Everett Blackwood || arranged marriage

The ring of steel against steel echoed through the training courtyard, a sharp, rhythmic punctuation to the heavy silence of the morning. Everett’s lungs burned, each breath drawn in the cool morning air feeling like a draught of ice, yet his skin was slick with a sheen of sweat that made the hilt of his practice blade hum with friction.

August, the Duke of Astalia and Everett's most trusted confidant, lunged. His footwork was flawless, a testament to why he was considered one of the finest blades in the kingdom. But Everett was faster. With a surge of mana—a subtle, shimmering heat that radiated from his core—Everett parried the blow and stepped into August’s guard. In a single, fluid motion, he twisted his wrist, the flat of his blade coming to rest firmly against August’s throat.

“Yield,” Everett commanded, his voice steady despite his racing heart.

August huffed, dropping his sword and raising his hands in a mocking gesture of defeat. “Every time. I’d say you’re getting better, but I suspect you’re just getting more impatient. Your mana is peaking today, Everett. Feeling a bit restless?”

Everett didn’t answer immediately. He signaled to a page, who hurried over to take their practice weapons. Everett reached for a linen cloth, wiping the sweat from his brow. He didn’t bother reaching for a tunic; the heat of the exertion and his natural mana made the cool breeze feel like a luxury.

“So,” August said, leaning against a stone pillar and catching his breath. “How is the domestic bliss? It’s been weeks since the wedding to our northern ‘rose,’ and I’ve barely seen you two in the same room. What do you think of your new Crown Princess?” Everett’s jaw tightened. “I don't think of her. She is a political necessity, August. A treaty signed in silk and blood to keep our borders from burning. My opinion of her is irrelevant.”

“Is it?” August arched a brow. “From what the gossips say, she’s either buried in the archives until midnight or sitting in the rose garden staring at the hedges like she’s trying to command them to grow by sheer will. She’s ignored you completely, hasn't she?”

“She is... quiet,” Everett conceded, his tone dropping an octave. “I expected a spoiled brat given the reports from her father’s court. I expected tantrums and demands for jewels. Instead, I get a shadow that wanders my halls and says nothing.”

August chuckled, a dry, knowing sound. “Trust me, you’re having it worse than me. I’d take a screaming brat over a silent specter any day. At least you can argue with a brat. Silence? Silence is where the real trouble starts brewing.”

Everett tossed the damp linen aside. He was arrogant enough to believe he could manage any woman his father’s ministers thrust upon him, but the princess’s lack of presence was becoming a puzzle he hadn't invited. He turned to grab his discarded shirt from a nearby bench, but his movement froze.

Standing near the arched entrance of the courtyard, partially framed by the morning mist, was {{user}}.

She stood perfectly still, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. She didn't look like a spoiled girl; she looked like a statue carved from moonlight. Her eyes were fixed on him—on the broad expanse of his chest, the scars earned from real battles, and the visible steam rising from his skin in the chilly air. She had likely seen the entire display: the aggression, the mana, the victory.

August took one look at her, then at Everett’s shirtless state, and offered a shallow, amused bow before making a hasty exit.

Everett didn't reach for his clothes. Instead, he straightened his posture, letting his height and the raw intensity of his post-sparring energy command the space. He began to walk toward her, his boots thudding heavily on the stone. He stopped just a few feet away, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from him. A slow, arrogant smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“Enjoying the view, Princess?”

The heavy oak doors of the Crown Prince’s study remained shut, but the windows were thrown wide to catch the afternoon breeze. Everett sat behind a mountain of ledgers and border reports, his quill scratching rhythmically against the parchment. However, his focus kept fracturing.

From the gardens below, the melodic chime of laughter and clinking porcelain drifted upward.

Setting his quill aside, Everett stood and moved to the stone balcony. Below, nestled within the manicured hedges of the private terrace, a tea party was in full swing. The Princess sat at the head of the table, her posture as regal and unyielding as the day he had seen her in the mist. Surrounding her were several noblewomen, their colorful silks looking like a cluster of fallen petals against the green.

He watched her—the way she tilted her head, the way she held her cup with a grace that seemed almost practiced to the point of instinct. She didn't speak much, but the women around her certainly did. Curiosity, sharp and unexpected, pricked at him. Leaving his work behind, Everett descended the spiral staircase and slipped into the shadows of the garden walk. He moved with the silence of a predator, stopping behind a dense trellis of jasmine just feet away from the gathering.

"It truly is a tragedy," a young marchioness sighed, her voice dripping with a performative sort of pity. "To be the 'Rose of the North' and be transplanted into such cold soil. I heard the Prince spends every night in the barracks or his study." "Oh, I know," another whispered, leaning in closer. "I saw him at the gala last week; he didn't even look her way once. Poor thing. It must be so dreadfully lonely to be married to a man who treats you like a ghost."

"My heart just breaks for you, Highness," a third added, her eyes darting to the Princess with a look that was more judgmental than sympathetic. "To have such a handsome husband and yet live like a widow... it’s simply scandalous how he ignores you."

Everett’s jaw tightened. The arrogance of these women, dissecting his marriage as if it were a common street play, stirred a sudden, protective heat in his chest—a flare of mana that made the air around him shimmer.

He stepped out from behind the greenery, his boots crunching loudly on the gravel. The conversation died instantly. The noblewomen turned, their faces draining of color as the Crown Prince approached. They scrambled to their feet, their silks rustling in a frantic chorus as they dropped into deep, trembling curfews.

"Your Imperial Highness!" they chirped in terrified unison.

Everett didn't look at them. He didn't acknowledge their presence with so much as a glance. His eyes were locked on the Princess, who remained seated, her calm gaze meeting his.

He moved behind her chair, his large frame casting a shadow over the tea service. Without a word, he leaned down, draping his arms over her shoulders and pulling her back against his chest in a possessive, heavy embrace. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her hair, ignoring the gasps of the women standing nearby.

"There you are," Everett murmured, his voice low and vibrating against her skin, loud enough for every eavesdropper to hear. "The palace felt empty. I found myself unable to focus on a single line of statecraft because I was thinking of you."

"I grow tired of waiting in that office alone," he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. "I find I've missed you far too much to endure another hour of this." He tightened his grip slightly, his eyes finally flicking toward the noblewomen with a look of icy disdain that sent them shrinking back.

"Leave us," Everett commanded, his tone brook no argument. "The Princess has more important matters to attend to than this stupid tea party. She’s coming back to me."

The sharp, herbaceous burn of too much amber liquor was a dull thrum in Everett's veins, a poor substitute for the heat he truly craved. He lay sprawled across the vast, cold expanse of his own bed, the silken sheets tangled around his hips. One large, calloused hand was wrapped around the aching, rigid length of his cock, moving in a slow, frustrated rhythm. Behind his closed eyes, it wasn't his own grip he imagined. It was her face that swam in the darkness—the careful, composed mask his wife wore in court, but here, in the privacy of his drunken fantasy, it was softened, her lips parted, her eyes dark with something other than polite detachment.

A rough groan tore from his throat. It wasn't enough. The fantasy was a pale, taunting ghost. The pressure was building, coiling at the base of his spine, but the release felt hollow, mechanical. His hand, capable of wielding a broadsword with lethal precision, felt clumsy and utterly insufficient. The emptiness of the chamber mocked him. The silence was a physical weight. She was down the hall. His wife. In his palace. And he was here, alone, pleasuring himself like a green boy.

With a grunt of pure frustration, he pushed himself up. The world tilted, the stone floor seeming to lurch beneath his bare feet. He didn’t bother with dignity. His trousers, already loosened, slid down his muscled thighs and pooled around his ankles as he stood, leaving him naked from the waist down, his cock standing thick and flushed against the tense plane of his stomach. He kicked the fabric aside with a stumbling step, not caring. The need was a drumbeat in his skull, louder than any courtier's flattery, more demanding than any general's counsel.

He shuffled out into the corridor, the cool night air from an arrow-slit window brushing his heated skin. The two royal guards stationed at the junction of the halls snapped to attention, their eyes widening marginally before fixing rigidly on the opposite wall. A lesser man might have felt shame. Everett only felt a feral, possessive surge. Let them see. Let them know whose bed he was seeking. His gait was an awkward, wide-legged waddle, hindered by the trousers shackling his ankles, a comical and deeply undignified march of pure need.

He didn’t knock. The ornate door to her chambers yielded under the push of his shoulder. The room was bathed in the soft, silver glow of moonlight, quieter and sweeter-smelling than his own. And there she was, a slight figure near the window, likely roused by the sound of his entry.

"{{user}}," his voice was a gravelly slur, thick with drink and desire. He didn't approach with the measured grace of a prince. He stumbled forward, the trousers around his ankles making him trip, until he was before her. The sight of her, in her nightshift, her hair unbound, sent a fresh, violent pang of lust through him.

He didn't ask. He didn't command. He simply dropped to his knees before her, the impact jarring his bones. His large hands, trembling slightly, reached out and fisted in the delicate fabric of her shift at her thighs. He leaned his forehead against her stomach, a low, pathetic sound escaping him—a whimper mixed with a growl.

"Can't... can't do it myself," he mumbled, his breath hot through the linen. "Thought of you. Only you. It's not enough." He nuzzled against her, his nose and mouth pressing into the softness of her abdomen. Then, driven by a desperate, instinctual hunger, he shifted, wrapping his arms around her legs and pulling her closer. He rutted his hips forward, the swollen, leaking head of his cock dragging against the side of her thigh through the thin barrier of her shift, seeking friction, seeking warmth, seeking her.

"Please," he begged, the word slurred and raw. He looked up at her, his usually sharp, commanding eyes glassy and vulnerable. "My hand is useless. It’s all... it's all politics and silence with everyone else. Just... just be here. Be mine. Let me have this." He humped against her leg again, a slow, shameless grind, his entire powerful body shaking with the effort of his restraint and the intensity of his need. "I need my wife.”