Infatuation (King George III xreader)

~11~ Kidnapped by a king

But he did. And I was certain his kind gesture helped in many ways.

Was I wrong to have not thanked him — a returned gesture I forgot to give, not out of malice or spite, but simply because it had slipped my jumbled mind at the time.

Yes. Yes, I should've thanked him - even if it was partly for my own selfish want to have gotten one last glance at those breathtaking eyes.
Eyes that not even dreams could make half as perfect.

I wasn't even sure why I found his gaze so fascinating - but every hue and darker line held an intriguing story of a life I would only ever hear about.

A life of seen responsibilities - actions watched by thousands of souls and critiqued by differing opinions.

A life of lavish detail - glamorous at first glance - held together appearances and choices that still, at the end of the day, wouldn't please everyone.

A life of high social standing, influence to those under the care of your rule - of non-stop rumors whispered about every little thing you do and your day down to whether or not you wore something differently or talked to someone for longer than normal despite rational explanations if they simply just asked.

It all sent mixed feelings through my mind.

'A life of waking up to those entrancing blue irises everyday—'

I force my gaze to my skirt - my frame stopping just like the scandalous thoughts trying to enter my head.

I couldn't daydream about things like that.
It wasn't my place in life.

My hand grazes my dress skirt - running over every small detail embroidered into it, and despite my knowing that there wasn't a high chance of ever wearing it again — unless I found the stranger behind it, I still appreciated the time and effort that went into it.
I found myself admiring the fabric, the way it shifted and danced with the most subtle of movements from my body.

Maybe I'd wear it someday - for a wedding or some other high end event.
But until then, I had a perfectly good Sunday dress back in my closet.

I sigh, picking up my pace back to a calm walk, focusing my gaze on the empty road ahead — a soft clicking sounding distant to the street around me.

My place was here, in my simple town - in my simple routine of shy smiles, walks alone in the early mornings and late nights; of calm familial moments, bustling streets of hardworking neighbors, and the gratitude of seeing faces light up at even the smallest of kind gestures.

My place was here.

And I was more than grateful for it. More than happy to keep it that way.

Another sound of shifting fabric catches my attention - registering in my mind and I lift my head a little higher —

The rag was damp, cold - pressed against my mouth before I could even think of screaming.
The only time I had was to inhale a sharp gasp of surprise, my eyes closing tightly and within less than a second my frame was pressed against the warm chest of someone behind me - the figure's arm having wrapped around my waist and keeping me close.

Panic set in instantly, fear lacing my features and my hands tug at the larger one covering my mouth.
Yet his hand didn't budge, his calm strength unmatched by my pitiful struggles and he easily kept my upper body pinned in place while his frame just as easily dragged me out of the street - and towards the shadow coated alley nearby.

My screams were muffled by the cold rag that cut off the fresh air my lungs now desperately craved, replacing it with both a strong, yet almost nonexistent smell that made me want to gag as it tingled the nerves in my mind.