Aries' LADS Thoughts

no one would’ve ever guessed that your favourite servant was kneeled between your legs, carefully hidden by the skirts of your dress.

rafayel had slipped beneath your gown five minutes ago, just before your chambermaids entered your room.

you remember the heat of his whisper against your wet lips as he broke free from a promiscuous kiss — “don’t make a sound, my princess.”— and the way he kneeled beneath your vanity table, covering himself with your garments.

you remember how his calloused hands parted your legs, how his teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your thighs.

taking what he craved so badly, without even caring about anything else.

now tara was brushing out your hair, her movements slow and methodical, while simone was heating the curling tongs by the fireplace. they chattered softly about the evening’s ball, about which lords have arrived at court, about the quality of the new shipment of rose oil from the southern provinces.

you could barely hear them over the thunder of your own pulse.

rafayel’s mouth was on you.

he had your cunt spread open with his thumbs, his tongue working in broad, greedy stripes from your weeping, pulsing hole to the aching bud of your clit.

he was devouring you like a man starved, carrying a shameless hunger that made your thighs tremble against his ears.

you could feel the wet heat of his breath, the firm press of his nose against your clit, the way he moaned into your flesh like you were a delicacy.

all while your chambermaids attended to you.

“ah–”

you let out softly, gripping the edge of the vanity. trying to keep your composure.

“your highness? is the chair uncomfortable?” tara, always so attentive, asked through the haze. she even stopped brushing, leaning in to check on your wellbeing.

you shook your head rapidly, forcing your lips into something that resembled a smile. “no, no. please, continue.”

your voice came out steadier than you expected, thank gods.

rafayel, listening in, decided to reward your composure by sucking your clit into his mouth, tightening his lips harder around the swollen flesh.

you had to bite the inside of your cheek to not cry out in pleasure.

but what could be hidden... that was none of your concern. as such, your hips jerked involuntarily, pressing yourself against his face, and he let out a sound of approval, vibrating directly into your most sensitive parts.

very pleased by your reactions.

simone returned with the heated tongs as if on cue. tara started to section your hair and, together, they began to curl away, softly giggling at whatever gossip they’ve heard recently.

beneath your skirts, rafayel had lost all pretense of restraint.

he pulled back just enough to see your soaked pussy, his lips slick with spit and arousal. a short guttural moan escaped his throat, but it was not registered by the chatty maids.

rafayel dived back in happily, tongue plunging into your entrance, lapping up every bit of wetness you produced.

the sounds were obscene — wet, sloppy, rhythmic — and you prayed that the rustle of your gown and the hiss of the curling iron masked them.

and to your dismay, the besieging only intensified.

his fingers joined the torture, sliding into your needy hole with ease, curling upwards to find that spot that makes your vision blur in extasy. he scissored them gently, stretching you, while his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit.

good heavens, that combination was lethal.

you were so close. the pressure built in your lower belly, a coil tightening with every stroke, every flick, every breathy exhale of his against your sensitive pussy.

you wanted to grab his hair. you wanted to grind down on his face until you suffocated him.

you wanted to have him just like he was having you.

instead, you sat perfectly still as simone pinned your curls.

“yes, prince xavier is said to be quite handsome.” tara mused, unaware that your legs were shaking, that you weren’t — and couldn’t be — paying attention to their gossip. “perhaps he’ll seek you out.”

rafayel chuckled against your cunt at that. his fingers pumped faster, harder, and his mouth sealed around your clit in a harsh suction.

making his opinion on that neighbouring prince obvious.

your legs clasped around his head violently, quivering uncontrollably from the incoming orgasm.

“your highness?” simone tilted her head. “are you unwell?.”

you managed a breathless laugh. “i am just… a bit anxious.”

beneath your skirts, rafayel doubled his efforts. now he was fucking you with his tongue and his fingers in turns, an unceasing rhythm that left no part of you untouched.

he licked at your entrance, then trailed upwards to suck your clit, only to return to thrust his tongue inside you as deep as possible.

and with that, the coil snapped.

your orgasm crashed over you without warning; your teeth sank into your lower lip until you tasted copper, trying to muffle your erotic moans.

you let out only the softest, quietest whimper, barely audible over the crackle of the fire.

rafayel, ever the dutiful servant, worked you through it, tongue gentle and soothing, collecting every last drop of your release.

“there.” tara said, stepping back to admire her work. “you look perfect, your highness.”

in the mirror, you saw a princess with elegant curls piled atop her head, with very flustered cheeks and glistening eyes.

between your legs, rafayel pressed one final kiss to your inner thigh. his lips, wet when they brushed your skin, quietly mumbled the same verdict as tara:

“you look perfect, your highness.”

©pearlescenthoney 2026. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

The bartender had a voice that harbored mirth, a chime of amusement that would permanently ring at the end of his sentences. You figured that was why he was the bartender, such a role required a certain personality. 

You didn’t meet his eyes, instead focused on counting your change.

Out of your periphery, leather encased his torso, lacking buttons down the front. It cinched his waist, providing curvature to a solid frame. It served to accentuate his close-fitting, black velvet jacket. 

A ringleader was how he presented. Flamboyant and charismatic, this man desired to be the center of anyone’s attention. 

The shiny buckles on his knee-high boots only confirmed such thoughts. 

You thumbed through a few bills, glancing at the menu that stood up at the end of the bar. Colorful chalk formed the letters, dusty, yet somehow perfect. Whoever wrote the specials for the week had a steady hand. 

“I’ll take this week’s-” 

Your breath caught, anger thriving within an instant. 

A violet campfire burned beneath the night sky. His irises captured you, recognition long since nestled in his gaze. Absent a hat, his lavender locks were wild. Only a few were tamed, clipped back by dark pins. The scarcity of hair over his left temple revealed earrings attached to the shell of his ear. 

You were on your feet, gun in your hand.

“You.” 

The outlaw in front of you smirked, his swallow forcing his throat against the barrel of your gun. 

“Me,” he replied. 

“Don’t you dare play coy with me,” you threatened, taking one step forward. It knocked your knee against the barstool, and your hip dug into the counter, yet you held true, unlatching the safety with your thumb. 

He tutted, the flick of his pink tongue rapid, natural, and even more infuriating. Just to mock you, his hands raised in surrender, a hint of enjoyment tugging on the corner of his mouth once more. 

“I recommend you tread carefully, sweetheart, damage this pretty face and the town will be up in arms.” 

“Do you ever shut up?” 

His gaze descended to your mouth, blazing with interest, “if someone makes me.” 

Your index hovered over your trigger, the pad barely kissing the curve of metal. That little touch was all it took before the air stiffened, and a presence made itself known behind you. 

A blade, meticulously honed, nicked just below the bump of your throat. Whoever had you in their clutches had a balanced hand, not a single tremble vibrated through the weapon, nor did they seem to have any intention of fatiguing. 

The man in front of you sighed, violet irises hiding behind soft eyelashes, “what did I say?” 

“Might just be worth taking you down with me,” you retorted, tightening your grip on the firearm. 

In response, the blade slipped through your skin a sliver more, and blood flowed, small trails seeping into your collar. 

“You see, cutie, my partner here doesn’t like when you touch what is his,” your target arched a brow, tempting your aim. 

His so-called partner exhaled, rustling the hair at the nape of your neck. 

“Now that I think about it, she might be doing me a favor,” the stranger at your back remarked. 

Camouflaged in his voice was a hint of a pout, barely there, covered by a monotone cadence that relayed disinterest. How gently he cradled his words, however, was misleading. You wouldn’t associate his tone with someone who wielded a sword. 

“Well?” You inquired, directing your tone towards the newcomer. 

“Actually,” he answered, releasing your second firearm from its holster on your thigh, tossing it onto the counter, “his funeral would be expensive.” 

“Damn right, you know me so well,” the corset-clad one quipped.

“Unfortunately.” 

It was difficult to decipher whether their dynamic was an act or genuine. What you had witnessed the evening prior on the train demonstrated what you could imagine were years of silent routine. How the outlaw before you addressed the man behind you had you briefly wondering if their relationship was romantic. Not that it determined whether you would fire the shot or not. 

“Cutie,” the bartender won your attention with how he titled you in confidence, “as much as I appreciate that badass vibe you practically exude, my hands are tired, and they’re important.” 

“Important,” you repeated, and relaxed your hand, the gun retreating from his skin.

“Rafayel,” the one behind you warned, “she’s playing with you.” 

“Oh, please do,” he winked, “you want to play? We can play.” 

Rafayel shifted, and you moved, hooking the barrel of your gun against the other’s sword, pushing to separate skin from blade. With the force of your thrust, it bought you enough time to lunge and grab your second firearm. 

A dagger stabbed into the counter, pinning your sleeve. Your rotation was violent, and your back was glued to the flat surface, the position uncomfortable in the curve of your spine. But, you had dodged the length of a sword, meeting ice blue eyes. 

With your free hand, you fired, missing pale hair by an inch or two. The culprit causing your missed shot was a slim hand, agile and warm, wrapped firmly around your wrist. 

Rafayel loomed over you, guiding your arm to the wood, effectively keeping you secured to the bartop. You jerked your other hand, finding the high-quality leather you often procured a mistake. Rafayel’s dagger was embedded deep. 

Upside-down, his hair hung loose, eventually tickling your chin as he teased. 

You kicked, and another hand grabbed your ankle, the tip of a sword poised against the calf of your last free limb. 

“Easy, sweetheart,” Rafayel coaxed, his breath sweet and damp. His fingers swept over yours, attempting to pry your weapon free, “guns are dangerous, y’know.” 

His index slipped beneath your pinky, then your ring finger, greedily searching for leverage. It was the loss of control, that sense of him discovering what he shouldn’t - that reignited your fight. 

Leather tore, and you jammed the grip of your gun into his temple with a quick flick of your arm. Below, you dug your calf into the blade, protected by the durable material of your pants, pushing the edge towards your opponent until it buried itself into his thigh. 

You were scrambling to find a purchase, righting yourself to vault for a table, sliding over it to land closer to the door. Plates of food had crashed to the ground, customers disgruntled, but no one cowered in fear. Within these parts of town, such occurrences were common. 

“Xavier,” Rafayel hissed the other’s name. 

“I know.” 

The doors squealed the same on your exit as they had when you had entered. You drove your boot into your stirrup and mounted Eclipse, urging the horse into a gallop. Your eyes traversed the multiple buildings, seeking the highest point. Injuring Xavier’s leg would buy some time, but not enough. 

The rifle within its scabbard at the front of your saddle summoned your grip, and you slung the weapon over your back. Distance was your domain, and there, on the edge of town, was a bell tower. 

Xavier would kill you if given the chance. Those who could wield energy were forbidden, scorned to live out their days in the shadows, usually dealing in the black market, undertaking jobs those without such abilities would never touch. 

The last execution of a witch had been celebrated, a form of entertainment the desperate clung to for any salvation. You had watched from a tavern window, your guns heavy over your thighs. To stop the death of an innocent was your natural instinct, but a warm hand had sailed over your shoulders, rubbing back and forth. 

“There are too many, my love,” he had said. 

Your head had turned, and gorgeous, cobalt eyes had bestowed escape. Yet you still looked away, witnessing the murder of one who could heal. 

You had thought your perception was the least you could do. 

Eclipse whinnied, a chime that brought you back to the present. He stomped, rising on his hind legs in protest, deterred by the fence in front of him. Warnings were posted on the fence. Warning was far too generous of a word, the letters painted across the posts were rather threats. 

You dismounted, directing Eclipse to be tied to a hitching post at an adjacent inn. Stroking his mane, you nuzzled his cheek, then hurdled over the fence, entering the ground of the abandoned city hall. The bell tower was built at the back, designed to mobilize gatherings. 

This was where the sheriff was executed. Since then, there hadn’t been a single semblance of order in this parched town. 

It led you to push open the doors without any reservation. Whoever thought they could claim the territory wasn’t a local. 

Inside, furniture was littered with cobwebs, cushions were torn, exposing the feathers and horsehair that had once boasted luxury. A lampshade exhibited bullet holes, and a few more had struck a painting near the staircase. Which meant the assault had taken place quite some time ago. 

You were the last one in town able to procure bullets. 

Gun slingers were a thing of the past, forever extinct. 

You advanced up the stairs, blindly trusting the integrity of the rickety steps due to the lack of time. The floorboards moaned beneath your boots, some portions soft from the decaying wood, infested with mold. 

Eventually, you reached the top, busting the lock on the hatch accessing the roof. The wind whistled across your ears, strong enough to move the length of your trench coat. Walking to the edge you fell into a kneel, equipping your rifle, and looking through the scope. 

Xavier and Rafayel would stand out, the two of them oddly elegant in a vulgar land. Especially if one of them was a witch. 

Your mind drifted, and you briefly wondered if they both were. 

Your heart constricted, sweat layering your fingers. It made your trigger finger slick over the curve of metal. 

Focus. 

Barrels, enclosing fires, lit up the town in multiple locations. Those who lacked the means to defend a home wandered the streets indefinitely. 

Eclipse idled below, his tail flicking restlessly. His snout was dipped down, lips smacking as he consumed water. He had been stolen once, the perpetrator had lost his hand in return. 

Exhaling, you honed your skills, sweeping the town with your scope. Slowly, you mentally marked windows aglow, open doors, and empty balconies. The two could come from anywhere. Because you didn’t know the extent of Xavier’s witchcraft, you had to consider everything. 

That being said, Rafayel standing in the middle of the road was not what you expected. 

Your crosshairs were trained on his chest, the corset around his waist scrunching the fabric of his shirt. It wrinkled the cloth across his pectorals. A bruise formed at the edge of his eye, your strike having left its brand. 

You smirked, his eye would be swollen by morning. 

Regardless, his eyes held your form. His dagger was cradled by firm fingers, the blade held between thumb and forefinger. His other hand was shoved into his pocket, his stature slouched, one leg bearing more weight than the other. 

He winked. 

Rafayel’s arm whipped back, momentum propelling his blade as he flung it. The weapon was dark, camouflaged by the night. A shot was futile, a searing slice striking your eyebrow. Blood seeped, cascading into your vision. The loud thunk of a blade embedding in the pole behind you revealed his target. 

By the time your hand had wiped over your eye, and your cheek had found the rifle stock, Rafayel was gone. 

You stuck your head through the gun sling, resting the rifle over your spine once more. Rising, you spun, unlatching your revolver in time to fire. 

The bullet struck the bell. You would have thought the entire building shook with how much the soles of your boots vibrated. 

Xavier swore, his hand cupping his ear, the other clenching around the hilt of his sword. You stumbled, creating distance, covering the wound above your eye. Blood had crusted at your neck, but that cut still stung with every swallow. 

But while the laceration there had closed, the gash at Xavier’s thigh had not. Crimson stained his pants, wet in the moonlight. 

Behind him, the hatch popped open, and Rafayel climbed through. He retrieved his dagger, and held it parallel to his forearm, adopting an offensive stance. 

Xavier straightened, shaking his head to clear his mind from the effects of a shrill startle. His hair swished over his forehead, and suddenly, you found it adorable. 

You faltered, those eyes courting yours. 

“An expert marksman,” Xavier observed, acknowledging the sniper strapped across your back with a tilt of his chin. 

“A duo of outlaws,” you quipped in return. 

“We prefer . . . entrepreneurs,” Rafayel shrugged. 

“A lone outlaw,” was what Xavier said, eyes captured by your frame, assessing. 

“Adding murder to my list of crimes isn’t a big deal,” you threatened. 

“We need you.” 

Xavier’s confession had your fingers halting over your trigger. Blatancy in this day and age screamed trouble, since nothing was ever made true. Promises, you had long since learned, were as feeble as the decaying structures around you. 

“And what’s in it for me?” You lowered your weapon, holstering it at your thigh. 

Rafayel hummed, twirling his dagger once before sheathing it at his own leg, “a negotiator, I like it.” 

“Our next hit will be enough to last us all a lifetime,” Xavier slowly concealed his sword, then he approached, only for you to take a hesitant step back. He understood, and stalled. “We just need a sniper.” 

“Assassinations aren’t my area of expertise.” 

Which wasn’t entirely the case. You were equipped with the skills to execute any mission advertised; however, it was the reconnaissance that shattered your will - to intimately know someone, then to choose their end, was unbearable to drag home. 

Especially when alone. 

“We aren’t asking you to kill, cutie,” Rafayel dawdled over, ignoring the startle that ran through your frame. His height lifted your gaze, and those stunning irises held you in place with abyssal pupils. “We could use some cover, it’s a large operation, like, very large.”

“And here isn’t where we should discuss it,” Xavier gestured to the rooftop with his hand, then gripped Rafayel by his wrist, forcing distance between the two of you. Rafayel whipped around to protest, but Xavier shook his head.  

“Xavie’s right, as usual,” Rafayel confessed. 

“And where do you suggest we meet?” You considered. 

Xavier, clearly the more logical between the two, maintained your gaze. 

“As we need you, and not the other way around, you decide.” 

Later, years down the road, as you sat on your front porch, swinging in a hammock, you'd think back to this very moment. Rafayel would be seated across on a patio sofa, eyes closed while he snored. The setting sun would halo the crown of his head, illuminating the string of drool escaping his bottom lip and wetting Xavier’s shoulder. Xavier had sighed in faux retaliation the second Rafayel’s temple had rested upon his body. 

“You were wrong,” you’d say - a quiet whisper. 

“About?” Xavier would be equally as quiet, glancing briefly at Rafayel before returning your heavy stare. 

You’d close the book in your lap, then rise, and kneel between Xavier’s right leg, and Rafayel’s left. Neither would reach, Rafayel too lost in his dreams, and Xavier restrained, although accepting. Your hand on his thigh was something he savored, having revealed the sentiment early on in your relationship 

To think you once had found them both foreign. 

Finally, you would respond, smiling as Rafayel stirred, a grumble in his throat as he adjusted, snuggling closer to the other man. 

“I needed you two far more than you two had needed me.”