyes that she once gave his father. He can’t take it.
He calms his breathing, softly hugging the older woman back before leaving, soft whispers of love creeping out as his eyes reveal the boy he once was.
He holds you like you’re glass, after the first time he took you. Mumbles apologies when he brushes your hair and feels a tug, dries your tears with a handkerchief, and applies salve to your bruises.
After that night he speaks to you in whispers, afraid that if he were to yell he may frighten you.
He sets up a part of the garden for you. With soft flowers, an archway entrance and a bench beneath the shade of a willow tree.
He gets you a dog to care for, knowing how restless you get without responsibility.
And he hasn’t touched you again.
When he looks at you, his eyes have a sad shine to them. A barely contained hopelessness.
He feels powerless to his own desire, his own strength.
He knows you should be freed.
You deserve to be freed.
But Leopold is a selfish man.
And the butterfly with a broken wing pinned and framed on his wall was proof enough of that.
