#I promise I will post something historical

[suriantei]

I have question, if u could have make a non-canon friendships in Hamilton what friendships would it be? Like: Peggy and Maria

gasp omg- ok

this is completely based on musical fandom and modern au fanfics but-

Laurens & Eliza- I want them to have tea time and talk about birds and art and politics and life and Alexander and everything because I am totally normal about this duo

Lafayette & Jefferson- Idk but hear me out, Daveed’s personality in both performances on stage would form a sassy , French/Southern power duo

Hercules & Peggy- Yes, this is based off of the scene where Mulligan was the best flower girl ™️, no I don’t apologize. Tho, I see their relationship as more of a sibling kind of bond

James Madison & Eliza- just platonic book club buddies, idk why. I like to think they were both eyeing Alexander in concern when he was writing the other 51 lol

Burr/Theodosia & Eliza- same kind of thing as above but less professional?? does that make sense? I imagine Eliza having tea with Theodosia and then gradually becoming friends with Burr over time, (before the duel ofc)

Jefferson & Angelica- This one was true in real life! Angelica and Jefferson were actually friends, contrary to the depiction in ‘The Schuyler Sisters’. Jefferson was also the person who introduced Angelica to Maria Cosway, Angelica’s lesbian lover 💛 (look it up, it’s true!)

Mulligan & Madison- Hercules drinks and is absolutlely wasted at parties while James drags his drunk ass home. I’m a sucker for unlikely friendships and it’s literally giving extrovert x introvert (platonic)

Laurens & Angelica- Not only just because they both loved Hamilton, but because they both have basically the same views and fiery personalities

Laurens & Hercules Mulligan - Laurens needs a father figure in the musical, need I say more. Mulligan would probably be trying to stop Laurens from jumping on tables or starting random duels/ bar fights 24/7 while Lafayette eggs him on

that’s all for now lol, I could totally see all of these working in modern aus!! uh yea, hope my excited rambles weren’t too much :D

[coridallasmultipass]

I hate when my phone won't let me have 2 audio sources running at the same time (depending on the app). I know what I'm doing, let me hear the discordant noises. My brain has built-in audio separation for music. It came as compensation for auditory processing issues. Don't make me pause the music.

[coridallasmultipass]

If it's okay for me to add something related because I first saw this on Tumblr: In the mid-2010s, I heard about there being a gay Filipino deity romance (from one culture in the Philippines - there are many different cultures and beliefs) here on Tumblr. It wasn't until years later when researching Philippine deities for fun while trying to broadly connect with my culture that I found a deep dive where someone found that the Bulan and Sidapa love story originated from the same fictional blog source, and had been circulating from new sources and fan art claiming it was historical for years before the author tried to find a non-modern historical source for the rumour, creating a kind of Berenstain/Berenstein effect on the people he asked, claiming they'd heard about the love story from a forgotten source much earlier than the 2010s, but unable to give a specific name, or the source cited claimed they didn't actually know about the romance.

While I think in this instance, a shift in narrative is obviously okay when you consider it is still a living Filipino culture, and people from that clearly find identity with this modern take (which should be asked of people from the cultures directly affected by misinfo), it should also be important not to rewrite it as 'historical fact' particularly when it has a fictional modern source that someone can directly point to as the origin when they question and search down the telephone line (like the game).

(I use the word 'fictional' only in reference to the originating blog, because the blog was unable or unwilling to provide any sources that mentioned that relationship to the deep dive author. I'm not implying said gods can't be/aren't gay. I'm not from that specific Philippine culture, and I don't have enough background knowledge to make any claims of my own. There's also no like, singular religious text/'bible' that pre-Hispanic Philippine beliefs followed as a rule/that can be consulted about this - it's not like a translation debate. There's just no textual source pre-dating the blog making the claim of the romance, and historians/oral historians aren't making the claim either.)

I get variations on this comment on my post about history misinformation all the time: "why does it matter?" Why does it matter that people believe falsehoods about history? Why does it matter if people spread history misinformation? Why does it matter if people on tumblr believe that those bronze dodecahedra were used for knitting, or that Persephone had a daughter named Mespyrian? It's not the kind of misinformation that actually hurts people, like anti-vaxx propaganda or climate change denial. It doesn't hurt anyone to believe something false about the past.

Which, one, thanks for letting me know on my post that you think my job doesn't matter and what I do is pointless, if it doesn't really matter if we know the truth or make up lies about history because lies don't hurt anyone. But two, there are lots of reasons that it matters.

It encourages us to distrust historians when they talk about other aspects of history. You might think it's harmless to believe that Pharaoh Hatshepsut was trans. It's less harmless when you're espousing that the Holocaust wasn't really about Jews because the Nazis "came for trans people first." You might think it's harmless to believe that the French royalty of Versailles pooped and urinated on the floor of the palace all the time, because they were asshole rich people anyway, who cares, we hate the rich here; it's rather less harmless when you decide that the USSR was the communist ideal and Good, Actually, and that reports of its genocidal oppression are actually lies.

It encourages anti-intellectualism in other areas of scholarship. Deciding based on your own gut that the experts don't know what they're talking about and are either too stupid to realize the truth, or maliciously hiding the truth, is how you get to anti-vaxxers and climate change denial. It is also how you come to discount housing-first solutions for homelessness or the idea that long-term sustained weight loss is both biologically unlikely and health-wise unnecessary for the majority of fat people - because they conflict with what you feel should be true. Believing what you want to be true about history, because you want to believe it, and discounting fact-based corrections because you don't want them to be true, can then bleed over into how you approach other sociological and scientific topics.

How we think about history informs how we think about the present. A lot of people want certain things to be true - this famous person from history was gay or trans, this sexist story was actually feminist in its origin - because we want proof that gay people, trans people, and women deserve to be respected, and this gives evidence to prove we once were and deserve to be. But let me tell you a different story: on Thanksgiving of 2016, I was at a family friend's house and listening to their drunk conservative relative rant, and he told me, confidently, that the Roman Empire fell because they instituted universal healthcare, which was proof that Obama was destroying America. Of course that's nonsense. But projecting what we think is true about the world back onto history, and then using that as recursive proof that that is how the world is... is shoddy scholarship, and gets used for topics you don't agree with just as much as the ones you do. We should not be encouraging this, because our politics should be informed by the truth and material reality, not how we wish the past proved us right.

It frequently reinforces "Good vs. Bad" dichotomies that are at best unhelpful and at worst victim-blaming. A very common thread of historical misinformation on tumblr is about the innocence or benevolence of oppressed groups, slandered by oppressors who were far worse. This very frequently has truth to it - but makes the lies hard to separate out. It often simplifies the narrative, and implies that the reason that colonialism and oppression were bad was because the victims were Good and didn't deserve it... not because colonialism and oppression are bad. You see this sometimes with radical feminist mother goddess Neolithic feminist utopia stuff, but you also see it a lot regarding Native American and African history. I have seen people earnestly argue that Aztecs did not practice human sacrifice, that that was a lie made up by the Spanish to slander them. That is not true. Human sacrifice was part of Aztec, Maya, and many Central American war/religious practices. They are significantly more complex than often presented, and came from a captive-based system of warfare that significantly reduced the number of people who got killed in war compared to European styles of war that primarily killed people on the battlefield rather than taking them captive for sacrifice... but the human sacrifice was real and did happen. This can often come off with the implications of a 'noble savage' or an 'innocent victim' that implies that the bad things the Spanish conquistadors did were bad because the victims were innocent or good. This is a very easy trap to fall into; if the victims were good, they didn't deserve it. Right? This logic is dangerous when you are presented with a person or group who did something bad... you're caught in a bind. Did they deserve their injustice or oppression because they did something bad? This kind of logic drives a lot of transphobia, homophobia, racism, and defenses of Kyle Rittenhouse today. The answer to a colonialist logic of "The Aztecs deserved to be conquered because they did human sacrifice and that's bad" is not "The Aztecs didn't do human sacrifice actually, that's just Spanish propaganda" (which is a lie) it should be "We Americans do human sacrifice all the god damn time with our forever wars in the Middle East, we just don't call it that. We use bullets and bombs rather than obsidian knives but we kill way, way more people in the name of our country. What does that make us? Maybe genocide is not okay regardless of if you think the people are weird and scary." It becomes hard to square your ethics of the Innocent Victim and Lying Perpetrator when you see real, complicated, individual-level and group-level interactions, where no group is made up of members who are all completely pure and good, and they don't deserve to be oppressed anyway.

It makes you an unwitting tool of the oppressor. The favorite, favorite allegation transphobes level at trans people, and conservatives at queer people, is that we're lying to push the Gay Agenda. We're liars or deluded fools. If you say something about queer or trans history that's easy to debunk as false, you have permanently hurt your credibility - and the cause of queer history. It makes you easy to write off as a liar or a deluded fool who needs misinformation to make your case. If you say Louisa May Alcott was trans, that's easy to counter with "there is literally no evidence of that, and lots of evidence that she was fine being a woman," and instantly tanks your credibility going forward, so when you then say James Barry was trans and push back against a novel or biopic that treats James Barry as a woman, you get "you don't know what you're talking about, didn't you say Louisa May Alcott was trans too?" TERFs love to call trans people liars - do not hand them ammunition, not even a single bullet. Make sure you can back up what you say with facts and evidence. This is true of homophobes, of racists, of sexists. Be confident of your facts, and have facts to give to the hopeful and questioning learners who you are relating this story to, or the bigots who you are telling off, because misinformation can only hurt you and your cause.

It makes the queer, female, POC, or other marginalized listeners hurt, sad, and betrayed when something they thought was a reflection of their own experiences turns out not to be real. This is a good response to a performance art piece purporting to tell a real story of gay WWI soldiers, until the author revealed it as fiction. Why would you want to set yourself up for disappointment like that? Why would you want to risk inflicting that disappointment and betrayal on anyone else?

It makes it harder to learn the actual truth.

Historical misinformation has consequences, and those consequences are best avoided - by checking your facts, citing your sources, and taking the time and effort to make sure you are actually telling the truth.

[hederasgarden]

Finis

Summary: Lucius comes for you (this is a follow up to Post tenebras lux and Ab Initio) Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 7.8 K (WHOOPS SORRY) Rating:  Explicit, 18+ only. Angst with a HEA, sex (PIV and f receiving), mentions of spousal death/grief and other untagged themes (please message me if you’d like to know what these are). A/N: A HUGE thanks to @aliensupastar and @ryebecca for their help with the fic. Becca also made the beautiful banner as well! This is full of historical inaccuracies and I’m using both Roman and Greek mythology interchangeably.  Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Gladiator Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

Anxiety pulses beneath your skin as you lie in the dark, Lucius’s body pressed close against yours. His steady, warm breath brushes the back of your neck, but you know he's just as awake as you are. Neither of you can sleep. It’s a cruel kind of torture, pretending that nothing has changed, and that you’ll still be together when the morning light spills into the cell.

You don’t know how much time you have before they come for you. It could be hours. It could be minutes. You wish you could take Lucius inside you just once more, to have him fill every part of you with his love, his devotion. You sigh and he says your name softly, urging you to face him. The ache in your chest only intensifies when you turn and meet his eyes. No words are spoken — how could there be any that would make this easier? What could you say that would make the pain of this goodbye more bearable?

You close your eyes and breathe out. Somewhere a guard’s laughter echoes faintly, while from another cell, the deep, steady snoring of a gladiator fills the silence. Then you hear it. A sound, small but sharp: the faint jingling of keys. The scrape of metal against metal. 

It’s time.

Lucius pulls you to your feet with a quiet urgency, his hands steady as he drapes the cloak over your shoulders and fastens the clasp at your throat. His touch lingers there before he dips his head to kiss you, gentle and tender. It carries the weight of something else, something final. You can’t bear the thought of it. With a sudden surge of emotion, you rise onto your toes and throw your arms around his shoulders, kissing him with a desperation that feels like a vow. It’s a promise that no matter what happens, you will find your way back to each other.

"Have faith," he whispers once you pull away, his forehead against yours. "I will see you again soon."

You swallow, the words heavy in your throat. "I have no faith left in the gods," you confess. Your lips tremble with the weight of your blasphemy. It feels like a sin, but it's the truth.

"Then have faith in me," he returns, his voice soft but unwavering. He holds your cheek in his scarred hand and your lashes flutter. "As long as there is breath in my body, I will return to you."

 "Lucius…" Your voice cracks, and before you can stop it, tears slip down your cheeks.

He grasps your neck, pulling you close and guiding your cheek until it rests against his chest. The steady beat of his heart is a rhythmic comfort, so different from the frantic pounding of your own. He holds you like this moment can somehow protect you from what’s to come, and you stay like that until Ravi says your name in a low, urgent tone. 

"Please, we must hurry." 

You look up at Lucius one last time, desperate to memorize every line of his face, but time is slipping away, and you know there’s no more time to hold on. You step away, your heart heavy, and take Ravi’s hand. 

The cool, solid grip of his fingers anchors you as you move down the dark hallway. Silence stretches out around you like a shroud. Despite your spurning of the gods, your mind drifts to Persephone, trapped in a fate not of her making. The thought lingers, haunting you, as you walk further into the darkness, but you press forward.

Because like Orpheus, if you look back, you will be lost.

–

You ride for days with a small group of men loyal to General Acacius and Lucilla, the landscape unfolding in shades of brown and green while the horizon stretches out endlessly. The dull ache in your thighs has become a constant companion, deepening with every hour spent on a saddle. The smell of horse and sweat clings stubbornly to your clothes, mingling with the dust of the road.  

Moments of rest are brief and tense, and the men around you speak little of where you’re headed. You often feel Lucilla’s gaze on you as you ride, though there is little time to converse meaningfully. She looks different from the times you saw her seated beside the emperors in the arena. Her beautiful golden hair is plaited into a simple braid and her face is bare. Yet, even without the fine robes and jewelry, there is nothing common about her appearance. From the sharp cut of her high cheekbones to the elegant line of her jaw, everything about her is unmistakably royal. 

She carries herself with a quiet authority that even the soldiers heed. They respect her and to your surprise, they show you the same reverence. It’s disorienting, unnerving even, but something in you is too afraid to push back against the illusion of nobility they’ve woven around you. So, you do what is required, what you learned from your time with Lucius and draw from the life you lived before you were a fisherman’s wife. You slip into the skin of someone else who is meant to be here and is worthy of the respect they offer. But it’s a mask that chafes, a weight far heavier than any shackle.

–

On the sixth day of riding, you crest a ridge, and suddenly the rugged coast unfolds before you with sparkling turquoise waters and lush hills. The soldier you ride with stops, just as stunned by the beauty as you. It’s been nearly two years since you’ve seen the ocean and smelt salt in the air. For a moment it’s as if Kronos himself has softened his grip on time and memories of your life before flood back, overwhelming and painfully beautiful. But the moment is brief, shattered when the soldier speaks. 

“This will be your new home, my lady, until we receive word from the General that Rome is safe once again.” 

He nudges the horse with a soft kick of his heels and the animal resumes its careful trot, disrupting loose stones as it makes its way down the steep, narrow trail. In the distance, you spot a small villa, nestled among rolling hills, its stone walls partially obscured by lush vineyards.

“Is it safe?” You question.

The young man offers you a smile over his shoulder. “There are many who are loyal to Lady Lucilla and the General. No one will know of your presence here.”

When you arrive you’re helped from the horse by another soldier, and follow behind Lucilla as she moves into the house. A row of servants greets the two of you, and the moment they see her they bow deeply. They don't look at you directly, but you feel their gaze flicker over you, just for a second, before their attention returns solely to her.

“Draw a bath for myself and my guest,” she instructs the gathered servants, handing off her dusty cloak and pushing her braid off her shoulder. “Bring fresh water and food for the men outside. See to it that they are taken care of first.”

You stand behind her, waiting for some instruction or sign of what you’re supposed to do. But as Lucilla turns and sweeps away, a young servant steps forward, offering you a shallow bow. 

“Your cloak, my lady,” he says.

His words hit you with an unexpected force and you realize, for the first time in years, that you are no longer a slave.

–

You wake slowly, the dredges of your sleep lingering as you roll to your back and shield your eyes from the morning light. After nearly a week on the road, the bed you sleep in is a welcome relief. It’s more luxurious than anything you’ve ever known and you inhale the clean, citrusy scent on the sheets. 

A gentle knock on your door is your only warning before a servant enters with a jug of water that she sets on a low table. She bows to you before moving to open the curtains and let sunlight flood the room. Next, she moves to the hearth, stoking a small fire with practiced movements. While she works another servant appears with fresh robes that she lays over the edge of your bed. The fabric is pale blue and finely made, trimmed in silver, but as your eyes linger on them, you can’t help but remember the last time you wore such finery.

"Domina," the new servant greets, drawing your attention away from the clothes. “May we help you dress?”

The way she addresses you, like the man last night, causes a strange, uncomfortable flutter in your chest. She does not seem to sense your discomfort and waits patiently for a reply, as sure and comfortable in her role as you are uncomfortable in yours. It feels so alien, to have someone serve you like this. Weeks ago, this was your job, your life. The thought twists in your gut.

“N-no.” You finally manage. “That will be all.”

“As you wish,” she replies, accepting your answer with a respectful nod.

You know they are here to serve you, and yet it startles you, the way they defer to you so unquestioningly. 

She pauses at the door, her attention on you once again. “Lady Lucilla wishes you to break your fast with her on the terrace.” 

Then she turns and quietly retreats from the room. Only once you're alone does the tightness in your throat abate, but there is another deeper discomfort that lingers. It takes you longer to dress than you expect and you’re left feeling unsure if it’s the way the garment fits or the unfamiliarity of the situation that feels so wrong. 

By the time you reach the terrace, the morning sun is brighter and warmer. Lucilla is seated at a table laden with food, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her wine cup, lost in thought.  She offers you a quiet greeting as you slip into the empty chair beside her. A plate piled high with fruit is set before you; after so long on the road, your mouth waters at the sight. 

You select a peach and drag it through honey. It’s halfway to your lips when the servant’s voice cuts through the stillness of the morning.

“Did you sleep well, my lady?" She asks politely. 

"I am not a lady," you correct quietly, the words slipping out before you can fully think them through. 

The moment you say it, you freeze. Juice drips down your fingers, a sticky trail running under the sleeve of your robe, but you don’t even notice. The servant glances at Lucilla, brows furrowed in confusion by your denial, but Lucilla simply smiles, seemingly unbothered.  

"You may go now," she says to the young woman, a touch of finality in her tone. “We will call you if we have need of you.”

The servant nods and retreats without a word, her footsteps fading into the hall. Lucilla watches her go, waiting to speak until you are alone.  

"I suppose you're not a lady," she says, her tone not unkind. 

She delicately eats a honey cake, seemingly preoccupied, but there's something sharp and assessing in her eyes that reminds you strongly of Lucius. You chew the peach in silence, but it feels like ash in your mouth now. You’ve misstepped.

"It would be Princess, would it not?" she asks, not waiting for a response before continuing. "You are my son's wife and he is the prince of Rome."

Princess.

Wife.

Your mind doesn’t seem to know which to focus on first. Both are heavy titles, the first unexpected, but it’s the second that gives you pause. It’s a title you never expected to have again, but it’s one you cannot deny you long for. 

"My lady,” you begin quietly, “We were never…married. They gave me to him as a concubine.”  Though you know she understands, Lucius told her everything before you left, you still rush to clarify. "But I was never truly that. I was only ever a slave."

Lucilla hums thoughtfully, regarding you over the rim of her glass as she drinks. "You pledged yourselves to one another, did you not?" she asks.

You nod stiffly, and then she leans forward, surprising you by gently settling a hand over your chest. 

"If he lives here," she murmurs, her fingers pressing lightly, "and you live in his heart, what more could the gods ask for?"

“I...I suppose,” you respond hesitantly, unsure how to finish the thought. 

She smiles warmly at you as if the matter is settled, but you feel less sure. A slave, risen to the status of princess. Would the rest of Rome regard you so generously?

Lucilla seems oblivious to your doubts and with a soft, contented hum, she leans forward, turning her attention to the plate of fruits as she seems to contemplate her choices. She glances at you briefly before selecting a date, her movements slow and measured.

“When the time comes you will stand beside Lucius as his wife and the rest of Rome will see you as such. Because he will tell them to.”

The words hang in the air between you, but they do nothing to ease the gnawing discomfort building inside.

You swallow hard, trying to steady your voice. “Where I come from - what I am…it does not bother you?”

“What you were,” she corrects, holding your gaze for a beat before she continues. “But you mean, does it bother me you were once a slave?” She questions. 

You nod. “I am also not Roman. I was just a fisherman’s wife,” you reply, though that title has long since been stripped from you. 

“Lucius’s father was a slave and a gladiator,” Lucilla replies, her gaze softening when she speaks of him. The love and longing in her words feel fresh, as though Lucius’s father still lingers in her mind after all these years. 

You clasp your hands together, your fingers curling slightly, stroking your thumb over your knuckles. You exhale and meet her gaze again. 

“He was also once a general, was he not?” you question, half unsure why you’re still pressing the point. Maybe it’s the lingering unease, the feeling that you don't belong here. Why should it be so simple?

Lucilla sets her glass down with quiet deliberation. Her eyes meet yours, steady and unflinching.

“In the Rome my father believed in,” she begins, “anyone could rise to greatness, regardless of their past. It was not about where you started, but what you did with the chances the gods gave to you.”

For a moment you let yourself imagine the world she describes — one where people can transform, where their past does not determine their worth. You want to believe her, to let the fragile embers of hope her son ignited in you months ago bloom into something real. But doubt is a hard thing to shake. 

“It’s a beautiful dream,” you say, unsure if you quite believe her words. “Your father sounds like a great man.”

Lucilla smiles, sadness flickering in her eyes. “He was,” she replies. “I see so much of Lucius in him. His strength. His sense of honor.” Then, with an unexpected tenderness, she adds, “I think he would have liked you.”

“You honor me,” you respond, lowering your gaze. The weight of her acceptance feels heavier than you expect.

Lucilla shifts closer, her knees brushing yours. She says your name quietly and you look up. 

“I know you may not see it yet, but not everyone could have survived what you have and come out stronger,” she tells you, her voice steady but filled with a quiet conviction. “That is your gift. And now you must decide how you wish to wield that power.”

“Wield it?” you ask, confusion threading through your words. "I have no desire to rule."

Lucilla’s expression eases, but she doesn’t falter. "No," she agrees. "Neither did I. But that does not mean you cannot help Lucius rebuild Rome into something stronger, something better. If you choose to."

You’ve spent most of your life at the mercy of forces larger than yourself, swept along by events outside your control. The thought of the power she speaks of is daunting, almost uncomfortable.

“But what can I do?”

“In this world, there are many ways to hold power. Not all of them are visible, but they are just as effective.” Lucilla explains. “True strength lies in shaping the course of events without ever appearing to control them.”

You frown slightly. “I do not know how to achieve that.”

Lucilla tilts her head, her smile knowing. "You have already mastered the basics from your time in the arena. I can teach you the rest.”

You’re silent for a long moment, processing her words. 

“You truly believe I am capable of this?”

“Yes,” she says. 

There’s a certainty and knowing in her tone, so like her son’s, a belief that you are worthy — even if you can’t yet see it in yourself. A wave of emotion rises within you. You want to be worthy of Lucius’s love, and of Lucilla’s faith in you. 

Despite the doubt you lift your chin and straighten your shoulders. “Teach me.”

–

As the weeks slip by, you fall into a rhythm with Lucilla that feels almost comforting in its predictability, and certainly far more steady than the chaos of your days in the Colosseum.  Afternoons are spent learning to be a proper Roman woman. At first, the lessons are as expected: how to dress, how to speak, and how to move with the elegance and poise that mark a lady of high status. But soon the lessons grow more layered, more intricate. Slowly, you begin to learn to move through the world with intention, to shape it and, in time, make it yield to your will.

Yet, no matter how much of your time is occupied, your worry for Lucius never fully fades. It hovers at the edges of your thoughts, a persistent shadow on your periphery that remains there despite Lucilla's attempts to keep you busy. The only moments you can quiet your mind are in the early hours of the day, when the sun is just a faint promise of light that lingers below the horizon and the villa is quiet. 

On those mornings you rise without the aid of the servants, draping a heavy cloak over your shoulders and heading to the kitchen where the remnants of yesterday’s meal sit on the counter. There you gather the bread still fragrant with yeast and ripened figs and wrap them in a clean cloth. When you step outside, a wave of dizziness passes through you, a light-headedness that’s become more frequent of late as your stress and anxiety grow. You pause to steady yourself against the cool stone of the villa before you’re able to shake the feeling.

Felix, the same young soldier you rode with from Rome, is waiting for you. He leans against the wall, eyes heavy with sleep, but he rouses himself quickly as he sees you approach. Without a word, he falls in behind you as you begin the descent down the winding path that leads to the sea. By the time you reach the bottom, the path opens up to the edge of the old fishing dock. You unwrap the cloth and tear off a piece of bread, breaking it in half, and hand it to Felix along with one of the figs. He takes a seat on the short stone wall and you continue to the dock. 

The planks groan as you make your way to the end where the ocean stretches out before you into nothingness. You lower yourself until your legs dangle over the water. For a moment, there is only the sound of the waves lapping against the shore, gentle and rhythmic. Then, over the quiet, you hear the fishermen further down the coast. Their voices carry on the wind as they begin their work for the day, preparing their boats and nets for the first catch. 

The first time you came here, you expected the grief you carried for your lost husband would break over you like a swell, sharp and sudden. But it didn’t. That ache, that quiet, constant ache was still there as you suspect it always would be but somewhere along the way that wound had become a scar. Simply a part of you, like the salt in the air or the brine in the sea. 

You break your fast with a fig, savoring the sweetness of its soft flesh until a sudden wave of nausea stirs in the pit of your stomach. It’s brief, but sharp enough to make you pause before swallowing. You will it to pass and it does though it seems to linger longer and longer lately. You brush the thought away and finish your meal, remaining on the dock until the sun’s light begins to break through the clouds, casting a soft, golden glow on the water. The heat sinks into your skin and you close your eyes, accepting its warm touch. In the quiet your mind drifts, as it always does, to Lucius and the pain of your separation deepens.

Was he sitting somewhere, feeling this same warmth? Was he safe? Had the plans he set in motion succeeded? The questions swirl in your mind like the restless current. You try to picture him as you saw him last, steady and focused, but all you can conjure is the look of fear in his deep, dark-set eyes the night of Macrinus' party. Anxiety and dread return to you and tears threaten to fall. 

The urge to push the emotion down, to shield yourself from its pull is strong, but then, you remember Lucilla’s lesson. With a quiet exhale you drop your shoulders and accept the feeling, letting it pass over until it ebbs into nothingness. You take slow and steady breaths, gaining control of yourself once more.  

“Princess,” Felix greets, wood creaking under his feet. “We must return.”

The title hangs in the air, a strange thing even after all these weeks. He says it so effortlessly, as if it has always been this way. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it. 

“Perhaps there will be news today,” he suggests encouragingly. 

“Perhaps,” you agree, accepting his offered hand. 

By the time you finish your ascent, perspiration dots your hairline, and sweat clings to your skin. The gentle breeze that stirs through the air is a welcome relief, helping to lift the heat that has settled into your body. You reach for the clasp of your cloak, ready to shed it, when the sharp sound of metal on steel cuts through the air. Your hand freezes mid-motion, and you realize that Felix has unsheathed his sword. 

Before you can question him, you register the presence of unfamiliar horses and men in the courtyard. The dust they’ve kicked up swirls in the air, and you cover your mouth with your sleeve.

“Stay behind me,” Felix urges. His free hand touches your hip briefly to guide you closer to him.

Though you do as he asks you can’t help but scan the gathered men for a familiar face, hope and dread tangling together. You find none and terror settles over you like a heavy shroud. Felix rolls his shoulders, widening his stance as he lifts his sword. There are too many men for him to fight but he stands firm, seemingly ready to lay down his life for you. It’s a sobering realization. 

You glance towards the house, worried for Lucilla when you catch sight of a figure in the doorway. Even with his back to you, you recognize Lucius. His posture is stooped with weariness, but his presence still commands the air around him as he speaks with his mother and an older man beside her.

“Felix,” you whisper, fingers curling into the fabric of his cloak. 

He shifts to look at you, but you cannot tear your gaze from Lucius, greedily drinking him in like a mirage in the desert, terrified if you blink that he’ll vanish. His dark brown hair is matted with dirt and sweat, his clothes torn and stained. You can see his bare arms are streaked with cuts and bruises and a bloody bandage, hastily wrapped around his left bicep, hangs loose. The sight of him is a brutal testament to his journey and your chest aches at the thought of all he’s been through. 

But he’s here. Alive.

Before you realize it, you’re moving towards him. There is nothing dignified in the way you throw yourself into his arms when he turns to face you, colliding into him with enough force to send him staggering back. His arms wrap around you, steadying you both, and you bury your face against him. Your fingers twist into the hair at the nape of his neck as if you’re trying to anchor yourself to him.

Lucius says your name and a great, painful sob bursts from within you. He pulls away just enough to stroke your face and press his forehead to yours. His touch is gentle yet trembling, as though he's trying to reassure himself that you're real, that this moment is real. 

“I am here,” he murmurs, “I have returned to you, just as I promised.”

You move closer to him, still shaking, and with a fierceness you can’t contain, you whisper, “Had you not, I would have gone to Pluto himself.”

“I have no doubt,” he replies, a wry smile on his lip.

Together, you breathe the same air, the rhythm of your heart easing. When you brush your nose against his, he tilts his head, letting his lips graze yours in an achingly sweet kiss. Every part of you longs to lose yourself in it, but you’re acutely aware of your surroundings — and of the role you must play. 

With a quiet effort, you pull yourself from Lucius. Heat blooms in your cheeks when you realize nearly everyone is watching the two of you, but Lucius feels no such shame. He grasps your hand in his and with a proud tilt of his jaw, tugs you forward. Lucilla smiles warmly as you approach and introduces the man at her side as her husband, General Acacius.

“I have heard so much about you from Lucius,” Acacius shares, watching you with a mix of admiration and curiosity. “You are all he would speak of these last few weeks.”

You dip your head, both embarrassed and oddly pleased by the thought of Lucius talking about you to others.

“I have grown fond of her as well,” Lucilla admits. You feel her light touch on your arm before she withdraws and shifts her attention to her son and husband. “I wish to hear everything that has transpired in Rome, but you are both in need of a bath. Go,” she commands lightly.

Acacius turns to his wife with an affectionate look. He rests his fist over his chest, bowing deeply. “As my lady commands.”

You smile at Lucius, squeezing his hand. "Go," you encourage him. "We must see to it that the men are taken care of. They will need food, water, and a place to rest."

Lucius glances at his mother, and then his gaze shifts back to you. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, surprise, perhaps, but he masks it quickly. He leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek, the gesture laden with affection. Then, with a final glance, he turns to Acacius and follows the older man out of the room.

You watch them leave and then look at Lucilla. She meets your gaze and offers a subtle but approving nod. It’s a quiet gesture but with it, the weight of responsibility settles heavily upon your shoulders. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself, before stepping forward and catching the attention of two servants nearby. Their eyes meet yours with attentive expectation as you give them clear instructions on how best to tend to the garrison of soldiers gathered in the courtyard. 

Every detail must be accounted for. These are the men who helped Lucius free Rome and brought him home safely to you. They deserve your care and your respect. But more than that, you understand something deeper: how you treat them now will not be forgotten. These soldiers will remember how they were received — whether with kindness, attention, and dignity or with indifference — and they will speak of it when they leave here.

Caring for them is not simply fulfilling a duty. You are establishing a connection, a foundation of trust and goodwill that will extend beyond this moment. 

–

You find Lucius in your room sometime later, seemingly lost in thought. He drinks deeply from a cup of wine, and you take a moment to study his profile, content to simply watch him. The soft glow of the hearth casts shadows across his face, blurring the sharp lines of his features. His hair and skin are still damp from the bath, and he wears nothing but a simple towel, cinched tightly around his waist. Though weary, he seems more relaxed than you can ever recall seeing him.

When he lowers his cup, his eyes meet yours. "How are the men?" he ask with a smile. 

“They are being taken care of," you reply. “They deserve it after what they’ve done for you."

Lucius steps closer, his hands reaching to cup your face. The familiar warmth of his calloused palms is grounding, a silent comfort.

"You have done well," he says, his voice thick with gratitude. "I am proud of you."

In his gaze, you see more than just affection – there’s respect. You try to look away, overwhelmed, but he holds your eyes, unwilling to let you break the connection.

"I am doing what needs to be done," you reply quietly. "For Rome. For you."

“For Rome?” He questions. “Since when do you speak so fondly of her?”

“Since I have fallen in love with a Roman,” you confess. 

A smile tugs at the corners of Lucius’s lips, his eyes softening as he looks at you. You reach up, drawn to the familiar comfort of his touch, and curl your fingers over his. But when you brush over the bare skin of his finger, you realize the ring he’s worn as long as you’ve known him is gone. 

“Lucius,” you breathe. “Your ring…”

His eyes close and a tremor passes through his body, an echo of a long-buried pain. When his hands fall from your face you mourn the loss of his touch.

“I returned it to the sea,” he says roughly, as if the words themselves are heavy. “Where it ended.” 

You stare at him, shocked.

“I do not need it any longer,” Lucius continues quietly, trying to ease the air between you. “I have avenged her.”

A quiet ache blooms inside you as you think of your own wedding band, the one taken from you when you were made a prisoner of Rome. You remember its weight and shape, your thumb often tracing the space where it used to sit as if it could somehow conjure it back. You wonder if it hadn't been stolen from you, if you could let it go as Lucius has done. 

“I carry Arashat with me. In my blood, in my bones.” His eyes open then, startlingly blue and clear. “It is the same way your husband still lives inside you.”

Your lip trembles and you sway, your body caught in the pull of something too deep for words. Before you ever fell in love with Lucius, before his touch became something that soothed the ache inside you, you forged a connection through shared grief. You could not escape those you lost, no matter how many years passed. But neither of you would ever want to.

Lucius’s voice breaks through the silence, his words raw and vulnerable. “More than that, it felt wrong to still wear it,” he admits. “When I love you the way a husband should love his wife.”

Your lips part, the words unable to form as they twist inside you. "A wife?" you repeat. You're unsure whether they should be a question or an answer. 

He smiles, his lips brushing over yours in the gentlest of kisses. “My wife,” he confirms. “If you will have me.”

A bubble of laughter escapes your chest and you push forward, capturing his lips with yours in a possessive, claiming kiss. For Lucilla to bestow that title upon you was one thing, but to hear it from Lucius —asking you to take it — feels like something you didn’t realize you were waiting for. 

“Yes,” you whisper, the word barely escaping in the space between you. “Yes, I will have you.”

Lucius urges you toward the bed, his mouth devouring yours. You fall together into the soft sheets and the weight of him almost steals your breath, but he hardly seems to notice. He pulls at your dress, baring your shoulder to his hungry lips. 

"I have dreamed of this every night," he breathes against your skin. "Your warmth. Your sweetness." 

Need flares hotly in your belly and you aid Lucius in removing your clothes. When you are bare to him he gazes down at you, his teeth catching his lower lip in an almost unconscious gesture of desire.  Those sharp eyes see all, cataloging the way you sigh and arch your back when his large hands cup your breasts. Even his tender touch feels overwhelming and it’s almost painful the way his roughened fingers tease the sensitive peaks of your nipples

You tremble when his hands sweep lower, ghosting over your stomach to frame your hips. The brief pressure of his touch is soothing and you exhale as he moves down your body, finally settling between your parted thighs. In the flickering light, you see a hunger in his eyes, something so consuming it wipes away the weariness that’s clung to him since he’s returned.

“I fought for Rome, but I fought for this too,” he admits. "You are far sweeter than any honey.”

His words twist your stomach pleasantly and your fingers brush an errant curl from his forehead. 

“Lucius…”

“Yes, touch me,” he encourages, lowering his mouth to you. 

You drag your nails gently over the back of his neck, tracing the curve of his scalp, and feel him shudder in response. His breath falls over your skin and you lift your hips. Scars old and new catch on your fingertips as your hands roam over his broad shoulders. There’s nothing hurried about Lucius’s touch, it’s a slow exploration of your body, something he was denied last time. 

Each brush of his tongue sends a surge of warmth through you and you respond by threading your fingers through his hair and tugging him closer. You need more and he gives it to you, delving deeper, greedy, and desperate for your taste. Your heart beats faster as one finger and then another slips easily inside you. He curls them up and seals his mouth over the most sensitive part of you, applying a dizzying amount of pressure. As he drinks from you his fingers move like a wave, a rhythmic caress that draws you closer and closer to the inevitable edge. 

“Please,” you gasp, drawing your knees towards your chest and riding his face with a desperation that would shame you were it not for the way Lucius responds with a needy groan. There’s a fleeting moment where it feels like the sensations he drags from your body are too much to contain, but then they overflow and you let out a desperate cry of relief.

Lucius does not relent until you push at his head. Then, he stares up at you, his mouth slightly parted, his face flushed. Your fingers have made a mess of his hair and his beard glistens with your arousal. He looks entirely too pleased with himself as he crawls up your body, pausing briefly to pull the towel from his waist. 

“My wife, my wife,” he murmurs. “Mine.”

“My husband,” you whisper back, curling your leg over his hip as he sinks inside you, filling you completely. 

A range of emotions flicker across his face — joy and pleasure, rapture and relief — each one passing like a fleeting wave, too intense to hold but impossible to ignore. You draw him close and his chest slides against yours. The air around you feels warm and heavy, thick with significance of the moment. Lucius’s labored breaths, slow and steady, fills the space, becoming the only rhythm that matters.

You stare into his blue eyes as you climb higher and higher together. There’s no need for words here, just him and the way he moves above you and inside you. He almost looks anguished as he strains and pants, pressing his forehead to yours. You hold him tightly, eyes sliding closed as something beautiful unfurls inside and everything goes quiet. 

After, you remain entwined, bodies tangled, until the warmth of your skin cools and the cadence of your breath slows. Only then does Lucius pull away, and his absence creates a hollow ache that lingers. It only eases once he returns, drawing you close and wrapping his arm around your waist. He rests his head against your stomach, his gaze lifting to meet yours. You run your fingers through his hair, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“I thought about this often,” he admits quietly. “Of seeing you. Holding you.” He pauses, and in the stillness of the moment, you can feel the weight of everything he’s been through, every battle, every loss, every moment of doubt. "There were so many times I thought this would not be my fate.”

The raw emotion in his voice makes your throat tighten, and tears prick at the corners of your eyes. It’s a feeling you’ve carried too, that you might never see him again.

“But you are here now, with me,” you remind him, resting your palm against his cheek. He sighs and you study his face. “Yet something troubles you.”

He shakes his head in denial, but the movement is half-hearted, a fleeting attempt to hide what he feels. Your fingers gently brush over the space between his brows, where the faintest line of worry has settled. 

“This tells me otherwise,” you say with a knowing look. 

He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes search yours, as though he’s trying to find the words to explain what’s inside him.

“For so long I have been sustained by vengeance. It was always the next fight, the next battle, the next plan.” He closes his eyes and you can see the deep grooves time has etched into his face, the shadows of everything he's survived. “I did not let myself think about what would happen after all of this.”

“You rebuild Rome,” you tell him, the words simple but resolute.

His gaze doesn’t waver as he looks at you and he asks, “Is that what you want? Truly?”

“I want you. I want a life of peace and happiness,” you tell him, your fingers gently carding through his hair in a quiet reassurance. “Your grandfather’s dream would give that to me and so many others.”

“What else do you imagine in this life of ours?” he questions. 

There’s a quiet intensity behind his question and he watches you closely, almost like he’s searching for something. 

“What is it you imagine?” You ask.

"At times, I wondered..." he trails off, exhaling slowly, and turning his head so that his gaze drifts to the ceiling. The silence between you stretches and you watch the muscles of his throat work as he swallows hard. He seems to measure his words, as if what he’s about to say carries more significance than he’s ready to give voice to.  

“I thought I might find you with child when I returned,” he whispers, the longing in his voice palpable.

With child. The phrase lingers in your mind, tugging at something just beyond your reach. A nagging thought, one you’ve pushed away too many times, starts to surface. But before you can grasp it, Lucius's next words pull you back.

“I imagined a little boy with your eyes…or a girl with your smile.” He continues, the corner of his mouth lifting wistfully to transform his face into something even more handsome. “Children that would have your kindness, your goodness.” 

His confession is a painful one, unearthing a hope you buried so deep you almost forgot it existed. It was a dream you never let yourself entertain, because you knew, deep down, that if you planted that seed, nurtured it even for a moment, you’d never recover from its loss.

When Lucius looks back to you the question is clear in his eyes. Your answer comes before you can give it conscious thought. 

“Yes,” you assure him. How could you not want a child with the same fierce tenderness that Lucius carries in his heart? Someone who would inherit the best of both of you.

Lucius rises from your lap and draws you into his embrace.

“The thought of your growing round with my child is a prospect I look forward to,” he admits, resting his hand on the soft flesh of your belly. 

A jolt of something tightens in your lower abdomen at his touch, an unfamiliar flutter that gives you pause. And with it, the errant thought that had lingered at the edges of your mind, too fleeting to catch, comes rushing back into focus. 

You think of the dull, almost cramping sensation you’ve been attributing to the coming of your menses. How it never quite felt right. Too mild, too inconsistent. And the waves of nausea and exhaustion that have plagued you over the past few weeks alongside the other subtle changes in your body, small things that you dismissed as stress and anxiety.

But now, as his hand lingers there, warm and steady against your skin, the truth unfurls in your mind, clear and undeniable.

You’re already pregnant.

Lucius senses the shift in your demeanor and his brow furrows in concern. "What is wrong?" he asks.

“I do not think you will have to wait long,” you whisper with a shaky exhale. “I-I…I’ve been feeling strange these last weeks. I thought it was stress but…”

Lucius’s finger flexes against your belly, his gaze briefly flickering to your hand where it rests over his. Then, his eyes return to your face, and his words come soft but certain. “You have not bled.”

You shake your head and the hope and joy that suffuses every part of your body is almost crushing in its intensity. You can't hold it back anymore. Tearful joy spills from your eyes, and a breathless laugh escapes you, fragile and free all at once.

“A child,” Lucius breathes. 

The tender look of hope on his face and the love in his gaze is more beautiful than anything you could have imagined. His hand moves from your belly to cup your face, the touch so gentle it feels like something sacred. He pulls you into his arms, and for a long, perfect moment, you let yourself sink into the warmth of his embrace. His lips press softly against yours, so tender, almost reverent, as if this kiss is a quiet vow, a promise of everything to come.

When he pulls back, his forehead stays against yours, his breath mingling with yours. The love in his eyes is deep, unshakable and you know with certainty that this moment is not just the beginning of your child’s life, but the beginning of a life the two of you deserve. Together.

–

The chariot jolts, the rough motion throwing you off balance, but Lucius quickly steadies you with a firm hand on the small of your back. His touch seeps through the fabric of your white gown, grounding you as you lean into him instinctively. The chaos of the parade is overwhelming. Crowds line the street and the air buzzes with anticipation as the noise of their voices fills your ears. They chant your husband’s name, eager to see the savior of Rome. 

Your fingers instinctively brush over the diadem resting delicately on your head. The unfamiliar weight of it pulls at your scalp. Despite the servants’ careful work in securing it to your hair, a small, irrational fear grips you: what if it slips off, and everyone sees you are not worthy of it all? 

You were never meant to be in the spotlight like this but here you are, at the heart of it with Lucius beside you. He is poised and relaxed, lifting a hand to acknowledge the crowd. Behind you, Lucilla and Acacius ride in their own chariot, looking effortlessly graceful. Lucilla catches your eye, offering you an encouraging smile, and you return it. 

As the chariot moves forward, your gaze drifts toward the Colosseum. It rises in the distance, dominating the skyline. You expect to feel something, fear or anger perhaps, but instead, there is nothing. The Colosseum, that life of struggle and survival, is no longer the centerpiece of your world. It is behind you and Palatine Hill rises before you, a symbol of your new home and life. 

Hesitantly, your hand rises to offer a slow, deliberate wave to the crowd. The noise of their adoration intensifies and within the cries, you hear a shout of your own name and title mingled with Lucius’s. Hearing it sends a jolt through you. For a fleeting moment, the world seems to pause around you as the weight of everything settles in your chest. Like Caesar preparing to cross the Rubicon, you are standing on the precipice of something immense and there is no turning back. You can only move forward.

With that realization, you feel something shift deep within you, a quiet certainty taking root. It starts in your swollen belly, like the first spark of a fire, and spreads steadily outward, filling every part of you with a warmth you didn’t know you were missing. For the first time, you understand that you are not just here to fulfill Lucius’ dream and legacy. You are here for yourself and all those who once stood where you did — silent, powerless, nameless. 

You came to Rome a slave, but now, you are so much more. You are a wife, a princess, and soon, a mother – empowered and loved. And for the first time, you find you are not afraid.

The future is open to you, waiting to be shaped, and you are prepared to meet it head-on.

♡

Also part of this series:

Ab Initio

Post tenebras lux

Protego te

My inbox is open for your thoughts on this story, requests for drabbles with Lucius and further scenes with Lucius and the Fisherman's Wife.

[rose24207]

no wall is strong enough to keep us apart

Summary: A family torn apart by the Berlin Wall reunites in an emotional embrace the night it falls, proving that love endures even the strongest barriers.

'89s!Dad!Lando x '89s!Mum!Reader

Genre: angst, fluff, historical

TW: mention of DDR, Stasi, Berlin wall, propaganda, separation, timeline is not chronological correct for the sake of the story, I know the wall has been up 28 years!

A/N: Yes I know it’s completely different from what I normally post but I really like the topic and the stories behind the families and friends that were separated back then! Let me know if you want more of historical events - btw I’m listening to Pink Floyd rn.

Navigation

Berlin, 1959

The air smelled of fresh bread and strong coffee as the bustling streets of Berlin came alive in the early morning sun. You weaved through the crowd, your fingers laced with Lando’s as your little daughter, Emma, skipped ahead, her blonde curls bouncing.

“Slow down, liebe,” (love) you called after her, but she only giggled, twirling in her little dress.

Lando laughed, pulling you closer. “She’s got your energy.”

“She’s got your stubbornness.”

“And your smile.”

Life was simple, full of love. The three of you lived in a small apartment in Mitte, not far from Alexanderplatz. Lando worked as a mechanic, saving up to open his own shop, while you worked part-time at a bakery. You didn’t have much, but you had enough.

West Berlin was only a tram ride away. You’d sometimes take Emma to see the grand department stores on Kurfürstendamm, or visit family in Charlottenburg. There were no checkpoints, no barbed wire—only a city still healing from the war, divided but still connected.

You never imagined that in just two years, everything would change.

August 12-13, 1961

The night was humid, the air heavy with something unspoken. You stood by the window, unable to sleep, watching the city lights flicker in the distance. Lando was in West Berlin, fixing a car for a client. He was supposed to come home tomorrow.

But then—

A knock at the door.

Your neighbor, Frau Keller, stood there, her face pale. “Turn on the radio.”

Confused, you hurried to the small wooden set in the corner. As the static cleared, a voice crackled through:

"Starting at midnight, the borders between East and West Berlin will be sealed off indefinitely. All crossings will be closed. A new security measure to protect the people of the DDR from imperialist threats."

Your heart stopped.

“No,” you whispered. “No, no—”

You ran outside, past confused neighbors, past uniformed officers already unrolling barbed wire. In the distance, at the Brandenburg Gate, soldiers hammered wooden posts into the ground.

The wall was already being built.

Your stomach dropped.

Lando.

Morning came, and with it, devastation.

A crude barrier of barbed wire and armed guards now split the city in two. Families screamed across the divide, reaching for loved ones they could no longer touch. Desperate people jumped from windows in border buildings, trying to land in West Berlin before they were sealed in. Some made it. Others did not.

You stood among the crowd, Emma clutching your waist, sobbing.

You spotted him—Lando.

On the other side.

“Lando!” You screamed, your voice drowned by the chaos.

His head snapped up. His blue eyes met yours, wide with horror. He tried to run forward, but soldiers blocked him, rifles raised.

“Bitte!” (please!) he shouted. “Meine Frau! Mein Kind!” (my wife! My child!)

“Step back!” a soldier barked.

Lando’s fists clenched. His face twisted in anguish as he reached toward you, separated only by meters—but it might as well have been a world away.

Emma wailed. “Papa!”

Lando pressed his hand against the barbed wire, his knuckles white. “I’ll find a way! I promise!”

Then—

A soldier raised his gun.

“MOVE BACK!”

Your scream died in your throat. Lando’s face twisted with helpless rage, but he stepped back, his hands trembling.

The last thing you saw before being forced away was his eyes, burning with a promise neither of you knew if he could keep.

And just like that, your family was torn in half.

The months that followed were a blur of despair. Overnight, the DDR had become a prison. The border was reinforced—first with more barbed wire, then concrete. Guard towers rose along its length, manned by soldiers under orders to shoot anyone who tried to escape.

Friends and family disappeared. Some fled in hidden tunnels, others were caught and sent to Stasi prisons. Fear seeped into every corner of life.

Emma stopped asking about Lando. Not because she didn’t miss him—but because it hurt too much.

One night, as you listened to a smuggled West German broadcast in secret, you heard his name.

"A man attempted to swim across the Spree River today in an effort to reunite with his family in East Berlin. He was spotted by DDR border guards and forced to retreat before he could reach land. Sources confirm his name as Lando Norris."

Your hands trembled. He was trying. He hadn’t given up.

But the wall still stood.

And so did the distance between you.

In the Night of November 9, 1989

For years, the wall had been unbreakable. But tonight, the whispers began.

You sat by the radio, Emma—now seventeen—beside you. Your hands gripped hers as the news played.

"A government official has announced that, effective immediately, citizens of the DDR will be allowed to cross freely into West Berlin."

The words hit like lightning.

Emma shot to her feet. “Mama—”

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed her hand and ran.

The streets were chaos—thousands of people surging toward the border, tears streaming down faces, disbelief mixing with hope. Some shouted in joy, others in fear.

You reached the Bornholmer Straße checkpoint, breathless. Soldiers stood rigid, gripping their weapons, unsure whether to enforce the wall or let history decide its fate.

Then—one man stepped forward.

Then another.

And suddenly—

The guards stepped back.

The gates opened.

The crowd surged forward.

Emma yanked your hand. “Mama, we have to find him!”

You pushed through the sea of bodies, your heart hammering, your breath ragged. People embraced, wept, screamed with joy.

And then—

There.

Lando.

Standing at the barrier, his face frozen in shock.

For a moment, the world stood still.

Then you ran.

Your feet barely touched the ground before you crashed into him, your arms locking around his neck. He held you so tightly it hurt, his chest heaving with sobs against yours.

“Mein Gott,” (my god) he choked out. “It’s real. You’re real.”

Tears blurred your vision as you pulled back, your fingers trembling against his face. “I never stopped waiting.”

Emma stood a few feet away, her lips parted, her entire body shaking.

Lando turned, his breath catching as he saw her properly for the first time in years.

“My baby,” he whispered.

Emma exhaled a broken sob before throwing herself into his arms. Lando held her, his hands buried in her hair, rocking her like she was still the little girl he’d lost.

“I missed everything,” he whispered. “I missed everything.”

She clung to him. “But you’re here now.”

The three of you held each other, shaking, crying, whole again for the first time in years.

Around you, the wall crumbled—not just in stone, but in the hearts of the people who had been divided for too long.

And after all these years, Berlin was finally one again.

Just like your family.

One Year Later

The remnants of the Berlin Wall stood in pieces, now just another relic of the past.

Lando’s hands ran over the rough surface, his fingers brushing against the graffiti left by those who had longed for freedom.

Beside him, Emma held his other hand, her eyes bright. “I think you should take a piece.”

Lando smiled, chipping off a small fragment and tucking it into his pocket.

You leaned into him, inhaling the crisp autumn air. “What will you do with it?”

He turned, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Keep it. To remind me that no wall is strong enough to keep us apart.”

And for the first time in decades, you believed it.

Because the wall had fallen.

And love had won.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @hmma3 , @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris, @dr3wstarkey, @hurtblossom, @ernegren, @esposamultifandom, @darleneslane

[allfearstofallto]

Okay okay last one, I swear!! I just have so many ideas! But three more for the yandere historical au and I'm finished, pinky promise!!

[Part 1] [Part 2]

Master Duelist! Xiao who has never lost a fight. Always challenged, but never the one to initiate, he was one of the reasons your family has such high honor. Even though many lords of higher status have offered to buy him for a pretty penny, he stays loyal to your family. Specifically to you. His opponents who see you in the crowd during their duel, know to just give up, he fights harder when you're watching. Every favor, embroidered handkerchiefs, that you'd given him, hang like trophies in his room. But upon learning that you're to be wed soon, he stands and challenges your fiance to a duel for your hand, one that he knows he'll win.

Butler! Thoma who has been in your family for years. Taken in by your parents and raised to be your right hand, the two of you grew up to be close friends, rather than typical master and servant. Despite this, he still finds ways to scold you, while also telling you how much of a gracious lady you've grown into. Maybe your closeness with him is why you decide to tell him of a rendezvous you're planning to have with a commoner boy that you've grown to like. Only, suddenly your home is more guarded than usual and your parents seem even more strict with you than before, almost like they know something you never told them.

Former King! Zhongli who steps down from his post shortly after his son becomes of age. While he no longer has his title, he's still heavily respected and praised by all. He saw you at a ball and formally invited you to the royal palace. Your family excitedly rushes you into a carriage, thinking the invite is for meeting with the newly crowned King instead. Only, when you get there, Zhongli is truly the only one waiting for you. He sits you down next to him and compliments you almost incessantly, ending the conversation by asking you if you think he's too old to be considering a second marriage.

Forgive me if these are bad!! This is my first time writing for any of these characters and I wanted to try!!

[ramblings-of-a-chaotic-neutral]

I was going to post a different au idea tonight, but this idea caught me in a death-grip and would not let me go, so enjoy!

Note: You can find the translations for the old English at the end!

EDIT: You can find part two of this au here, and part three here!

In this au, Merlin dies at Camlann instead of Arthur, and his magic was diffused into the king and kingdom he so loved upon his death, making everyone in Camelot immortal. After a few centuries of thriving though, Merlin's magic starts to fade, and everyone falls into an almost comatose state. It keeps them all alive and protected the kingdom from intruders, but it could not keep them awake. However, the people of Camelot did not worry about this. Both the druids and the dragon had proclaimed that Merlin would return to the world of the living again one day. So, they were content to sleep peacefully and await the day of their friend's return. Slowly, the earth rose up to swallow Camelot, and the sleeping kingdom was buried underneath the earth.

Fast forward to modern day, and Merlin's been reincarnated without any of his memories or his magic. He winds up as an archeologist, and eventually is sent out to a promising dig site on the border between England and Wales. There, his team unearths a window into an old fortress. Their sonar equipment has revealed a full castle underneath their feet, and they have everything prepped for a preliminary excavation! They've already found coins and a few blades on the site, dating back to the 6th century!

Now, stories of the "immortal kingdom of Camelot" and its undying and legendary king Arthur were commonplace, and Merlin quite enjoyed those stories as a child. However, historians doubted if Camelot was ever a real kingdom at all, and no one past the age of six believed in an immortal kingdom! Merlin, deep down, was hoping that the dig site was indeed the historical kingdom Camelot itself, as much of the kingdom's history had been lost and buried under ridiculous myths about magic and dragons.

However, the issue is that the window that they discovered is pretty small. Merlin, as the skinniest out of all of them, would probably be the only one who could fit through it. Excitedly, Merlin puts on his safety harness and hard hat and descends through the window and into the castle.

Merlin explores for a bit, constantly telling the team on the surface all about the amazingly preserved artifacts in the castle. There's tapestries, suits of armor, furniture, even clothing still in wardrobes all in perfect condition! The entire team is besides themselves with excitement! They've just made the most important discovery of their careers!

Merlin spends a few more days exploring the castle by himself. Eventually, he comes to a rather impressive and ornately decorated door and decides to find out what's behind it. It must be something pretty important to warrant such an impressive door! Perhaps the throne room?

As he opens the door though, he lets out a loud gasp, shocked by two things in the room. First, the large round table in the middle of the room. He knew that he was near the supposed site of the lost kingdom of Camelot, but this confirmed it! All of the legends spoke about king Arthur's round table, and here it was before him, confirming the legends!

However, Merlin's elation was dashed by the second thing he noticed: bodies. There were bodies occupying the seats around the table, all of them slumped over or slouching in their seats with their eyes closed, but they were not skeletal remains that should have been there, seeing as how no one had set foot in those room for hundreds of years. No, these people looked like they had only been there for a day, with no signs of decay on them.

As Merlin's fear began to rise, he tried to reason with himself. Maybe this kingdom had surprisingly advanced embalming techniques and had unusual burial rituals? What other explanation could there possibly be?

As Merlin reported the bodies to his colleagues on the surface, they warned him to be careful is something didn't feel right, which it certainly didn't. Something about these bodies creeped Merlin out in a way that no other human remains had ever done. However, Merlin's unease lessened somewhat as he described the bodies to his colleagues, his excitement at such a well-preserved find started eclipsing his fear.

There were in total five male bodies and one female body, with four of the male bodies being clad in chainmail, surcoats, trousers, and long bright red capes with an insignia of a golden dragon sown into it. The other male body was similarly clad in chainmail and a cape, but wore a golden crown on his head. Lastly, the lone female body, who was sitting to the left of the crowned male body, was a dark-skinned woman wearing an ornate and richly decorated dress along with a small silver crown on her head.

Merlin's heart stuttered in his chest as he came to the natural conclusion of these observations: he had just found the perfectly-preserved bodies of a king, queen, and four knights. Forget making his career, Merlin was going to be put in the history books for this discovery! Quickly, he called his colleagues (who had finally found a way to safely widen the entrance at the window) to follow the line of his harness and join him in the room he had just found. They needed to see this!

Finally turning away from the bodies, Merlin let his gaze wander around the room. He takes note of the impressively high ceilings for the time period, the repetition of the dragon crest on decorations around the room, and the designs carved into the wood of the round table. However, one of the most intriguing elements of the room, was the lone empty chair sitting next to the king.

The fact that there was only one empty chair was strange enough, but there were a few even stranger elements to the chair. The chair was directly to the right of the king, presumably reserved for the king's right hand, his chief advisor. Why would such an important figure be missing here? Another puzzling feature of the chair was the scrap of red cloth that was tied around one of the arms of the chair.

Stepping closer to examine the little piece of cloth, he could see at first glance that the cloth was old, battered, and made with cheap material, unlike the richer cloth that made up the knights' and kings' capes. What was this random piece of cloth doing tied around the arm of this chair, which presumedly belonged to a powerful figure in the kingdom?

A sudden piercing shriek caused Merlin to jump into the air. He looked up and across the table, relieved to see that it was just four of his colleagues who had just entered the room. They must've been freaked out by the well-preserved bodies too! Merlin certainly couldn't blame them for such a reaction.

Merlin chuckled a bit and spoke to his frightened coworkers. "Well, what did I tell you? This is going to shock the world! We've just made the discovery of a lifetime!"

However, his colleagues were only getting paler by the second, not even looking at him, instead looking... past him? Merlin frowned a bit and turned to look over his left shoulder, at the body of the king, which was where his coworkers were staring. What could possibly...

His eyes were open. His eyes were definitely not open before.

As soon as his brain caught up with what his eyes were seeing, Merlin let out a panicked shriek and flung himself backwards, away from the king who he swore was dead just a second ago what the fuck was happening?!

Unfortunately, Merlin desperate attempt to get away from the maybe-undead king sent him sprawling to the ground, having tripped over the empty chair, and his shriek had jolted his colleagues into action. The four of them ran forwards and grabbed ahold of Merlin, dragging him back towards the entrance to the room while never taking their eyes off of the maybe-undead king.

As they made their way back to the entrance though, something truly horrifying happened. The king moved. He blinked and moved his neck to track their movements.

Oh god, that thing was awake and aware that they were here! They needed to get out of there!

Together, the group turned and ran as quickly as they could back towards the entrance. Horrifyingly, as soon as they were out of sight of the king, they could hear the screeching sound of a chair sliding against the stone floor. Each one of them could feel their hearts pounding with fear as they all realized at once: the king, whatever he was, was going to chase after them.

They nearly all have heart attacks when they hear a voice roaring after them, "Gripan híe! Híe syndon fandian to niman Myrddin!"

After a tense few minutes of running with the terrifying echo of boots chasing after them ringing in their ears, they finally reached the hallway connecting to their window entrance. They could see the light outside! They were almost free!

Fear gripped all of their chests, however, when a group of what should have been corpses blocked their path, cutting them off from the sight of the daylight. For a second, Merlin thought about making a break for it and attempts to run through them, but then the probably-undead knights unsheathed their swords (which were still somehow sharp and pristine after 1500 years, this was getting ridiculous!)

The group quickly turned around, hoping to run back and perhaps find another path towards their freedom, only to have their hopes dashed by the sight of the undead king storming towards them with his sword (why was it golden?) unsheathed and rage in his eyes.

Looking between them, the closest thing that they had to a weapon were a couple hard hats. They were doomed, and they could see their death marching towards them.

Getting closer, the king furiously shouted at them again with unfamiliar words. "Hū darrst þū āsceacan hine from mē! Iċ hæbbe bīdode ofer þūsend geara for þisne tīman, and þū ātēowedest tō nīefre hine from mē stelan! Þū scealt āgildan for þis!"

The group of five archeologists are shaking in their boots at this point, fearing for their lives. Each of them had reached the only logical conclusion about their ludicrous and possibly deadly situation: they must have woken the king and his knights from their eternal rest, and they were now angry at the archeologists for disturbing their final resting place.

As the knights close in on them and grab ahold of each of them, they're all prepared for the worst. As the king barks commands at the knights, all of the archeologists are prepared to be meet with some horrible death.

"Nimðað þa ungewelwieras to ðære cyrcan cwellan, wē magon dēmian mid him æfter. Gwaine, nim Myrddin to his geardas and hafa Gaius locian ofer hine. And be mildheort, he sceal hæbbe geferod eft fram Avalon and mæg swilc bēon in pinunge fram his wundum! Gecyða eft to mē mid Gaius's gemetungum þonne hē geendod hæfð."

At the king's commands, the knights nodded, and while Merlin was led down the hallway to the right, the others were led back down the dark hallway from which they had fled. Merlin tried to call out to his colleagues and to shove his way out of the knight's grip, but the knight responded by picking Merlin up and slinging him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, eliminating Merlin's ability to fight back.

Merlin tried to calm his mind and to avoid thoughts of what horrible fate would be in store for him at his destination. His treacherous mind spun up terrible theories as to why he had been separated from his group, each one more horrifying than the last.

Finally, the knight seemed to have arrived at his destination. As the knight pushed the door open, Merlin tried to brace himself for what horrible instruments of torture were surely inside.

However, there were no torture instruments at all. There were only sheets of paper strewn about, some herb bundles here and there, lots of little vials and pots scattered around, and an old man slowly walking towards them.

The old man blinked in what looked like surprise, followed by tears seeming to brim in his eyes. What the hell was going on?! The man spoke softly, "Is hit sōþlīce hē? Āh, mīn cniht, þū eart eft tō ūs āgēan cuman! Hēr, Hlāford Gwaine, sete hine dūn on þæt cot and hæbbe hine his scyrte āweg þæt ic mæg gesēon gif his wund is ēac þǣr."

The knight deposited Merlin gently on a nearby small bed and gave him some sort of smirk before speaking to him in a surprisingly gentle, almost teasing, voice, "Þu gehyrde þone wer, Myrddin! Of mid þinum scyrte nu. Ic wat þu maegst beon sceamful be þan, ac þises sio tid is swiðe aðele."

When Merlin could do nothing but stare at the knight, more bewildered than he's ever been in his life, the knight seemed to take offense to his inaction and began tugging at the bottom of Merlin's shirt, trying to pull it over his head. After a brief struggle, the knight emerged victorious, holding Merlin's shirt in his hands and grinning like a loon. Why on earth had the knight wanted his shirt of all things? What was he about to be subjected to?!

After a tense few minutes, the old man pottered over to where Merlin was sitting, bringing a small bag along with him. The man then began looking over Merlin's torso, paying particular attention to a certain to a spot underneath Merlin's ribs, prodding it repeatedly.

Merlin was quite uncomfortable being examined like this, but with an undead knight in the room still armed with a sword, there wasn't much Merlin could do to without risking getting stabbed. Well, at least the old man wasn't hurting him, so he supposed that he could look on the bright side and be grateful for that.

Eventually, the old man seemed satisfied with his examination of Merlin and addressed the knight again. "Hwæt, he þinceð tō bēon on sīðfæt hāl! Þū mæġst secgan Ārthūre þæt ic blīðe eom tō secgenne þæt ic ne mihte findan nān tācn his ǣrran lȳtlunge."

The knight nodded at the old man, looking pleased at whatever he had just been told. Then, the old man turned to him and handed him the small bag. "Min cniht, ic eom swiðe blīð tō gesēon þē eft. Þū eart swīðe þearle gewilnod! Hēr, wē hæfdon sume þīnra reafa gehealdene for þē! Ic trowe þæt þū þē beteran gefēlan wille þonne þū sum þing gelīclicre gescēawian."

Merlin gently took the bag from the old man and tentatively opened it and pulled out its contents. Inside the bag were a scratchy red tunic, a pair of old trousers, a brown jacket, a thin leather belt, and a scrap of blue cloth. Merlin looked up at the knight and the old man, unsure of what to make of these clothes.

The knight just rolled his eyes, snatched the tunic out of Merlin's hands, and started pulling the tunic over Merlin's head. Did they... did they want Merlin to put on the clothes? That seemed like the correct answer, as they looked happy when Merlin complied and put on the tunic, and they pushed Merlin towards a small room in the back of the chambers with the clothing still in his hands.

Alright, Merlin thought to himself, he would change clothes in this odd little broom closet if that kept him from being stabbed.

(And he did not acknowledge the part of his mind that swore that he knew this room, that this room was his. That was ridiculous, he had never seen this place before in his life!)

After putting on the trousers, belt, and jacket, all Merlin was left with was the scrap of blue cloth. What the hell was he supposed to do with this? Should he keep it in his pocket or something?

However, it seemed like his hands moved before his mind had a chance to catch up, as his hands, seemingly of their own accord, wrapped the blue cloth around his neck a couple time before typing it in the front. Huh, that was strange. Merlin normally didn't wear scarves, why did he know that this piece of cloth was a scarf?

It was... strange. However, there were more pressing matters at hand, namely not getting killed by undead medieval knights. After taking a deep, calming breath, Merlin opened the door and stepped back out into the main room, where the old man and the knight were waiting for him.

They both smiled at the sight of him, and the knight quickly slung an arm over Merlin's shoulders, said what was presumably a goodbye to the old man, and started leading Merlin back out they way they came.

At this point, Merlin started struggling again. If he could just escape from this knight, he could get back to the surface and gather a rescue team to save the others! But the knight's grip of him was tight, and after a certain amount of Merlin's struggling, the knight just sighed and threw Merlin over his shoulder again. Damn it!

Merlin tried to reference places that he had already seen as the knight dragged him deeper into the castle. An escape route would be essential if he was going to make it out of here alive. However, Merlin's hope was quickly running dry as he was carried further and further away from the only exit to this godforsaken castle and further away from any area that he had explored so far.

What's worse was that, as they went, Merlin could see more and more undead (maybe undead? what else could they be?) people throughout the castle. And it wasn't just knights either: there were guards, servants, and even what looked like noblemen and noblewomen running around the castle. What made all of this truly eerie for Merlin though, is that all of them would stop and stare as soon as they saw him. Even though he was dressed like one of them, they could still somehow tell that he was an outsider, not one of their number.

After what felt like an eternity, the knight finally stopped in front of a large door and put Merlin down. Merlin's dread skyrocketed as the guards opened the doors and the knight dragged him inside.

The room itself was richly decorated, with a dining table, a study, and a plush canopy bed. If looked like a room fit for... a king.

Oh no.

As if summoned by Merlin's thoughts, the king rounded a corner and appeared before them, thankfully looking less angry than before, but still sending Merlin's fear into overdrive. Merlin jumped at the sound of doors slamming shut behind him, leaving him trapped with the king.

Merlin was sure that he was shaking terribly, but he managed force his joint to work and took a step backwards as the king began to approach him. Merlin continued to back away from the king until his back met the cold, unyielding wood of the door. Slowly, the king stepped towards Merlin, his eyes never leaving Merlin's form.

In what was entirely too short of a time period in Merlin's opinion, the king had closed the distance between them and was within an arm's reach of Merlin. Merlin's eyes desperately darted around for a weapon, anything he could possibly use the defend himself with, but there was nothing that he could reach.

As the king took one last step closer to Merlin, Merlin closed his eyes and braced himself for pain, even death. However, to his shock, no pain came. Instead, the felt the king's warm hands on his shoulders, and without warning, he was roughly pulled into a hug. What the actual fuck?!

Through the king's ragged breathing, he could hear more of those unfamiliar words, this time spoken tenderly.

"Oh Myrddin, hwǣr eart þū bēon?"

TRANSLATIONS:

Gripan híe! Híe syndon fandian to niman Myrddin! = Catch them! They're trying to take Merlin!

Hū darrst þū āsceacan hine from mē! Iċ hæbbe bīdode ofer þūsend geara for þisne tīman, and þū ātēowedest tō nīefre hine from mē stelan! Þū scealt āgildan for þis! = How dare you try to take him from me! I have waited over a thousand years for this moment, and you've attempted to steal him from me! You must pay for this!

Nimðað þa ungewelwieras to ðære cyrcan cwellan, wē magon dēmian mid him æfter. Gwaine, nim Myrddin to his geardas and hafa Gaius locian ofer hine. And be mildheort, he sceal hæbbe geferod eft fram Avalon and mæg swilc bēon in pinunge fram his wundum! Gecyða eft to mē mid Gaius's gemetungum þonne hē geendod hæfð. = Take the intruders to the dungeon cells, we can deal with them later. Gwaine, take Merlin to his chambers and have Gaius look over him. And be gentle, he must have just come back from Avalon and could still be in pain from his wounds! Report back to me with Gaius's findings when he's done.

Is hit sōþlīce hē? Āh, mīn cniht, þū eart eft tō ūs āgēan cuman! Hēr, Hlāford Gwaine, sete hine dūn on þæt cot and hæbbe hine his scyrte āweg þæt ic mæg gesēon gif his wund is ēac þǣr. = Is it really him? Oh, my boy, you've returned to us! Here, Sir Gwaine, set him down on the cot and have him take his shirt off so I can see if his wound is still there.

Þu gehyrde þone wer, Myrddin! Of mid þinum scyrte nu. Ic wat þu maegst beon sceamful be þan, ac þises sio tid is swiðe aðele. = You heard the man, Merlin! Off with your shirt now. I know you can be shy about it, but this time it's pretty important.

Hwæt, he þinceð tō bēon on sīðfæt hāl! Þū mæġst secgan Ārthūre þæt ic blīðe eom tō secgenne þæt ic ne mihte findan nān tācn his ǣrran lȳtlunge. = Well, he seems to be in perfect health! You can tell Arthur that I am pleased to report that I could find no sign of his previous injury.

Min cniht, ic eom swiðe blīð tō gesēon þē eft. Þū eart swīðe þearle gewilnod! Hēr, wē hæfdon sume þīnra reafa gehealdene for þē! Ic trowe þæt þū þē beteran gefēlan wille þonne þū sum þing gelīclicre gescēawian. = My boy, I am so deeply glad to see you again. You have been dearly missed! Here, we've saved some of your clothes for you! I'm sure that you'll feel better wearing something familiar again.

Oh Myrddin, hwǣr eart þū bēon = Oh Merlin, where have you been?

Well, I hope you guys liked this au! What I originally planned to be a short little prompt turned into this beast of a post! I probably won't be able to post on Friday (since I'm planning on adding a new chapter to my fic on ao3 on Friday or Saturday), so hopefully this will tide you all over until the weekend!

And, as always, thank you for reading through my ramblings! :D

(And please let me know if you'd like a continuation of this au!)

EDIT: You can find a continuation of this au here!

[hivemuthur]

A Deer and a Man - Ch.6.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit - pure filth :v

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5.

word count: 7,6K

tag: #d&m

summary: You are the eldest daughter of a noble family, soon to be married to one of the most eligible bachelors in the region—Viktor, the adopted son of House Talis. The arrangement is simple: a marriage that secures your family’s wealth in exchange for access to Hextech. What could possibly go wrong?

author’s note: What's up Viktor Nation? First: @mithrava and @rennethen thank you for all your help with proof reading and helping me putting this into sort of historically accurate setting. Playlist on Spotify. I can't believe it's over!

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

For the first time in your life, you take your mother’s advice. And it is, to say the least, difficult. Maintaining a calm, composed façade while a tempest rages inside you is not unfamiliar, but the effort becomes infinitely harder when it is laced with longing—not for something, but for someone.

And Viktor is a worthy opponent. Neither of you plays this game out of spite; it is fear that guides you, the quiet worry that one wrong move will send the other bolting. From your perspective, your heart is already bare—it is his turn to pick up whatever you left on the library floor.

The days pass in a rhythm that neither of you dares disturb. Conversations are polite, words exchanged with careful precision—utterly unhostile, yet utterly empty. The thrilling tension that once crackled between you, charged with unspoken desire and sharp-witted challenges, has dulled into something else entirely. A tension of stress. Of careful treading.

Once in a while, he tries—you have to admit that. There are moments when he edges closer to something deeper, where his words hover on the cusp of meaning, where his eyes search yours as if waiting for permission to proceed. But each time, you falter. You do not know what to give him, what is safe to surrender. Your mother left you no further instructions.

Every day ends with you torn between giving up, knocking on his door, or screaming into the pillow of your own bed. You choose the latter and promise yourself that tomorrow, you will be braver. Until you see him—slouched over his coffee, exhausted by something beyond your reach.

Until one day, the wind howls against the windowpanes, rattling them like an impatient hand demanding entry. Inside, the house feels smaller than ever, every room suffocating with its stillness, its emptiness. Your notebooks lie abandoned, their pages filled with thoughts that have nowhere else to go. The piano holds no appeal. Eliza, dear Eliza, would offer kind words and warm company, but even that feels unbearable—words would make the frustration real, give it form, and you cannot afford that.

So, you take your mother’s advice more literally than she likely intended. You step through the door without a word, a book tucked under your arm, and let the wind take you.

In your mind, Viktor follows. He finds you before you reach the gate, seizes your wrist with a desperate sort of heat in his touch. He says your name like it is both an apology and a demand, like he has realised too late that he cannot let you go.

But there is no hand at your wrist. No voice calling you back. The wind is your only companion, and it cares nothing for your foolish fantasies.

You walk. Past the house, past the garden, beyond the familiar paths you have taken before. The land stretches wide, unbound by human hands, unfolding in an endless sprawl of untamed beauty. The hills roll like waves frozen in time, their slopes marked by patches of gnarled trees, black against the grey sky. Fields stretch beyond sight, the grass bending and thrashing beneath the force of the wind, caught between dance and struggle.

A river carves its way through the valley, its waters wild, swollen from recent rains. On the banks, delicate flowers cling to the earth beside jagged stones, their petals trembling with each gust. Above, the sky churns, clouds thick and restless, shifting between light and shadow, as if the heavens themselves cannot decide whether to bless the land or break it.

Here, beauty does not exist without violence. Here, softness and savagery do not contradict but coexist. And yet, for all its ferocity, the landscape does not rage against itself. It simply is.

You sit upon a smooth, flat rock, letting the world settle around you, pressing your palms to the cool surface as if to ground yourself in its vastness. The book opens in your lap, but for a long while, you do not read. You only breathe. And for the first time in days, your mind is quiet.

Back at the house, more than one mind is restless.

At first, your absence is barely noted. The house is vast, and you often take solace in its quieter corners, slipping away with a book or a blank sheet of music. But as the hours stretch and Eliza’s calls go unanswered, a ripple of concern spreads through the household.

It is Eliza who worries first, pressing her lips together as she checks the library, the sitting room, even the piano bench, expecting to find you lost in thought. When she does not, her steps quicken. The kitchen staff shake their heads at her inquiry. The drawing room is empty. Your bedchamber, undisturbed.

Then, the matter reaches Viktor.

He notices your absence in a far quieter way. A missed meal, an empty chair where you ought to have been. He is good at reading patterns, after all—seeing the way things are supposed to fit together. You have been in his periphery for days, a ghost of yourself, barely tethered to the present. Even when you sat across from him, you were elsewhere. And now, you are nowhere at all.

Viktor sets his fork down. The thought is irrational—this immediate coil of unease in his gut—but it does not loosen. He does not ask where you are yet. He only stands, slow and deliberate, as he leaves the otherwise empty dining room.

It is easier to look for you than to think about what he has not said.

He has tried. He swears he has tried. The words have reached the back of his throat, caught there, strangled before they could see daylight. You have let him speak before—really speak, about things beyond the polite nothings you trade now. But each time he has tried, something stops him.

Sometimes, it is you. A wary glance, a flicker of hesitation when he nears the subject too closely. Other times, it is himself—the heavy hand of caution gripping his shoulder, the fear that one wrong step will send you running.

And then there is the contract. A foolish thing now, a ghost in the air between you, binding him tighter than his own hesitation. What use is freedom when it tastes like regret? What use is it when, instead of granting him solace, it imprisons him—his thoughts spiralling in all the wrong directions? One particularly harrowing thought slices through his heart. He tries to chase it away, yet to no avail. What if?

Upon visiting room after room, he finally finds Eliza. She startles, her fingers tightening around the apron she’s wringing between them. She recovers quickly, smoothing her expression into one of careful neutrality, but Viktor catches the flicker of hesitation in her eyes.

“What can I do for you, sir?” she asks, voice light but not quite steady.

Viktor studies her, his grip tightening on the cane at his side. “Eliza.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for pretences. “Where is she?”

Eliza’s composure cracks for the briefest moment before she dips into a small curtsy. “I am so terribly sorry, but I do not know, my lord.”

It isn’t enough. His pulse beats hard in his throat, his mind filling the absence of answers with the worst possibilities. “Who is she with?” The words slip past his lips before he can stop them, sharp and urgent, betraying more than he wants to.

He knows the contract’s terms, remembers them too well. The very thing he once clung to as assurance that he would not hurt you, not cage you, is now a blade twisting in his gut. The notion that you might have given up—truly given up—and gone ahead with your initial deal, cuts deeper than he is willing to admit.

Whatever you please, with whomever you please. A term he regretted since the beginning.

Eliza’s brows draw together in something like surprise, as if she cannot believe he would even think it. “With no one, my lord.” Her voice is quieter now, something knowing and gentler lacing her words. “She left on her own.”

Before Viktor can react, before he can feel or say anything, a thunderclap splits the sky outside, shaking the very air around them. His head snaps toward the window, where the light has already dimmed, the once-placid sky now churning with bruised clouds.

Where you are, the storm is already raging.

You hadn’t noticed it at first—too lost in the hush of the hills, in the way the vastness of the land swallowed the smallness of your troubles. But then a thick drop of rain lands squarely on the open page of your book, the ink smudging beneath the sudden weight of water. Another follows. Then another.

Hastily, you snap the book shut and rise from your rock of solitude, a cold wind biting at your exposed skin. The first proper gust sends a shiver down your spine, but it is not until the rain comes in earnest—buckets of it, slanting and constant—that you realise how terribly unprepared you are.

You grip the book under your arm, shielding it as best you can, and start back toward the house. There is no avoiding it now; you will be soaked to the bone before you even reach the gates. The walk feels shorter on the way back, and whatever had calmed inside you now feels even softer, as if the tempest in your heart has poured out to be echoed by the storm raging around you.

Rain pours in relentless sheets, drenching you through and threatening to dissolve the book in your hands. You contemplate abandoning your shoes altogether—clogged with mud as they are—but the sheer absurdity of the thought makes you feel strangely light. Home looms on the horizon, and you almost laugh at yourself: a fully grown woman, trotting through the muck in a drenched dress, holding a book over her head as though parchment could shield her from the downpour.

A silhouette emerges in the distance, growing clearer with each step until you can make out Viktor approaching, his coat draped over his head. The mere thought of him sparks something sour in your chest at first, yet the fact that he came out after you—in the middle of a storm—warms you enough that your initial scowl evaporates.

“Thank God,” he exhales as he reaches you. He sticks his cane in the mud, hands grip your shoulders abruptly before pulling the coat from his head and draping it over you. It’s no use—the thing is already soaked through—but the gesture alone is enough.

“Now you’re a believer?” you laugh, swiping rain from your face to see him better.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his fingers come up to brush wet strands from your forehead, and your heart stumbles when he murmurs, “You know what I mean. Are you hurt?”

Before you can reply, his cold hands cup your face, his thumbs ghosting over your cheeks. You wonder if he notices the heat blooming there.

For days, the feelings had been easier to hold at bay—kept at a careful distance, left to sit absently beside you at the table or dissolve into silence when you passed each other in the corridors. But now, with his touch grounding you in this moment, the illusion shatters. The ache rushes back, stronger than ever, no longer something you can pretend away. His hands, warm despite the chill, cradle you with a gentleness that weakens your resolve, his fingers steady despite the storm raging around you. And his eyes—full of worry, of something close to tenderness—search your face as if you are something fragile, something to be handled with care. The sheer attention of it, the way he truly sees you, steals whatever words you might have said.

“No,” is all that is able to leave you. His gaze burns into you, so intense that you have to look away. “Just wet,” you add softly.

The moment he is certain you are unharmed, Viktor can no longer suppress the tumult of emotions churning within him. Insecurity rages, jealousy—uninvited and fierce—surges to the forefront of his mind, raw and stinging. Without thinking, his hands grasp your shoulders with surprising intensity, his voice taut with restraint as he demands, "Where in God’s name have you been?"

“I—” You start, caught off guard, searching his face for the root of his frustration. But you tell the truth as it is. “I wandered. Too far to make it home before the rain.”

“Who were you with?” The accusation comes faster than his mind can stop it. It is vile—he knows that—you have given him no reason to doubt you, yet he must know. He has to.

Offence flashes across your face, your expression hardening as you straighten and tilt your chin in defiance. “Myself,” you say proudly.

“Do not lie to me, girl,” Viktor growls, his face inches from yours, his breath hot despite the chill of the storm. He swipes a hand through his dripping hair, water trickling into his eyes.

“I do not.” Anger rises in you now, sharp and indignant. You wrench your arms from his grasp. “And what business is it of yours, anyway?”

“You are my wife,” he says, and the words surprise even him. His tone surprises him—self-explanatory and wounded, as if you have done something wrong. His hands surprise him most of all, when, in desperation, they come to your waist, pleading for you not to go. Apology, guilt, need—everything tangled together, because Viktor has no idea how to say what he truly wants to.

“On paper,” you say quietly, one last attempt to hold your ground.

“No.” His grip tightens at your waist as he presses his forehead to yours. “You foolish girl,” he breathes, eyes squeezing shut as his lips barely graze yours. “You don’t know the first thing.” His voice is raw, his fingers digging into the damp fabric at your hips.

“How right you’ve been,” he murmurs at last—before sealing his mouth over yours.

The tension that has stretched between you for weeks—unspoken words, lingering touches, stolen glances—snaps all at once. Viktor moves. His mouth crashes against yours, not gently, not sweetly, but with hours, days, weeks of restraint unravelling in a single, desperate instant. He groans low in his throat as he tastes you—rain and warmth and home—and his hands pull you flush against him, fingers gripping at the small of your back as if he means to fuse you to him.

Water soaks through both of you, but neither of you care.

You gasp against his lips, and Viktor seizes the opportunity, deepening the kiss with a fervour that steals the air from your lungs. His tongue sweeps against yours, demanding, devouring, sending heat searing through your veins. His hands, once gripping you so tightly, soften—one slipping to cradle the back of your head, the other splaying wide against your lower back, keeping you pressed against the solid warmth of him.

Your fingers find purchase in his soaked curls, tugging, eliciting a sound from him that makes your knees weak. He groans against your lips, the sound guttural, wrecked, as though this—you—are the very thing holding him together. He kisses you like he is starving, like he has spent his whole life waiting for this moment and can finally, finally taste freedom.

When you break apart, it is only for air. He does not let you go—his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your rain-slicked lips, his fingers trembling where they cradle your spine. His eyes, dark and blown wide with want, search yours, as if trying to make sense of what he’s just done.

He takes your hand and places it on his chest, the rattling inside thunders through your fingers. "My heart aches for you," Viktor clamours, muffled by the rain pouring down upon you both, his voice raw and raspy.

Hot breath fans against your lips, trembling as he clings to you as though letting go would tear him apart. "All of me… aches for you," he says loudly, the words tumbling from him in a pained plea, as if the very act of speaking them is both agony and relief.

His hands come back to tighten around you, fingers dig into your flesh and fist your hair, as though he fears you might slip from his grasp. "I want to worship you, body and soul, as I vowed," he breathes, the words catching in his throat, his lips grazing yours between each shuddering syllable.

"From the moment your lips touched mine, I was undone." His voice falters, thick with longing, as though the very memory of it is too much to bear. He presses his forehead to yours once more, exhaling sharply, as if on the brink of breaking.

"From the moment I saw you playing that wretched sonata, I wanted you." The confession escapes him like a broken thing, something ripped from the depths of him, his need so raw it borders on torment. His mouth hovers over yours, trembling, his breath unsteady, waiting—begging—for you to close the unbearable distance once more. “From the moment I’ve met you I have been a deer, startled and scared of you capturing me but I am no longer.”

And you stand there, his lips on yours, speaking of an unbearable love that has tormented him since the very beginning of this journey. Your heart feels as though it might burst, and for the first time—perhaps ever—words fail you. Your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. Instead, tears spill over, the weight of his confession striking deep, touching the very core of your being. He has bared his soul to you—here, of all places—in the mud, in the rain.

Before your mind can summon an answer, your arms wind around his neck, fingers tangling in his rain-soaked hair, pulling him closer—deeper—until nothing remains between you. In this kiss, you try to convey everything your heart drives through your veins. Your lips ache, swollen from the force of his devotion, and his tongue—hot, insistent, unrelenting—feels nothing short of sinful against yours. And you want to sin with him, more than you have ever wanted anything.

When the kiss breaks, Viktor breathes heavily, yet a calmness washes over him. As much as he would love to stay here, far from everyone, his practical mind takes over. “Let’s get you home,” he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and retrieving his cane from the mud.

The journey back to the house is a clumsy one, filled with laughter and unspoken confessions lingering in the space between your bodies. The mud sucks at your shoes, threatens to steal them from your feet entirely, and more than once, Viktor nearly stumbles, caught between his cane and the treacherous ground. You reach for him instinctively, and when his arm slips around your waist in response, you smile and place your hands on his.

By the time the estate looms before you, the storm has softened into a steady downpour. Algernon rushes out to meet you, a look of pure horror crossing his face as he takes in your drenched and mud-splattered forms. Ever the devoted butler, he brandishes an umbrella as if it could somehow remedy the state you’ve both been reduced to.

“My lord, my lady—” He barely gets the words out before you both dissolve into laughter, Viktor’s hand swatting away the offered umbrella.

“I believe we are well beyond saving,” Viktor remarks, shaking water from his free hand.

You nod, wiping the rain from your brow. “It is a noble effort, Algernon, but I fear no umbrella could salvage us now.”

Surrendering with a put-upon sigh, Algernon steps aside as the two of you make your way inside. Mud trails behind you, streaking the floor, but neither of you care. Your shoes are discarded in the hallway, and you twist the water from your hair, watching the rivulets drip onto the stone.

Eliza appears a moment later, her face a mixture of worry and relief. She hesitates as though torn between embracing you and scolding you outright. Before she can decide, you reach for her, smoothing your hands over her shoulders.

“It’s all right,” you say gently, offering a tired smile. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Eliza exhales, her tension easing, though the concern does not fully leave her. “Come, let me draw you a bath, my lady. I’ll have warm towels sent up and—”

“No need,” Viktor interjects. His arm finds its place around your shoulders once more, his hold neither forceful nor uncertain, but deliberate. His voice is steady, brooking no argument. “I will... take care of it.”

A hush falls over the room. The weight of eyes upon you is unmistakable, the quiet, watchful sort of curiosity that cannot be helped. But you do not care.

You keep your gaze on Viktor as he looks straight ahead, guiding you forward. Only when you reach the top of the stairs do you falter, stopping by habit at the threshold of your own door. He nearly keeps walking, and when your pause forces him to a halt, he turns to you, hesitation flickering across his face.

Then you take the first step. Without a word, you move forward, past the familiar safety of your room, and he follows. He leads you down the hall, through the dim glow of candlelight and the quiet of the house, until he reaches his door.

It opens with a soft creak, and you step inside together, fingers still intertwined. The air in Viktor’s chamber is warmer than the hallway, scented faintly of parchment and oil, but it does little to chase the chill clinging to your skin.

You stand there, neither of you moving, uncharted waters spreading before you. The rain outside has dulled to a gentle patter against the windows, the only sound between you save for your breaths—his, steady but heavy; yours, shallow with anticipation.

Viktor’s eyes search yours, his grip on your hand loosening only so he can reach up, his thumb skimming across your cheek. The gesture is tender, reverent. His lips part as if he means to say something, but instead, he lingers, his brow furrowing as though he cannot quite believe this moment is real.

Then he exhales, shaking his head slightly, as if clearing his thoughts. “I will draw you a bath,” he murmurs, his voice quiet. He turns, about to step away, but before he can, your fingers curl around his wrist, stopping him. He barely has time to register the shift before you pull him back to you, your lips capturing his in a kiss that is anything but hesitant. It is deep, insistent, brimming with a need that has long since stopped being bearable.

He makes a sound against your mouth—a sharp inhale, half surprise, half surrender. His hands find your waist, hesitant only for a second before they tighten, pulling you close.

You break away only long enough to whisper, breathless and sure, “I cannot wait any longer.” Your hands tangle in his hair, holding him there. Your forehead presses to his, your lips brushing as you give him your confession. “I want you now.”

It is all that Viktor needs. It is more than enough—beyond anything he could have hoped for. He exhales, long and deep, and takes your hands in his.

“My wife,” he murmurs, bringing your knuckles to his lips. In a voice meant for you and you alone, he whispers, “Ask anything of me, and I will give it to you.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, and when he speaks again, it is as if his words are woven directly into the fabric of your being.

“You have bewitched me, body and soul, and—” His hands, still chilled from the rain but impossibly gentle, cup the base of your skull. His thumbs brush over your temples, reverent, trembling slightly as he breathes, “I love, I love, I love you.”

Heart, soul, and body seized, you let him guide you backward toward the bed. His fingers ghost along your back as he undoes each button—blindly, yet deftly, as though he has been preparing for this moment for the longest time. The ribbon at your waist slides free at his touch, and with steady hands, he eases the dress from your shoulders, baring the soaked chemise that clings to the contours of your body.

His lips find yours again, tender, slower, as the moment gets extended in time. Hands skim over your arms, then down, finding purchase at your waist before trailing higher. Through the damp fabric, his palms cup the curve under the hill of your breasts, thumbs grazing over the hardened peaks. His breath hitches, and a low, reverent sound escapes him as he squeezes gently.

“Forgive me for being such a fool,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours for a fleeting moment before his lips begin their descent.

He kisses down the column of your throat, lingering at your pulse before trailing lower, tracing a heated path to the curve of your collarbone. His mouth moves with purpose, and the wet layer of second skin clinging to you catches on his lips with a pulling, teasing touch. Where his breath and lips travel, warmth spreads; where he moves away, cool air rushes in, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

When his tongue swipes over where he knows you must ache for more, you gasp, your fingers burying in his hair. The tug makes his breath stutter, his heart wonder whether it’s a hesitation or eagerness.

“I love you,” he reassures into your chest. “My wife, I love you.”

Time folds around you, warping in the face of the moment you have longed for, the one you never let yourself believe would come to pass. It still feels impossible, like grasping at fog in the dawn—slipping through your fingers, becoming real where he touches you. You are trembling, though not from cold. The weight of waiting and yearning presses into your ribs like the wind before a storm, swelling until it threatens to break you apart.

Your fingers slide from his hair to the nape of his neck, where it clings to his skin in dampness. You tug to make him look at you. His eyes, burning gold even in the dim light, find yours at once.

“Viktor, I have never—” The words come fragile, barely more than breath. An unnecessary confession meets his kind eyes, and you realise he knows.

A quiet understanding settles over him as he nods thoughtfully, his hand gliding over the curve of your stomach, a grounding touch. “You know I won’t hurt you,” he murmurs.

And he won’t. Because you are not prey beneath him, not something to be taken. Now you are the wild creature caught in a snare, and Viktor is not the hunter—he is a man who has found you bound and trembling, and with steady hands, he grants you freedom.

Those hands slide down your sides and his mouth follows, pressing into your stomach, hums fall between each kiss. A tremor passes through him as he sinks to one knee before you, steadying himself on the edge of the bed. His palm presses against the back of your thigh, urging you to part for him. And then, with an aching slowness, he leans in.

His face presses against the apex of your thighs, and he inhales deeply—a shuddering breath that seems all-consuming. Heat pools, not only from the warmth of his lips but from the want that boils over, spilling right where his mouth lingers.

“Let me have you,” he pleads. "I beg you.”

Mouth agape, you lift your chemise—a non-verbal answer. You grasp it around your hips and lift, inch by inch, revealing your skin to him. Where it goes, Viktor’s hands follow. With its lift he rises, palms tracing up your body in a scalding touch. You rid yourself of your last layer shielding you from his eyes and stand naked before him, waiting and nervous. The air kisses your bare flesh before he does.

Through the kiss, his hands find yours, guiding them to his neck. Fingers on fingers, he ushers your palms to his buttons. You undo them one by one, yet your pulse pounds like rainfall against glass, impossible to still. You don’t know when it happens, but at last, his damp shirt gapes open, revealing glimpses of pale skin beneath.

You slip it from his shoulders and pause. Valleys of alabaster stretched flat over his chest lay before your eyes, marked by dark points of freckles and birth marks. Below, his stomach is hidden by layers of leather and suddenly you feel guilty for ever complaining about your breasts being bound. You search for permission within his eyes, and once more, his hands answer. He guides your fingers to straps and buckles and mutters a calming, trustful, “It’s alright. Here—”

You are granted a secret map to his ribs, when your arms crowd his frame and work blindly at the back—the brace gives with a small hiss, ungluing itself from him, pulling on the skin as you take it off. Underneath his flesh is tender, dent and blushed where the leather clung to it.

A shuddery breath escapes your mouth when you seek purchase of your forehead against his, and your hands trying to convey the feeling of awe press flatly to his stomach. Belly button sucks in on instinct, startled by the touch, meeting his spine before he relaxes into a breath and presses his naked chest to yours. He shudders then, as the meeting of skin and soul ripples through him.

Emboldened, you lean in and press your lips to his collarbone, tasting salt and rain. He sighs, the sound low and unguarded, and his head lulls back, offering more. Like the earth drinking in the first warmth of spring, he yields to you, welcomes you, as though you are the sun breaking through his endless winter.

Your hands begin their journey lower, trembling around his waist. Slowly, you dip your fingers past the clasps of his slacks, easing them down. He exhales when you free him, his arms loosen at his sides, fingers twitching as he stops himself from threading them into your hair and pulling your face flush against him.

There is one more cage stopping you from having him bare. It hugs his leg tightly, an embrace of metal tempered by Jayce’s hammer. The eye of Viktor’s knee stares at you when you mirror your husband and lower yourself to kneel. He leans to help you, guiding your fingers to where they should unclasp and pull, set him free if only for a moment. The brace falls heavy around his ankle, and without hesitation, you offer your shoulder for him to steady himself as he steps out from the last remnants of metal and cloth.

Your eyes remain fixed ahead as you take him in—half-hard, resting in the crease of his thigh. And Viktor does not need to guide you anywhere. Because just as he did, you lean in, pressing your cheek to the side of him, inhaling deeply through your nose as your eyes flutter shut. The scent of earth, rain, and soft skin fills your lungs, warming you from the inside out. Only then does his hand find your hair—because he can’t help himself.

The thought—insistent—may have first invaded his mind the moment he laid eyes upon your lips, only to return, night after night, as a recurring vision in the solitude of his room, mere walls away from you. But another, more pressing thought eclipses the last when he finally beckons you upward and whispers, his voice taut with restraint, “Please, lay down for me.”

You obey as you vowed—the mattress gives beneath you as you settle, breath unsteady, fingers twitching where they rest above your heart. Viktor follows, bracing himself between your legs, and with a  slowness that has your breath stuttering, he lifts them over his shoulders, wrapping his arms around your hips. His fingers press into the soft flesh, and he yanks you closer, his belly pressing into the bed.

Light of the day has vanished, and the night air kisses your skin where the clothes no longer shield you. He is careful, so careful, and yet you still tremble when his breath ghosts over the curls at the meeting of your thigs. He presses a kiss to the inside of your leg, and when you flinch, a hum, slow and deep, comes to reassure you. “There is nothing you must hide from me.” His hands squeeze gently at your hips, lips trailing lower. “Let me love you as you are.”

He bows his head, and you exhale—a breath long held finally set free. To see him better you prop yourself on your elbows only to fall back down in a seizing cramp when warm lips come to your centre—soft at first, a mere press, a breath, as if testing what can be done. Then firmer, more certain when Viktor begins to chart the shape of you with his mouth. A shiver rolls through you, coiling low in your belly, curling like ivy around your ribs.

His tongue is your tormentor—seeking, learning and teasing, and when you give away a sharp gasp, a low chuckle rumbles across your skin. His arms tighten around your thighs, holding you open as he delves deeper. And above all things—eager and careful, Viktor is meticulous, as he always is. You are certain a map to your undoing is being crafted in his brain.

Heat spreads in molten waves, pulling you under, swallowing you whole and your breath starts coming in fractured syllables. Viktor hums against you, the vibration alone makes you whimper. He is enjoying this, you realise with a fresh wave of disbelief. The way he lingers, drags his tongue in long, lazy strokes only to pull away and watch the way you writhe and have you reach blindly for him.

When he parts from you, just barely, you whimper at the loss. But then—oh—he presses a kiss to the aching place he has abandoned and murmurs, voice hungry and adoring, “You are even lovelier like this.”

He does not wait for you to answer—does not give you the chance. Instead, he dips his head once more, lips sealing around you in a way that has your neck exposed, your hands flying to his hair, pulling him closer, though you hardly know whether you mean to push him away or drown beneath his touch.

You choose to drown. Finding purchase in his curls, your hips press down, moving of their own accord against his lips as the tide swells within you. Heat surges through your veins, pooling low, taut as an overripe fruit on the verge of bursting, an eggshell cracking under pressure, a kettle whistling furiously, its handle too hot to grasp.

Your restraint shatters as his name spills from your lips, followed by a sharp, helpless fuck. Viktor nearly smirks—he wants to tease, to remark on how sweetly filthy your mouth is and how much he’s missed hearing it—but he does not dare stop now.

His tongue delves deeper, coaxing you over the edge with aching precision. Pressure crests, then snaps—your body seizes, taut as a bowstring, before releasing all at once. You break beneath him, limbs trembling, thighs quivering against his shoulders. The aftershocks roll through you in shudders, little earthquakes that leave you breathless, utterly undone.

You clasp a hand to your forehead and inhale deeply, and before you can say a word your man is beside you, lips glistening with your slick, eyes happy and complete. Affection surges through you when you wrap yourself around him, straddle his lap and sink your tongue into his mouth, kissing him greedily, tasting yourself on his lips and whisper a breathy, “God, I love you.” Before his startled chuckle forms into an answer you cut his breath off again, licking into his mouth, mussing his hair and teasing his cock with your ass and Viktor groans, overwhelmed, helpless hands come to steady your hips.

With this, you calm yourself. His tongue moves in an unhurried, gentle rhythm, his eyelashes brushing against your warm cheek with every slow blink. Your hair, still curled and frizzled from the rain, falls around you both like a heavy curtain, shielding your faces from the world.

Curious, you reach behind yourself, where he is hard and aching for you. Wetness beads at the tip, spilling like tears of pleasure, and as you spread it across his flushed skin, his hips jerk instinctively, seeking more of your touch.

His hand wraps around yours, guiding you, fingers threading through your own as he strokes himself with your joined touch. The sensation is close to unbearable—too much, too soon, after too long. A groan breaks from his throat, and his jaw tenses as if he is trying to restrain himself, to keep from losing control and joining you in little death too soon.

He feels foolish at the way his body reacts, at how the simplest brush, a touch close to innocent almost ends him. He presses his forehead to yours, breath uneven, and when he finally guides your hips lower, his length standing proud at your entrance, he whispers, “Slow.”

You nod, eyes glazing over him, taking him in as you sit up. His chest hollows with each breath, a sheen of sweat clinging to him like a satin veil. Strands of damp hair plaster to his forehead, and his throat bobs with a swallow as he looks at you—eyes full of reverence, of adoration so boundless it takes away your fear. Never have you seen a man this pretty.

Your hips lower to take him, and an unfamiliar stretch unlocks your jaw, making your mouth hang agape. Your fingers had done Viktor no justice, just as his did none to you. He is real and hot and solid, filling you in a way that leaves you breathless, caught between hesitation and wonder. A whimper escapes you as your body adjusts, as he parts you, claiming space within you that had never been taken before.

And you want it to belong to Viktor. A long moment passes in breath-filled silence as you accept him whole. He throbs within your muscles but does not rush you, waiting—always waiting—for you to move first. And when you do—oh, his poor soul nearly leaves his body.

Hands tremble as they brace against your thighs, his grip unsteady, barely grounding himself in the reality of you. When your hips begin to roll, he watches, helpless, as he sees himself peeking from the darkness of your curls, only to lose the sight again when you drag yourself up along his navel.

Daring to test his fate, Viktor presses a hand to your stomach, urging you to lean back. You obey, arching for him, palms braced on his thighs. And there—there is his fantasy made flesh.

His breath stutters as he sees it: himself, deep inside you, pressing against the taut plane of your belly, bulging beneath your skin. A sight he barely dared to dream would feel this intoxicating. Fascinated, he smooths his fingers over it, tracing the outline solemnly. Just as in the confines of his mind, your hair spills back, teasing against his thighs, and you move—slow and torturous. A rhythm of your own making, agonising him, locking him in the perversion he has dreamt of countless nights.

And you—God, you are full. Claimed in a way you had never imagined, the sensation unlike anything your fingers could have ever prepared you for. Not pain—something richer, deeper, something that makes you feel shaped for this. For him. But this time, you are not merely taken. You are taking. You are the one in control, the one choosing how he claims you, deciding how deep, how slow, how much he will be lost inside you.

Viktor curses, voice rough, and the sound ignites something in you, a power that spurs you to move again, to ride him deeper. He groans, his grasp flexing against your belly, then lower, until his fingers find where your bodies join. And then—oh.

A brush of his thumb. Once. Twice. A slow, teasing circle over your clit, like a scientist he is, testing a theory. Your breath snags, thighs tensing. Encouraged, he presses again, firmer this time, his touch finding a rhythm, coaxing pleasure to coil deep and hot in your gut.

Viktor watches you through heavy-lidded eyes, mouth parted as if he means to speak but cannot find the words. His thumb moves in slow circles, in tandem with the languid rise and fall of your hips, as if guiding you to ruin at a pace you dictate. And you let him, lost in the sensation of being utterly filled, utterly known.

Then, voice hoarse, he finally breathes, “Had I not been here, feeling you—God, seeing you—I would never believe it to be true.” His free hand, the one not lost between your bodies, slides up your ribs, splaying over your sternum, as if to hold this moment inside you, as if to brand it into your very bones.

Your lashes flutter, and you cover his hand with your own, pressing it against your chest, against your heart that beats wildly beneath his palm. “It would not be true without you,” you whisper, and the honesty in it undoes him.

Viktor groans, something guttural and raw, his fingers flexing as if to grasp every part of you at once. His hips jolt beneath you, breaking the rhythm, and you cry out, the sudden force of it igniting something deeper. His thumb falters, then presses harder, more insistent, chasing your pleasure as his own unravels.

“You—” His voice fractures, shaking like his hands as they map over your body, overwhelmed by this. This heart given to him. “You are—” He does not finish, because his mouth captures yours instead, open, desperate, as if he could drink the words from your lips, as if you alone make them true.

Holding hands at the edge of the mountain, you step forward with your eyes closed. A yapping dog of reason tries to stop you, but you long lost your sight for anything else than each other. Your bodies fall into one another—fast and seizing. Muscles contract, and what Viktor gives, you take—you draw his hot seed into you with the quiver of your core, tightening, milking, binding you as one. Your souls—two fools at the beginning of their journey—find solid ground on the invisible bridge of faith.

It unravels into breaths, into mouths seeking each other again—no longer grasping, only wanting. And you fall once more, this time into a tight embrace, joined by hearts, by hips, by hands tangled in each other’s hair, sweat mingling with the scent of rain you carried in from the fields.

You dream of them—sunken into mist that twirls around the trees, resting heavily upon the grass. The valley stretches wide, endless, as quiet as breath. Somewhere within it, a stag stands, noble and still, his antlers a crown of patience. Near him, his mate, delicate but steadfast, her ears flicking at the whispers of the wind. They do not startle, nor flee, for there is no threat here. No snare, no hunter—only the hush of dawn and the hush of their existence, intertwined.

You sleep upon the flat of Viktor’s chest, your fingers resting in the gentle ditches of his ribs, rising and falling with the tide of his breath. Peace holds you both, in body and in dream, where nothing must be said to be known.

Dawn peeks through the window, pale and silver-edged, stirring you from slumber. Viktor does not wake yet. You turn your head, watching him. Angelic, spent, and weightless in rest, his lips curve at the corners with a smile that lingers even in sleep. It is the expression of a man at peace, and it tightens something deep within you.

Quietly, you slip from the bed and move to the window, drawing the curtain shut—but you pause. There, beyond the glass, in the hush of morning, you see it.

A stag. Proud and slow, he feeds upon the grass at the edge of the forest. His hide gleams faintly in the light, the soft bristle of his fur shifting with the breeze. Beside him, a doe—graceful, watchful. She moves with him, unhurried, as if they have all the time in the world. Together, they exist beyond any tether, any force that would claim them.

You watch, transfixed, until warmth curls around your belly—Viktor’s arms, pulling you gently against him. His chin settles in the crook of your shoulder, and for a long moment, he says nothing, seeing what you are seeing.

Then, at last, his voice, soft and knowing: “My beloved.” He exhales, his breath fanning over your skin, and you feel it—a quiet, smiling revelation settling into your bones. “If I were ever a man in this equation, I fear I was a foolish one.” You turn to nuzzle into him, your lips brushing his jaw as you whisper, “I’m afraid neither of us, at any point, has been a man, my husband.”

[edenesth]

Arrows and Affection

Pairing: warrior!Yeosang x fem!reader

AU: historical au (Joseon era)

Word Count: 4.8k

Summary: Admiral Kang never misses his mark—until today. No matter how many times he draws his bow, the bullseye remains untouched. The wind hasn't changed, nor has his skill faltered. The only difference? The presence of a certain someone who has somehow turned his unwavering focus into a battlefield of its own.

Genre: fluff, comedy

A/N: Y'all when I saw these damn pics Yeo posted, I knew I'd have to write something. Then I heard Fallin' by Bang Yedam and couldn't stop thinking about this scenario.

ATEEZ MASTERLIST

I still cannot believe this man is real.

The thought echoed in your mind as you struggled to tear your gaze away from him. With effortless precision, Kang Yeosang drew his bow, his stance steady, his movements practised to perfection. Years of training had made archery second nature to him—so much so that watching him was almost hypnotic. He wasn't just any warrior; he was the Admiral Kang, the youngest and most revered commander in Joseon, a man whose victories in battle had cemented his place in history. And yet, despite his fearsome reputation, you still found it surreal that you could stand this close to him.

"Wh-what are you doing here? You shouldn't be here right now!"

The urgent whisper jolted you from your thoughts. A senior maid stared at you in horror, eyes wide as she took in your pitiful attempt to hide behind a paper door—one that did little to conceal your presence. You flashed her a sheepish grin and waved the washcloth in your hand. "Relax, I'm just cleaning. No one pays attention to a maid doing her job."

She sighed, exasperated. "That may be, but the admiral specifically requested complete silence during his training. We cannot risk disturbing him."

You huffed. "Well, then that doesn't make him a very good archer, does it? If he's truly the best, he should be able to shoot well anywhere. The battlefield isn't exactly a peaceful place, now is it?"

Her face paled at your audacity, and she frantically motioned for you to lower your voice. Then, as if realising she wouldn't win this argument, she reached for your washcloth. "Please, just this once, listen to me. Besides, you know very well you're not—"

Before she could finish, you pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her. "I've been good all week, haven't I? I did everything you asked—no complaints. Just let me stay here for a bit and enjoy the view, yeah? You can have my meal again tonight," you added with a wink.

She shook her head, already resigned to her fate, too tired to argue or remind you that everything you had done over the past week was merely your duty. "Fine. But promise me you won't distract the admiral, and make sure you return to your quarters before—"

"I will, I will," you interrupted, beaming. "And I promise, you won't get in trouble because of me!"

You clapped soundlessly in victory as she handed your washcloth back, shaking her head in disbelief before walking away. But not before shooting you one last pleading look, silently begging you not to cause any more trouble. You only grinned in response, sticking your tongue out playfully and waving goodbye before returning to your so-called task—wiping down an already spotless door. A door that, conveniently, gave you the perfect view of the admiral, deep in focus as he trained.

A small sigh of awe slipped past your lips, your earlier mischievous grin softening into a dreamy smile as you watched him. He checked his bow with practised ease before getting into position once more, gripping it firmly. You bit your lip, anticipation bubbling inside you—this was your favourite part. He raised his bow, holding an arrow in place, lifting it just high enough to aim. Then, with calculated precision, he closed one eye to focus on his target.

Damn.

This pose—this was the one that always left you weak in the knees. Just when you thought he couldn't possibly be any more attractive, he went ahead and proved you wrong. Every. Single. Time.

Despite his fearsome reputation on the battlefield, Admiral Kang was, at heart, a little... adorable. When he wasn't fighting wars, he always seemed lost in his own world, absentmindedly staring at whoever was speaking to him with that cute, dazed expression. He was a unique character, to say the least. And maybe that was why you loved seeing this side of him even more—the version of him that was serious, focused, and completely in his element.

It was just so freaking hot.

Until it… wasn't.

Your futile wiping came to an abrupt halt as you furrowed your brows, watching the unfamiliar scene unfold before you. For the first time in all the years you had known him, he let out a sharp curse, frustration flickering across his usually composed face. He reached for another arrow, aiming with a little more force than necessary. Your gaze darted to the target board—only to realise that he had missed the bullseye.

Your mouth fell open. He missed?

A tiny gasp escaped you because, quite frankly, that was unheard of. Admiral Kang never missed—not once since he had built his legendary reputation. It was practically the first rule of the universe: the sun rises, the rivers flow, and Kang Yeosang hits his mark every single time. Yet here he was, missing the target like some rookie foot soldier.

You bit your lip, suddenly concerned. Was he okay? Maybe today just wasn't his day. Maybe that's why he had insisted on training alone.

And then—thunk! Another miss.

Your concern quickly morphed into something else entirely as you took in the sight of him, all tense muscles and narrowed eyes, jaw clenched in frustration. Oh. Oh no. Why was this... hot?

You didn't think you'd ever witness the day Kang Yeosang would be this visibly mad—not at you, not at anyone, but at himself. And somehow, instead of feeling purely sympathetic, your brain short-circuited with an entirely inappropriate thought: angry Admiral Kang was stupidly attractive.

His brows knitted together as he grabbed yet another arrow, muttering a string of curses under his breath, his voice lower and rougher than usual. It was such a stark contrast from his usual soft, slightly dazed self that it sent a shiver down your spine.

Oh, this is dangerous.

You had to press a knuckle to your mouth to stifle the delighted squeal threatening to escape. Because good god, if this man got any hotter, you might just pass out right then and there.

"Goddamnit," Yeosang cursed under his breath, his eyebrow twitching as his fourth shot missed its mark.

With a sigh, he closed his eyes, forcing himself to quell the frustration bubbling inside him. He couldn't believe he was letting this affect him. He wasn't a fool. He was the youngest admiral in Joseon, after all—he had noticed your presence the second you stepped foot inside.

But he hadn't said anything.

At first, he assumed it was just some clueless new maid who had wandered in, unaware of the rules. He was ready to ignore it altogether. But then—he heard your voice. His sharp hearing picked up on your hushed negotiation with a senior maid, who was desperately trying to shoo you away. His pulse quickened.

It was you.

And like a complete idiot, instead of brushing it off, he found himself wanting to impress you. That's where he had gone wrong. His focus had wavered, and now, for the first time in his career, his shots were landing anywhere but the bullseye.

Who knew a single woman could have such an effect on him?

Annoyed—mostly at himself but also at you for making him embarrass himself like this—he finally cleared his throat, loud enough for you to hear.

"Just how long do you plan on hiding there?" he called out, finally turning toward your direction.

He had to bite down on his lip to keep from laughing at your absolutely pathetic attempt at concealment. Pressed flat against the paper door like it would somehow make you invisible, your familiar silhouette was outlined perfectly against the thin material—especially with the sunlight streaming in from behind.

He sighed, setting down his bow and taking a step closer. "I knew you were there the moment you walked in. Show yourself."

Crap. Crap. Crap.

You thought you had been sneaky, but apparently not. If he had known you were here all along, that meant trouble—because you were supposed to be elsewhere. And, worse, he knew that because you weren't just any ordinary maid.

Your only hope now? Act like one.

With your head lowered, you stepped forward hesitantly, bowing respectfully. "A-apologies, my lord. I was only here to clean. I know you asked to be left alone today, and I shouldn't have lingered," you murmured, voice small. "I'll leave at once."

You turned on your heel, ready to flee, but his voice stopped you cold.

"Hold on a second."

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Oh, no. You had promised the senior maid you wouldn't cause trouble, and now you were on the verge of dragging her into this mess.

"If you knew I asked for privacy," he mused, his voice deep and steady, "why did you come here in the first place?"

You gulped, fingers tightening around the washcloth in your hands. This was not how today was supposed to go. You had planned to admire him for a while, soak in the view, and then sneak back to your actual post. Not get caught red-handed.

"Answer me," he pressed.

Your breath hitched. His voice was much closer this time.

Too close.

"I-I was wrong, my lord," you stammered.

He sighed. "That's not what I want to hear. Because of you, I lost my focus. Look me in the eyes and tell me the truth."

Slowly, you turned—only to find him standing right behind you. There was no escaping now. No more excuses. It was time to own up to your mistake.

"I… I just—" you blurted before throwing your hands up in defeat. "I missed you, okay?! I wanted to see your stupid face before going back to my boring duties. Is that a crime?"

Silence.

Then, Yeosang smiled. "See? Now, was that so difficult?" he teased, leaning down slightly to meet your pouting face.

"You knew it was me all along?" you asked, narrowing your eyes.

He nodded.

"How?"

He smirked, fingers tilting your chin up until your eyes met his. "How could I not? You're far too beautiful to be just a maid, my lady."

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you huffed, swatting his hand away. "Ugh, I really thought I had you fooled."

His grin widened. "So, does this mean you finally admit you missed me? What happened to 'I don't want to see your dumb face again'?"

Your jaw dropped. "You did not just bring that up."

"Oh, but I did." He leaned in, voice dripping with amusement. "Verbatim."

Scoffing in disbelief, you pushed at his chest—though, of course, he barely budged. "You're impossible."

Turning away with a dramatic hmph, you muttered, "Go ahead, tell your mother I sneaked out. I'll take whatever punishment she has for me, as usual. Not like you'd ever stand up for me in front of her."

Before you could take another step away from him, Yeosang moved swiftly, wrapping his arms around you from behind. His voice was softer now, warm against your ear.

"I'm sorry, my love." His embrace tightened slightly. "You know how she is when it comes to the duties of a daughter-in-law. I wish I could do something, but as the admiral's wife, you have to set an example for the people. I know those lessons bore you to death, but she's only here for the Lunar New Year. Just hang in there for a little longer, yeah?"

You sighed, finally allowing yourself to melt into his warm embrace—the very one you had gone without for nearly a week.

You had been giving him the silent treatment ever since he failed to defend you when his mother insisted you attend etiquette lessons for the entirety of the Lunar New Year. You had protested, of course—this was supposed to be the one time of the year when your husband was free from his duties, a rare chance for the two of you to be together. But instead, she had taken that precious time away, forcing you into lessons you had little patience for.

Deep down, you understood her reasoning, but that didn't make it any less frustrating. You had been looking forward to this time for weeks, only to have it stolen from you. And so, out of pure stubbornness, you had refused to attend the lessons diligently. Your frustration had driven you to banish Yeosang from your shared quarters in the heat of the moment—a decision you regretted almost immediately. Sleeping in an empty bed had been unbearable, but your pride had been too strong to call him back from the guest chambers.

So, today, desperate for an escape from yet another dreary lesson, you had feigned illness and slipped away. If your mother-in-law discovered your empty room, there would be consequences—not just for you, but for the poor maid who had dared to help you.

The admiral sighed against your hair, his arms tightening around you as if afraid you'd slip away again. Then, with gentle insistence, he turned you in his embrace, his warm hands cupping your cheeks. His thumbs brushed over your skin, wiping away the traces of your lingering pout.

"You're so stubborn," he murmured, his tone laced with fondness. "But I suppose that's part of why I love you."

Your heart skipped a beat. His gaze, steady and filled with an emotion so tender it made your breath hitch, held yours captive.

"I missed you too, you know," he admitted at last, exhaling as if finally releasing a weight from his chest. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to sleep without you? To wake up every morning and not see your annoying little grin first thing?" His lips quirked up slightly, but there was sincerity in his words.

You blinked up at your husband, guilt slowly creeping in.

"I know I should've defended you more," he continued, his voice softer now. "But it's not that simple, my love. I already defied my mother once when I chose you—when I turned my back on the noblewoman she wanted for me. I chose you because you are everything I ever wanted. You're bright, bubbly, and full of life. You make even the dullest moments feel exciting. And though she may not understand it now… you are the best decision I have ever made."

Your breath caught in your throat.

He let out a quiet sigh, his thumbs still tracing circles against your skin. "I just… I only want the two most important women in my life to get along. That's all I've ever wanted. I know it's not easy for you, and I know she can be difficult, but if you could just try… even a little, it would make things easier. For both of us."

Your chest tightened. You had been so caught up in your own frustration that you hadn't once stopped to consider how hard this must have been for him too. Balancing the expectations of a mother he respected and the love of his life—how exhausting that must have been.

Your gaze softened, and you lifted your hands to rest over his. "I… I didn't think about it that way," you admitted, cheeks warming. "I was so focused on my own feelings that I didn't realise how hard this must be for you too."

He said nothing, only watching you with patient eyes as you let the realisation settle.

You sighed, leaning into his touch. "I'm sorry," you whispered. "I promise… I'll try to be better from now on."

At that, his entire face brightened, relief flooding his features as he pulled you in closer. "Really?"

You gave a small nod, lips curving into a sheepish smile. "Really." Then, with a playful glint in your eyes, you added, "I promise I won't be sneaking off to give you surprise visits like I did today again, Admiral Kang."

His jaw dropped slightly, and you could practically see the flicker of realisation in his expression. You had him. As disciplined and upright as he usually was, even he couldn't deny that your little intrusion today had made things far more exciting. Damn the impropriety of it all—he loved you for that.

"Oh, you little minx," he muttered, shaking his head in faux exasperation before a smirk tugged at his lips. A breathless chuckle escaped him as he dipped down, capturing your lips in a soft yet lingering kiss. His warmth seeped into you, his touch grounding you in the moment. He kissed you as if he had been waiting for this forever, as if every second apart had been an eternity.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his grin utterly boyish. "Does this mean I can move back into our quarters now?"

You huffed, pretending to think it over, watching as he waited—far too eagerly—for your answer. His hands remained on your waist, thumbs tracing gentle circles against your sides, as if afraid you might slip away again.

Finally, you sighed dramatically. "Fine. But only because I missed you too."

His laughter rang through the air, light and full of joy, before he swooped in to kiss you again, sealing your truce with all the love he had to give.

When he pulled away, neither of you moved for a moment, eyes closed as he pressed his forehead against yours again. He simply breathed—cherishing the warmth of your presence after a week apart.

He knew you had been upset, not just about the lessons but because he hadn't sided with you when you protested. But what could he have done? He was caught between the two most important women in his life—his mother, the woman who raised him, and you, the woman he vowed to cherish. It was never a choice he wanted to make, so he had remained neutral, though it had pained him to see the disappointment in your eyes.

Still, that was why he had spoken to his mother later, asking her to go easier on you. You might not have noticed, but she had—she never truly reprimanded you for your inconsistent attendance, and Yeosang had never made a fuss when you kicked him out of your shared quarters, knowing you needed space. No matter how much it killed him to be away from you, he respected your emotions.

But now, feeling the way you held onto him just as tightly as he held onto you, he was glad. Glad that you were willing to meet him in the middle. That was one of the many reasons he loved you so much.

He could still remember the look of surprise on his mother's face when he had, for the first time, broken out of his usual quiet and composed demeanour—other than the time he had first brought you home, announcing with unwavering conviction that you were the love of his life and the only woman he would marry.

It had shocked her then. And it had shocked her again when he spoke up for you, telling her how much you meant to him and how he wished for the woman who raised him to care for his wife the same way she had always cared for him.

And surprisingly, she had understood.

Truthfully, his mother had never truly been against you. At first, she had been wary—sceptical of how well a woman as lively and outspoken as you would fit into their composed and traditional household. But over time, she began to understand why her son had chosen you.

You were bright—perhaps a little too much at times—but she had come to admire your honesty. She never had to worry about a two-faced daughter-in-law who smiled sweetly in front of her but harboured resentment behind her back. You were genuine—straightforward with your emotions, never afraid to show your displeasure or your affection. And above all, the love you and Yeosang shared was undeniable. At the end of the day, that was what mattered to her most. That her son was happy.

And as the admiral held you now, he knew that happiness was right here, in his arms.

"So, tell me," Yeosang murmured, tilting his head as he gazed into your eyes, the ones he adored so much. "How exactly did you manage to slip out of your lesson today?"

You bit your lip, knowing there was no use lying when he was already staring at you so intently. With a sheepish grin, you admitted, "I told her it's that time of the month and that the pain was too unbearable to continue."

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he reached out to squish your cheeks. "And yet here you are, sneaking around in a maid's uniform just to watch your incredibly handsome husband practice. You must've been desperate for me, hm?"

You scoffed, prying his hands off your face only to squish his cheeks in return. "That's right, admiral. I came all this way just to see you fail miserably at hitting a bullseye over and over again. All because your wife was watching."

His jaw dropped in exaggerated offence as he gasped. "You wound me, my love," he declared dramatically before bending down to retrieve his bow. Then, with a smirk, he held it out to you. "If you're so clever, Lady Kang, why don't you show me how it's done?"

"Gladly," you shot back, grabbing the bow with confidence—only for your bravado to falter the moment you realised just how heavy it was. Your arms wobbled slightly under the unexpected weight, but you cleared your throat, pretending as if nothing had happened.

Your husband noticed. Of course, he did. But to his credit, he bit back his laughter, unwilling to embarrass you further. Instead, he simply watched, eyes gleaming with fondness. If only you knew how much his heart swelled with pride and affection at this moment—seeing you attempt something he had always wanted to teach you. He had dreamed of this for so long, hoping to pass on at least the basics of archery, if only as a means of self-defence. But the opportunity had never come—until now.

Clumsily, you reached for an arrow, fumbling slightly as you held it up. He softened, stepping behind you in an instant. His arms slid around you, one hand lifting the bow's weight with ease, the other steadying your trembling grip as he helped you pull the arrow back.

You glanced up at him, feeling the warmth of his breath near your ear, the solid comfort of his presence surrounding you completely. You had never felt safer. It was moments like these that reminded you just how much pride you had in being his wife. That even after everything, you still found it hard to believe that this man—this strong, kind, and loving man—was truly yours.

"Now focus and aim," he murmured. "We'll release when you're ready."

Nodding, you focused on the target, narrowing your eyes as you slowly closed one to improve your precision. You adjusted the bow slightly, remembering one of the things he had always told you—aim a little higher than your target, especially at longer distances, because gravity will always pull the arrow down.

"Ready," you whispered.

And then, together, you released. The arrow soared through the air, cutting cleanly through the space between you and the target. And for the first time that day, an arrow struck the bullseye.

We did it!

You blinked in disbelief, your eyes locked on the arrow firmly lodged in the bullseye. Slowly, you turned to your husband, who stood beside you, mouth slightly agape.

"Did you see that?" you gasped, your excitement bubbling over.

Yeosang let out an incredulous laugh, shaking his head. "I must be dreaming. My wife, an archery prodigy?"

Grinning, you nudged him playfully. "Maybe I should take your place as admiral instead."

He clutched his chest dramatically. "Stealing my title already? You truly are ruthless, my love."

Before you could react, he suddenly scooped you up into his arms with ease, making you yelp in surprise. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around his neck.

"Yeosang! Put me down!" you giggled, squirming in his grasp.

"No can do," he hummed, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You impressed me today, so you deserve a reward. And since you did lie your way out of lessons just to see me…" He trailed off, a mischievous and suggestive glint in his eyes.

Your brows furrowed in suspicion. "Yeo, what are you planning—"

Before you could finish, he started making his way toward the exit. But just as he reached the doorway, he stopped abruptly. Because standing right there, about to step in, was his mother.

You gasped, tightening your hold around your husband's neck as he froze in place. "M-Mother…" he stammered.

Old Madame Kang's gaze flickered over the scene before her—her daughter-in-law, who had earlier complained of agonising menstrual pain, now dressed in a maid's uniform, being cradled in her son's arms. She blinked. You swore you saw her eye twitch.

"I-I can explain," you started, and Yeosang quickly set you down, clearing his throat and smoothing down your ruffled hair and hanbok as if that would somehow make things better.

His mother levelled you both with a withering stare. "Please do."

You gulped, exchanging a nervous glance with him, both of you shrinking under her sharp gaze like children caught red-handed.

"She just missed me, Mother," Yeosang admitted, gripping your hand firmly. "She didn't know how else to say it, so she… snuck out to see me."

A beat of silence passed.

Then, to your utter shock, the elderly woman rolled her eyes. "Is that it?" she huffed, exasperated.

You both blinked. That was… oddly forgiving?

She crossed her arms. "You couldn't have just told me? Why go through the trouble of sneaking out and dressing like a maid just to see your own husband?" Her expression softened, though her tone remained firm. "Do you have any idea how worried I was? I brought you herbs, only to find your quarters empty. I came here to inform my son that you'd vanished, and instead, I find the two of you making fools of yourselves…"

Your eyes darted to Yeosang, who looked just as stunned as you felt. Was this really happening?

"…I swear, you two are impossible," she muttered, shaking her head. Then, as if realising just how ridiculous the situation had become, she pinched the bridge of her nose, suppressing what you swore was a reluctant smile. "So, I take it there was never a real period?" she asked, arching a brow.

You swallowed, nodding slowly, unsure where this was going.

She observed you both for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a small shake of her head, she finally spoke. "I'll forgive you on one condition." You perked up, hopeful—until she continued, "Give me grandchildren soon."

Your husband choked on air. You stiffened, eyes widening in sheer horror as heat flooded your face.

Meanwhile, your mother-in-law remained entirely unbothered, watching your reactions with the calm of someone who had just commented on the weather. "Well, now that I know you're perfectly healthy, I'll be on my way. See you at your next lesson."

And with that, she turned and strode off, leaving you both rooted in place, still processing the absolute chaos she had just unleashed.

The moment she disappeared down the corridor, you exhaled a breath you hadn't even realised you were holding.

Yeosang cleared his throat, glancing at you with a look that was equal parts mischievous and smug. With exaggerated flair, he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a playful kiss to your knuckles.

"Well, you heard her loud and clear, my love," he murmured, his voice rich with amusement. "Shall we begin fulfilling our noble duty right away?"

Your eyes widened in mortification. "Kang Yeosang!" you hissed, smacking his arm harder as your face burned. "She can still hear us!"

And sure enough, a quiet chuckle echoed from down the hall.

Your husband only laughed, unfazed, before intertwining his fingers with yours and gently tugging you forward. "It's fine, my love," he teased. "She understands."

Hand in hand, the two of you strolled back to your chambers, his warmth a steady comfort beside you. His lighthearted humming filled the air, and when he stole a fond glance at you, a smile tugged at his lips.

The admiral had never imagined he could feel anything but frustration over a missed shot—but as he reflected on everything that had unfolded, he realised that if losing his aim led to moments like these, perhaps a little imperfection wasn't so bad after all.

No bc I just love how I started this with a vision and somewhere along the way, I didn't know how to end it so I just kinda winged it lmaooo hope this was decent HAHA

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

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[empressdede]

Whispers Of Magnolia - 1

Previous. Next

A/N: This is a love story set during segregation times. The languages are harsh but please be aware that I am trying to be as historically accurate as possible for fictional content. Racial slurs will be used, and some chapters involve really dark content: Death and Non consensual sex. The first couple of chapters are just a couple thousand words but as we get deeper into the story, the chapters will get longer… like 8K+ words. Please read at your own will, I do NOT want to see any negative comments about my own period piece that YOU can simply not read just because you don’t agree about it.

With all that being said, Chapter one.

S/O to my friend for the Illustration of the cover… idk if I might keep it though

Banners used are made by @firefly-graphics

Chapter One

Evangeline had learned early that silence was survival.

The grand estate of the Rollins family sat like a crown atop the highest hill in the city, an ivory palace untouched by time. The driveway was longer than any road she had ever walked, lined with magnolia trees whose sweet fragrance carried on the humid summer air. She used to think the trees were beautiful, until she realized that no matter how much they bloomed, their roots never left the soil. Much like her own life.

Every morning before sunrise, Evangeline and her mother, Lena, walked up that winding drive, dressed in pressed uniforms that were never theirs, carrying burdens they had no choice but to bear.

Inside the house, wealth whispered in the details—the crystal chandeliers, the velvet drapes, the marble floors polished so fine she could see her own reflection in them. But reflections meant nothing when the people inside never truly saw you.

Mrs. Rollins, a woman of delicate features but a sharp tongue, never lifted a hand for herself. Everything was Lena’s responsibility—preparing breakfast, ironing the linens, making sure the children looked presentable before they went off to school. Evangeline was tasked with the smaller jobs: dusting shelves filled with books she wasn’t allowed to touch, setting the silverware at a table she would never eat at, scrubbing footprints from floors that would never carry her anywhere but back to the servants’ quarters.

The Rollins’ daughter, Margaret, was a few years older than Evangeline, but they lived in different worlds. Margaret had beaus who sent her flowers and whispered promises of a bright future. Evangeline had calloused hands and a mother who prayed that she’d keep her head down long enough to survive.

“You work quiet, you work quick,” Lena always told her, smoothing the wrinkles from Evangeline’s apron before they stepped into the house each day. “And you never, ever look them in the eye too long.”

Evangeline obeyed.

At least, until he arrived.

The day Roman Reigns first stepped into the Rollins estate, the air in the room seemed to shift. Businessmen were always coming and going, men with fine suits and finer words, but none like him. He carried danger the way other men carried pocket watches—like it was something precious, something he never let slip from his grasp.

His name was whispered through the house before he even entered. Mr. Rollins himself stood straighter in his presence. He wasn’t just a businessman; he was the businessman. The one men feared. The one they followed. The one they never questioned.

And in the briefest of moments, he looked at Evangeline.

Not past her. Not through her. But at her.

His dark eyes locked onto hers, and for the first time in her life, Evangeline felt like someone had truly seen her.

She didn’t know it then, but that single glance would change everything.

I’ll only continue to post more of this if it gets a lot of traction 😭 if not, I’ll finish The Secretary first and then continue on with this. I hope you guys like this though🥺🫶🏾

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[uyuforu]

Boda Persona Chart Analysis II

Boda (1487) is an asteroid discovered in 1938 by Karl Willhelm Reinmuth in Germany. It was named this way after Karl Boda. Boda in Spanish means "wedding", so it was natural for this asteroid to represent that. Boda is an asteroid we look at when we want to know more about what kind of wedding one will have. The Boda Persona Chart also means the same thing, and it gives more details about one's special day.

Someone asked me to make more observations for Boda PC. Unfortunately I don't have many people around me who have been married already. So I'll take my Boda Persona Chart, despite that i'm not married yet. If I do get married, it will be an occasion to come back on it later lol!

All pictures were found on Pinterest

Other posts you could like:

જ⁀➴ Boda in Signs, Houses, Degrees

જ⁀➴ Boda Aspects

જ⁀➴ Boda Persona Chart Analysis I

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₊˚⊹♡ Sun conjunct Venus: Very romantic wedding, one of the main essence is romance. The wedding could be very pretty and beautiful looking.

₊˚⊹♡ Sun conjunct Mercury: Wedding will be talked about a lot, people could also talk about you a lot. And they can talk to you a lot too.

₊˚⊹♡ Sun Gemini could mean two weddings can happen, even with the same person.

₊˚⊹♡ Moon 8H could mean people don't show their emotions easily but feel things intensely during your wedding. People could cry of happiness and can't control their tears.

₊˚⊹♡ Moon square Briede could mean the bride will have hard time accepting she is showing her emotions.

₊˚⊹♡ Moon trine Venus means the romance will be top tier during the wedding! It can be considered a very romantic wedding.

₊˚⊹♡ DSC sextile Moon could mean the spouse will be open about their emotions during the wedding.

₊˚⊹♡ Venus 1H could make you be very intimate with your Spouse during the wedding. Meaning you can kiss a lot, hug a lot, share intimate conversations together.

₊˚⊹♡ Mars Gemini could mean there could be misunderstandings or miscommunication during the wedding. Gossips too.

₊˚⊹♡ Mercury Gemini 1H could mean people could talk and gossip a lot about your wedding but about you too. They could be very sneaky and curious about how you will dress and appear.

₊˚⊹♡ Jupiter 12H could indicate a non religious wedding, but this could also mean a spiritual wedding.

₊˚⊹♡ Jupiter conjunct Saturn could mean the wedding promises a long term union.

₊˚⊹♡ Venus conjunct Saturn could also indicate a strong and long lasting love.

₊˚⊹♡ Venus conjunct Jupiter means the couple are happy in love and one of the best part of the wedding is their love/ bond.

₊˚⊹♡ Saturn conjunct Rising means you could have some struggles with your dress, you could also be stressed about your appearance or people looking at you during the wedding.

₊˚⊹♡ Venus conjunct Rising means you will look absolutely stunning.

₊˚⊹♡ Uranus 10H: a transformative wedding, the reputation of the wedding could be that it is unique, and it will change perspectives.

₊˚⊹♡ Uranus conjunct Juno could mean your union is something that is considered revolutionary by others. You could be seen as a unique couple, and your story & wedding could both change perspectives. It could also have a worldwide or historical influence if it is in the 10H.

₊˚⊹♡ MC Capricorn: Wedding will be remembered for how expensive and good looking it was, they can also really admire how fancy the wedding could be.

₊˚⊹♡ 1H Stellium means you will be very focused on the wedding itself, but also on you and your spouse as a couple. You will also feel as the main character, this is your day!

₊˚⊹♡ 3H Cancer means your guests will be mostly your family and loved one.

₊˚⊹♡ 3H Cancer could also mean a wedding that is near water or beach/ ocean.

₊˚⊹♡ Juno sextile Briede means Bride will feel very in love and very romantic.

₊˚⊹♡ Scorpio 7H means the marriage could be quite private, just loved ones are here.

₊˚⊹♡ 8H Sagittarius could mean the honeymoon will be abroad in a foreign country!

₊˚⊹♡ 9H Capricorn can mean the In-Laws will probably pay a lot for the wedding.

₊˚⊹♡ 9H Capricorn can also mean In-Laws will not be emotional, but they can be proud.

₊˚⊹♡ 9H Capricorn can also mean a prenup can be signed!

₊˚⊹♡ Jupiter conjuncts Saturn: indicates a minimalist wedding, or just a small wedding.

₊˚⊹♡ Saturn 12H could mean you are stressed about the wedding being called off, or someone ruining your wedding. You are scared the wedding will not work out.

₊˚⊹♡ Jupiter 12H could mean your wedding is a divine blessing, a sacred union. Something divine could happen during your wedding.

₊˚⊹♡ Neptune 10H could be a sign people will be obsessed with your wedding.

₊˚⊹♡ Neptune conjunct Juno: divine love and union

₊˚⊹♡ MC 29°: Reputation of the wedding is excellent, people will remember it for years. It could be a very popular wedding, perhaps celebrities could attend, or many people will talk about it.

₊˚⊹♡ Pluto 7H: a transformative union

₊˚⊹♡ Pluto conjunct Chiron: a union that will heal both of partners. Breaking a karmic cycle, entering a new chapter of their life.

₊˚⊹♡ Pluto sextile Juno: transformative love. Very similar to Uranus conjunct Juno.

₊˚⊹♡ Chiron trine Briede: Bride will heal through the wedding.

₊˚⊹♡ Union conjunct Part of Fortune: A very luck union! Their wedding will bring them a lot of luck.

₊˚⊹♡ Vertex conjunct Union: A destined and fated marriage.

₊˚⊹♡ Vertex Libra: same meaning.

₊˚⊹♡ Vertex Conjunct Part of Fortune: A very lucky and happy union that was destined to happen. The wedding and union could have indeed be part of the couple's fate in order to bring more luck and happiness in their life.

₊˚⊹♡ Groom Conjunct Part of Fortune: Groom feels more lucky because of the wedding.

₊˚⊹♡ Groom conjunct Vertex: Groom feels like the marriage is destined.

₊˚⊹♡ Groom 6H: Groom could feel like he heals during the wedding. He could also feels like he feels in harmony and stable. He could also feel very involved in the wedding.

₊˚⊹♡ Groom Libra: Groom will be very romantic during the wedding. Will also be very good looking and dress nice.

₊˚⊹♡ Groom sextile Chiron: Groom heals his wound during the wedding.

₊˚⊹♡ 2H Gemini means the gifts will be unexpected and full of spontaneity! But also that the wedding could not be that expensive in the end.

₊˚⊹♡ 4H Cancer means your parents will be very emotional during your wedding and perhaps more your mother!

₊˚⊹♡ 5H Leo means the wedding party will be super fun! It also means people will dance a lot, just enjoy themselves a lot. It will feel like a night in a lifetime.

₊˚⊹♡ Groom trines Juno means Groom will feel very in love.

₊˚⊹♡ Asteroid DNA (55555) conjunct 8H could mean a baby could be made during the honeymoon...

₊˚⊹♡ Moon 8H could mean the same thing!

₊˚⊹♡ Capricorn 10H 29° can mean many people wish they could be invited to the wedding. The wedding will have the reputation of being a high class wedding or a wedding everyone will talk about. Even people who are not invited.

₊˚⊹♡ 11H Aquarius could mean the guests will be people the couple love very much, and they consider their friends. The guests could come from different area of the world, different work area, different social classes, etc.

₊˚⊹♡ 11H's Ruler in the 10H could mean some guests could be famous or well known to the public.

₊˚⊹♡ 10H's ruler in the 12H could mean the wedding will def be a private one.

Thank you for reading!

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[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

“The VVitch” (2015) and “Nosferatu” (2024) Are More Similar Than You Think

Robert Eggers made “The VVitch” and then thought: what if Thomasin and Black Phillip/The Devil had an demonic sexual love story going on? Time to make my own version of “Nosferatu” (the first script is from 2016).

This man is really out there making historical horror movies about ostracized women making pacts with the Devil.

“Wouldst thou like the taste of butter? A pretty dress? Wouldst thou like to live deliciously? […] Wouldst Thou Like to See the World?”

“You are not for the living. You are not for human kind. And shall you be one with me ever-eternally. Do you swear it? […] As our spirits are one, so too shall be our flesh. You are mine.”

How these films are similar:

Both Thomasin and Ellen pray for something at the beginning of the film, and the Devil answers: Thomasin asks for forgiveness and guidance, Ellen prays for companionship and tenderness;

Both Thomasin and Ellen are ostracized in connection with their womanhood and sexuality: Thomasin is growing into a woman, and Ellen has “hysteric fits” with strong sexual undertones;

The Devil (Black Phillip and Orlok) essentially kills everyone around them, until they are the only left, to force their hand into accepting him (a bit different in “Nosferatu” because it’s a remake);

Both films have a pair of children which are “foreshadowing bombs” in the narrative (Mercy and Jonas in “The VVitch” and Clara and Louise in “Nosferatu”);

In both films, the Devil offers something tempting to both these characters, which they accept: Black Philip promises freedom and knowledge, and Orlok promises eternal passion and sex;

Both pacts involve blood sacrifice and death to seal them: in “The VVitch” Thomasin kills her mother, in “Nosferatu” Ellen kills herself alongside Orlok.

Thomasin was accused of being a "witch", a “whore” and having a pact with the Devil by everyone around her, until she actually did at the end. Ellen is also seen as “deranged”, “diseased” and often compared to supernatural beings ("changeling girl", "sylph", "fairy", etc.) until she becomes just that at the end, too. They are both the Devil’s concubines.

“I’m that very witch. When I sleep my spirit slips away from my body and dances naked with the Devil. That’s how I signed his book.”

Thomasin taunts her sister, Mercy (“The VVitch”, 2015)

In another post, I already explored which demonic figures Ellen and Orlok are meant to be in this adaptation: Babalon and the Beast.

There I saw a woman sitting on a scarlet beast that was covered with blasphemous names and had seven heads and ten horns. The woman was dressed in purple [lilacs] and scarlet [blood], and was glittering with gold sunlight precious stones and pearls [sunlight]. She held a golden cup in her hand, filled with abominable things and the filth of her adulteries. The name written on her forehead was a mystery: Babylon the great, the mother of prostitutes, and of the abominations of the earth.

“Scarlet beast” = Orlok, a vampire

“blasphemous names” = names of the Devil

“Seven heads” = heptagram, the seven-pointed star (Orlok and Babalon’s sigils)

“Ten horns” = ten lilac flowers

“Golden cup” = it’s the Holy grail = womb

“Filled with abominations” = sex with Orlok, necrophilia

“Filth of her adulteries” = she’s married to Thomas before God, and she’s defiling that vow on their marriage bed

“She [Babalon] rides astride the Beast; in her left hand she holds the reins, representing the passion which unites them. In her right she holds aloft the cup, the Holy Grail aflame with love and death.”

Aleister Crowley, “The Book of Thoth”

In some occult circles, this “Beast” is the Devil himself, which makes me ask: is Orlok the Devil?

Not only he’s referred as such several times in the actual film, but also the fact he was one of the Solomonari, a dark wizard, in life, a servant and a student of the Devil. We are told “the Devil preserved his soul that his corpse may walk again in blaspheme.” So… who’s actually walking in that corpse? Orlok’s soul or the Devil? Being a servant to the Devil is being a puppet to the Devil, essentially. This is pretty much what the abbess says to Thomas: it’s the Devil that makes Orlok’s corpse walk.

In another post I already talked about how Orlok prepared his own physical death, because the book containing the “maiden’s sacrifice” was found by Von Franz in Knock’s office, his fanatical servant, which is shady to say the least. The Devil is a deceiver after all (as Ellen herself accuses him of being), so making the heroes believe they are beating him while doing exactly what he wants them to do, it’s not far fetched, and even rooted in religious belief.

Why would Orlok want to die in the physical world? Because he wants his spirit to be set free, he doesn’t want to be trapped in a freaking rotten corpse, which explains why he tells Ellen she’s “his affliction”; she’s the one who trapped in that physical form when she awoke him, probably. He wants to return to spiritual form, and wants to take Ellen with him; which explains their covenant, and their blood sacrifice at the end to seal it. And Ellen was also fully aware of what she was signing for, she knew what her physical death would mean (being forever joined with him in hell, or the Underworld or whatever “celestial sphere”), and that Orlok would die too (obviously).

[vagabond-umlaut]

what is the point of lukewarm love?

If I am not drowning in it, I have no desire for it.

Ⅰ. my beloved ghost and me

pairing: knight geto suguru x disgraced noble fem!reader tags: historical au; arranged marriage; slow burn; misunderstanding; arguments; kinda enemies to lovers; angst; drama; fluff; smut; hurt/comfort; eventual happy ending; MDNI; warning: ANGST, implied attempted sa (not to the mc), homicide, corruption; physical assault; abandonment issues; 1.7k wc notes: when i say this fic is the bane of my existence, i mean it in every sense of the term :) the chapter title is from here. the fic title and summary are from this post. the header is from pinterest. jjk isn't mine! please comment on the fic masterpost, or send me an ask, to be added to the taglist!! :))

Your husband is a callous man.

Disgustingly so.

But, of course, if you ever say the same to anyone else, they'll be certain to return you a scowl—not that they don't give you one now, but they'll make it much worse then—for how can you speak such ill of your husband: the oh-so-gallant, oh-so-chivalrous knight Sir Geto Suguru!?

Well, the thing is... first off, none of those outraged voices know the man as well as you do.

Secondly, and more importantly, none of them are you.

Born as the eldest daughter of one of the most prominent nobles in the Empire, you had always been told there was a golden future lying in wait for you. Elegant, graceful, refined—you grew up to be the epitome of each of these adjectives and so many more meaning the same. Something your parents and teachers adored you for, your peers resented you for, the general populace looked up to you for.

Long story short, your life was nothing less than wonderful.

But, as is the way with this world, good things seldom last long—yours too didn't.

The wandering hand of a noble.

The terrified screams of your maid.

The said noble's head rolling on the floor.

The pristine white of your gloves drenched in bright red, the same shade dripping from the sharp blade of a sword; that too, one which had always been an idle wall decoration...

Were the noble any lesser person, you know nothing would have happened. You did a right thing, after all, saving a poor helpless girl from the maws of a vile beast.

But no, he wasn't a lesser person.

He was the Emperor's little brother. Lecherous, yes, of course, no one could negate this; but he was His Majesty's youngest brother, eighth in line to the throne, which is why you weren't even taken to trial. The blood on your hands hadn't even dried before every title you owned were snatched away from you, and you were reduced from being one of the most highly regarded young ladies amongst the nobles to being a convicted criminal—

'Attempted theft of a royal jewel.'

'Harrassment of a member of the royal staff when they attempted to stop her.'

'Murder of a member of the Royal Family when they attempted to detain her.'

The story was changed, and with it thus twisted and distorted until not one letter of it was true, you were indeed nothing more than a convicted criminal—

A burden your parents waited not even a day before they decided to get rid of, before they decided to bedeck it in finery of the highest kind and send it to the slaughterhouse under the pretence of your hand being promised to Zenin Naoya.

You ran away.

Of course, you ran away.

Only to be spotted by one of your family's old servants, not even ten miles away...

What happened next is preserved very poorly in your memory—you remember reading in a book once, how one's mind tries to erase things too traumatic for them—but you do recollect the sheer panic and the utter desperation you felt as you were all but dragged back to the manor, you would swallow your tongue before calling it your home again. Oh, and, of course, the clinking of the thousand gold coins as your father awarded them to the man for his loyalty whilst your cheeks stung from the force of your mother's fury.

The Zenin heir cancelled the engagement within the next hour, claiming he had no desire to marry a disobedient wretch like you. When you scoffed and told your mother that neither did you have a wish to wed a cur like him, she slapped you again, drawing blood this time.

Your parents were prepared to disown you.

And you knew. And no matter how much it hurt, you were prepared to be disowned by them, prepared to leave and set out on a new path on your own—which is when your dearest husband entered the stage of your life, and without further ado, set it on fire—

Sir Geto Suguru, the paragon of virtue, so very darling to the Empire.

The envoy of death, so very terrifying to the enemies of the Empire.

The catalyst of your doom, so very dashing as he stood before your parents, the coal black of his hair and his eyes scintillant in the sun as he greeted them with a bow and a courteous smile—its keen shape perhaps not too unbecoming the sharpness of his mien, you thought absently, still blissfully ignorant to what lay in your future, as you stood behind your mother—  

It took Geto all but a moment to stand upright and ask your father for your hand in marriage.

It took your blood less than a moment to freeze in your arteries.

Were it before, you know your parents would've rejected such a proposal in a heartbeat; your world and the knight's were far too different, too far apart. But that day, utterly devastated, utterly helpless, you watched them both nearly sob in relief as your mother nodded and your father brought your intended into a hearty embrace.

The wedding took place a day later in an extremely private function.

Not even a month after which, Geto received his transfer orders to some remote town by the sea.

And giving you a set of barely-intelligible, insultingly-perfunctory reasons, more like 'excuses', as to why you couldn't accompany him; you're his wife, for goodness' sake; he dropped you off at your in-laws' in the countryside—people who hadn't even deigned to attend their only son's wedding—

You don't dislike them, though.

You dislike your husband.

The man who, by marrying you, has made himself an angel donning a mortal skin, a person too good for the likes of anyone and everyone; most certainly, much too good for you.

The man who, by leaving you barely thirty days into your conjugal life, has made you even viler in the eyes of others than you can ever imagine it to be possible, believe it should be possible.

The man who has visited his home, his wife, only a handful of times in the last one year, that too only for a handful of hours each time, never staying for more than one day and the next morning.

The man who doesn't care enough to reply to your letters, let alone send you any, only sending his father enough money to feed a village and a curt letter saying he's well on the third day of every month, the words devoid of even the smallest mention of the person he married and brought to his home—

If one says you hate Geto, you will simply nod in response and not breathe one word in disagreement, you think as you wrap the blanket tighter round your shivering form and stare at the waning crescent in the pitch-black sky.

It's lonely.

The moon is rather lonely, you reckon, a faint frown creeping onto your lips...

But definitely not as acutely, as painfully as you are—

After all, the moon hasn't been forsaken by its friends, parents and husband, has it?

The moon isn't forced to endure pitiful glances and scathing glares throughout the day, is it?

The moon need not spend night after night, either sleepless or seeing nightmares where it is abandoned in an entirely new way, tossed aside in an incomparably worse way by others—does it?

No.

You suppose not.

A pathetic little sigh escapes you as you force yourself to relax beneath the warm weight of the blanket, gaze soon drifting from the sky outside the window to your hands, to the pretty little diamond sitting on your left hand—only to stiffen when you hear a pair of feet pad into the kitchen—

"Do you have a fever?" A familiar voice rings out, so sleepy yet so worried, so kind—that too for you out of all the people the concern could be for—you can't help but become a touch misty-eyed.

It's your mother-in-law.

Sometimes, you think she's the only person you won't mind calling family.

The only person who, you don't think you're wrong when thinking, won't mind you calling them family.

Trying to hide a sniffle, you shake your head, lips shifting into a small smile on their own when you can finally discern her in the almost darkness, "Um, no. I'm totally fine, thank you."

"Alright," she doesn't press you any more, choosing to pour herself a glass of water instead. You look away from her, focus shuffling away to rest on the orange lights of the distant houses and huts against the blue backdrop of the night, when a quiet call of your name reaches you.

You turn back, only to find your mother-in-law wearing a knowing smile. She suddenly looks a lot older than you know she actually is—you wonder how your mother is faring—

Is she happy now that her shame of a daughter is away and no longer besmirching the spotless reputation of the family? Or, does she miss her first child, her 'sunshine', living so many miles away from her?

You know better than to ponder over such questions; yeah, you know you do.

"Yes, Mother?" you ask; the aftertaste of the last word not as sour as it used to be in the early days of your marriage, you register absently all the while wondering why her smile appears to grow when you call her thus, "Is—"

"I've raised Suguru to be brave and true-hearted," she says, and you cannot help the way your form grows rigid at the mere mention of his name—nor the burn settling behind your eyes nor how your throat clogs up, words dying far before they're fully formed when the remainder of the sentence clicks into place in your brain—"He will return to you, darling. I'm sure of it."

Hours from now, you will wonder why your mother-in-law is telling you all this.

You will wonder why she thinks your sleepless nights are because of her son, especially when you haven't breathed even a syllable of your distress to anyone; least of all, to her.

You will wonder why she sounds so sure while she's reassuring you of your husband's return.

Hours from now, you will tear your brain apart and put the pieces back together, in search for answers to these and so many more questions.

But now, in this moment, you don't think.

You screw your eyes shut and bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, trying your damnedest not to cry—until you decide you're much too wounded, too too weary to put up a good front—

And you cry, and you cry, and you cry.

general masterlist

[loversrocktvgirl2]

my mini multiverse of madness…

New Friend (Bob Reynolds x Reader) — Part Three

word count: 1k+

masterlist

part 3 of ?

previous part: part two

It’s the morning after your quiet bookstore café hangout, and Bob’s already finished The Midnight Library. He read it cover-to-cover, barely sleeping, eyes wide and heart full by the final page. And now, it’s time for the next book club read.

Yelena pokes her head into the kitchen just as Bob is finishing his third toast. “Hey, Bob,” she says, chewing a spoonful of cereal like she’s got nothing on her mind. “You should go pick up the new book club book today.”

Bob blinks. “Oh. Right. I should. Do we know what it is yet?”

“They posted it on the website last night. The Heaven and Earth Grocery Store. Sounds...religious.”

“I don’t think it is,” Bob replies, wiping crumbs from his fingers. “I think it’s historical fiction. About community and injustice.”

Yelena narrows her eyes. “How do you know that?”

“I looked it up. You said I should try to read some more summaries.”

“Bob,” Yelena says solemnly, placing a dramatic hand over her heart, “you are becoming powerful.”

Bob, confused but flattered, nods. “Thanks?”

“You should go get it. Take your time. Go get a coffee. Maybe buy a cute bookmark or something.”

“…A cute bookmark?”

“Everyone likes bookmarks, Bob,” she says seriously. “Now go. Be free. Read books. Take deep breaths.”

“…Okay,” Bob agrees, already grabbing his tote and heading toward the door.

As soon as it closes behind him, Yelena turns, eyes gleaming. She pulls out her phone.

GROUP TEXT — Operation Bob Goes Bowling ❤️Yelena: he’s gone. time to scheme Ava: omg finally. I’ve been waiting for this. Bucky: why do you always start group chats for your plots Yelena: because none of you read my calendar invites John: agreed. I’m in. but what are we doing? Alexei: am I bringing snacks Yelena: NO. last time u brought expired sardines. we’re doing a casual double date. casual. chill. lowkey. Bucky: for who? Yelena: for bob and the cute girl from book club. i’ve decided it’s time Ava: finally!! okay wait—what’s the angle? Yelena: bowling. or maybe tacos and pinball. something FUN Alexei: bowling is how i tore my shoulder in 1997 Yelena: and yet here you are, stronger than ever Yelena: anyway we’re all going. john you’re bringing ava. bucky you’re going with me. alexei, you can come if you promise not to scare anyone Alexei: i make no promises John: is bob even gonna go for this? Yelena: he doesn’t have to KNOW it’s a date. that’s the genius Bucky: this sounds a lot like a trap Yelena: yes. a love trap 💕

— — — 

Meanwhile, Bob is at the bookstore, humming quietly as he wanders to the front counter.

“Oh! Bob, right?” says the same woman from the first visit. “You’re back!”

“Yeah,” Bob says with a smile. “I wanted to get the new book club book. The, uh, Heaven and Earth Grocery Store one?”

“You’re in luck—we just put them out this morning,” she says, pulling a copy from the display behind her. “You’re early. Club meeting isn’t for another two weeks.”

“I like to be prepared,” Bob says, then looks a little sheepish. “And I like reading.”

“Glad to hear it,” she replies with a smile. “Would you like a new bookmark? We just got new seasonal ones in. Little raccoons with books.”

Bob hesitates. Then nods. “Yeah. I’ll take a raccoon.”

He leaves the store twenty minutes later with the book, the raccoon bookmark, and a large coffee, feeling good. Calm. Like maybe he’s really making progress in his life.

— — — 

Back at home, Yelena pounces as soon as he walks through the door.

“Did you get it?” she asks, trying to sound nonchalant and failing completely.

Bob holds up the bag. “Got it.”

“And… bookmark?”

He blinks. “…Yeah?”

Yelena fist pumps. “YES. This is it. Your full transformation is happening. Book guy mode: unlocked.”

Bob chuckles. “Is that a thing?”

“It is now,” she declares. Then, pretending like she just remembered something, she adds, “Oh! Some of us were gonna go out tonight. Chill night. Bowling and tacos maybe?”

“Bowling?” Bob asks. “I’ve never really gone.”

“Perfect! You’ll love it. It’s very casual. You can just hang out and eat if you want.”

“…Okay,” Bob agrees slowly. “That sounds…kind of fun.”

“Great,” Yelena grins. “I’ll tell the others.”

She turns to the kitchen and immediately whispers, “CODE GREEN. IT’S HAPPENING.”

Alexei appears in the doorway holding a bowling pin. “Should I bring this?”

“Where did you even get that—?”

Later that evening, at the retro-style bowling alley downtown, Bob walks in beside Yelena and Bucky, eyes wide. Lights flash, music plays softly overhead, and the smell of nachos lingers in the air.

“Oh! You made it!” you call, waving from a booth where Ava and John are already laughing over a shared plate of fries.

Bob freezes for a half-second, then smiles.

“You’re here,” he says, surprised but clearly pleased.

“So are you,” you grin, nudging him playfully when he sits beside you. “Wanna bowl with me?”

“I’ve never bowled before.”

“That makes two of us,” you whisper. “We’ll figure it out together.”

From across the alley, Yelena sips her soda, watching like a proud general. “Look at them,” she sighs. “So awkward. So wholesome.”

“Should we tell him this was your whole plot?” Bucky asks.

“Never,” Yelena smirks. “Some things must remain secret for love to bloom.”

Alexei approaches with an armful of snacks and a bowling glove. “WHO IS READY FOR COMPETITION?”

“Oh no,” John mutters.

Bob, however, doesn’t notice the chaos about to unfold. He’s too busy laughing softly with you as you both awkwardly figure out how to input your names into the scoreboard.

You choose your initials. He chooses BOB, which in the all-caps default of the bowling TV, looks incredible. You giggle.

He writes yours in next, glancing at you before doing it. You smile.

It’s not dramatic or glamorous. But it’s warm, and it’s real. And as Bob picks up his bowling ball and almost drops it on his own foot, he looks at you and thinks:

This is nice. I could get used to this.

taglist

@spaceycat @vidanand @xo-cench @raikan624 @yeehawgiddyup13 @wpdarlingpan @puer-aurea

just thunderbolts/bob

@papitas-con-sal @yesshewrites1

[shinwonderful]

Freedom of Choice

prologue to Heavy is the Heart (That Wears the Crown) [masterlist coming soon]

part of you hoped you'd be able to avoid this aspect of royalty, but it was inevitable. they would never allow the sole heir to the kingdom of evermoor to remain unmarried. all you can hope for is that one of the suitors you meet will be the true love you've always dreamt of.

⁺✦ seventeen x reader (cyoa style!) ⁺✦ word count: 3.3k ⁺✦ genre: historical, kind of a mix of everything lol ⁺✦ warnings: shitty parents, forced marriage, mention of being pressured into intimacy, i promise i'm not a royalist i just think historical stories of nobility are v romantic

જ⁀➴┊ [🐈] happy valentine's day!! this series has been in the works since november, and i'm so excited to finally post the prologue! this series has come to be very close to my heart, and i'm really excited to share it with you guys!

special thanks to @lovewithoutresin my beautiful bestie for editing and writing the dialogue for the reader's Handmaiden! I love that this series has a piece of you in it too MWAH!!

the prologue and a certain upcoming chapter are dedicated to the lovely @ylangelegy for inspiring me to pick up writing (on tumblr) again after nearly a decade (christ alive i'm old. 💀). if they hadn't been so supportive and expressed interest in this story, i'd likely not have written it. happy valentine's day ilysbbbb

dividers by saradika!

each chapter of this series will have a (relatively lol) period-accurate theme and costume.

this chapter's theme is Fauré: Après un Rêve (ca. 1870).

"A song about devotion and passion. The dreamer yearns for the return of her dreams, in which she met her love: ‘In sleep made sweet by a vision of you’."

the costume for this chapter is this gorgeous afternoon dress (ca. 1835) from the met museum archives.

“All we ask is that you keep an open mind.”

The rattle of the carriage wheels against the meticulously hand-paved road beneath your fancifully cushioned seat was, perhaps, the only thing keeping you grounded at the moment. You could do little but curse them internally, knowing putting up a fight was… tragically futile.

“How do you mean, Mother?”

You already knew the answer to this question, but it bought you a bit of time to school your reaction, to use your decades of lessons in decorum to keep your actual thoughts and feelings from clawing themselves out of your mouth.

After all, for God’s sake, how could they expect you to choose a husband on this supposed ‘diplomatic tour’?

You’d, of course, rolled your eyes when your Handmaiden had told you of their plans (though a much more tumultuous emotion stirred behind your sardonic response). Your parents hadn’t even afforded you the courtesy of a conversation before making arrangements for the tour. Instead, the news was broken only after your Handmaiden heard the rumors in whispers that echoed through the long, hollow halls of your castle. (Pro Tip: Having a best friend on your staff never stops being helpful.) You knew what this was, and it wasn’t simply diplomatic. At least, not in the usual sense.

You knew what this was– everyone did. You were of the age where courtiers began to whisper about your lack of husband, gossiping about why the Crown Heir of Evermoor had yet to even begin the courting process. Why so many requests for meetings had gone politely rejected.

The truth was much less salacious than popular theory– as is usually the case. Quite simply, you’ve just yet to meet an eligible bachelor that doesn’t make you physically recoil at the prospect of being wed to them. Between the Dukes whose eyes on your female staff were… less than respectful and Counts who couldn’t make it longer than thirty seconds without saying something to stroke their own egos, you’d rather shovel the stables by hand than meet with any prospects for the time being.

There had been a close call once, just a few months back, where you’d met with a neighboring King who was charming enough at first. That is, of course, until the bastard had tried to pressure you into necking with him after dinner one night. You sent him packing on the spot. And your parents, the Queen and King, were irate. Apparently, not offending the royal family was more important than your honor.

Which, tragically, prompted them to force your hand into embarking on what would be your ‘grand tour’ throughout the nearby kingdoms. Officially, it was a tour to introduce you as the Crown Royal to your (pre-established and potential alike) ally’s own Royal Families. To establish a line of communication and get to know each other sooner rather than later. But none were gullible enough to miss the writing on the wall. You were unmarried, and most of the kingdoms you’d be visiting had unmarried royal sons of their own to offer. After all, for a royal as high-ranking as yourself, it’s most appropriate for you to marry other ‘high-value’ royalty. Those who would be Counts in their own right someday, some even Kings. Any children born would rule over both domains, doubling your families’ power and influence in the realm. (And that was all anything was ever about. Cue eye roll.)

Perhaps you’d have fought harder if you thought there was the slimmest chance of getting your way, but… why kid yourself? This was an inevitable. Since you were young, you’d known your fate would be that of most born of noble blood. To be used as a bargaining chip, a pawn in someone else’s game– one neither of you had elected to play.

Sure, there had been a time many years ago where you’d find yourself in despair over this. Growing up, your favorite stories were the ones told of love triumphing over all. You’d go to your balcony in the dead of night, wishing to any power that could hear you to be one of the lucky ones. For you to have the chance at a marriage of love. A husband you chose not because of the family crest he bore, but for the tender affection he showed you. The way he lit up your world, coloring your bluest nights into the tender pinks of the sunrise. Someone who was well and truly yours, divorced from the way nobility are traded like commodities, but how love brings two souls into one, merging until you can’t remember where you end and he begins. A love like poetry. A love worth writing about.

But those days were long behind you. Even the most hopeless of all romantics can’t resist the effects of erosion, the cynical waves of the ocean clawing at the coast until even something so eternal as the Earth itself gives way, becoming part of the ocean it once fought to resist so vehemently. Holding onto that optimism… at some point begins to hurt you more than it helps you. And so you, once as steady as the Earth in your quest for love, you surrendered to cynicism just as steadily, until you, too, found it hard to believe that love in the pure sense even existed at all. 

Of course, those were the times when your Equerry would ask you to accompany him on a trip to the local market. After all, none could read you quite like him. It came with the territory– his job, of course, to be your shadow. To care for you, and to watch over you. And he took his role very seriously. To him, this meant to help you through not just your meetings with the steward, but also to watch for signs that your spirits need lifting (despite this not technically being in his duties). And seeing how your mouth twitched into a frown any time someone mentioned the concept of love the past few months? He didn’t have to be a scholar to read you.

So he pulled you into the castle’s preferred bakery, calling for Mister and Missus Kim and producing a beaming smile when the pair came out from the back to say hello. The couple’s eyes shined every time they looked at one another, and the three of them talked about the castle’s weekly order as you watched from near the door, mindlessly eyeing the pastries on display in the cabinet, trying to ignore the way your chest fluttered just being around something so beautiful. She held a toddler on her hip, and the moment it crossed your mind that she was looking tired from holding the boy, her husband instinctively grabbed him, placing him to lay upon his own chest instead. It was as if they had their own language, something silent but incredibly tangible that tied them together. And it was a sight to behold.

Your heart felt much less heavy on the ride home, your eyebrows quirked in thoughtful wishing instead of the bitter resignation they tended towards. Your Equerry said nothing, his hands smoothing against the hat he’d placed on his lap as he smiled softly. He didn’t need your words to know he’d done well, even if he would love to hear them. But alas, the you of the present day was much too timid to speak what was on your mind. The thoughts were much too soft for someone who was to someday rule over this nation. But maybe, you thought, maybe you were what was too soft. Maybe fate had played a cruel joke in making you the only one who could govern your beloved country once your parents no longer could. Maybe it was all a fool’s errand.

Because you couldn’t help but feel that… perhaps you’ll never be lucky enough to possess a love of your own, but you’re more sure than you’ve ever been that love is one of the finest things humanity has to offer– so real, so tangible that it shone through the dark clouds hanging over your head. And you’d do anything it took to feel its embrace, even for the smallest moment in time.

It was hard to contend with the idea people had in their head about you at times. To them, you were the Crown Heir of Evermoor. Sole Heir at that. Flowers bloomed bright the day you were born, and (according to folklore) it’s impossible for a flower to wilt if it’s been blessed by your presence.

You care deeply for your nation, making certain your Equerry schedules an allotment every few weeks for you to visit the capital’s town square, relishing in the bustle of the city and the chatter of those hard at work, or those working to forget their hard day at work. But when they notice you, they’re quick to forget what they were doing. Instead, they either gawk openly, or rush to have their moment with you. Something they’ll remember for a lifetime; ‘the time the Crown Royal complimented my pelerine’ or ‘the time I made the Crown Royal smile by presenting them with a rose’. 

But at home? You’re just… you.

You’re sprawled out over your plush bed, dressed down to your chemise and pantaloons as your Handmaiden helped you sneak a second dessert to share, shutting the door to your quarters quietly as she, too, leapt to join you in your bed with a mischievous smile (though there was an unspoken tension in the air that neither of you cared to address just yet). Your hair hit your shoulders in what were once carefully-manicured curls that had loosened throughout the day. If it were anyone else, you’d be shamed for the lewdness of this moment, but this was another perk to having your best friend as your Handmaiden. With her, this was perfectly appropriate. Even if it wasn’t technically in the spirit of the rules.

The upcoming months hung over you like a death sentence. Tonight would be one of your last as a single person, one of the last you’d not be betrothed– or worse, married. At the end of the week, you’d be leaving on your tour. Leaving the only home you’d ever known to stay at palace after palace belonging to strangers who intended to sell you on their sons. And if there’s one thing you knew; the only thing more formidable than your citizens competing for your attention is dozens of nobles doing the same. At least your people had some sense of dignity.

Today was one of the last nights you’d be free to kid yourself into believing that, by some miracle, you’d get the fairytale ending you’ve always dreamed of. Because once you left the borders of Evermoor, there would be no returning without the burden of a ring on your finger, its center stone heavy with insurmountable expectations and a destiny you’d never get to seek.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the loud clink of a fork on your Handmaid's plate– a clearly theatrical gesture. 

“So?” She sat her plate aside without looking away from you. When you gave her no indication that you knew what she was about to broach, she continued, her voice casual and innocent. “How long were you planning on moping about for? I just mean to ensure we stay on schedule.” 

Eyes still trained on the plate of Ratafia Cake in front of you, you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at one corner of your mouth. You gave her a thoughtful hum. “I was thinking… maybe a couple more decades? Don’t want to overdo it, of course.” You looked to her with a facetious grin.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t buying it. “That sounds about right. I wouldn’t want to waste any more precious time I can’t get back either.” She kept the dry tone, but there was evident concern on her features. Perhaps a bit of frustration as well. 

Your smile faltered, the truth in her words hitting a little too close to the truth for comfort. You resorted to pushing your cake around on the small saucer, the prospect of eating suddenly much less alluring as the truth settled in your stomach like a stone. Your voice came out barely over a whisper; “What else can I do? It's not as if I have any say in the matter. I've pushed this off as long as I can. My parents…” You take an exasperated breath, “They aren’t going to budge this time.”

The pretense was dropped then, and she shifted to get comfortable, tone more serious. “I know. It's not fair the way this is happening. I hope you know I am really sorry about that.” 

“I just… don't think that the way you're thinking about this is really helpful to you.” She looked off, thought for a moment, then turned back to pick the situation apart. “We can't change the situation. So the way I see it, you have a few options here.”

You placed the cake to the side then, shifting to lean against the bedpost. Part of you felt the urge to dig in your heels, to protest, but unfortunately one of your best friend’s qualities happens to be that she’s almost always right about these things. So instead, you bite your tongue, nodding for her to continue.

“Option One; you go on the tour. You grin and bear it with the suitors. And really, you’ll only be with each of them for a short time. So if they’re that terrible, you’ll be out soon enough. Don’t worry about months or years from now– just focus on getting through this part. One step at a time.” She picked up her cake again, taking a shamelessly large bite and swallowing it quickly.

“I hate that you’re being made to choose this. But think of it this way: you do get a choice if you go. You can at least focus on trying to influence things to make your life easiest. And maybe you will end up liking someone, at least enough to try. I mean, the odds are one of them won’t be completely insufferable. And if they all are, I promise to let you mope until the end of time, okay?”

That has you laughing again, turning to look at her fully. “Careful; I may actually take you up on that. I really think I’ve yet to fully realize my true potential in the field of being annoying. And as my Handmaiden, you have special privileges as my guinea pig for just that.” You give her an easy smile, leaning on one side while you pick up your cake once more.

But as you take another bite, you ponder her words carefully. As suspected, she was right once again. Most noblewomen are not as lucky as you’ve been. You made it this far without being betrothed, and even then your parents are still allowing you the choice of who to marry instead of forcing someone upon you. So while the situation is certainly unideal… she’s right to say that you still have some freedom of choice. And while small, it’s best to count your blessings whenever they come, lest it drive you mad.

“You’re right.” You pause, trying to find a way to say what you mean without sounding naive. Or worse, corny. “What I want may be out of question, but I suppose any choice is better than none.” You furrow your brow for a moment, lost in thought. “Perhaps… some of these suitors also mourn this choice. Love may be off the table, but… perhaps we can be friends–” You pause once more, laughing softly. “–who just so happen to be married.”

You’re not sure why it took you so long to reach this conclusion. After all, noble as they may be, these suitors are human just as you are. Each of them have their own thoughts, goals, desires, dreams. And perhaps, like yours, theirs is also stifled by this imposed choice. Perhaps.

“Exactly,” she replied, face brightening a bit at your change in tone. “And… well, who knows?” She shrugged, not going any further into the thought. “At any rate, it won’t necessarily hurt to have a partner in crime.” 

“My, my– are you suggesting that I replace you now?” You tease her.

“Right. So what's Option Two, then?”

“Option Two; we let the kingdom burn, run away in the night and live on the lam. That one has a few kinks to work out.” She played it as straight as she could, but it was obvious from her face that she was trying to be funny. 

Your laughter comes out in a snort, her words catching you by surprise. “You know what? I'm half tempted to take you up on that. But I don't think Mr. Stick-in-the-mud Equerry would go for it. Tragic.”

“Oh, forget him,” she said lightly. “We can do it on our own.” She finished the last bite of her dessert.

You try to ignore the way you immediately feel guilty imagining the expression on your Equerry's face if he knew the details of this conversation. Even tonight, you had to practically beg him to take the night off so you could have this time with your Handmaiden. He's been practically glued to your side since the news of your fate reached him, ever protective of you. He means well, but… a girl needs to breathe sometimes. You can only imagine what he'd do, how he'd feel if you fled. You scrunch up your face apologetically at your Handmaiden, still smiling. “Sorry. Maybe next time.”

She laughs, shaking her head at you softly. “Seriously, though. Just try, okay? There must be some part of this that could work out for good.”

As you, too, finish the last bit of your cake, you nod solemnly in return. “Alright. I'll… try. But only because you asked me to.” You answer with an air of drama. “We should both hope this goes well. After all, he’ll soon be your problem just as much as he’ll be mine. It's your neck on the block too,” You joke.

“Don't I know it,” she replied, and collected the dish back from you. “And God help us both.”

“We just don’t want you to be so… dismissive. Alright, dear? Give them a chance. They just might surprise you. You’ve been so picky, and we won’t tolerate a repeat of last time.”

The words of your Father hit your ears like an arrow, and you’re rearing back to spit a harsh retort when you feel your Equerry place a steadying hand on your shoulder, just out of view of your parents across from you both. Looking at him, he gives you a sympathetic smile that does little to alleviate your anger, but it succeeds in holding you back if only because you hate fighting with your parents in front of him. (It stresses him out having to play the middle-man when he wants to have your back with no question.)

So you take a deep breath, letting your Father’s words linger in the air of the carriage, which suddenly felt hopelessly stuffy.

It wasn’t fifteen minutes later that the carriage slowed to a stop, signaling the end of your journey to meet the first of your suitors. Your heartbeat quickened, and as your attendant opened the door to the carriage, the sun pricked at your eyes.

While you waited as your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you noticed an unfamiliar hand reaching into your carriage, offering for you to grab to assist you out. “May I help you, Your Highness?”

And though it felt like diving into frigid waters in the black of night, you took the stranger’s hand.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

Romantasy: Where Magic Meets Swooning (And Why Readers Can't Get ENOUGH) ✨

Okay, let's talk about the genre that's absolutely DOMINATING the shelves right now: ROMANTASY.

If you've been anywhere near BookTok, Bookstagram, or even just wandered into a bookstore lately, you've seen these books taking over. You know the ones. gorgeous illustrated covers with gold foil, promises of spice levels that would make a dragon sweat, and worlds where magic and kissing are given equal importance. (Why is this actually hilariously accurate?)

But what exactly IS romantasy, and why has it exploded into the mainstream? I wanted to make a post breaking this genre down, and why it's been constantly filling the shelves in recent years lately.

What the heck is romantasy anyway?

Simply put, romantasy is the beautiful marriage of fantasy and romance where BOTH genres get equal billing. This isn't just fantasy with a romantic subplot or romance with a sprinkle of magic. It's a true genre hybrid where:

• The fantasy worldbuilding is rich and immersive

• The romance is central to the plot (not just tacked on)

• The stakes of both the romantic and fantasy elements matter EQUALLY

• The relationship development is given as much page time as the magic system

• Neither element would work without the other

Think of books like "A Court of Thorns and Roses," "Fourth Wing," "The Bridge Kingdom," or "These Hollow Vows." In these stories, the romance isn't just there to give the main character something to do between fighting monsters. It's an essential part of the narrative.

Why is romantasy EVERYWHERE right now?

I've been thinking about this A LOT, and here's my take on why romantasy has taken over:

1. It's filling a gap readers didn't know they had

For YEARS, fantasy and romance were kept separate like warring kingdoms. Fantasy was supposed to be "serious business" with maybe a chaste kiss at the end of book three. Romance was often confined to contemporary or historical settings.

Romantasy said "nope" to those artificial boundaries. It recognized that readers want BOTH the escape of fantasy AND the emotional satisfaction of romance. We want dragons AND kissing. We want political intrigue AND pining. We want magic systems AND mutual pining.

2. It's unapologetically centered on female desire

Let's be honest... a lot of romantasy is written by women, for women, about women's experiences. And it doesn't apologize for that!

In a publishing world that has historically prioritized male perspectives in fantasy, romantasy carves out space where female desire, both for power AND for partnership takes center stage.

3. It offers double the escapism

In times of stress (hello, past few years!), readers crave escape. Romantasy offers TWO forms of escapism in one package:

• The fantasy element lets us escape to another world entirely

• The romance element lets us escape into the emotional high of falling in love

It's like getting two dopamine hits for the price of one book!

4. Community and conversation

Romantasy has thrived in online spaces because it gives readers SO MUCH to talk about:

• Debating spice levels and content warnings

• Creating elaborate fan theories

• Discussing favorite tropes (enemies-to-lovers in a magical setting? YES PLEASE)

• Sharing fanart and aesthetics

The community aspect has turned romantasy from a genre into a lifestyle.

What does this mean for writers?

If you're thinking of dipping your toes into romantasy waters, here's what you need to know:

• Don't half-commit to either element. Your fantasy worldbuilding needs to be solid AND your romance needs to be compelling.

• Understand tropes and how to subvert them. Readers come for familiar comfort but stay for your unique twist.

• Balance your pacing. Romantasy readers expect both action sequences AND emotional development scenes.

• Consider your heat level intentionally. The market has room for everything from closed-door to explicit, but know where your story fits.

• Don't just copy what's selling. Find the romantasy story only YOU can tell.

The beautiful thing about romantasy is that it's still evolving. We're seeing more diverse pairings, more unique magic systems, more subversions of traditional fantasy structures. There's room for YOUR voice in this space!

So, are you working on a romantasy? What's your favorite blend of magical and romantic elements? I'm currently writing a Romantasy trilogy and it's been getting me more hyped about writing lately! If you want me to make a Romantasy Series, where I give you all my tips/tricks and advice and research on the genre! Let. Me. Know.

-Rin T.