zuko's lips parted in yet another moan as the glazed look in his eyes darkened. one hand flew to your hair, gently but firmly holding onto you by the roots. his thighs tensed under your soft palms.
for the past few weeks, you'd been worried about your precious fire lord. the calm and confident man who was so quietly sure of his words had been doubting himself increasingly often, whether it be to hesitate before avatar meetings, or simply keep quiet in areas you know he was qualified. this of course would not fly with you. after all, you were a very strong motivator and articulate speaker. you were his wife for a reason.
but when you first proposed the idea to lift his spirits, he couldn't possibly imagine that this was what you meant. he thought his smart, beautiful wife would give him a well earned pep-talk, but you didn't seem to be talking at all.
no, quite the opposite.
he thrusted forward involuntarily again, feeling the soft fluttering of your throat wrapped around his swollen cock as you sputtered and gagged. your nails dug into his thighs, leaving red crescent-shaped indents to remind him later of his motivation session.
you unstuck your throat from him, leaving his rock-hard erection with a wet pop! spit and slick dribbled down his length, accumulating at the base in an indecent puddle.
"who are you, baby?"
"t-the fire lor-ngh-"
your tongue continued its relentless teasing of the sensitive underside of his painfully flushed tip. taking him in your mouth again, you continued your descent until your eyelashes batted against the curly mess of his thicket of hair. he fucking whimpered.
he was going to learn his lesson damn well, even if you ruined his cock in the process.
Synopsis: You’re a maid in a noble’s estate. Overworked, underpaid, and constantly blamed for problems you didn’t cause.
Luckily, the head butler always steps in. Cold, efficient, and unreadable.
He never gets involved unless absolutely necessary. Except when it comes to you.
You don't know why he keeps showing up right when you need him. You don't know why he stands a little too close when other staff get near you. You don't know why he's always watching.
And you definitely don’t know he’s only pretending to be a butler.
He's an assassin. And you're the only reason he hasn't completed his mission yet.
My Little Maid
You're having a terrible day.
The head housekeeper blamed you for a broken vase you didn't break. The cook yelled at you for burning the toast you weren't even in charge of. And the other maids have been whispering about you all morning—something about your hemline being too short, your hair being too neat, your face being too present.
It was like your whole existence irritated them for no reason at all. Just to torment you for fun.
You hate this house.
But you need this job. And you cannot be picky when the pay is good.
So, you keep your head down and your mouth shut and your hands busy.
"You look like you're about to cry."
You flinch.
The head butler is standing behind you. Silent as always. You didn't even hear him approach.
"I'm not going to cry," you say, scrubbing the same spot on the table for the fifth time.
"Your eyes are red."
"It's allergies."
"It's February."
"Winter allergies."
He doesn't respond. Just stands there, watching you fumble with the rag.
You've gotten used to this—the watching—He does it a lot.
At first you thought he was judging you. Then you thought he was suspicious of you. Now you're not sure what to think.
He’s never unkind to you.
He’s never anything to you. Not anything you can properly define, at least.
Except being there.
Always there, for some reason.
"If anyone is giving you trouble," he says finally, "you can tell me."
You frowned, recalling earlier events. "The housekeeper already yelled at me today."
"I know. I was there."
His words made you frown more, what the hell was he asking for then?
"You just stood there." Bitterness seeped into your tone.
"I was observing."
"Observing what?"
He pondered your question for a moment. "The best time to intervene."
You stared up from your rag to look at him. His face still had that blank and professional expression on it. But his eyes are… softer than usual. Was he pitying you?
"You're weird," you concluded, frowning at him.
"That’s irrelevant. Again, if anyone bothers you don’t hesitate to tell me." Then he walked away.
You watched him go for a good minute, observing how quiet his footsteps were against the expensive wood. What an oddball, you turn your attention back to the cleaning rag with a soft huff.
___________
If anyone asked you or any of the other staff about the head butler, you’d all answer in the same way:
He’s professional, quiet, distance from others, and very poised.
And while that’s all true, no one ever knew the real story behind this ‘head butler.’ Who is actually an assassin waiting for the right moment to eliminate his target—the noble who owns this estate.
He's been in this house for six months. Six, when he usually only took two if not three months to get the job finished.
And all of that waiting stems because of one clumsy girl he couldn’t get out his sight, you.
You were one ordinary maid, who for some reason was shunned out by the other staff members in this house. Overworked, soft and very clumsy.
Emphasis on clumsy because that’s he almost took your life one day, four months ago.
You almost walked into his blade back then. Just wandered into the wrong corridor at the wrong time. He had to physically move you out of the way himself, which was out of the ordinary because he’d usually just get rid of any witnesses.
Unbeknownst to the dark thoughts running in his mind— how he was actually debating just getting rid of you for good or letting you be—You'd only smiled at him, and apologized with a soft voice. "sorry, I'm always getting lost".
He'd stared at you for a full three seconds before remembering to speak.
And just like that, his kill for the night was delayed with him guiding you to the correct hallway. And even when you were out of sight, he still couldn’t move himself from his spot to eliminate his target.
It’s fine, there’s still plenty of time to get rid of him, he tried to reason with himself. Putting the blade away completely.
And what was supposed to be just one day of delay became two, then three, and now four months.
Yet he’s still here.
Because every time he prepares to finish the job, something interrupts him.
The other maids cornering you in the halls.
The housekeeper blaming you for mistakes that weren’t yours.
The gardener smiling too long at your face.
Something always comes up.
And then he finds himself delaying things again.
Just a few more days, he tells himself.
Just until things settle down.
But they never do.
You’re too soft for a house like this. Too easy to take advantage of. Trouble clings to you like thread to fabric, and he’s grown used to cutting it away before it reaches you.
So he stays.
Watching, waiting. Removing problems before you even realize they exist. Making sure no one hurts what's his.
All while telling himself it’s temporary.
Even though, deep down, he already knows he has no intention of leaving you behind.
__________
You don't notice the gardener at first. (Unlike someone else who quickly did.)
He's new at the mansion. Friendly, always offering to help you carry things.
"Here, let me get that for you."
"I can carry my own laundry."
"It's heavy."
"I've been carrying it for three years. I think I can handle it."
He laughs. And takes the basket from you anyway.
You roll your eyes but let him. It was like a breath of fresh air to have someone greet your face without disdain for once, although it was still somewhat suspicious how friendly he’s been to you so far.
Across the garden, the head butler stops walking. Noticing you along with another figure… The gardener, who was walking too close to you for comfort. Smiling too wide and toothy, he fears your naive self would fall for if he doesn’t intervene quickly.
His hands curl into fists at his sides.
That's new, he thinks.
That's a problem.
_________
The gardener starts showing up everywhere.
In the kitchen when you're cleaning up. In the hallway when you're mopping. In the garden when you're hanging laundry.
Always offering to help, and finding excuses to be near you.
"Hey, I was wondering…" He scratches the back of his neck. "After work sometime. Do you want to maybe… get a drink? With me?"
You blink in surprise. "A drink?"
"Yeah. Nothing fancy. Just… together. You and me." He looks to the side with a blush creeping up to his ears.
You open your mouth to answer.
“The evening curfew still applies to the staff.”
Both of you turn at the voice.
The head butler stands at the end of the garden path, hands folded neatly behind his back. Expression calm as ever.
But his eyes are fixed solely on the gardener.
The gardener straightens immediately. “C-curfew?”
You furrow your brows. “Since when do we have a curfew?”
“Since recently.” The butler replies smoothly, already walking closer. His shoes click softly against the stone path.
“That’s ridiculous,” you scoff. “Nobody told us that.”
“They’re being informed now.”
The gardener laughs nervously. “I mean… it’s just one drink, sir.”
The butler stops beside you, standing by very closely.
“You seem unusually distracted lately,” he says mildly.
The gardener’s smile falters. “Excuse me?”
“Your work quality has declined.” His tone stays perfectly polite. “You’ve abandoned your station three times this week. Damaged two rose bushes, and misplaced equipment yesterday afternoon.”
The gardener goes pale.
You glance between them in confusion. How the hell does he know all that?
“And now,” the butler continues, gaze lowering slightly, “you appear more interested in following one of the maids around the estate than performing your assigned duties.”
“It’s not like that—”
“The estate does not pay you to loiter.”
The gardener stiffens under the calm reprimand.
You finally step in. “Okay, that’s enough. He was only asking me for a drink, not committing treason.”
The butler turns toward you immediately. Finally meeting your eyes with a slight frown painting his features, something dark flickering in his eyes for a moment.
“A drink,” he repeats quietly.
“Yes?” you deadpan.
His gaze lingers on your face. Then lowers, down to the gardener still holding your laundry basket.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“You seem very comfortable with her,” he says softly.
The gardener visibly wilts beneath the attention.
“I-I was only trying to be friendly.”
“Friendly, huh.” His voice takes on a mocking tone.
You suddenly understand why the younger staff members are terrified of him.
Because he never raises his voice.
That somehow makes it worse, like the calm before the storm.
The gardener hurriedly shoves the basket back into your arms. “Sorry. Sorry, sir.” Then he practically flees the garden.
Silence settles afterward.
You stare at the butler with wide eyes. “That was unnecessarily intense.”
“He was neglecting his work.”
“He asked me out, he didn’t start a rebellion.”
The butler’s eyes move back to you again.
“And were you going to accept?” He inquires, trying to sound casual. But it still reveals much more than that.
Your grip tightens slightly on the basket. “That’s none of your business.”
There was a long silent pause, before he calmly says:
“It is when someone starts taking liberties with what belongs to this household.” The last word was said very clearly, yet his eyes somehow hinted at something different completely.
Your brows knit together immediately. “You make me sound like furniture.”
“No.” His response comes too fast.
His eyes flick toward the direction the gardener disappeared in, expression hardening faintly before returning to you.
“You’re considerably more troublesome than furniture.”
Only now do you notice the jealousy brewing behind that sharp gaze. And how quickly dark it could get.
___________
The gardener disappears three days later.
No one knows where he went. One morning he just… wasn't there. His quarters were empty with his belongings gone.
Everyone said something different about him:
The head housekeeper said he'd resigned.
The cook said he'd been transferred.
The stable boy said he'd heard screaming in the night but thought it was a fox.
You don't know what to think.
You just know that when you mentioned it to the head butler, he looked at you with those unreadable eyes and said “He was unsuitable for this house."
You furrow your brows in confusion. "What does that mean?"
"It means he's gone."
"But where?"
Somewhere behind him, the fireplace crackles.
"Does it matter? Somewhere he can't bother you anymore."
That there… That look has your blood go cold.
"I don't— I wasn't bothered,"
"You were uncomfortable." He cuts you off.
"I wasn't." You repeat sternly.
"I saw your face when he asked you out. You didn't want to go."
"That doesn't mean I wanted him to disappear."
The butler tilts his head. "What did you want, then?"
You open your mouth. But eventually close it.
You don't have an answer.
He takes a step closer. Just one step, but it's enough to make your heart stutter.
"I told you before," he says quietly. "If anyone is giving you trouble, you can tell me."
"I didn't ask you to do anything." You retreat backwards.
"I know."
"So why—"
"I saw a problem. I removed it."
"That's not—you can't just remove people.”
"I can." His voice drops into lower. "I can do a lot of things you don't know about."
You stare at him, pupils shaking slightly.
He stares back, eyes making you spiral with how empty they seemed for a moment.
Your eyes trail down, away from the abyss in his eyes, and that’s when you notice something you've never seen before.
He's not wearing his usual gloves. Which allows you to see a scar on his hand. A long, old scar covering most of his palm.
The kind of scar you get from a knife.
"What happened to your hand?" you whisper.
He looks down, flexing his fingers for a moment pondering something. Then looks back at you.
"A job," he says. "A long time ago."
"What kind of job?" You probe.
"The kind you don't ask about."
He pulls his gloves from his pocket. Slides them back on in front of you slowly. Deliberately.
He looks down onto the wooden floor for a long moment. There’s sudden determination burning in his eyes before he directed them back onto you.
"Stay away from the east wing tonight," he says.
"Why?"
"There will be… noise."
"What kind of noise?"
He doesn't answer.
Just turns and walks away, leaving you behind with a thousand questions left to sort out.
_________
You spend the night in your room.
Under the covers with your hands covering your ears.
Because from the east wing, somewhere deep in the noble's private chambers, there are sounds you can't explain.
A door opening.
A struggle.
A single, choked scream.
Then silence.
You don't sleep, even when the only sound left is from the hooting owl at your window.
In the morning, the noble is dead. Heart attack, they say. Talking about how it was very sudden and tragic.
And the staff is given the week off.
You pack your things, ready to head back to your hometown after a long time.
The head butler finds you in the hallway with a small luggage of belongings in hand.
"Leaving?"
"The house is in mourning. We're all leaving." You vaguely turn your head to the other staff members already heading out. But it was mostly to check if there was still anyone around because talking alone to the head butler didn’t feel safe anymore…
"Not all of us."
You look at him, standing in the shadows. Watching silently.
"What are you going to do now?" you ask.
He pauses to contemplate an answer. "I've been thinking about that."
"And?"
"I've been thinking…" He steps closer. "About taking something with me."
"Something?"
"Someone."
You stop breathing.
He's close now. So close you can smell something metallic on him. Something that isn't cologne.
"You knew," you whisper, connecting unhelpful dots in your mind. "You knew what was going to happen last night."
"I did."
"The noble—"
"He was my target from the beginning."
And that’s when everything starts to make sense to you. He was never a butler.
He was an assassin.
You should run, get away from him.
You should scream and alert the house.
You should do anything except stand here frozen while an assassin looks at you like you're the only thing in the world worth sparing.
"Why are you telling me this?"
He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His gloved fingers are warm.
"Because I'm not going to kill you."
"That's… that's good?" Your heart is still beating loudly in your chest, but it’s a little more bearable now.
"It would be easier if I did." He looked down to the ground, eyes somber.
"What?"
He sighs. Like he's explaining something simple to a child.
"I've been in this house for six months. My mission should have taken no more than a few weeks. But I kept finding reasons to stay.”
He looks up at you. “Reasons with your face. Your voice. Your stupid tendency to walk into dangerous corridors at the wrong time."
"You spared my life…" You realize.
“I saved your life, multiple times at that. It’s my first time ever going to such lengths to keep a body alive.”
He didn’t just spare you, he went out of his way to protect you, is what you get from him. But the reason is still left unsaid: "Why?"
His gaze on you softens, too gentle for what he says next.
"Because you're mine," he answers simply. "Whether you know it yet or not."
The fireplace crackles, just like last night allowing goosebumps to take over skin.
Somewhere outside, a carriage door slams.
The head butler—the assassin, the man who just killed someone in the night—smiles.
It's the first time you've ever seen him smile.
Was a smile supposed to make someone feel this… scared?
It's terrifying.
"Pack your things," he gently orders. "We're leaving together."
"I never agreed to that." You hold your luggage closer to yourself like a shield.
"You will."
"And if I don't?"
You stare up at him anxiously. He never said he wouldn’t hurt you, what if he tries to do something now that you’re all alone in the hallway?
But thankfully, he doesn’t.
He steps back first this time. Picks up his bag, and walks toward the door.
He pauses in front of the doorway, turning his head slightly to address you.
"Then I'll wait," he says. "I'm very patient." Especially after holding back for three months already, the last part is left unsaid.
And just like that, he leaves.
You stand in the empty hallway, heart pounding.
And somewhere in the back of your mind, a small voice whispers:
He's not going to stop.
He's never going to stop.
And you’re going to surrender yourself to him sooner or later.
Assassins, after all, were known for always finishing what they started.
Thinking about a prince who seems strangely possessive of his favourtie personal maid.
He always has you following after him, like his shadow. No matter where he goes or what he's doing-- You are a constant by his side. You always were, since you were very small children, growing up in the court.
The crown prince is still young, but his... attitude makes it difficult to believe he'll change by the time he ascends the throne. Prince Solivan is demanding and strict with what he desires. He does not like waiting, and he does not like being out of control of what he deems his things.
You know that better than anyone else in the palace.
And you are reminded of it everytime you misplace his things while attempting to clean his room. Or when you'd scratched his favourite porcelian by accident. Or when you'd returned his fountain pen to it's place, except it wasn't exactly where he usually puts it. It must have been just an inch or two out of place, but it didn't matter, because he noticed.
He'd been fuming. And he made you regret it.
Your prince is also rather... Touchy. In a strange bold way that doesn't make sense to you. Maybe it's because you never refuse him, but his boldness has made it so that he'd call for you during events, only to pull you into his lap and explore with his hands over your modest maid outfit. It doesn't matter that people are watching, or that your deeply uncomfortable and embarrassed beyond words. He wants you in his lap, now. He wants you to be silent and sit pretty and let him play, now.
Who are you to say no? To embarrass him infront of his guests?
So you do. You sit, you squirm in his grasp as he gets uncomfortably handsy with you. While your face burns with humiliation and you fidget in discomfort, trying to find a break in the conversation so you can beg him to let you go. But he doesn't even bother looking at you. He continues speaking and charming his guests and even flirting with the ladies of court while you're in his lap.
If you ever complain to him, he simply pouts at you and tells you its not fair to him that you have to be away from him when you perform your duties, and he has to suffer through these events by himself. He needs comfort too, you know-- Isn't he your beloved prince? Doesn't he deserve your comfort? So what if you are uncomfortable? Shouldn't your prince's touch be a blessing to you? Shouldn't you be fucking grateful?
You were never very good at saying no to him. Maybe because you never ever get the chance.
Your prince finds it difficult to focus, sometimes. Or so he says. He was always sort of... affectionate. You always thought you were so lucky, that the crown prince appreciates you so much as to find comfort in your presence, in your warmth. His hand would linger around your waist or your lower back when he walks by. Or squeeze your hips when he sees you working. Even press against you and wrap his arms around you, pressing his face into your hair, his hands stroking your sides. You were used to such touches, embraces, and so on...
Well... Until it became... Inappropriate, even to your own eyes, which were so used to him by now. Maye because on one day when you were fluttering around his office, he'd called you to stand beside him, only to pull you onto his lap. to hold you against him as he works, his eyes never leaving the parchment he wrote on with that elegant script. You tried to protest, but he didn't even look at you, only pinched your hip, making you jump, and effecitvely getting his command across. Be silent.
His hands moved over your uniform, touching, squeezing, carressing, even going as far as weighing your breast in his hand. Enjoying your squirming and uneven breathing. When you dared to grasp his wrist to stop him from slipping into the top of your uniform, his ice cold eyes finally moved to your face. You'd pleaded with him, your face burning with embarassment, "Please, my prince, this is not appropriate, I can't--"
He tilted his head, eyeing you with exasperation that one would feel when addressing a nagging child who asked a stupid question. "I cannot focus." He huffed, his voice rough with his annoyance. His cold command softened into a mumur, nearly begging in its sincereity when he says: "Be still, won't you? I just need your help."
"Is it not your purpose to aid me when I need it?"
It was your purpose to aid him, was it not? But those words weren't what really made you remain still in his lap, even as he groped at your chest and rested his jaw over your shoulder, treating you like a fidget toy to help him focus on his tasks. It was the 'I need you' which always got you to soften. How could you refuse your beloved prince when he needs you? When he only ever needed you to help him?
"Yes, my prince," You'd muttered, despite the discomfort that made your cheeks hurt as his hands squeezed and stroked your chest, even over your uniform.
"My angel." He'd responded softly under his breath, the words wrapping around you like a soft misleading comfort. He could feel the little shiver that ran through you when he praised you. And a small smile tugged at his lips, even though his eyes focused back on his work, and there again, you disappeared into a toy in his lap for him to play with.
You could't help feel the pleasure of being useful for someone like him. Someone you'd thought was far above you in every way possible, yet somehow needed you. The feeling warming your chest made you relax into his arms.
You never noticed, but back then, his grip on the pen tightened when you'd melted against him so sweetly. He'd never tell you, but it always fed a fire inside him, the way you always gave up your personal comfort and wishes for his own. And you would do it so easily, too--With just a well placed word, a little nudging from him and you'd bend to whatever shape he felt he needed.
And you were soft, so cute and squishy and sweet, he really couldn't help it. You were always his favourite little thing, all pliable, giving, and so damn thoughtful... It would have made him sick, if your stupidity didn't help him keep you looking at him like that.
Like he's everything, like you'd give him all of you just for him to be satisfied.
Little did you know, he would never be satisfied by so little of you.
You swallowed hard as you stood before the massive iron door that separated you from the monster prince. The torchlight flickered dimly in the dungeon corridor, casting eerie shadows along the damp stone walls. The tray in your hands trembled slightly as your grip tightened. You had heard the stories—the whispered tales of maids who never returned, of those who did but with mangled limbs and lifeless gazes.
Yet, you had no choice. The head maid had assigned you this duty, and disobeying her was not an option. You steeled yourself and pushed open the heavy door, the hinges creaking as if in protest.
Inside, the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. Your breath caught in your throat as you took in the sight before you.
Osiris Asmor, the monstrous crown prince of Asmora, sat against the far wall, his long white hair a tangled mess, streaked with dried blood. His golden eyes, burning like molten fire, snapped to you immediately. His muscular frame was covered in bruises and cuts, his broad chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. Heavy iron chains bound his wrists to the wall, but even restrained, he exuded an aura of dominance, of lethal danger.
Your knees almost buckled when his lips curled into a smirk.
"You’re new." His voice was deep, rough like gravel, sending a shiver down your spine. "The last one didn't last long."
You forced yourself to take a step forward, then another, until you stood a few feet away from him. You refused to look at the dried blood near his feet—the evidence of what happened to your predecessors.
"I brought your food," you said, your voice steadier than you expected.
Osiris tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "And you expect me to eat that?" His gaze flicked to the tray in your hands, then back to your face. "Do you know how many times your people have tried to poison me?"
You hesitated. You had heard the rumors, of course. The court was desperate to rid themselves of the monster prince, and subtle assassination attempts had been made. You glanced at the tray, then made a decision. Lifting the spoon, you scooped up a portion of the stew and took a bite.
His eyes widened slightly.
"There," you said after swallowing. "It's not poisoned."
A slow, amused chuckle rumbled from his chest. "Interesting. You're smarter than the others."
He extended his hands, the chains clinking ominously, and you stepped forward cautiously, placing the tray within his reach. His fingers brushed against yours—rough, calloused from years of wielding a sword. You flinched, and his smirk deepened.
"You fear me," he mused. "Good. You should."
You swallowed again, but this time, something about his tone sent a different kind of shiver through you. Something darker.
Days turn to weeks despite your fear, you returned to his cell every day. Perhaps it was the knowledge that if you didn't, someone else would be sent in your place—and they might not be as lucky. Perhaps it was something else entirely.
At first, Osiris was cold, watching you with a predator's patience. But as the days passed, his demeanor shifted. He started talking more, asking questions—personal ones. Your name. Your family. If you had a lover.
You learned things about him, too. How he had been trained in swordsmanship from the moment he could hold a blade. How Asmora was not the barbaric land of beasts your people painted it to be, but a kingdom rich in culture, in history. How he missed the open skies, the feeling of the wind against his skin.
And how he hated humans.
"They disgust me," he had said one evening, his voice dripping with venom. "Cowards, the lot of them. They betray, they destroy, they take what is not theirs."
You had hesitated before responding. "Not all of us are like that."
His golden eyes bore into yours, unreadable. Then, he had smirked. "Perhaps not you."
The change happened slowly, subtly. You didn’t notice it at first. The way his gaze lingered on you longer than necessary. The way his tone softened when he spoke your name. The way he clenched his fists when another guard was present, as if barely restraining himself.
Then, one day, you arrived to find his chains shorter. Someone had adjusted them, limiting his movement even further. He was furious.
"They think they can break me," he growled, his muscles flexing as he yanked against the chains. "Fools."
Your heart pounded. You set the tray down, about to turn away, when his voice stopped you.
"Come closer."
You hesitated. "I shouldn't—"
"Please." The word was foreign on his tongue, almost unnatural.
Against your better judgment, you stepped forward.
Faster than you could react, his chained hand shot out, grasping your wrist in a vice-like grip. You gasped, eyes widening in panic.
"Do you know what you've done to me?" His voice was a growl, but there was something else there—something raw, something desperate. "Every day, you come here. Every day, you speak to me as if I am not a beast in chains. And now…" His grip tightened. "Now, I cannot stop thinking of you."
You tried to pull away, but he was too strong.
"I will escape," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "And when I do… you will come with me."
You shook your head, fear spiking through you. "I can't—"
"You can. You will." His golden eyes burned with obsession. "I will not leave you here, among those who would use you and discard you."
Tears welled in your eyes, but not just from fear. A part of you—deep, buried—felt something else. Something dangerous.
"Do you understand?" His lips nearly brushed against your ear. "You belong to me now."
A shudder ran through you. You hated how the words made your stomach twist.
"You’re insane," you whispered.
His smirk returned, though his eyes remained deadly serious. "Perhaps. But I will have you, little human. One way or another."
It happened faster than anyone anticipated.
One night, an explosion rocked the palace. Chaos erupted as soldiers scrambled, unaware that the monster prince had freed himself. By the time the guards reached the dungeon, his cell was empty.
And you—
You were gone too.
Osiris carried you effortlessly through the darkened halls, your struggling form useless against his strength. His grip was bruising, his pace unwavering.
"You’re mine," he whispered as he hoisted you onto his warhorse, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. "And I will never let you go."
As the castle faded into the distance, you realized with a chilling certainty—
You were no longer a servant.
You were a possession. A treasure. A prize.
And Osiris Asmor would never let anything take you from him.
Not even yourself.
This is inspirated by c.ai bot and it was made by @Strawberry_88
A/N: I was struck with inspiration and honestly, this has been floating my head forever because I YEARN for both of these men immensely.
By every reasonable standard, your life should have been impossible.
You lived at the intersection of two worlds.
On one side was Prince—brilliant, mysterious, impossibly confident. He spoke in half-smiles and private jokes, moving through life like he already knew the ending to every story.
On the other side was Michael—gentle, thoughtful, endlessly curious. He saw wonder in everything, from old movies to carnival rides to the way sunlight reflected off a window.
Most people assumed they would clash.
Instead, somehow, they worked.
And somewhere along the way, you became the center of their strange little universe.
The tabloids called you friends.
The public called you collaborators.
Only the three of you knew the truth.
The rain tapped softly against the windows of Paisley Park.
You sat cross-legged on a couch, flipping through a magazine you hadn’t really been reading for the last twenty minutes.
Prince was across the room, stretched out in an armchair with a guitar balanced against his knee.
Michael sat on the floor nearby, surrounded by notebooks and scattered sketches for a future project.
The room was quiet.
Comfortably quiet.
The kind of silence that only existed when people knew each other well enough not to fill every moment with words.
Michael suddenly looked up.
“Do either of you think penguins have favorite songs?”
You lowered the magazine.
Prince stopped playing.
The room remained silent for several seconds.
Finally, Prince sighed dramatically.
“That’s the question you’re asking at eleven o’clock at night?”
Michael shrugged.
“I’m serious.”
“You are always serious when you shouldn’t be.”
“Well?”
Prince pointed at him.
“See, that’s why people think you’re strange.”
Michael grinned.
“You’re calling me strange?”
“Absolutely.”
You laughed before either man could continue.
Immediately, both of them looked at you.
Both.
At the same time.
You’d never gotten used to that.
The way their attention seemed to find you no matter where you were.
Prince raised an eyebrow.
“What’s funny?”
“You two.”
“Helpful answer.”
“You’ve spent ten minutes debating penguins.”
Michael looked offended.
“It has only been three minutes.”
Prince rolled his eyes.
“That’s somehow worse.”
Michael reached over and nudged your shoulder.
“You think penguins listen to music.”
“I think you’re trying very hard to avoid your work.”
His expression immediately gave him away.
Prince pointed triumphantly.
“Aha.”
Michael groaned.
“You two are impossible.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
“Michael.”
“Fine.”
He leaned back against the couch.
The dramatic surrender lasted approximately five seconds.
Then he looked up again.
“What kind of music would penguins like?”
You buried your face in your hands.
Prince laughed so hard he nearly dropped the guitar.
Later that night, after Michael had finally wandered off in search of coffee and Prince had disappeared to one of the studios, you found yourself alone in the hallway.
For exactly thirty seconds.
Then Prince appeared.
As if he’d materialized from thin air.
“You disappeared.”
“I went to get a drink.”
“Mhm.”
You smiled.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
That answer alone told you something was definitely wrong.
Prince leaned against the wall beside you.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The playful energy from earlier faded.
His expression softened.
“Y’know.”
“What?”
“You happy?”
The question caught you off guard.
You looked at him.
Really looked at him.
Past the confidence.
Past the teasing.
Past the image everyone else saw.
Sometimes Prince worried.
Not about fame.
Not about success.
About people.
About the ones he cared about.
“Yeah,” you answered honestly.
His shoulders relaxed.
“Good.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“You’re being suspiciously sentimental.”
“Don’t tell anybody.”
“I’ll tell Michael.”
Prince pointed a finger at you.
“Traitor.”
The sound of laughter echoed down the hallway.
Michael was approaching with three cups of coffee balanced precariously in his hands.
“Why are we talking about me?”
“You weren’t here.”
“That’s usually when people talk about me.”
Prince groaned.
You laughed.
And as Michael reached you and handed over a cup, while Prince slipped an arm around your shoulders for a brief second before pretending he hadn’t, you felt that familiar warmth settle in your chest.
Maybe your life didn’t make sense.
Maybe it never would.
But standing there between them, listening to their endless bickering and impossible conversations, you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.
Controversially young reader this, controversially young reader that, but what if I want to be the older one?
It doesn't even need to be an absurd age gap, I'd even prefer if it wasn't, but why must the reader-insert always be the young one? I can't be the only one questioning this and waiting for this event to happen.
Like, I am not even asking for an influx of material. Just one, well written piece of literature is good enough for me 🥹🫶.
