#noble!reader

The way Ser Duncan the Tall spoke to his horses—you would've thought Sweetfoot was his wife. Soft and honeyed, deliciously sweet. "Easily startled, they are," he would say, "need a bit of encouragement is all."

Any hint of skittishness and it's "it's alright, darlin'" or "that's my good girl".

And former noble lady/companion!reader is awfully jealous. She's easily startled too. She needs encouragement. She's a good girl.

Dunk doesn't know why his lady pouts whenever he tends to the horses. Why her sweet face goes red and she seems to upset.

Egg tells him one day, "You coo to the horses more oft than to her. It's insulting." Dunk, as thick as ever, responds, "I do not coo. And she is a lady, I cannot address her as I do the horses."

But the next time she startles at a loud sound or pouts about the stale bread, he tries it. His voice lowers and he's murmuring sweetly, "It's alright, darlin'. There, now, you're alright."

And the way she flushes and instantly quits her fussing is unmistakable. She quiets and she's all soft and pliant and his and he'd never stop speaking if she responded like that every time (she will).

♰ At the beginning he would undoubtedly feel embarrassed with himself for staring at you for more seconds than appropriate, but he cannot help feeling captivated by your beauty (of course he has known other women, but there was something about your soft hands and ostentatious jewels that stirred his curiosity).

♰ Before touching you he always runs his hands over the fabric of his trousers in an attempt to clean them, fearful of even causing you discomfort with the calluses that come with forging a sword since childhood.

♰ You will always have a guardian walking behind you, and if any highborn lord approaches to speak to you with courting intentions, he will immediately move to your side with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

♰ He definitely has the habit of telling you the first thing that comes to his mind, even if he later regrets his lack of discretion (you will find it adorable, though!).

Summary: In the land of Avengard, House Romanoff's future hinges on the three sisters: Natasha, Yelena, and you. Their paths intertwine with power, heritage, and alliances. A tale of familial duty and the complexities of the kingdom's fate.

Warning: Mentions of forced marriage. Swords/Blades.

Word Count: 743

Spotify Playlist | Pinterest Board | Support: Ko-FI

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

A/N: I'm in my GOT/HOTD era again. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as it is mine. - B

winters widow: Let me know if you want to be tagged specifically for this series.

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick

Lose” may refer to either a grievous injury or simply a possible breakup, the choice is yours.

Hello hello, i am feeling good, thank You for asking, how are You feeling sweet thing?

Your idea is amazing and i hope i did it justice, and that You like it!

Please enjoy!

--------------------------------------------------------------

No one ever saw you feel.

Not the students who whispered in awe and fear as you passed with your unflinching gaze. Not the teachers who noted your silence and precision in everything you did. Not even the Pureblood Club, who had long theorized you might be a statue someone enchanted with sentience.

You were quiet. Cold. Impossibly composed.

Except with Angelico Fra.

Even then, it was in shadows. Private corners. Hidden glances. A brush of fingers when no one was watching, a murmur against his throat when night wrapped you both in secrecy. He understood the boundaries, never pushed. He liked the way you broke apart just for him.

Which is why the sight of you running—truly running—through the marble halls of the Clan Mansion with eyes wide and frantic, nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.

He had barely stepped past the medical wing’s threshold. A shallow wound from a cursed blade. Nothing fatal. Inconvenient at worst. But word had traveled fast, and somehow, you’d believed the worst.

You spotted him and stopped.

Then, with that same terrifying composure, you walked. Slow, measured steps. But your hands trembled.

“Hey—” Angelico’s voice was rough with exhaustion and surprise.

And then you collapsed into him.

There was no grace in it—just desperation, your arms wrapping around his torso so tightly it hurt. Your face buried in his chest. And then, without warning, your cold, perfect mask shattered into raw sobs.

It silenced the corridor.

Hoyle, Murrow, even Fred had been mid-conversation nearby. Every Pureblood Club member froze. Teachers paused. One student dropped their book.

Angelico stiffened for only a breath.

Then his arms folded around you immediately, protectively, like instinct. His hand came to the back of your head, and his voice softened in a way no one had heard before.

“I’m here,” he murmured. “Hey—shhh, I’m okay.”

You didn’t answer. You just held him.

Pressed into him like you could anchor your soul there. You trembled, breath hitching, and he realized that nothing about this moment aligned with the you he thought he knew—and yet, somehow, it felt exactly right.

It was as if your heart had decided the rules no longer mattered.

When your sobs quieted into quiet tears against his shirt, Angelico pulled you aside, into a darker alcove, shielding you from the stares. His thumb brushed your cheek, wiping away what he could.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I thought—when they said you’d gone down—”

“I didn’t,” he promised. “I wouldn’t. I told you. I’m too annoying to die.”

That made you let out a wet, broken laugh against him, and he kissed the crown of your head, still holding you like you were something sacred.

But the aftermath was almost stranger.

Because from that day forward… you changed.

Gone were the walls, at least around him. You started to link your arm with his in hallways. Let your fingers rest against his shoulder in meetings. Sat beside him without the usual three inches of calculated space. You even—gasp—laughed in public when he teased you.

And every time someone stared, baffled, you simply looked back, unbothered, as if daring them to say something.

The Pureblood Club had theories. Many.

“Has she been possessed?” Murrow whispered.

“No,” Hoyle said grimly. “Worse. She’s in love.”

Angelico, of course, basked in it.

He kept his arm around your shoulders at all times now. Called you “my cold little tempest” with a pleased purr when you rolled your eyes and leaned into him anyway.

And sometimes, when you passed by the hall where it had happened, your grip on his hand would tighten just a little.

And he would squeeze back.

Because he remembered that moment too.

Not the shock, not the tears—but the way you had broken, completely, utterly, for him.

And he would spend forever proving to you that he was worth every fractured piece.

.

.

.

The quiet had settled in long ago. The kind of hush that only comes when the world is asleep, or when two people choose stillness over words.

You lay against him, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath his skin. His arm was curled around you, fingertips tracing absent shapes along your spine. You could feel it—his thoughts, churning quietly, always buried deep behind that smirk and polished charm.

But tonight, there was no teasing in his voice. No performance.

Only truth.

“You know…” he murmured, voice low and oddly vulnerable, “I always thought… if someone ever saw me like that—wounded, weak—it’d be my father. Or Raphael. Or maybe Hoyle, by accident.”

His fingers paused against your back.

“But it was you. You were the first.”

You didn’t move, but your breath caught.

“I didn’t think you’d cry for me,” he admitted. “I didn’t think… anyone would.”

You slowly lifted your head, propping yourself on his chest. His green eyes didn’t meet yours right away, as if afraid of how soft he’d become under your touch.

“I grew up learning how to wear masks,” he went on, quieter now. “Not just for my father. For the world. For everyone. You love me, you love the mask. That’s how it usually goes.”

Your hands cupped his face gently, coaxing him to look at you. When he finally did, you leaned in, resting your forehead against his.

“I don’t love your mask,” you whispered. “I love you. The one underneath. The one who talks too much when he’s tired, who pretends to be annoyed when I hold him too long, but secretly melts into it.”

A breath of a laugh escaped him.

“You're not supposed to figure that out.”

“And you’re not supposed to carry everything alone.”

He closed his eyes, forehead still pressed to yours, like the weight of your words had cracked something inside him.

“I’m not good at this,” he whispered. “Being cared for.”

“Then I’ll show you,” you promised softly. “Every day. No matter who’s watching. I don’t care if the world stares, Angelico. I’m not going to hide how much I love you.”

There it was again—silence.

But not the hollow kind. This was a fullness. A promise. A shared breath between hearts no longer hiding.

He pulled you into him again, tighter than before. His voice brushed against your ear, tender and just a little raw.

“Then I guess I’ll have to get used to it,” he murmured. “Because I’m not letting you go. Not after that.”

And that night, beneath flickering candlelight and silent stars outside the window, Angelico Fra—the pureblood noble, the golden heir with sharp eyes and sharper wit—let himself be vulnerable in the arms of the one person he could finally trust with his truth.

You.

.

.

.

Extra :

Angelico stood like a statue beside his father, arms behind his back, the perfect portrait of nobility. His posture was rigid, jaw set, the slight downturn of his lips the only visible crack in his polished, carefully constructed mask.

Gerhard Fra, seated beside him, had been droning in that calm, low tone of his about Clan politics, minor border disputes, and noble expectations. Angelico nodded at the right moments, gave the expected “Yes, Father,” and hadn’t blinked once in ten minutes.

Then you walked in.

The hall was quiet — too quiet — and the sound of your heels echoed, soft and deliberate. You wore something new, a dress tailored for both grace and danger. It didn't neceserly clung in all the right places, It was Simply You, Something usual, that looked beautiful, because You were wearing It.

Angelico’s breath hitched. Barely noticeable.

Except Gerhard noticed.

He didn't even try to recover. Not when his father subtly glared at him

The perfect son, the heir, the gilded vampire prince turned to putty before your very eyes. His shoulders lowered, tension melting. That practiced indifference in his expression shattered like glass.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he breathed, almost reverently.

Gerhard blinked.

Then Angelico crossed the room in three long strides, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you in flush against him. He buried his face against your neck, his voice lowering to a velvet murmur.

“Do you have any idea what that dress is doing to me, angel mio? I’m about to make a scene that will put shame to Clan diplomacy—”

You laughed softly, hand resting on his chest. “And what would your father say?”

“I don’t care,” he said, loud enough for the entire hall to hear. “He can close his eyes.”

Gerhard Fra, still seated at the table, blinked again, slowly.

Then he sighed.

“...I see now why you’ve been useless in meetings lately.”

Angelico didn’t even look up. “Busy,” he said into your shoulder, trailing kisses up your neck.

“Clearly,” Gerhard muttered, rubbing his temples.

“Distracted,” Angelico added smugly, kissing your cheek now, hands absolutely not where they should be in a formal hall.

You smiled sweetly at Gerhard. “Sorry, Lord Fra.”

Gerhard gave a long-suffering sigh, stood up, and left without another word, muttering under his breath:

“I trained a strategist, not a slave to silk and perfume…”

Imagine Shanks sneaking into a masquerade ball of the nobles to meet you.

He had to see you again, one glance from the distance was enough to make him crazy for you. At least according to Ben, Shanks would say he was just curious.

There's nothing wrong with being fascinated by a beautiful person, or crashing a party uninvited, or stealing some stuff while they are there...

You ride through the town feeling weary, this last political outing had been more than tiresome and you were ready to be back at the manor and curled up in your own bed. So when carriage lurched to a stop you already felt a groan leaving your lips before you heard the commotion. There was yelling and you could hear your own guards shouting.

Curiosity had always been your weakness.

You lean to look from the carriage window and see a giant of a man being beat in the street. Your own guards are trying to clear the path so that you might safely reach your manor but another man with a switch seems enraged and unwilling to move.

The man you could only describe as a giant is on his knees, his arms up, trying to cover his head from potential blows.

The scene causes anger to bubble into your chest and despite your handmaiden's warning you step from the carriage with your head held high and a tight expression.

"What is the meaning of all this?"

The man with the switch stops arguing seeing you and ducks his head. "Just putting some things to rights my lady, I apologize for causing you delay."

"And what exactly are you putting into right?" Your gaze lingers over the man on his knees.

"My purchased help is anything but. He has broken many of the projects I've had him handle. He does not learn, a beating is the only language he knows, the only one we have in common."

"So you intend to mistreat your help in public?"

"He ran my lady. I used good money to purchase help and I won't let him just leave and waste that."

Anger festered. Lashing a man in the street was something you wouldn't stand for.

"And you would behave this way in public, in my town?"

His eyes widened. "My lady I swear to you I'm only doing what is necessary. He can't listen and when I'm lax he feels he can do as he wants."

"I have been gone from this town for to long then. I didn't realise the rules of decency were changed in my absence. Because here you are doing as you wish while my attention was lax. Should I treat you as you have treated him?" You gesture to the man.

The certifiable giant had slowly stood to his feet while this exchange was taking place. He seemed uncomfortable not just from the lashing but also from the attention of everyone around the square.

The man dropped his switch as he stammered. "I am allowed to oversee my property as I see fit."

"And I am allowed to oversee my town and it's citizens as I see fit. You said you purchased this man?"

He stammered more before telling you yes.

"How much?"

"What does..."

You cut him off. "How much? I intend to take him off your hands, since you are unable to control him and he is unhelpful to you. So how much? I will purchase him for the same amount you originally paid."

Your tone and expression leave no negotiation and you leave a guard to settle up with the man. You step towards the hurt man and gently tuck his arm in yours. He looks down at you with suspension, his slightly wavy locks stick to his forehead. You tug him towards your carriage and wave off the concern your guards give at your actions.

"Come we'll get you cleaned up and taken care of."

He mutters something in a language you don't know.

"Ah. I see." You speak to him with a soft voice as you coax him into the carriage behind you, propriety be scorned.

Your handmaiden eyes you and chastises your recklessness. But you ignore her and continue to speak assurances to the man that has to hunch awkwardly to fit in the seat across from you both. Even if he can't understand your words hopefully he can understand your tone.

When the man seems less unsure you try to learn his name. You point to yourself and say your name and then point to Lucy, your handmaiden and say her name. You repeat this a few times and then gesture to him.

He seems to understand what you want and simply says, "König."

Like reader is just this proficiency marksman with a boyish humor, who is just as much as little sh** as the rest of the group, you'd never think they were royalty. However, when their partner is threatened to be arrested or something, with few peaceful alternatives, they use their title.

This feels like Trevor Belmont energy and I love it 😍 😆

Vex’ahlia

Well you’re more fun than Percy, that’s for sure! But she does appreciate you “pulling rank” to get her out of a snag, and also gives you a bit of grief about being short on gold when it was needed.

Vax’ildan

Surprised like his sister, but does appreciate the fact that you didn’t throw your title around like that. It’s a refreshing personality, aside from the bond he has with Percy, and you’ve done more than enough to make him smile.

Grog

A smug type of surprised. Goes on a whole “why didn’t you tell me you were fancy like that?”. He’s proud to have a significant other like yourself!

Pike

Well, better to have friends everywhere, but she does get more curious about you. Wants to learn more about you, and maybe entice a shopping trip

Keyleth

Does get a kick out of the fact that you’re similar to Percy in a way, laughing about how others took to remembering you, but also wants to know about your family and history.

Scanlan

A kinship with someone who understands him! Puffs out his chest and proudly states that he knows friends in high places so everyone listen to him.

Percy