Fanfic Reader

Here they come, the Dynamic Duo

Miyeong: ... Celineeeeee, Rumi is judging me again :(

Tracked down the one bit of art that had the Saja boys in it, and while technically correct, I am greedy and wish they were the main focus. But nevertheless, it was a must-buy!

Also found this Derpy shirt that resonates with my soul

And this shadowbox that technically is Netflix official merch but the creator who makes the shadowboxes on behalf of Netflix was selling them directly as well (and for cheaper than Netflix is charging!)

"You Went to Her?"

Story: you were born in the sully family, with five fingers, and a skin Like humans, so neytiri was never able to accept you (part 18).

An argument /3

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The news reached you two days later.

Not from Jake.

Not from Neytiri.

You overheard it.

Training had ended early because strong currents had made the reef unsafe. While walking back through the village with Tsireya, you passed two Metkayina women sorting shells outside one of the maruis.

"...I still cannot believe they almost fought."

"It was over the forest girl."

"The Tsahìk would not send her away."

"The mother was furious."

You slowed your steps.

Tsireya noticed immediately.

"What is it?"

You barely heard her.

"...Who?"

The older woman looked up, realizing you had overheard.

She immediately looked uncomfortable.

"...Child..."

"Who almost fought?"

The woman hesitated.

"...Your mother."

Your heart sank.

"...My mother?"

"...And Ronal."

You stared at her.

For several long seconds, you couldn't make sense of the words.

"...No."

The woman lowered her eyes.

"It happened two mornings ago."

Your breathing became uneven.

"You are mistaken."

"I'm not."

"Why?"

Neither woman answered.

That silence told you everything.

You didn't wait for another word.

You turned and ran.

---

Jake had just returned from fishing with Tonowari when he heard hurried footsteps outside the marui.

He barely had time to stand before you pushed through the entrance.

Your face was flushed from running.

Your breathing was heavy.

Neytiri looked up from where she was preparing dinner.

"You are back early."

You looked directly at her.

"Did you go to Ronal?"

The marui fell silent.

Jake's expression changed instantly.

Neytiri didn't answer.

You stepped closer.

"...Answer me."

Jake spoke first.

"Let's calm down."

"No."

Your eyes never left Neytiri.

"Did you?"

After a long pause...

"...Yes."

One word.

That was all it took.

Your stomach dropped.

"You actually did it."

Neytiri stood slowly.

"I needed to speak with her."

"You told her to stay away from me."

It wasn't a question.

She didn't deny it.

"I did."

Your voice rose before you realized it.

"Why?"

"Because she is not your mother."

"I KNOW SHE ISN'T!"

The force of your reply startled everyone inside the marui.

Even Tuk stopped moving.

You took another step toward Neytiri.

"I never called her my mother."

"I never asked her to replace you."

"Then why are you always with her?" Neytiri shot back, emotion finally breaking through her composure.

"Because she wanted me there!"

The words echoed through the marui.

Silence followed.

You swallowed hard.

"When I came to her..." your voice shook, "...she didn't look at me like I was a burden."

Neytiri flinched.

You noticed.

But you couldn't stop.

"You know what she did?"

You laughed bitterly.

"She listened."

"She noticed when I was hurt."

"She remembered what I liked."

"She made time for me."

Jake closed his eyes.

He knew where this was going.

Neytiri's voice was quieter now.

"I was trying—"

"When?"

You interrupted.

"When I was little?"

Your eyes had begun to water, but you refused to look away.

"When I begged you to teach me to hunt?"

"I remember being excited."

"I thought..." You laughed softly through the hurt. "I thought maybe this time it would just be us."

Your voice cracked.

"But you sent Dad instead."

Jake looked down.

He remembered that day too well.

"I waited for years."

You continued.

"I kept thinking maybe tomorrow you'd want me."

"Maybe next hunt."

"Maybe next lesson."

"Maybe next birthday."

Your breathing became uneven.

"But tomorrow never came."

Neytiri stepped toward you.

"I know I made mistakes."

"Mistakes?"

You shook your head.

"No."

"Mistakes happen once."

"This was my whole childhood."

The words struck harder than shouting ever could.

Neytiri looked as though she'd been hit.

"I watched you with them."

You gestured toward your siblings.

"You smiled."

"You taught them."

"You held them."

"And every time I wondered..."

Your voice became almost a whisper.

"...what was wrong with me?"

Nothing.

No one spoke.

You looked directly into her eyes.

"Was it because I wasn't blue?"

Neytiri's face drained of color.

"No."

"Then why?"

"I..."

"You looked at me differently."

"You held me less."

"You barely spoke to me."

"You avoided me."

"So tell me."

You weren't yelling anymore.

Somehow, that made it worse.

"What did I do?"

Neytiri opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because there wasn't an answer that could erase years of memories.

Tears finally slipped down your face.

"And then..."

You laughed bitterly.

"The first person who actually made me feel like I mattered..."

"...you tried to take her away too."

Neytiri's own eyes filled with tears.

"I wasn't trying to hurt you."

"But you did."

You wiped your face angrily.

"You don't get to decide who I'm allowed to care about."

"I am your mother."

"You are."

You nodded once.

"But you haven't acted like one to me for a long time."

The sentence shattered what little composure Neytiri had left.

She took another hesitant step.

"I want to fix this."

You looked at her for several long seconds.

When you finally spoke...

Your voice was exhausted.

"You had years."

Then you turned away.

Jake called your name quietly.

You didn't stop.

You walked out of the marui before anyone could say another word, leaving behind a silence so heavy that no one dared break it.

__________________________________________

By lucie_draw7 on Instagram

World star Axis 💫

in which richard grayson, a sharp witted court jester hiding behind paint and bells, falls for a queen trapped in a gilded cage, and risks everything to pull off the ultimate escape

court jester!dick x queen!reader, medieval au

tw physical and domestic abuse

The hall of the castle glittered with gold that night, candles flickering from every wrought-iron chandelier, music echoing faintly through the corridors, and laughter rolling off the stone walls like a wave meant to distract from the dullness of reality. But to you, it all felt like a masquerade, a gaudy, glittering attempt to disguise the rot beneath. Your husband, the king, leaned back in his chair, his expression heavy with wine and impatience. He’d already lost interest in the feast, the dancers, and, most painfully, in you.

Your fingers rested around the rim of a goblet, idly tracing the edge as nobles chattered and clinked glasses. You smiled when required, nodded at every passing compliment, but your mind drifted somewhere else, toward silence, toward freedom, toward anything but this suffocating throne room filled with eyes that saw you as decoration.

And then the fool entered.

The court jester, late to the performance, spun through the open doors like a gust of color and sound. His bells jingled, bright and reckless, breaking through the monotony. He wasn’t like the others you’d seen before, no sloppy makeup or drooping cap, no tired routine of juggles and rhymes. He was young, strikingly so, his features hidden beneath a streak of painted laughter but his eyes, his eyes were piercing blue, sharp and alive like summer lightning. He moved with a kind of rhythm that didn’t belong to the dimly lit hall but to something freer, lighter.

“Ah,” the king said with an irritated drawl, motioning lazily with his goblet, “the fool finally joins us. Entertain, or I’ll have your bells cut off.”

The jester bowed low with exaggerated grace. “Your Majesty, if you cut them off, how will you know when I’m coming? That seems a tragedy far greater than any I could perform.”

The nobles laughed cautiously, watching for the king’s reaction. The king smirked faintly and waved a hand. “Proceed, before my patience expires.”

He began with a dance, playful yet artful, every motion deliberate. He balanced upon one hand, flipped, caught a dagger mid air, and balanced it on the tip of his nose before tossing it into the rafters where it stuck perfectly between two beams. Gasps, laughter, applause.

But it wasn’t the trick that caught you, it was the way he looked at you while he did it. A flicker of his gaze, a subtle pause, as though he performed not for the room, but for you alone. It was bold. Reckless. Dangerous.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

As the crowd laughed, you found yourself smiling, truly smiling, for the first time in weeks. He caught it. You saw his lips twitch beneath his painted grin, satisfaction curling there.

The jester’s name, you learned moments later when he bowed low again before the throne, was Richard, or as the people called him, “Grin” for his unshakable humor and habit of twisting trouble into laughter.

But even as he played the fool, there was nothing foolish in the way he moved, graceful, trained, deliberate. His humor masked something sharper. You could tell instantly. Years at court had taught you how to read people, how every smile could be a blade, every bow a defense. His wit was quick, but his eyes were watchful. Observing. Calculating.

When the king leaned over and whispered something lewd about the jester’s ability to “juggle more than knives if ordered to” you turned your face aside, the bitterness of your husband’s voice cutting through whatever small joy you’d felt. You excused yourself from the table before he could grab your wrist again, rising with regal poise.

You were halfway down the hallway, a long, dim corridor draped in velvet and silence, when you heard the faintest echo of bells. You turned, instinctively, expecting one of your handmaidens, but instead, there he was.

The jester stood a few paces back, still in his motley garb, his face half-hidden by the flicker of torchlight. “Your Majesty” he said softly, and though the words were respectful, the tone wasn’t. It was… gentle. Curious. As if he were testing how the title sounded when spoken without fear.

“You shouldn’t follow me” you replied quietly, your voice careful, measured. “The king would not take kindly to it.”

He tilted his head, his painted grin softening into something more human. “Ah, but I’m not following” he said lightly. “Merely wandering. Fools do that often. We stumble into forbidden places and somehow survive to tell the tale.”

Your lips curved despite yourself. “Do you often wander into hallways where queens happen to be?”

He tapped a finger to his chin as if considering it. “Only when the queen looks like she’s dying of boredom in her own court.”

The words landed like a spark in dry grass. For a moment, you forgot the title between you, forgot the rules, the crown, the layers of silence you wore like armor. You turned slightly, studying him. Without the performance lights of the hall, you could see more clearly, the faint smudge of paint on his cheek, the calluses on his fingers, the shadow of something far too thoughtful in his eyes.

“You have a dangerous tongue” you murmured.

“And you,” he countered smoothly, “have dangerous eyes.”

You held his gaze for a long moment, the tension fragile, trembling like a tightrope between danger and intrigue. Then you looked away, the faintest ghost of a smile crossing your lips.

“You may be clever, fool, but cleverness has its cost here.”

He gave a mock bow, the bells on his hat chiming softly. “Then let me pay it gladly, Your Majesty. A moment of your smile is worth a night in the dungeons.”

You shouldn’t have laughed. You shouldn’t have looked back at him as you turned away. But you did, and the way he was watching you, half smirked, half awed, burned into your mind like candlelight.

That night, long after the music faded and the king fell asleep beside you in his wine-stained slumber, you couldn’t stop thinking about the jester with the blue eyes and reckless tongue.

And somewhere below, in his small chamber at the edge of the servants’ quarters, Richard Grayson lay awake too, the fool who had dared to speak to a queen as if she were just a woman.

He replayed your laugh in his head, soft and fleeting, and smiled to himself in the dark.

He’d seen hundreds of faces in his life, nobles, knights, courtiers, but yours? Yours had looked at him like he was not a fool at all.

And that, he realized with a strange tightening in his chest, was far more dangerous than any blade.

The next morning broke with the sound of bells, faint, distant ones from the chapel tower, tolling for morning prayer. The sun slid lazily through the draped windows of your chamber, painting the silks in pale gold and amber. You sat before the mirror, still half dressed, your maids fussing behind you.

You felt the same dull ache you always did at dawn, the weight of duty, the practiced calm, the constant awareness of eyes waiting for you to perform perfection. But beneath all that, something new pulsed faintly in your chest. You’d dreamt of laughter, a voice teasing in the dark, a blue-eyed jester who bowed too low and spoke too boldly. You had woken with your heart still echoing from it.

“His Majesty has departed early for the hunt” one of the handmaidens murmured, fastening the last clasp on your gown. “He took most of the guard with him.”

Your eyes lifted to the mirror at that. “How long?”

“Three days, Your Grace. Perhaps four, if the weather turns.”

Three or four days. You exhaled quietly. The castle would be quieter. The air easier to breathe.

You spent the morning in council chambers, nodding through petitions, listening to nobles drone on about grain and tariffs. But around midday, the steward entered with an announcement that caught your attention.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing. “The king left orders before his departure. He requested that the court jester remain in the castle, to… amuse Your Grace in his absence.”

You blinked. A dozen thoughts collided at once. The court snickered behind their hands, they assumed it was the king’s cruelty, assigning a fool to keep his wife entertained. But you caught the undercurrent of it, the sting of insult wrapped in command. He wanted to remind you of your place, of your isolation.

You merely inclined your head, serene as ever. “Very well. Have him sent to the gardens after luncheon.”

The court murmured. You didn’t flinch.

When the hour arrived, the royal gardens were drenched in sunlight, sprawling mazes of roses, fountains whispering between marble paths, the air heavy with the perfume of late summer. You stood beneath the shade of an old willow, dismissing your attendants with a wave. The guards stayed at a distance.

And then came the soft jingle of bells.

He emerged between the hedges, head slightly tilted, a wry smile on his painted lips. He wasn’t in full motley today, no exaggerated colors, no painted tears. Just a loose shirt, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, a leather belt slung carelessly around his waist. The bells on his wrist still chimed faintly when he moved.

“Your Majesty” he greeted with a bow that was mocking only in its perfection. “You sent for your humble fool?”

“I did not” you corrected, voice even. “My husband did.”

“Then it seems I’m doomed to serve two masters” he quipped softly. “One who drinks too much, and one who hides her laughter like treasure.”

Your gaze flicked toward him, sharp enough to silence most men. He didn’t flinch. He smiled instead, faint and mischievous.

You turned away, walking deeper into the garden’s maze. “If you intend to amuse me, you’ll have to do better than flattery.”

He followed, not too close, not too far. “Then allow me to try honesty instead.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Honesty is not a fool’s trade.”

“No,” he said, his tone suddenly quieter, “but it’s mine when the queen deserves it.”

There was something in the way he said it, simple, unadorned, dangerous. You stopped before a marble fountain, the water catching sunlight like shards of glass, and looked at him.

“Do you speak to all queens that way?”

He tilted his head, thoughtful. “There’s only one I’ve met worth speaking to.”

You wanted to smile, but you didn’t. Not yet. Instead, you asked, “Tell me, jester, where did you learn such words? From a book you stole? Or a heart you broke?”

He chuckled, eyes glinting. “From both, perhaps. Books are safer to steal. Hearts, less so.”

“Then you should tread carefully” you said softly, turning back toward the fountain. “Mine is not easily stolen.”

His voice followed, low and amused: “Then I’ll consider it a challenge.”

The words hung between you, charged and uncertain. For a moment, you were no longer queen and fool, just two people standing beneath sunlight and scent of roses, circling each other like predators dressed in civility.

You tried to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Tell me, Richard—”

He blinked. “You remembered my name.”

“It’s my duty to remember everyone in my court.”

“Ah,” he murmured, “and am I in your court, or merely haunting it?”

“Perhaps both.”

He laughed, a soft, rich sound that made something in your chest tighten unexpectedly.

He told you stories after that, wild, ridiculous tales of traveling troupes and towns that smelled of bread and rain. You knew half of them were lies, but he told them so well you didn’t care. You asked questions. You listened. He watched your face as you did, memorizing the subtle things, the way your eyes softened when amused, the way your hand brushed absently against the marble railing when you tried to hide a smile.

When you laughed, finally, a real laugh, quiet but unrestrained, he froze. Just for a heartbeat. As if he’d never heard anything like it.

You caught him staring. “You’re supposed to be the one making the noise” you teased lightly.

“I think I just forgot how to breathe for a moment” he said, so softly you almost didn’t hear it.

The air stilled between you. The sound of water and birds filled the pause. You felt something shift, dangerous, fragile.

“Your words are reckless, jester.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“And you enjoy testing your luck?”

“Only when it looks like you.”

You turned away before he could see the faint warmth rising in your cheeks. The sun had begun to lower, spilling amber light across the hedges. It was late. You knew you should leave. But you didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, you walked to the edge of the fountain, dipped your fingers briefly into the cool water, and said, “Tell me, Richard. If you were not a fool, what would you be?”

He hesitated, for the first time since you’d met him. His voice dropped lower, quieter.

“I’d be free.”

You looked up at him, surprised by the honesty. There was no performance in his tone now, no mask, no painted grin. Just the truth.

You wanted to ask more, but a guard’s voice broke through the garden entrance, calling for you. The spell shattered.

You straightened, regal mask sliding back into place. “You’ve done well, jester” you said evenly. “Perhaps you’ve earned your keep for today.”

He gave a half-bow, but his eyes stayed on you. “And what of you, Your Majesty? Did I win even the smallest smile?”

You didn’t answer. You turned and began walking toward the castle, the sound of your gown brushing the stone path. But as you reached the archway, you spoke without looking back.

“More than you think.”

He grinned, not the painted grin of the fool, but something softer. Real.

And as the sun sank beyond the garden walls, he watched you disappear into the shadows of the castle, bells chiming faintly at his wrist.

That night, neither of you slept well. You thought of the way his eyes had changed when he said free. He thought of the way your voice softened when you said his name.

The castle slept in silken silence, the torches guttered low in their sconces, their light reduced to trembling gold that licked the edges of shadow. The corridors were hushed, save for the faint whisper of wind moving through the high arches, and the slow, tired sighs of a fortress at rest.

Your chambers were awash in moonlight. The air was cool, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine from the gardens below. You sat at your window, the great velvet curtains drawn back, crown discarded on the nearby table. The crown had always felt heavier at night.

You tried to read, but the words blurred on the page, your mind wandering elsewhere, to a voice that had been too bold, a pair of blue eyes that had seen you not as a queen, but as something alive.

You hated that you kept thinking of him. The way he had moved in the sunlight. The quick, clever humor in his tone. The rare gravity that had surfaced when he’d said he wished to be free. You had met knights, princes, scholars, but none who carried laughter like it was armor.

You turned from the window, closing the book, and that’s when you heard it.

A sound, low, soft, carried by the wind.

At first you thought it was the breeze. But no, it was deliberate, notes strung together like silver threads. Music.

You froze, heartbeat fluttering as the melody deepened. It was a lute, delicate and warm, the tune simple but aching with something unspoken. The kind of song sung by those who had seen too much and still smiled anyway.

You moved to the window again, barefoot on the cold stone, and peered down.

There he was.

Richard Grayson, your fool, stood in the moonlit courtyard below your window. His painted mask was gone. His motley discarded. He wore a plain white shirt, the collar open, sleeves rolled, and the faint glint of his bells at his wrists. The lute was cradled in his hands, the wood gleaming softly under the light.

He looked up once, just once, and though you were hidden behind shadow, he seemed to know exactly where you stood. He didn’t stop playing.

The song was wordless, but it spoke. Of quiet defiance. Of loneliness wrapped in jest. Of something that neither of you had dared name that afternoon.

It was reckless. Dangerous. You should have called the guards, should have closed the window and silenced the world back into obedience. But you didn’t move. You stood there, one hand against the window frame, and let him play for you.

He played until the last note trembled and faded into the air, leaving only the sound of water from the fountain below. Then he lowered the lute, resting it against his thigh.

For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. The night stretched long and silent between you.

Then, softly, he said, “Does Your Majesty approve of her fool’s music?”

You leaned forward slightly, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re a fool indeed, to stand in the queen’s courtyard after midnight.”

He smiled faintly. “Then I must be a fool twice over, for I knew the risk, and came anyway.”

You hesitated, torn between reprimand and fascination. “Why?”

He tilted his head, thoughtful. “Because there are words I can’t say in daylight.”

The admission fell between you like a secret prayer. The air shifted, heavy and charged. You glanced back toward your door, no guards nearby, no servants stirring.

And then, before you could stop yourself, you whispered, “Wait there.”

You turned quickly, slipped from the window, pulled a dark cloak over your nightgown, and opened the hidden side door that led down the narrow stairway, an old servant’s passage that twisted along the wall of the keep. You moved silently, heart hammering. Every step felt like trespassing in your own life.

When you reached the courtyard, the air was cold and clean. The moonlight washed everything silver, the fountains, the ivy, even the cobblestones. He stood at the base of the stair, half shadow, half light, the lute still in his hand.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he said softly, “You came.”

“You’re fortunate I did” you murmured, drawing the cloak closer around you. “If any saw you here—”

“They’d say the fool has lost his mind” he interrupted lightly, “and they wouldn’t be wrong.”

You gave him a look that was meant to be stern but softened almost instantly. “You risk too much.”

He stepped closer, slowly, carefully, as though afraid to startle you. “So do you.”

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It hummed. You could hear the faint dripping of water, the rustle of leaves, the sound of your own pulse.

He broke it first. “I used to play this song for my mother,” he said, voice quiet. “When I was small. She was a dancer. Said the world didn’t deserve her steps, so she kept them hidden. I suppose I learned my tricks from her, how to make laughter when your heart is elsewhere.”

You looked at him, the moonlight catching the blue in his eyes. “You hide it well.”

He smiled faintly. “And you, Your Majesty—you hide sorrow even better.”

You froze. No one dared speak to you like that. Not your handmaidens, not your council, not even the king.

He took another step, now close enough that you could see the fine tremor of his breath. “Tell me, do you ever tire of pretending?”

Your throat tightened. “Careful.”

He leaned in, his voice almost a whisper. “Always.”

You should have stepped back. But you didn’t. You looked at him, really looked, and saw the faint scar just beneath his jaw, the roughness on his fingers, the fire that made him speak so boldly to a queen.

“I could have you thrown in the dungeon for that” you murmured.

He smiled. “Would it make you sleep better?”

You said nothing. You couldn’t. The sound of his voice, low and unafraid, had woven itself around your breath.

Instead, you looked away, toward the moon, the roses climbing the wall, anything but him. “Why do you do this, Richard?”

He exhaled, half laugh, half confession. “Because the way you looked at me in the garden made me forget I was a fool.”

The words struck deep.

You felt something stir in you, an ache that had been dormant for years, buried under jewels and etiquette and duty. You weren’t supposed to feel this. You weren’t supposed to want anything.

And yet, here he was.

You stepped back just slightly, enough to breathe. “You must forget it, whatever this is” you said quietly, though your voice trembled faintly. “It cannot be.”

He nodded once, slowly. “I know.”

But he didn’t move. Neither did you.

The moonlight fell between you like a fragile thread, binding you in silence.

He finally looked down, half smiling again, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Then I’ll play instead. It’s safer than speaking.”

He lifted the lute again, his fingers brushing the strings, the melody soft and hesitant, like a heartbeat trying to find its rhythm again. You stood still, cloaked in night and indecision, listening to him play until the world itself seemed to still around you.

When the final note faded, he looked up, his voice a whisper: “Goodnight, my queen.”

You hesitated. Then, softly “Goodnight, Richard.”

You turned before you could say anything more, before you could do something reckless, and walked back through the archway, up the stone stair, heart trembling.

He watched you go until the last trace of your cloak vanished behind the wall.

Then he exhaled, eyes closing, and whispered into the night, “Fool, indeed.”

He left the courtyard before the guards made their rounds, slipping back into shadow as easily as he had stepped into your thoughts.

And when you finally returned to your chamber, the lute’s melody still lingered in your ears, haunting and impossible to silence.

You sat before the mirror, crown glinting on the table beside you, and for the first time in years, perhaps ever, you smiled to yourself, quietly, as though keeping a secret.

The hunt ended sooner than anyone expected.

By the third morning, the horns echoed through the valley announcing the king’s return, and the castle, so peaceful these few days, snapped awake. Servants rushed through the corridors, banners were hoisted, braziers relit. You stood before your mirror again, the calm you’d stolen from the garden and that single moonlit song already slipping away beneath the weight of protocol.

Your ladies dressed you in crimson silk, heavy and regal. They wove jewels through your hair until you barely recognized yourself. When the heralds called that His Majesty approached the gates, you moved toward the grand hall, each step measured, every movement carved in composure.

He arrived with the noise of hooves and laughter, smelling of wine and smoke. The king swept through the hall surrounded by his men, holding a dead stag’s antlers aloft as a symbol of victory. His eyes found you at once, bright, fevered, possessive.

“My queen,” he said, his tone loud enough for all to hear, “did you miss your husband, or did the fool keep you well entertained?”

The court tittered. You smiled as you were expected to, bending your head in deference. “I am gladdened by your safe return, my lord.”

He cupped your chin, rough fingers pressing harder than affection required. “Always so proper” he murmured, eyes narrowing. “I should leave you alone more often. It seems to remind you whom you belong to.”

You did not flinch, though your pulse burned in your throat. When he turned away, laughing with his knights, you let the air out slowly, your expression unreadable.

From the corner of the hall, hidden behind the musicians’ dais, a flicker of movement caught your eye, just the smallest glint of brass from a jester’s wrist. He was there, back in his motley again, silent among the servants, his posture bowed in mock servility. But even across the noise and torches, you felt his gaze.

He didn’t smile. He only inclined his head slightly, an acknowledgment so small no one else could see.

It was both a comfort and a knife to the heart.

That night, the king held a feast to celebrate his return. You sat beside him, the hall roaring with song and drunken laughter. He drank deeply, boasting of the hunt, boasting of his strength, his dominion, of everything except kindness. When he laughed, you laughed too. When he touched your wrist, you stayed still. Every gesture rehearsed, every breath controlled.

Richard performed when called upon. Tricks and riddles, cartwheels and tales, his bells chiming in rhythm with the king’s laughter. But you saw through the mask. You saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands trembled just slightly when he poured wine, the careful distance he kept from your side of the table.

Once, while pretending to stumble near your chair, he let his hand brush the hem of your gown, just a fleeting touch, invisible to all but you. It was nothing, and yet it felt like fire.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t.

When the feast ended, the king rose, heavy with wine, and took your hand to lead you from the hall. “Come,” he said, “you’ll sit with me tonight. A queen should not sleep alone.”

You followed because you had to, your spine straight, your eyes blank. Behind you, the fool bowed low, bells jingling softly as the doors closed between you.

Hours later, when the castle had sunk into darkness and the king finally slept beside you, snoring softly, the smell of wine thick in the air, you slipped from the bed. Barefoot, silent, you wrapped yourself in a cloak and crossed to the window. The moon was full again, spilling light across the courtyard.

You didn’t expect him to be there. But he was.

Down below, half hidden in shadow near the stables, he stood with his lute slung across his back, looking up. No smile this time, no gesture, only stillness, waiting.

Your heart kicked against your ribs. You glanced back at the bed. The king didn’t stir.

You moved quickly, every step an act of treason. Down the servant’s stair again, through the lower corridors where the guards were dozing, until you reached the courtyard.

He stepped forward when he saw you, relief flickering across his face before he masked it again.

“You shouldn’t have come” you said, though your voice betrayed how much you wanted to be there.

“I didn’t call for you” he answered quietly. “But I hoped.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The night smelled of damp stone and roses, of the smoke from torches guttering low.

He studied your face, the faint line between your brows, the tension that never left your posture. “He hurts you" he said softly.

You shook your head, too fast. “You mustn’t—”

“I see it” he interrupted, voice low but fierce. “I see what the others pretend not to. You smile because it’s safer. You breathe because it’s required. But you’re drowning, and they call it grace.”

The words broke something inside you. You turned away, blinking hard, gripping the edge of the fountain for balance.

“Stop,” you whispered. “If you care for me at all, stop saying such things.”

He moved closer, his voice gentler now. “If I stop, you’ll forget there’s another way to live.”

You looked back at him then, eyes shining in the half-light. “There is no other way. Not for me.”

He reached out, hesitated, then let his hand fall short of touching yours. “Then let me at least remind you that you’re not invisible.”

You drew in a slow breath, the kind that trembles at the edge of breaking. “Do you know what you’re risking by speaking to me like this?”

He nodded once. “Everything.”

For a long moment, the world held still, no sound but the distant rustle of leaves and the faint clink of his bells swaying in the breeze.

Then, softly, you said, “Go, before someone sees.”

He stepped back, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “If he hurts you again, send for me. I’ll come, no matter the hour.”

You didn’t answer, but your silence was not refusal.

When you turned to go, he called quietly, “My queen?”

You paused.

“I’ll keep playing,” he said. “Even if you can’t listen.”

You walked away without looking back, your heart heavier and lighter all at once.

He stood there until your shadow vanished inside the castle, then slung the lute over his shoulder and disappeared into the darkness that had always hidden him.

The next day, the court pretended nothing had changed. The king was in good humor, pleased with his trophies. The queen sat beside him, calm as ever. The fool performed when called, laughing too brightly, bowing too low.

But between the lines of every polite exchange, something electric hummed, secret, fragile, dangerous.

And in that fragile current lay the truth neither of you could speak aloud: the queen who could not leave her cage, and the fool who would rather die than let her fade unseen.

The castle had grown colder since the King’s return. Not in temperature, though autumn crept through the stone walls and turned the corridors drafty, but in presence. Every torch that burned along the hall seemed to do so under scrutiny; every servant that passed by did so with lowered eyes. The King’s shadow was heavy, his temper unpredictable.

He had returned from the northern campaigns a man swollen with pride and bitterness, his armor dulled but his arrogance brighter than ever. He drank more. Laughed less. His victories, though sung by minstrels, had left him paranoid and cruel,a ruler hungry for worship, yet suspicious of every whisper. And you felt his gaze like a chain.

He had not asked how you’d managed the court in his absence. He had not thanked you for the treaties you secured, or the famine you had quietly prevented in the southern provinces. His only question had been if you’d remained faithful. The insult had burned beneath your ribs.

And Richard...he had gone silent the moment the King’s banners appeared on the horizon. His performances, once full of reckless laughter and sly wit, became quieter, humbler. You rarely saw him during the day now. Only sometimes, in the corner of the Great Hall, masked in motley and jest, he would catch your eye, and his blue gaze would flicker like a secret flame before darting away.

You had thought that perhaps the bond you’d built would fade under the King’s return, that duty, fear, and time would smother it. But something about the distance only deepened it. It was in every glance you weren’t supposed to exchange. Every moment your voice softened when addressing him before others. Every night you lay awake, hearing faint echoes of laughter from the courtyard, knowing he was somewhere out there, alive, hidden, watching.

Then came the feast.

The King demanded one to celebrate his victories, and it was as opulent as his vanity required. Musicians filled the air with string and drum, servants spilled wine until the floors gleamed crimson, and courtiers laughed too loudly. You wore your crown, heavy and cold, the gold biting into your temples.

And there he was.

Richard standing before the throne with that familiar careless grace, juggling flaming torches as if danger itself bowed to him. The court roared. The King clapped his meaty hands and leaned back, delighted by the spectacle.

But Richard’s eyes never left you.

He performed like a man possessed, dancing on the edge of danger, each flick of his wrist deliberate, each jest a hidden message. When one of the torches fell near your feet, his reflex was instant: he caught it, dropped to one knee before you, and looked up, smiling that small, secret smile that made your breath catch.

“My apologies, Your Majesty” he murmured, loud enough for the hall to hear, but soft enough that only you felt the pulse of it. “It seems I nearly burned what I worship.”

The King laughed, roaring. “Careful, jester, that tongue of yours will hang you one day.”

Richard bowed, eyes never leaving yours. “Then I pray it dies having spoken the truth.”

The laughter went on. But you knew the meaning buried beneath it, dangerous, blasphemous.

That night, you couldn’t breathe within your chambers. The King had retired to his own wing, too drunk to notice your absence. You paced near the balcony, every shadow outside whispering his name. The moonlight painted the courtyard silver, and then you saw it: the faintest glimmer near the stables. A flicker, like a signal.

You hesitated only a moment before pulling your cloak tighter and slipping into the hall.

The castle at night was a labyrinth of echoes. You moved quickly, through the servants’ passages, down the worn stone steps, across the narrow corridor that smelled of hay and earth. Your heart pounded louder than your footsteps.

And then he was there.

Richard stood beneath the archway, his jester’s bells muted by strips of cloth, his mask half-removed. His hair fell in soft waves, his eyes catching the torchlight. He looked both exhausted and alive, the same way you felt.

“My Queen” he whispered, bowing with exaggerated grace. “Forgive my intrusion. I could not sleep knowing you might be suffering the company of your lord husband.”

You wanted to reprimand him, for the risk, for the words, but your voice trembled too much to sound like authority. “You shouldn’t be here” you whispered.

“Then why are you?”

The air between you stilled. Somewhere far above, a guard’s boots echoed against the walls. You stood close enough to see the faint bruise of exhaustion beneath his eyes, the faint curve of his smile.

“You think I don’t see it?” he said quietly. “The way he treats you. You deserve more than a crown, my lady.”

You turned away, fighting to keep your composure. “You speak treason.”

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. “Then let the gallows have me. I’ve been dying a little every day watching him break you.”

The words struck harder than any touch. You turned back to him, and the moonlight painted the lines of his face in silver and shadow, the honesty, the danger, the ache.

“This cannot happen” you whispered. “If he finds out—”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m not asking for forever. Just tonight… let me remind you what it’s like to be seen.”

And before you could stop him, his hand reached up, not touching your skin, but hovering near it, trembling with restraint. It was not lust. It was reverence. A prayer he dared not voice.

For a moment, the world was silent, no court, no crown, no kingdom. Just the sound of your breathing, and the weight of something forbidden blooming between you.

But fate is cruel to those who reach for light.

From somewhere beyond the stable doors, voices rose, guards. The torchlight flickered across the hay, footsteps quickening. Dick’s head snapped toward the sound, then back to you.

“Go,” you hissed. “Now.”

He caught your wrist, just once, his thumb brushing your pulse. “Tomorrow,” he whispered. “At the chapel ruins.”

And then he was gone, melting into the dark like a ghost, leaving only the echo of his promise.

You returned to your chambers before the guards turned the corner, heart still racing. When you lay in bed beside the King, his snores heavy and graceless, your hand still tingled where Dick had touched it.

And you realized something terrible.

You weren’t afraid of being caught anymore. You were afraid of what you would do next.

The chapel had long since been abandoned to ivy and dust. Once a place of prayer, it now stood as a forgotten skeleton at the edge of the royal gardens, halfcrumbled arches, stained glass shattered into jeweled shards on the floor, a single altar still upright beneath the ribs of the roof. By day, it was a ruin. By night, it was sanctuary.

You slipped through the outer gate cloaked and hooded, the guards none the wiser. A thin fog rolled through the grass, catching the moonlight. Somewhere, an owl hooted, the air smelled of rain on old stone. You had not seen Dick since the night of the feast, only stolen glimpses from across the hall, brief glances that felt like confessions neither of you could speak aloud.

Now, under the quiet weight of the chapel, the sound of your footsteps echoed against the ancient floor.

“Your Majesty” a voice murmured from the shadows.

He stepped out from behind one of the fallen pillars, no motley, no mask, just dark clothes that fit close to his frame. His hair fell untamed over his brow, his eyes lit faintly by the lantern he held. He looked less a jester and more a man untethered from his cage.

“You came” he said softly, as though he hadn’t quite believed you would.

“You asked” you replied. “And I…” You stopped. Words felt dangerous. “No one followed me.”

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “I trust your skills more than my luck.”

You removed your hood, and for a long heartbeat, you simply looked at one another, the silence thick with everything unsaid. He took a step closer. You could hear the small creak of the floorboard beneath his boot, the faint catch in his breath. The ruin around you felt alive, like the stones themselves were listening.

“You shouldn’t risk this” you whispered.

He tilted his head. “You say that, and yet you’re here.”

You let out a trembling laugh. “You have a way of making disobedience sound like virtue.”

“Only when it saves your soul.” His voice gentled. “Tell me, my Queen — has anyone asked you if you’re happy since he returned?”

You said nothing. You didn’t need to. He saw it in the way your shoulders sank, in the shadow behind your eyes.

He reached out then, slow, deliberate, and took your hand, his fingers brushing against the edge of your sleeve as if seeking permission. You didn’t pull away. For the first time in weeks, the air didn’t feel cold. He brought your hand to his lips but didn’t kiss it, he simply breathed against it, as though that alone were sacred.

“You don’t have to bow” you murmured, the words shaking.

“Then let me kneel for my own reasons.”

He sank to one knee, still holding your hand. Not as a servant, but as someone making a promise he couldn’t voice. The gesture stole your breath. The Queen in you wanted to lift him, to preserve the order of things. But the woman in you, the one the King had never truly seen, wanted to stay in that suspended moment.

“Richard…” you whispered.

At his name, his eyes lifted, impossibly blue, impossibly close. “Say it again.”

You did. Quietly. And it felt like a confession.

He rose then, his hand still in yours, and the space between you shrank until you could feel his warmth through the fabric of your gown. He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, a touch so light it made your skin ache. His fingers lingered at your jaw, tracing the tremor there. When you leaned into it, only slightly, only once, his breath caught, and for a long second, the world narrowed to that point of contact.

“I shouldn’t” he said. It wasn’t a warning; it was a prayer.

“I know” You didn’t move away.

The rain began to fall, soft at first, tapping through the gaps in the roof, turning dust to scent and stone to mirror. He laughed under his breath, the sound low and disbelieving. You looked up, droplets catching in your lashes, and when you looked back at him, he was smiling, not the jester’s grin the court knew, but something raw and human.

He reached up again, this time tracing the line of your cheek with his thumb, following a raindrop down until it rested at the corner of your mouth. You could feel the shiver in his hand, the restraint fighting against longing.

“Every time I see you,” he whispered, “I forget who I am supposed to be.”

“You’re the only one who remembers who I am” you said. “Not a crown. Not a title. Just—”

You couldn’t finish. He understood anyway.

He leaned in, so close his breath mingled with yours, but he didn’t close the distance. Instead, he pressed his forehead to yours, a gesture that said everything the world forbade. The rain fell harder, muffling the sound of your hearts against the roof, washing away words.

For a few stolen minutes, you stood there, Queen and jester, sinner and saint, wrapped in silence and storm. His hand rested at your back, yours against his chest, feeling the pulse that mirrored your own. It wasn’t a kiss, not yet. It was the promise of one, fragile and endless.

When you finally stepped apart, it was only because you had to breathe.

“We can’t meet again” you whispered, though even as you said it, you knew it was a lie.

He looked at you, rain darkening his hair, his jaw tight. “Then I’ll see you in every shadow until you call for me.”

The words followed you all the way back through the garden, through the echoing corridors, into the hollow chill of the royal chambers. The King slept heavily beside a goblet of wine, unmoved by thunder. You stood at the window, watching the storm, your pulse still trembling where his fingers had been.

And somewhere beyond the walls, under the same rain, Richard Grayson looked up at the same sky and smiled, not because he’d been reckless, but because for the first time, he’d seen the Queen smile back.

The storm had passed, but the castle had not slept.

Word spreads in ways no walls can contain, whispers carried by servants, fragments of overheard conversation twisted by fear. The King had returned from a council meeting earlier than expected that afternoon, and in his eyes burned something crueler than suspicion.

You had felt it before he spoke. The weight of his stare when you entered the Great Hall, the silence that followed every step you took. The courtiers had bowed, but their gazes darted away too quickly. Something had changed.

He dismissed the entire court before the meal was done.

You remained standing at the far end of the table, your pulse uneven beneath your ribs. The King poured himself a goblet of wine, then another. His hands trembled with fury he refused to name.

“I hear stories,” he said finally, voice thick with false calm. “That my queen enjoys the company of fools.”

Your heart froze.

“I speak with many” you said, carefully. “It is my duty to listen to the people.”

He smiled, but it was a thin, dangerous thing. “Do the people make you laugh, wife? Do they make you—”

You never heard the end of the question. His hand struck the goblet from the table, red wine splattered across your gown like blood. The echo of it filled the hall, followed by silence so deep you could hear your own breathing.

He stepped closer, his shadow stretching over yours. “You shame me” he hissed. “You dare lay hands on a jester — a man with no name, no coin, no power.”

“I did no such thing” you whispered, even as his voice cut through you.

“Liar.”

The word was a blow by itself.

He didn’t strike again, not that anyone saw, but the hand he seized your arm with left its mark, darkening beneath the silk sleeve before the night was over. His breath reeked of anger and wine.

“You will smile,” he said, low and venomous, “you will dine, you will bow — and you will forget him. Do you understand?”

When he finally left you alone, the chamber door locked behind him, you stood frozen by the window, your reflection pale in the glass. The ache in your arm was nothing compared to the one twisting in your chest.

You thought of Richard, of the chapel, of the rain, of his hand at your cheek.

You couldn’t call him now. Not tonight. Not when the castle itself was listening.

Dick didn’t know.

He waited in the chapel ruins long after the moon rose. The night was clear, the air cool and silent. Every sound, every rustle of leaf or whisper of wind, made him turn toward the path, expecting your figure in the doorway.

When you didn’t come, he smiled to himself. “She’s cautious” he murmured, trying to believe it. “She knows better than I do.”

But as the hours dragged on, the laughter faded from his voice.

He’d risked so much already. He’d lied to the guards, bribed a kitchen boy to bring word when the King’s patrols shifted, even hidden his costume to keep from being recognized outside the walls. None of it mattered now. The ruin felt emptier than ever.

He sat on the altar where you had stood together, running a hand through his hair. His fingers brushed against the small token you had left him once, a ribbon from your gown, forgotten after a performance, pale silk frayed at the edge.

He closed his hand around it and stared at the place where your shadow had been.

“She’s safe” he told himself. “She has to be.”

Inside the castle, safety was a lie.

The King had ordered new guards stationed near your wing. They watched your door through the night, blades drawn. No message could leave the chamber; no visitor could approach. You lay still on the edge of the bed, the world spinning faintly around you.

The King spoke little. When he did, his words were cold, measured. A punishment in civility. You answered in silence, because anything more could cost lives.

When the torches dimmed, you closed your eyes and pretended sleep. Every heartbeat was an echo of the chapel, of what you’d almost had, of what might still be waiting.

And then came the knock.

Three soft taps, so faint you almost believed you imagined them. But you knew that rhythm.

Your hand trembled as you rose, careful not to wake the King. You crossed the room in darkness, pressing your ear to the door.

“Your Majesty” a voice whispered on the other side. Young. Nervous. The kitchen boy. “He sent word — said he’ll wait again tomorrow. He doesn’t understand why you—”

A sharper voice cut him off, a guard’s, rough and suspicious. “Who’s there?”

The boy fled. You stepped back just as the door creaked under the guard’s hand.

“Everything all right, Your Grace?” he asked.

You forced your voice steady. “I heard nothing.”

He nodded, retreating, and you sank against the wall, breath shallow. You’d never been so close to ruin.

The next morning, Richard noticed the change before anyone told him.

The King’s expression at breakfast was poison. The courtiers whispered more than usual, their eyes darting toward the Queen’s empty seat.

And then he saw it, the guards posted outside your private corridor.

He froze mid-step, juggling pins falling from his hands. The laughter of the crowd dulled. Something inside him went very still.

He didn’t perform again that day.

By nightfall, he found his way to the upper courtyard, climbing a narrow passage between the roofs. From there, he could see the faint light burning in your chamber window. He waited, an hour, two, for a sign, any sign.

None came.

But he swore he could see you, standing at the glass for just a moment, the pale outline of your hand pressed against it. And though the distance between you was filled with danger, that small, fragile gesture felt like a heartbeat passed through stone.

He raised his hand in answer, whispering to the night.

“I’ll find a way,” he said. “I swear to you, I’ll find a way.”

The wind carried the promise away, across the dark gardens, through the same ruined chapel where your memory still lingered, two souls bound by what they could never speak aloud.

The night was so still it felt carved from glass, the kind of silence that breaks if one breathes too hard. Richard waited beneath the outer wall, hidden among ivy and old mortar, watching the guards trace their lazy patrols along the ramparts. He had studied the rhythm of their steps all week, memorized the turn of each torch and the sliver of darkness that followed; he had counted shifts and footfalls and the time it took for a shadow to return to the same stone. He shouldn’t have come. He told himself that with every breath. And still, his hands found the old servant’s passage, the narrow stair used for late pranks and midnight escapes, now the same crooked stone that would let him risk everything for one stolen hour. He climbed until the cold stone gave way to the softer glow of candlelight leaking from under a door, until the corridor outside your chamber lay quiet and empty because the guards had been coaxed elsewhere for the changing of posts. He moved like a shadow, breath small in his chest, heartbeat honest and loud enough to betray him if he weren’t careful. Your door was locked, of course it was, but he had fingers for locks from a lifetime of learning which way keys liked to turn, in moments the latch gave with a soft, sullen click and he slipped inside.

The chamber smelled of lavender and candle-smoke and something older: the powdered perfume of expectation and the heavier metallic tang of fear. The fire had burned low; moonlight pooled across the floor, silvering the hem of your gown. For a long suspended second, you did not turn. He stood still at the threshold, watching the shallow rise and fall of your breath, the faint shiver traveling down your shoulders, and his chest tightened with a relief so sharp it mixed with dread.

Then you turned, and the world that had been only threat and plan dissolved into a single image, you, small and human and hollowed at the edges. There was a shadow along your jaw, a dark bruise that bloomed bruised and unforgiving beneath the skin, and the silk at your wrist hid darkened marks that hadn’t been there when he’d last seen you. You drew the cloak tighter, as if the fabric could stitch closed how badly the world had torn.

“My Queen” he whispered because the air needed a name and he couldn’t find any other word that didn’t make him want to roar. You met him with an expression that was both warning and relief. “You shouldn’t be here” you said before he could speak, an order wrapped in searing shame. He crossed the room anyway, because none of the rules mattered now; fury and grief wrestled across his face until it was impossible to tell which would win. “Who did this?” he breathed, voice broken into ragged syllables that might have been prayer or threat. Your eyes flicked to the door, always the first question, always the first calculation, and then back to him. “You shouldn’t be here” you repeated, softer. The silence answered him enough.

“Gods,” he said, because there were no other gods to call. He ran a hand through hair that had fallen into his eyes, paced once, twice, like a trapped thing. “I’ll kill him” the words came out raw and foolish and bone-deep honest. You flinched the way people flinch at thunder; the nearest hearth might have put out the fires in the world if he had meant it. “Don’t” you said at once, voice cracked so small it might as well have been a prayer. “Please, Richard, don’t even think it. You’ll die before you reach the throne.” The blunt practicality of it, the ugly mathematics of power, fell between you like a blade. He looked at you then not as the Queen on a dais but as the woman he’d met in the rain-washed chapel: exhausted, defiant, heartbreakingly alive.

His hand came out to take yours, not as a jester kneeling for show but as a man making a vow small enough to fit between two palms. “You called me a fool once,” he murmured, and the memory of your laughter, and the way you had looked at him when you thought no one else watched, sharpened the edges of his voice. You couldn’t help the small, bitter smile that tried to form. “Maybe you were right. Because even knowing what he’s done, I’d risk everything just to be here.” There was no boast in your words, only the terrible simplicity of truth. The room seemed to lean close: the curtains, the crown on the dressing table, the still-glowing embers in the hearth all listening to what lay between your breath.

He reached out again, this time to the bruise along the side of your jaw, fingers hovering an inch away as if the mere touch might cause some irrevocable shudder. You didn’t move. “I—” you began and stopped, the sentence collapsing under its own danger. He tasted the salt of rain and smoke and sorrow when he pressed a thumb gently at the bruise’s edge, testing warmth and meaning. “You shouldn’t see this” you breathed. “You shouldn’t know.” “I know now,” he answered simply. “And I know what kind of man hits a woman who is his queen — who is the mother of his image and the prisoner of his bed. I should have done what I do best,” he said, voice thickening into a humorless laugh, “and set the candles on the wrong pile, burned a tapestry, broken a lute, anything to make him look away. But I couldn’t stand to see it on you.” The words cracked like old wood.

You drew a slow breath and pulled your hand from his, wrapping both hands around the cloak at your throat as if to stitch yourself together again. “Richard, you must go,” you said at last, voice steadying with the terrible discipline of someone who had practiced unreadable faces for years. “It is too dangerous. If they find you here—” Your sentence died because you both knew how the rest would end: for him, for you, for any foolish heart that tangled itself with the crown. “I could not sleep if you were punished for me” you finished, and the confession sat between you, bitter and luminous.

He looked at you, really looked, and there was something in him that wanted to scoff at the idea of caution. “I don’t care,” he said. “I came because when the night is made of glass, I could not bear the thought you might fall through and no one would catch you.” You closed your eyes for a moment, the briefest surrender, and when you opened them you were steadier. “You must leave” you said, and it was not weakness but strategy: there would be other nights, and in order for there to be other nights you needed him whole.

He stepped back like a man obeying a command he did not accept, rage and longing and calculation crosshatched in the set of his jaw. His voice lowered until it was a hush, “Tell me where to go. Tell me when. Give me something that keeps me away from killing him.” You gave him a scrap: a cryptic schedule of the castle’s chapel oil deliveries, the time the kitchen would be empty before the dawn bell, the name of a stable hand who owed you a favor. Small things that could be weapons or whispers. You spoke carefully, because the map of the next nights had to be kept out of sight of ears that would sell it to the throne. He listened like a man memorizing a life-line.

For a moment, the smallest possible, your foreheads came together, the touch feather-light and devastating. Rain from the memory of another night clung to the edges of both of you; the stone around you hummed with the kind of silence that can hold a confession. He would have stayed. He would have argued, or tried to carry you past the doors and out into the dark with him. He did not, because when the risk’s ledger was opened, there was a column called you that always read the cost in human lives. He bowed his head slightly, a jester’s movement turned solemn, and whispered a promise that felt like breaking and mending at once: “I will not let you down, not if I can help it. I will come when the moon is right and the guards look elsewhere. I will bring a rope, or a plan, or a dozen foolish tricks. I will be the shadow you need, even if I must be nothing more.”

You hid a shaking smile in the crook of his shoulder, and for an instant, absurdly, dangerously, he felt whole. The moment was broken by the faint scrape of a boot on the outer hall, a sound that sliced clean through both the tenderness and the treason. He froze, eyes wide and bright. You flinched and then moved, pulling your cloak tighter around him as if to make him less visible, slipping a thin ribbon from your hair and pressing it into his palm, pale silk, a private thing for him to keep. “When you leave,” you said between the syllables of panic, “take the passage by the servant’s well, the watchmen never bother there tonight.” He kissed the ribbon and then stepped back, already dissolving into the dark he’d spent his life moving through.

“You’ll write,” he said, voice low, “if they press you, if you fall into the mouth of their cruelty, send a word. Swear on whatever you have left that you’ll call.” His fingers grazed your wrist, warm and insistent, and the pressure was an unspoken plea. “I swear” you answered, and the word felt like a traitor and a lifeline both. He slipped into the narrow stair, you heard the soft echo of his steps, the faint ring of bells muffled by cloth and night. The chamber door whispered closed behind him and then the corridor was empty and shallow as a held breath. You pressed your back to the door and slid down, the floor cold and unforgiving beneath your skirts, and for a long time you sat with your knees drawn to your chest, counting the moments until the world shrank into day.

He left by the servant’s well as you’d suggested, slipping along shadowed eaves and ducking under gutters, heart pounding with the reckless certainty of a man who had chosen the wrong thing for the right reason. He kept to the roofs until the roofs felt like a second skin; he moved through alleys where dogs slept and across walls where ivy wove like the hands of the city itself, and when at last he put distance between himself and the castle he did not feel relief so much as a bright, hollow ache. He slid into the hidden tavern where the troupe slept, where old ropes and cheap ale softened the edges of his world, and he sat with the ribbon in his palm until morning bled into the stones. He would plot and scheme until the sun drove him back into masks and motley, he would craft diversions and bribe cooks and barter for a tired man’s mercy. He would train his fists and his wit until both were sharp enough to cut through armor, and he would learn to keep a secret that might kill him if it were found.

That night brought the small rebellion of a note tucked beneath the bread plate, written in a hand you recognized without opening: a single line in a jester’s cramped script. I will light three lanterns at the eastern gate at midnight.

If the moon hides, I will wait at the old well. Do not come if the guards are heavy. I carry the rope when needed. — R.

The paper trembled slightly when you read it, you folded it once and hid it beneath a dress pin. It was both promise and plan and the smallest defiance you could keep.

And from somewhere in the city, under soot and song and the sour stench of tavern ale, Richard began to arrange a dozen dangerous little miracles, a stable boy who owed a debt and would be willing to leave a door unlatched for a coin, a mason who would pretend to drop his trowel at the right moment, a distracted pageboy who would send a carriage the wrong way. He thought of knots and ropes and the theatre of misdirection, he thought of the weight of a crown and the brittleness of a man who thought a beating could fix humiliation. Every plan he wove was an answer to the bruise beneath your jaw. Every prank became a small act of war.

Neither of you spoke of the marks in public. Neither of you let them define your grief. But in the hush between day and night, when the castle exhaled and the torches were guttering low, you would press your hand against the place where his fingers had been and remember how he had promised to be a shadow. You would picture him on the roofs, the ribbon in his palm, the moonlight in his hair, and you would choose, again and again, the impossible path of small rebellions that might, in the end, make an escape possible.

The game had changed. The stakes were sharper. But so was the truth you had traded your silence to keep, that you had found somebody who saw you, bruises and all, and would not let you be only a piece on a board.

The night held its breath.

Neither of you moved at first. The candlelight trembled across the chamber walls, gilding the air between you in shades of gold and sorrow. He stood where the shadows met the hearth, one hand half raised as if to reach for you and yet too afraid to bridge the distance.

You were still by the window, cloak slipping from your shoulders like a dark tide. The faint bruise along your jaw caught the light, and he ached at the sight of it, not just for what had been done to you, but for the way you hid it, the way you tried to stand straight despite it all.

“Why did you come?” you whispered, voice softer than the flame.

“Because I couldn’t stand not knowing” he said. “Because I thought—” His breath faltered. “I thought he might have taken you from me.”

Your gaze lowered. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Then why does it feel true?”

The words lingered between you, dangerous and tender all at once. He took a cautious step closer, then another, until he was close enough to see the shimmer of tears you refused to let fall.

“I told you to stay away” you murmured.

“I tried,” he admitted with a sad smile. “But I’ve never been good at doing what I’m told.”

You let out a quiet, trembling laugh, the first he’d heard from you in days, and it broke something in him.

When his hand lifted again, it hovered near your face, hesitant. “May I?”

You nodded, barely.

His fingers brushed your cheek like a question, reverent and weightless. The callouses of his hand met the silk of your skin, soft in a way he’d never known softness could be. He had spent his life in coarse linen, dust, and the scrape of rough rope, you smelled of lavender and rain, of everything he’d thought belonged to another world.

He withdrew his hand almost instantly, as if he’d touched something holy. “Forgive me.”

“For what?”

“For forgetting what you are.”

You looked at him, really looked, the way his eyes shone with something purer than any vow, the way his hair fell into them when he lowered his head, the quiet storm of devotion in a man who should never have dared to stand this close.

“I’m a woman,” you said softly. “A woman who is tired of being a queen.”

He shook his head, stepping back before he lost the strength to. “Don’t say that. You have a crown, a country—”

“And no one to hold my hand when I’m afraid.”

The confession slipped out before you could stop it. For a heartbeat, he forgot to breathe.

You turned toward the window again, eyes on the dark courtyard below. “You think I don’t see how they look at me? The King’s jewel, the smiling lie. But I would trade every piece of gold in this castle for one night of peace.”

He wanted to tell you you’d have it, that he’d steal you away if he had to, but the words died in his throat.

“I’m nothing” he said instead, voice low. “A jester with borrowed clothes. I can’t offer you a kingdom.”

“I never asked for one” you whispered.

The silence that followed was the kind that bends the world.

You turned then, slowly, and for the first time there was no wall between you, no title, no vow, no fear of discovery. Just the truth neither of you could keep buried any longer.

He reached for you again, but stopped an inch from your face, eyes searching yours. “If I do this,” he breathed, “there’s no going back. Say the word, and I’ll leave. I swear it.”

You didn’t speak. You just reached up and took his hand, the same one that trembled when it touched you, and placed it against your cheek.

That was your answer.

His breath hitched. The world seemed to slow, candlelight flickering like a heartbeat between you. His thumb brushed over your skin once, twice, before he leaned in, still hesitating, still giving you the chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

And when his lips finally met yours, it wasn’t desperate, it was gentle, almost reverent, the kind of kiss that feels like a vow whispered into the dark. His hand slid to the side of your neck, the warmth of his palm grounding you to this moment, this miracle you both knew you shouldn’t have.

You breathed him in, smoke, parchment, rain, the scent of someone real in a world built on pretense. He kissed you like he was afraid you might break, or vanish, or wake and tell him this was all a dream.

When you finally drew back, your foreheads rested together, both of you breathing too fast, both of you smiling in disbelief.

“I shouldn’t have” he murmured, eyes still closed.

“I wanted you to.”

He let out a shaky laugh that was half relief, half heartbreak. “Gods, you’ll undo me.”

“Then let me,” you said. “For once, let something be ours.”

The words settled between you like a promise.

Outside, a bell tolled in the distant tower, warning of the coming dawn. The sound broke the spell, but only just.

Dick stepped back, reluctant, his hand lingering in yours until the last possible second. “When they wake, I’ll be gone,” he said. “But if you call for me again—”

“I will” you whispered. “I swear I will”

He hesitated once more, eyes tracing your face as if trying to memorize it, the soft curve of your mouth, the light still clinging to your skin, the strength beneath your sorrow.

Then, with one last stolen glance, he turned and slipped back through the door into the shadows he called home.

~🦁~♡~🦁~♡~🦁~♡~🦁~♡~🦁~♡~🦁~♡~🦁~♡~🦁

Dating famous heartthrobs is not for the weak, you know. Unless they’re demons willing to suck the soul out of anyone who threatens you.

Soooooo… Does this count as yandere? I’m not sure. Where is the line of yandere? I feel like this falls just short of it? Let’s call this… Morally ambiguous. Read with caution.

Also this has been a WIP for a bit, so excuse my double posts today.

Notes: Established Relationship, Post-Movie Timeline AU, GN!Reader (they/them pronouns), 2nd Person POV, Reader doesn’t know they are demons

Warnings: Suggestive Dialogue, Morally Ambiguous!Saja Boys, Mentions of Psychological & Physical Torture, Murder

~🦁~♡~🦁~♡~🦁~♡~🦁~♡~🦁~♡~🦁~♡~🦁~♡~🦁

Your family never wanted you to move to Seoul. Too congested, too far, too dangerous. Well, you wanted what you wanted, and so you did it. Now you’re here, living among the crowds, the busking, the ample job opportunities. Everything is perfect.

“Hey, bitty.”

Correction: everything was perfect. And then you met them.

Summary: don't be in his way when he sees you. [wc 1.1K] [ao3]

Warnings: soulmate au, a smidge of angst, otherwise fluff

Request: @sellyoursoulforagoodname So like. . . soulmate AU with Adult Zuko . . . or perhaps my boy Haymich . . . . perchance? (first time requesting from you so forgive me if I've fucked it lmao, just lmk if I need to edit)

The first words your soulmate ever says to you appear somewhere on your body. For most people, it’s something sweet. Something simple.

Hello.

What’s your name?

I’ve been waiting for you.

Yours?

They showed up like a scar.

“Don’t get in my way.”

—

You remember the day they appeared. Sharp, dark lettering curling along your wrist like it had always belonged there. You were young enough to hope it meant something else—something better.

ok chat so!! i reinstated my clip studio bc while firealpaca is GREAT for simple edits, as soon as i started up using it for full-blown art, there are just some tools that it falls short on. but it's not without its learning curve, considering it's been a while since i've used clip ;;

Summary: you will do whatever it takes to win, even if it means distracting your boyfriend

Warnings: mild cursing, suggestive

Dick Grayson

This session has been intense. Dick wanted to work with you on your combat skills so you weren’t always dependent on your powers. Dick was one of the most skilled fighters you knew, so training with him made you excited. Not only would he make you a better fighter, but you got to see him sweaty and sometimes shirtless. This was your best session yet. You were holding your own and you could tell Dick was starting to not hold back. However, the less restraint Dick showed, the more he was beginning to overpower you and he knew it. A smirk overtook his face when he got you to the ground and was seconds away from pining you. Determined not to lose, you wrapped your legs around Dick’s waist and pulled his body into yours.

“Hi pretty boy,” you smile, voice light and flirtatious. Dick pauses to give you a stunned look if only momentarily. You take the opening and flip the two of you over so you are on top. You press your arm into his neck and dig your knee softly into his crotch making him groan. You smirk in victory and Dick still looks stunned. You stand up, offering Dick your hand to help him.

“Ok, that is so not fair. You know that right?! I would’ve totally pinned you if you didn’t pull that move,” he argues.