#chapter: winter palaces

[lokisgoodgirl]

A Royal Audience: The Rite

Chapter 1 Masterlist for The Rite is here A link to my full Masterlist is here Summary: (1) You, an Asgardian court nobody, fall asleep in the palace baths and have an unconventional introduction to the elusive Loki Odinson. (w/c 3.7k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Loki x female reader. Smut. Language. Voyeurism.

Water splashes and your legs fly up, floating out into the murk of torchlit water. Bracing against the stone edge, you glance over your shoulder with a blossoming horror. The curved arch reveals the glittering lights of Asgard below; mountains which had glowed with low-afternoon light when you’d settled in the palace baths now cloaked in darkness. Why did no one wake me? It's forbidden for anyone but the Royal family to be in the baths after sundown. And the penalties are severe.

Surely more of a guideline than a rule, you think optimistically as you get your bearings. Panic twists in your chest. Surely Odin can’t imprison every member of the court who dozes off in the hot springs.

Heaving yourself onto the side, you shiver in the immediate chill. The loss of warmth is like the absence of a lover’s touch; leaving their bed on a winter night. You’re surprised you can remember what that feels like. A breeze blows through the atrium as you grasp for the robe you discarded earlier. It sticks to clammy skin, thick droplets seeping though the fabric as you gaze longingly at the towels lined up at the side. No time. But as you flick soggy tendrils of hair from beneath the collar, your ears prick. No. Footsteps. There’s only one doorway to the baths. A security thing. One hallway – in and out. Your eyes dart frantically at limited options. Tall, imposing pillars encircle the room. One of them will have to do. All you can do is pray the guards just take a quick peek around the door. The squeak of your bare feet on the floor fades just as your wet skin meets marble. You cover your mouth, eyes screwing shut. The door swings open, creaking on ancient hinges. “Prepare the oils,” someone commands. A dark, enunciated order which seems to settle in the steam.

A shudder runs down your spine. That voice. Another one replies in hushed reverence, flopping sandals scooting over the marble floor while bottles rattle. “Haste,” the first growls.

You clutch the flimsy robe tighter to your chest. The first time, you might have been mistaken. But as the irritated syllables of that solitary word settle, there’s no mistaking it. Prince Loki. If you were asked to swear in front of the Norns that you’d never envisioned the dark prince as you touched yourself in the dead of night, thought of his forbidden curls twisting through your hair as you rode him, the timbre of his moans as you choked on his cock – you’d be a fucking liar. I mean, who hasn't? But this? This is beyond the pale. Even conjured from your sickest fantasies. This is wrong. This is...a death sentence.

And yet, you find yourself edging closer to the side of the pillar.

Should you announce yourself? Grovel? Retreat out the door with garbled apologies, bowing with your face lowered and begging for your life? Probably.

But it’s too late now. Far too late. And if you’re going to end up in the dungeons, as on some level you always suspected you would, at least this image will sustain you.

Loki Odinson stands all limbs and and length at the edge of the baths. From emerald-encrusted slippers to the crown of dark waves spilling over his shoulders – he’s perfect; unmistakeably royalty even in his lounge-wear. What little there is of it.

White steam rolls above the water, as sheer and flawless as the chiffon robe that moulds to his body. The faint hue of his skin shows through the forest-green material, fingers toying with the tie circling his hips as he casts a scathing glance to the servant whirling a phial of oil between his fingers. “Tis’ ready, my lord” the servant says. The prince grunts, letting the sash fall open.

You hold a breath as the garb falls down the sinewy bulge of his shoulders, deep carves of tricep muscle illuminated in torchlight. You’ve never seen him so close; never had time to admire the stark beauty emanating from every angled inch of him. Without the distracting glint of his armour it’s almost enough to make your eyes water. Glimpses of him had been in passing, a stolen gawk before you bowed you head and he moved quickly through the great hall past the other courtly nobodies.

The luxuriously weaved material slides over his skin, folding and rippling as it drips from his fingertips. It shimmers in low flamelight and he rolls his shoulders back as it drops, abdominals clenching. You clench along with them as the robe pools around his ankles. Your palms sweat against the pillar, fingers beginning to claw as Loki steps into the water. He rakes his hair back, tilting his chin to the ceiling as he puts one foot ceremonially in front of the other. Making an entrance, even without an audience. Or so he thinks.

The servant stands obediently by the bath’s edge, staring ahead as the prince’s thighs flex with each effortless step, liquid lapping around his knees.

As much as you try not to look, sort of, to preserve some sliver of dignity for the god, saliva wells under your tongue. His perfect cock bobs between his legs. It’s true what they say, you think in a daze. His pubic hair is an immaculate shadow. Even his balls are perfect.

Loki sinks down, dipping long hair back in the water before seating himself in the opposite spot you’d occupied minutes ago. Jet hair plasters to his skin like tar, droplets of water clinging to his torso. “Begin,” he mutters with an air of annoyance. The servant complies, pouring the rose-tinted phial into his hand and beginning to massage the god’s scalp.

You watch in utter beguilement as Loki’s head is nudged from side to side, indecent moans of pleasure snaking from his throat as the favoured servant carries out his work. Thin drips of oil roll down the prince’s brow, catching the light. He tips his head back, jawline pointed to the ceiling like the blade of an axe. He lets out a whimper of pleasure.

You press your lips together so hard it hurts as a crease appears in the god’s brow, his eyes shut as the man kneeling behind turns the attention to his shoulders. The oil spreads down the thick of his neck, to the crevices of his collarbone; glistening. “Oh-h, yes…there-” the god growls, a gnawing groan shaking the air. For the first time, you notice the unmistakable heat of arousal sliding between your thighs. Squirming, you think briefly about looking away. You decide against it. In the blink of an eye, Loki’s mood changes like a winter wind. He leans forward, an abrupt tsk punctuated by the wave of a hand. “Leave me,” he demands. The servant looks visibly confused, fingers poised in the air above tense muscle. Loki turns expectantly over his shoulder. “Need I say it again?” he purrs menacingly. It was quietly brutal. You smirk in spite of yourself. Classic Prince Loki, you muse. You never dreamed you’d get to see it in person.

The man shakes his head, shuffling to his feet. He shuffles out the room with little bows and letting the ancient latch clunk into place. Your breaths quicken and the sudden gravity of the situation settles like a boulder in your throat. Frozen, you watch Loki eye the door a moment longer before resting back against the stone with a lazy sigh.

Long fingers run through the slick of his hair while water slops around his nipples. Gods, how you want to pull one between your teeth as you pump his- “Aren’t you cold?” His voice was an arrow. Sharp, targeted, tipped with venom. It’s hit spreads through your body, white noise filling your brain, blood thundering in your ears.

“Aren’t you cold?” he repeats, sterner this time. You realise with horrifying clarity that Prince Loki of Asgard, as eusive and unknowable as faraway galaxies to a mouse, is talking to you. And he’s naked. And you’re definitely spending the next decade in the dungeons. If you’re lucky.

With shaking hands, you step out from behind the pillar. The game is up. But to your credit, you have closed your eyes, one palm shielding them in a last ditch attempt at salvation. “Your Majesty I apologise I...fell asleep in the water, and woke up after sundown- the laws, and you came in...I didn’t know where to go- what to do-please have mercy...” You squint between parted fingers to gauge his reaction, hoping that the last threads of your long-gone innocence are believable. The prince curls a finger to his lips, covering a smirk. “I did not look upon your majesty...” you lie. The god’s eyes run from your ankles to your face, a devious smile playing at one side of his mouth. His lips part, chin tilting upwards, tongue resting behind his upper teeth before the perfect enunciation of, “Liar.”

“I did not look upon-” you stammer, lowering your hand and staring at the floor.

“-Oh, stop it.” Loki says. It’s followed by a melodic chuckle ricocheting around the marble walls. You glance up. One elbow rests on the stone behind him, water rippling against his chest. He tilts his head, raising the other arm out the water. “Never let it be said the God of Mischief is not merciful,” he rumbles coyly. A solitary finger beckons. “You must be cold,” he repeats for the third time, softer. “I assure you the baths are warmer than the dungeon, if that was your intent for the remainder of the evening.”

Each step feels like an eternity as you let yourself be drawn forward by weak flesh. You can’t take your eyes off his, thundering silently into your soul like a sexual storm. “I am not to the dungeons, then?” you ask cautiously. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

He winks, a perfectly timed droplet of oil falling from his chin to the water below with a thick plop. It makes your stomach flip. He stiffens suddenly, raising his palm in a ‘stop’.

“You may leave now...if you wish,” he says. An aura of stiff formality settles on his expression.

This is the Loki you recognise from feast days and speeches which ring around the towering cloisters of the great hall. The palm held upright softens to gesture to the other side of the pool. “Or you may stay, if you wish. Either way, sending such a flower to the dungeons to wilt and wither would surely be a greater crime than the one you have committed.”

He pauses. There’s a flash of pink as his tongue runs over his lips. His gaze drops to your fingers fidgeting nervously with the sash of your robe, still stained with watermarks from its hasty assembly. “Curiosity is only natural, one supposes,” he says.

“I didn’t mean to do it,” you reply quietly.

Loki’s eyes meet yours, one eyebrow rising. “Ah, but you did.” His voice is deeper, wisps of intrigue catching in every syllable. “In my experience, the path paved with mistakes leads to better stories. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You bite your lip. “Your Majesty are you...sure? I’m-” you glance towards the door, hesitating before you met the prince’s waiting stare, “-naked, under this.” Loki’s long index finger dips teasingly into the water, feigned surprise making his brows rise as he watches it sink beneath the surface. The lip twitches again as his digit skims, slow ripples pulsing out from his body. “Egalitarian, wouldn’t you say? Considering your recent education on my own state of undress.” Heat rises in your cheeks, matching the inexplicable confidence beginning to blossom in your belly. Loki smiles expectantly, resting both elbows casually on the ledge.

His lips form a soft o as your robe falls around your feet. You feel his stare roaming your body as keenly as though its his hands. Can he see the translucent sheen of arousal smeared down your inner thighs as you step into the pool? Possibly. Probably.

It’s true what they say about his body, about his temper, about his cock, after all. Why not his powers of perception?

The water licks against your skin, the thrill of this forbidden meeting making every hair on your body stand to attention. Pores tingle against the embrace of heat as you sink beneath the surface, perching on the flat stone seat beneath. The curve of your mounds bob above gently lapping water.

The same spot you’d been in earlier. But now, the view is entirely different.

You imagine that the archway behind you is a beautiful scene. Asgard’s moons would be shining, their light halo’ing your wetted hair against a blanket of stars. And yet, Prince Loki’s eyes never leave yours.

Although ten meters stretch between you, the whisper of his breath seemed to curl against your ear. You widen your legs beneath the water, immediately squeezing them closed again. Your lips purse, stifling a whine. “Your first royal audience, I gather?” Loki asks politely. You nod. This is madness.

Slowly, he shifts. One arm slips beneath the water, then two. His chin dips, observing you seductively from half-lidded eyes. “Why have I never seen you before?” The question hangs amidst the steam rolling over soft ripples.

“I find myself new at court, your Majesty” you hear yourself answer. It isn’t true. But it's better than the embarrassing reality. You're an invisible cog. “Liar,” he murmurs seductively. The corners of his eyes crease with mirth, a wet curl falling down to the side of his cheek. Somehow, your fingers find their way to your clit; hidden beneath the sweet-smelling veil of the baths.

“How can I have overlooked such a jewel in the midst of this grey wasteland?” “Wasteland?!” you scoff. It's bold, a peal of laughter escaping in spite of yourself. “Hardly.” The god cocks an eyebrow. “Despite my hyperbole, the sentiment remains. How did I miss you?”

There’s a moment of silence; anticipation choking the air. A suspicious disturbance begins to swell at the water by Loki’s mid-section and a chill of desire makes you shiver despite the temperate water; imagining those long, elegant fingers wrapping around that long, elegant cock. You began to toy with yourself, sparks of pleasure thrumming through your veins. Your shoulders began to roll in time with the pressure of your fingers. Unmistakeable. Breaths rise and fall in your chest, breasts bouncing lightly at the surface.

He grits, throat working as the straight lower line of his perfectly white teeth flash into view. The swell of water above his groin crests to a flurry; his deep, filthy exhales wrapping around your inhibitions and choking them. All pretence gone, you release the moan you’ve been holding.

Loki breaths out hard, a low ragged breath that seemed to part the steam caressing the water’s surface. “Mmm,” he grunts, neck stiffening. A vein at his throat stands hard and thick, straining as water began to splash against him from his abuse beneath. This is a scandal. You are a scandal. If anyone finds out, you’re finished...and yet. As the prince’s chin points to his glistening chest, wet from the splashback from fucking himself beneath the surface, you find you care not one jot.

His eyes darken, long lashes curled up to knitted brows. Loki’s lips are parted, tongue hovering and forming senseless words between laboured breaths. His cheekbones flash in the low light, soaking hair strewn over his milky skin. And always, his gaze is on you. The lofty, untouchable, inscrutable god that you’ve fantasised about is looking at you as he pleasures himself. Thinking about you as he sits across the water tugging his flawless cock. And if this is the shining, glorious moment which would burn out in a blaze of reputation-ruining glory to ash then so be it. Worth it. His dulcet moans of onanism grow louder, timing with your own. Only once do you tip your head back as you feel climax rear, a growled command of ‘look at me,’ through gritted teeth snapping you forward again.

If you’re ever deigned worthy to feel the prince inside you, have his marble body flush to your own in the throes of passion, feel his lustful praise hot in your ear– just once – you would die happy. But this? This could be enough. “S-so dutiful,” the prince moans, his shoulders juddering as he strangled the words. “B-brave,” he gasps. His brow furrows deeper with one last longing stare at your glistening neck and shoulders as you cum hard, a quiet mewl of his name echoing around the baths. It’s all you can do not to scream. “G-gods,” Loki chokes. Every muscle you can see in his body seems to tense, a thundering roar like ripping leather cascading from his throat. His mouth hangs open, grimacing to the atrium above. In the death of his cry, there’s silence but for the splash of water as the two of you compose yourself. Still flushed from orgasm, you push your hair back. The prince raises the hand that had been pleasuring himself out the water, inspecting a thick, white string that clings to his fingertips. He turns his gaze to you as he sucks the cum from his digits. God he’s fucking filthy, you think. I knew it. It takes every piece of willpower not to wade across the baths and lick it from his mouth. You bite your lip, matching his sultry demeanour and the prince’s eyebrow twitches. Your reaction is clearly to his satisfaction. “This has been amusing.”

He stands abruptly, breath stealing from your lungs as his entire body comes into view again. You aren’t prepared. The god’s cock is still hard. Long and perfectly formed, it’s earlier fairness now replaced with the blush of his work. Above, his abdomen glistens; pearled droplets of oily water running leisurely over muscled ridges. You open your mouth and close it again. Loki smiles. He turns and the toned meat of his ass shifts on his ascent up the short steps out the baths. With a click of his fingers, the robe and slippers he’d discarded are upon him once more. Your stomach drops.

“I didn’t tell you my name,” you blurt as he approaches the door. Prince Loki’s profile slices into view, the perfect arc of his bone structure lined over one broad shoulder in dancing torchlight. His eyes cast down and move to yours with theatrical precision.

“Your name?!” he purrs incredulously. “We must keep some mystery, surely.” And with the swirl of his robe and a thud of the ancient latch, he’s gone.

Loki’s stomach churns, emerald slippers feeling heavier with every step. He feels along the wall, blinking away the dizziness growing behind his eyes. Risky. Even for me. He pauses at the end of the corridor, steadying his breaths. There was something about her. Something which shattered any semblance of decorum he usually clung to in the presence of the court, however strange the situation. Her audacity. Gods, the look in her eyes as she brought herself to climax; pinning him under her gaze like a starving wretch at a feast. He stares at his feet, jewels throwing prisms from torchlight. “Brother?” Loki looks up, immediately rolling his eyes. “Spying on me? Truly you need to find something more wholesome to occupy your time, brother.” “Of course not. I intended to join you.” Loki’s stomach lurches as he notes the robe hanging off his brother’s shoulders, the plush red towels stacked in his glowering manservant’s arms. “No,” he snaps as Thor attempts to pass. The hand pressing against his brother’s chest is still wet, and he has a sudden hope it’s only water. “The temperature is not pleasing tonight. Tepid, at best. Trust me, brother.” “Is that so?” Thor asks, eyebrow rising. If he finds her in there, she’ll be punished. He won’t think twice before running to father like a dog. The thought wouldn’t usually cause him alarm but there it was again, that niggling feeling that greater fates were at play. He studies Thor’s face. "Trust me," Loki says. His brother sighs. “I trust you with very few things, Loki, but the temperature of bathwater is verily one of them.” He waves a hand and the servant scuttles away into the gloom. “In truth, brother, I hoped to speak to you about the Rite.” A hiss blows between Loki’s teeth, eyes darting to the side. “In my own time.” “Your own time?!” Thor stomps forward, making the torches rattle. “You’ve had five hundred years to find someone, Loki. Nine moons; that’s all you have until you must wait another five centuries for the alignment. Don’t you want to secure yourself in the succession? What if something were to happen to father? To me? The people of Asgard must be assured of your suitability.” “The entire thing is a farce. The fact that you succeeded, proves it.” Thor’s face darkens. “Don't speak of our sacred traditions that way. You know they’re in place for a reason.” A snort steals from Loki’s nostrils. “I have no doubts of my skill, I know I could rule Asgard’s people selflessly and with great enthusiasm; why must it be paraded in an inane peacocking which will make the high-lords wilt with inferiority?”

Silence hangs thick in the narrow corridor.

“A fact which makes your refusal to participate even more perplexing," Thor says, narrowing his eyes and yanking the sash at his waist in a way Loki assumes he thinks to be dramatic. "Nine moons, brother.”

As Thor's footsteps die away; he listens for splashing, for movement, for sneaking. But there’s nothing. He steps out the emerald slippers and pads back to the door, turning the handle with a final, furtive glance behind him.

He expects to see you draped nude over the chaise in the corner, or perhaps spread for him at the edge of the baths with hungry longing in your sharp eyes...but you’re gone. Loki frowns and stalks to the pillar which concealed you before. “Borr’s blood,” he hisses under his breath, scanning the room.

And then he sees it; something silken and knotted loops around the balcony pillars, glimmering in moonlight. He realises suddenly that the draping which normally billows in the evening breeze is gone. Loki smirks as he paces to the balcony and casts a cursory look over the edge. The makeshift ladder hangs to the level below. The royal laundry, if he’s not mistaken; the same hot spring source. “Nine moons,” he repeats quietly to the silence, rapping his knuckles against the marble twice before turning away with a smile.

💖Thanks for joining me for this lil journey! 🕯️Tags in comments x Read Chapter Two, Successional Pleasure HERE

[lemonlover1110]

𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Sukuna

[Chapter 7] Prisoner

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Pairing: Trueform!Sukuna x f!Reader

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Winter comes faster than expected. Within the blink of an eye, snow begins to fall and you’re prohibited from going outside. Now more than ever, you feel trapped. 

You don’t feel any changes in the weather. The moment the temperature gets colder, Sukuna orders for more layers to be placed on you. Though you plead with Hina to let you breathe, all the layers are weighing heavily upon you, she has no option but to listen to Sukuna. Sukuna’s orders trumps all.

To add more to your suffocation, you’re bigger every day. It’s gotten to the point that you can’t see your feet, no matter how much you try. You’re prohibited from doing anything and everything, and you can’t secretly indulge since Sukuna watches your every move. 

Though lately you wake up in the middle of the night and he’s gone. You know what he’s doing, and you can’t find yourself getting upset about it. Sukuna made it clear that your marriage means nothing. To add to it, you don’t feel anything towards him. 

You would’ve sworn that at this point you’d have some sort of feelings towards Sukuna. You’re more sentimental than you’d like to admit… But Sukuna isn’t someone that you can find yourself attached to. On the contrary, you’re getting mad at his mere presence. Maybe it’s because he makes you feel like a prisoner, while he gets to freely live his life.

You wouldn’t dare go against Sukuna’s orders. That is until you’re very well into your pregnancy, and you realize that he wouldn’t dare hurt you. You know that you made a deal months back. You pretty much agreed to be his prisoner in order for him to save your brother’s life. But you’re tired.

You need a break from him just for a few hours. Which is why you wait for him to leave in the middle of the night in order to get up. Luckily, you don’t have to sneak past anyone. Since Sukuna has taken over the task of watching over you, no one bothers with keeping an eye over you. 

You can barely watch your step, but you don’t dare to take a candle because you’ll just give yourself away. You finally get a breath of fresh air before realization kicks in. What are you exactly planning? You can’t go back home to your family, it’ll just end poorly for them. 

You just need a breath of fresh air. You’ll go back inside in a matter of seconds. You need a moment where Sukuna isn’t watching your every movement. You just want to watch the snow fall, like you once did. You want to feel human, even if it’s just for minutes.

“My queen, what are you doing here?” You’re spooked by an all familiar voice. You put your hand over your fast beating heart as you turn to see your servant.

“Hina.” You acknowledge her presence before walking away. She’s assigned to you, but ultimately, she listens to Sukuna. She knows better than anyone that he won’t allow you to be here, which is why you walk away before she can speak up. 

“My queen, you’re not supposed to be out here.” She tells you, and you pretend not to listen as you walk away. You’ve gotten to know the palace like the back of your hand these past months, but it gets slightly difficult to navigate when it’s dark– And you won’t even mention the giant bump that’s grown over the past months. You’re most certainly expecting more than one baby, just as your husband wants.

“King Sukuna is going to be livid if he finds you here.” She reminds you, following behind you. She can’t restrain you, but she’ll remind you that there will be consequences if Sukuna finds out.

“Livid? He’s burying himself inside another woman. He can’t be livid that his wife is taking a short walk.” You answer, and it dawns on her. Something that you’d never admit to yourself. 

“He’s worried about the babies, aren’t you worried about them?” Hina questions and you freeze. How are you supposed to tell her that you’re not? You continue walking, deciding that not answering is the best possible option. 

“Is this because you’re jealous?” She suddenly blurts out and it’s like a switch flips inside of you. You turn around to look at her and you scoff.

“Jealous of what? That a grotesque monster is with some other woman?” You sound offended that she even dared to ask that. “Please don’t ever disrespect me like that again, Hina.”

“A grotesque monster?” You hear the chilling voice behind you, before you’re lifted off the floor by him. You’re not even given a second to defend yourself before he’s carrying you back inside.

“Sukuna! Put me down!” You yell, kicking your feet as he forcefully takes you inside. “Sukuna! Put me down! I’m ordering you to put me down!”

“What makes you think I’d listen to you?” He responds as you continue kicking your feet. You’re yelling at him to put you down on the ground, you can still use your own two feet to walk back to your room. Sukuna finally fulfills your wishes when you reach your room, gently putting you down on the floor. The moment your feet make contact with the floor, he scolds you, “What is it with you and not listening?”

“I just need a breath of fresh air. You always refuse when I ask so I took matters into my own hands.” You cross your arms, an act that is barely visible in the dead of night. Sukuna lights a candle, that way you can see his every expression. He wants you to be scared by a mere look. He wants you to see just how grotesque he truly is. “I feel like a prisoner, Sukuna. I can’t stay locked inside this cage until these babies come out of me.”

“What did you think this was?” Sukuna has a mocking tone of voice, making your blood run cold. It knocks you out of the idealistic world that you live in your head. “You feel like a prisoner because you are one. You traded your liberty for your brother’s life, and now you’re mine.”

You feel tears well up in your eyes, the harsh reality check breaking your heart. Why did you think you would have a say? You can’t even walk outside of your room and take a breath of fresh air until spring. You can’t do anything that Sukuna doesn’t approve of. 

“I just want a breath of fresh air.” Your voice cracks, unable to contain the emotions that flow through you. This is your life now, and it’s hard to accept. You’ve had a couple of months to get used to the idea, but you’ve given yourself a higher position than the one that you actually have.

“And you’re about to cry.” Sukuna scoffs, watching as tears fill your eyes to the brim. His words are the catalyst that leads the salty tears to stream down your face. “Great.”

“Why can’t I just step outside for a minute?” You cry, and he rolls his eyes. “I’m not running away, I just need–”

“Do you think the cold is–” Sukuna interrupts you but he can’t finish his sentence without being cut off by one of your sobs. He sighs, stepping closer to you and wiping your tears with his kimono. He gently pats your back, the way Uraume told him to. “There, there.”

“I can’t do anything without you. I can barely breathe without you breathing down my neck.” You’re a complete mess, and Sukuna scoffs yet again. It should be an honor for you to say those words, yet you sound distraught.

“The cold isn’t good for my heirs.” Sukuna reminds you, something that you should know by now. He’s made it clear since the beginning, and he reminds you every time he reprimands you for asking to go outside. 

“Do you know how hard it is to be locked inside all day every day?” You ask him, and he looks annoyed at the question. Of course he wouldn’t know, but this is for your very own good. “I’m staring at a wall for hours on end, while you breathe down my neck– If not you, then one of your stupid servants.”

“Do you not care for your own sons that you continue to make such stupid points?” Sukuna questions, and a knot forms in your throat. You look away from him, wiping away the tears that manage to escape your eyes. You’ve never said it out loud, but you guess there’s a first time for everything. You’re scared about how he’ll react though.

You take a deep breath.

“I don’t.” You answer. “They’re your sons, not mine.”

“Huh?” It takes a lot to leave Sukuna dumbfounded, and you’ve accomplished it. He’s staring at you as if you’ve managed to cast a spell. “What did you just say?”

“I do not care for your heirs.” You repeat, and Sukuna isn’t sure how to react.

He knows of women that don’t love their offspring, usually they come offering their babies as currency. However, most women that come to him, come with the purpose of saving their children, whether born or unborn. He’s heard that humans tend to love their babies since before they’re even born, and he surely would’ve expected that from you. But that’s not the case.

“Of course, you wouldn’t care for the heirs of such a grotesque monster.” He responds, and you nod in agreement. You can’t even look him in the eye, but you act boldly. Sukuna tries to not get hurt by your response, because in the end it doesn’t matter. “You still have to carry them, and nurture them once they’re born. You can’t get rid of them so easily.”

His hand goes under your chin, tilting your head up and forcing you to look at him,

“Whether you like it or not, you’re still my prisoner.”

[idkyetxoxo]

Fire and Ice | Eris Vanserra | Series Masterlist

Pairing - Eris Vanserra x reader

Summary - Kallias's sister—the Winter Court's quiet heart. Sharp, composed, untouchable. She was born of frost and stars, raised in a palace of ice and silence after war stole too much too soon. All she has left is her brother. Her court. Her restraint.

Then there's him—Eris Vanserra. Heir to the Autumn Court. Arrogant, unreadable, fire-forged and court-polished. A male everyone warns her about. A male who's burned every bridge handed to him... except the one that leads to her.

Words fly like blades between them, and sparks fly faster. Something begins. Something neither of them dares name.

Maybe opposites don't destroy each other. Maybe they were just waiting to finally meet.

Tags - forbidden love, he falls first (and hard), secret relationship, mutual pining, fire and ice dynamics 

Contents -

❆ One

❆ Two

❆ Three

❆ Four

❆ Five

ACOTAR Masterlist

A/n - This series will include content warnings at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.

First Eris fic! Naturally, there's some fiery and icy vibes going on the inspo came from an old one-shot I wrote way back when that fits Eris like a glove :)

This one's on the shorter side, but I've got a nice idea for another Eris story. I've even got two parts already written, I just need to figure out where to take it next. Stay tuned for that!

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts <3

[marscardigan]

war of hearts — chapter i. meet the realm’s delight

series masterlist

summary: royal au. ellie williams had a reputation as one of jackson’s most skilled spies. no matter the cost, she always accomplished her missions, and never dared to fail. everything changes when she is ordered to assassinate the only daughter of the wolves’ king. the lines blur. and the mission that should have been easy and fast, becomes anything but.

word count: 3.3k

Spring came early that year.

Outside the castle walls, the city hummed with life. The market square was bustling with merchants selling all types of meals and fine silks, their voices rising with laughter. The scent of fresh bread drifted through the streets. Children wavered between the stalls, their shrieks of joy getting muffled with the voices of their parents.

Inside the palace, however, the sounds of the city were only a distant melody. Sunlight poured through stained-glass windows, scattering patches of red, blue, and green onto the polished floors. Servants bustled about with hurried footsteps, balancing trays of wine and fresh fruit, their whispers echoing faintly against the high ceilings.

But in the eastern wing, where no urgent matters of the court reached, you lounged in a sunlit chamber, draped lazily across a cushioned chaise. No duties weighed upon your shoulders yet—no council meetings, no diplomatic pleasantries, no tiresome lessons in proper decorum. It was one of the privileges of being a princess, free from the immediate burdens of ruling, yet surrounded by luxury and expectation.

The walls were adorned with shelves overflowing with books, their spines worn from use. A great hearth crackled with a low-burning fire, a lingering remembrance of the fading winter.

A tray rested nearby, holding a goblet of expensive wine and a plate of honeyed figs, untouched for now. The scent of lavender drifted through the room, carried by the gentle breeze slipping in from the open balcony doors.

The tranquility of the morning was disrupted by the steady rhythm of boots against the pavement. You didn't bother to rise from your comfortable sprawl to know who it was, but you still shifted your gaze toward the doorway as the heavy wooden doors creaked open.

And there she was. Abigail, your father's most trusted knight, and your personal guard. She was clad in her usual armor, the gleaming silver polished to perfection, and her sword belted securely at her waist. Her blonde hair was tied back in a practical braid, revealing her sharp features, her expression composed.

"Your Highness," she greeted, inclining her head slightly. She had always been formal with you, no matter how many times you told her to drop the titles. However, you both knew there was a friendship underneath all those pleasantries.

You hummed in response, reaching for a fig from your tray, twirling it idly between your fingers. "Abby. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Her lips twitched slightly, almost amused, but she remained composed. "Your father has requested your presence in the council chamber."

"Oh. What for?"

When she heard the smallest concern in your voice, she hesitated. That alone made your stomach twist. Abby was not one to falter. "The Scars are growing impatient," she said at last. "The streets are already whispering rumors about an upcoming war."

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, oblivious to the sudden chill in the room.

You studied Abby carefully. There was something different in her posture—not quite fear, but something close. A heaviness in her stance, a tension in the way her hand rested near the hilt of her sword, as if she expected violence to erupt at any moment.

"Take me to him," you finally said, standing.

Abby hesitated, just for a moment, before giving a single nod. "As you wish." She turned on her heel, leading the way.

You didn't know how you, of all people, were asked to be there. But soon that question would be answered by the king itself.

The council chamber was as cold when you entered. All the men turned to look at you, their gazes shifting uncomfortably beneath their cloaks. Some of them, men who had known you since you were a child, looked away entirely. As if they were ashamed. As if they already knew the burden about to be placed upon your shoulders.

Silence appeared to be welcomed then. Only one man remained unaffected. Your father sat at the head of the council table, his posture unwavering, his chin tilted slightly upward with command. King Isaac Dixon was not a man easily shaken.

He called out your name, his voice low and steady. You stepped forward, keeping your expression carefully neutral, and hiding your nervous hands behind your gown. "Did you want to see me, Father?"

"Sit with us," he instructed, motioning to the chair nearest to him.

You obeyed, as Abby remained by the door, but her eyes never leaving your figure. Isaac exhaled through his nose, folding his hands together atop the heavy oak table. "I trust you've heard the rumors."

You met his gaze evenly. "If you are referring to the whispers of war, then yes."

A low murmur rippled through the councilmen. You ignored it. The king inclined his head. "Then you must understand the gravity of our situation."

You did. You wished you didn't, but you did.

"The people grow restless," he continued. "Fear festers in their hearts. Fear leads to doubt. And doubt—" he glanced at the men seated around the table, his voice hardening, "—leads to disloyalty."

You remained silent, your nails biting the soft flesh of your palms.

"This war is inevitable," he said, matter-of-factly. "We cannot prevent it. But what we can do is control the narrative. We can give our people something else to focus on. Something grand. Something that will shift their attention away from the looming threat outside our walls."

"The realm needs hope." His gaze was steady, unwavering. "And nothing inspires hope quite like a royal wedding."

Your stomach twisted. There it was. You willed yourself not to react, not to let the horror creeping up your spine show on your face.

Isaac leaned forward slightly, his hands still folded together. "We need alliances. Strong ones. Wealthy ones. Noble families with power, with armies. Families that will not hesitate to stand at our side when the time comes."

A marriage for protection. For power. Not for love. You swallowed, the taste of iron sharp on your tongue.

"And what if I refuse?" The words were quiet, barely above a whisper.

The room stilled, Abby as well. For the first time, your father's expression shifted—something colder settling into the sharp angles of his face. "You will not."

It wasn't a threat. It wasn't even a command— It was simply fact. Your throat felt tight, but you nodded.

Isaac eased back into his chair, his features smoothing once more. "To make this more… palatable, we will host a masquerade ball. A grand affair, one that will bring all the noble families from the neighboring realms under our roof."

A masked ball. A spectacle to parade you before potential suitors. Your fingers dug into the velvet of your gown, hidden beneath the table.

"You will dance," Isaac continued, as if this was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. "You will charm. And you will make your choice by the night's end."

The weight of the words pressed against your ribs, suffocating. A choice. That was what he was offering you. But not truly. The choice had already been made.

You inhaled slowly, forcing yourself to remain composed. "And if I do this," you said, voice carefully measured, "you believe it will be enough to distract our people?"

Isaac studied you for a long moment. "They will have something to celebrate," he said. "That is all that matters."

Another silence. You didn't look convinced, but again, it wasn't your choice to make.

"They love you. Once the war comes, and you are newly married, they will want to protect you. They will fight for you. Die for you."

Then, reluctantly, you lowered your head in something close to acceptance. Isaac nodded once. "Then it is decided," he said, turning his attention back to the council. "The invitations will be sent at once."

The murmurs started up again, the men already discussing logistics, preparations. As if you weren't even there.

You felt something inside you crack. But you did not let it show. Instead, you sat there, spine straight, hands resting neatly in your lap, and heart quietly breaking inside your chest.

The council meeting had been ended for hours now. The nobles had dispersed, their voices trailing down the grand halls as they busied themselves with preparations.

You had remained seated long after the men had gone, your posture rigid, hands still neatly folded in your lap. The weight of it all pressed upon you, the mere thought suffocating.

And then, finally, when the last murmurs faded beyond the heavy doors, your father spoke. "You are upset."

It was not a question. You exhaled through your nose, tilting your head slightly toward him. The golden candlelight flickered against his face, casting sharp shadows along his jaw.

"I am not upset, Father."

A lie. He smiled, as if he could hear the falsehood in your voice. "You never could deceive me, little one."

You almost scoffed at the endearment. Isaac leaned forward, resting his elbows against the table. "You think I am cruel."

You stiffened. "I think nothing of the sort."

Another lie.

"You are my daughter. My only daughter; not by blood, but by something much stronger. Do you believe I would send you into this blindly? Do you truly think I would place you in any harm willingly?"

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your gown. "It is not harm that frightens me."

His brow lifted slightly, intrigued. "Then what is it that frightens you?"

You hesitated, but only for a moment. "A future that is not my own."

A pause. Then, Isaac sighed, shaking his head. "You are still so young." His voice softened, as if speaking to a petulant child. "You do not yet understand the ways of the world."

You clenched your jaw, but you said nothing.

"I have protected you," he continued, voice lower now, measured. "Since the day I married your mother."

At the mention of her, your throat tightened. And he noticed. He always noticed.

"I have done everything for you," he pressed. "Sheltered you. Kept you safe from the horrors beyond these walls. From the men who would see you as nothing more than a pawn."

You swallowed, hard. "And yet, you now hand me to one of them."

Isaac exhaled sharply through his nose, as if exhausted by your defiance. "How come you still think this is about you?"

That startled you. "What?"

"This is not about you, child. This is about our people."

A cold, heavy silence settled between you.

"They need something to hold on to," he said. "Something to celebrate. Do you understand? War is at our doorstep, and a kingdom cannot be ruled through fear alone. They must have hope. And you will give it to them."

Your lips parted, but no words came. His hand found your shoulder, firm and steady.

"You will be safe," he promised. "You will be loved. You will have everything you could ever need."

You stared at the empty goblet before you, not daring to face his gaze. "And what of what I want?"

His fingers tightened, just slightly. "This is what you want."

Your breath caught in your throat. Because the way he said it made you doubt yourself for a moment. Hadn't he always taken care of you? Hadn't he always given you what you needed? Hadn't he always known best?

Your silence must have pleased him, because his grip loosened, a softer expression crossing his face.

"I know this is difficult," he said, his voice lowering to something almost tender. "But you will see, in time. You will see that I everything I have ever done is to protect you."

You exhaled, long and slow. There was no point in fighting it. There never had been. Isaac gave your shoulder one last reassuring squeeze before stepping back.

"The ball will proceed as planned," he said. "It will be a grand affair. A night to remember."

Your lips pressed into a thin line, the words feeling like a cruel joke.

"I promised your mother I would take care of you" he added, already moving toward the door. "And that is exactly what I am going to do."

And then he was gone. You sat there, staring at the candle's wavering flame. And despite everything, despite the dread sitting heavy in your chest, you felt the faintest echo of his voice in your mind.

This is what you want.

And you wondered how many more times he would have to say it before you finally believed it.

Before Abby could knock at your door, a muffled moan escaped from inside. Her brows lifted slightly. A quick glance down the hallway confirmed there were no wandering servants, no prying ears to hear it. A slow smirk curled at the corner of her lips as she settled back against the wooden door, arms crossed over her chest.

Minutes passed, and the door finally creaked open, and from the dimly lit chamber emerged one of your companions—a lady of noble blood, her cheeks all flushed. She barely met Abby's gaze as she hurried past, fingers fumbling with the buttons of her nightgown.

Amusement flickered in Abby's expression, but she remained silent, stepping into the room and pulling the door shut behind her.

The scent of lavender and sex lingered in the air. You sat before your dresser, running a silver brush through your messy hair.

Abby took a step closer, her smirk widening. You met her gaze through the reflection of the mirror, eyes still laced with the hazy satisfaction of your earlier indulgence.

She could still see pearls of sweat running down your forehead, how tired you looked.  And still, you managed to look as alluring as always.

"I trust it was worth your time?" Abby mused, leaning against the post of your bed.

A slow, languid smile spread across your lips. "Believe me, it was."

She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "I hate to intrude on whatever fantasy you've made up for yourself, but Lady Charlotte is married."

"And yet," you hummed, setting down your brush and turning to look at her, "she still comes to my bed when she is needy."

Abby exhaled through her nose, her gaze dropping to the floor for a fleeting moment. She knew of your lovers—all women, most of them married, some of them not. She also knew the weight of this knowledge. It was a secret that, in the wrong hands, could destroy you. And yet, you had entrusted it to her.

"Lucky you," Abby murmured, tilting her head. "Your father's knights spend their days fighting for power, and you—" she gestured vaguely toward the bed "—collect it underneath your silk sheets."

You let out a soft chuckle, rising from your seat with slow, deliberate grace. "Power comes in many forms, Abigail."

Abby fought the way her stomach twisted at the sound of her full name on your tongue. Your gaze flickered over her, sharp and knowing. "And tell me, did you come to scold me for my indulgences, or is there another reason you stand in my chambers?"

The teasing tone in your voice did not stop her from straightening. The humor faded from her features swiftly. "I came to talk to you about council met with your father this morning," she said, voice low.

That caught your attention. Your expression remained poised, but Abby knew you well enough to see the shift in your stance, the way your shoulders squared as though bracing for impact.

“And?” you prompted.

"Invitations will be sent before dawn."

You swallowed, hard. Suddenly, you felt dizzy, and you had to sit on your bed. Eveything was happening so fast, and you wouldn't be able to stop it, not this time.

Abby looked at you, her blue eyes drowned in concern. But your facade turned warm again, before she could even express her distress. Both of you sat there, in silence, knowing how everything would change after that ball.

"Let's just hope the people are happy about the announcement."

The dim glow of lanterns cast long shadows across the wooden beams of the tavern. The Tipsy Bison hummed with the murmurs of men exchanging gold and frauds in equal measure.

Ellie Williams sat at a table near the back, half-hidden by the flickering light. A deck of cards rested in her hand, her fingers idly shuffling them as she leaned back in her chair, one boot propped against the table's edge. A game had just ended in her favor; her winnings—a small pile of silver coins—rested beside her. She had played without much interest, more for the satisfaction of watching the older men bristle when they lost to her than for any real need of coin.

The chair across from her creaked as someone lowered themselves into it. A heavy presence. Familiar. "Ellie," came the gruff voice.

She exhaled slowly, not bothering to look up from her stash of cards. "Joel."

He studied her for a moment, dark eyes unreadable beneath the brim of his worn hat. Then, without a word, he slid a folded letter across the table. Ellie regarded it with disinterest at first. Only when she noticed the wax seal—a deep crimson imprint of the royal crest—she paused.

Her brows furrowed. "What's this?"

Joel sat back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. "An opportunity."

Ellie picked up the letter, feeling the weight of it, the expensive parchment thick beneath her dirty fingertips. She turned it over, breaking the seal with a flick of her thumb.

Then she snorted. "A masquerade ball?" She cast him an amused glance. "Didn't take you for the dancing type."

Joel remained unimpressed. "It's not for me. Read further."

Ellie's smirk faded as she scanned the invitation more carefully. The name of the kingdom was one she recognized. Their armies were strong, ruthless. But they were at war.

Her fingers drummed once against the table before she looked up again. She seemed insulted by it. "You want me to attend this?"

Joel inclined his head. "Not as a guest, obviously."

She arched a brow. "Then as what?"

He was silent for a moment. "As a hunter."

Ellie set the letter down, interest finally piqued. But she tried not to let it show.

Joel exhaled through his nose, his gaze sharp. "War is on the horizon. The Wolves and the Scars are ready to rip each other apart, and when that happens, their gold will spill just as quickly as their blood." He leaned forward slightly. "Isaac's desperate to keep his people from turning against him after everything that happened. He needs alliances. Soldiers. And he's using his daughter to secure them."

"A royal wedding. A union to distract the people and gain favor among the noble houses."

Ellie's frown deepened. "And where do I come in?"

Joel's voice was even. "You take her."

Silence settled between them. Ellie stared at him, waiting for a hint of jest. There was none.

"You want me to abduct the princess," she stated, more to hear it aloud than to seek confirmation.

Joel only nodded. Ellie let out a low whistle, leaning back in her chair. "Gotta say, old man, that's ambitious—even for you."

"She's the king's precious treasure," Joel said. "If we take her, Isaac will pay. And if he won't, someone else will."

Ellie considered this. A princess was no small prize. Wars had been waged over less. If she was delivered into the wrong hands, she could be used as a weapon, a bargaining chip, a pawn in a game far greater than herself.

"And if she resists?" Ellie asked.

Joel's gaze didn't waver. "Then you kill her."

Ellie studied him for a long moment, the weight of the words settling between them. There was no hesitation in his tone, no room for debate. She pondere her options, and realized she had done worse things for less payment.

She glanced down at the invitation once more, tracing the elegant script with her thumb. A masquerade. A grand event filled with nobles, music, and wine. A perfect place for a thief to slip in unnoticed.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.

"Well," she mused, tucking the invitation into the inner pocket of her coat, "guess I'd better find something nice to wear."

[cupidologys]

⸻ THE PRINCE(SS) & THE PROTECTOR [PT. 2]

pairing: zoro x reader

word count: 2.4k

synopsis:  refer to the first chapter: HERE

note: ^^please read the first part before this chapter, as it will be confusing otherwise :)

and here is the link to the third and final part: part three

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

ZORO

Three months had passed along the winter winds. Spring was just behind the proverbial corner, peeking its blooming head around, awaiting the final frost’s imminent leave. For Zoro, this shift was taking far too long.

Why?

Because when the seasons changed, he would finally be able to see you again.

The message arrived last week. A letter, embossed with molten gold and folded into perfect fours, found its way onto the deck by way of carrier falcon in the early morning. It had been addressed to Luffy. For some reason, disappointment struck Zoro when the sender was revealed to be you.

He shook the strange feeling away and snatched the thick paper from Luffy’s hand to read over its contents. There was only a single sentence written on the sheet, penned in careful, familiar cursive.

Luffy jumped around, craning his neck—which was quite easy for him—to catch a glimpse of the message. “What is it? I want to see.”

Zoro ignored his captain, instead he folded the paper and carefully pocketed it.

“Well?”

A huge grin spread across Zoro’s face. “It’s time to get our crew back together.”

The Spring Solstice is approaching.

I hope to see you all there.

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . 　

The Merry docked in the sparkling harbours of a bustling metropolis. It was early morning—too early—and Zoro could feel the grogginess of a sleepless night weigh his limbs down. Despite the ungodly hour, the marina was buzzing with activity. People milled around, conversations floating seamlessly through the air. Some were setting up shop for the day—rows of all kinds of stores lined the inner docks and stretched far into the heart of the city. Others roamed about in various fashion; some were tourists and merchants, and others native citizens. No matter the purpose or the cause, everyone had the same buzzy manner to them. As if something electric was in the air, charging the atmosphere.

Zoro felt it too. That energy. That excitement. His blood thrummed with it.

The sun had just peeked over the horizon, casting the glossy buildings and shores in rosy hues. Your native kingdom was a modernist's dream. A glowing hub of glass, electricity, and the constant momentum of new, inspired invention. The technology here was all encompassing. Neon lights lined the sides of glittering buildings—some of which occupied their own space in the sky, suspended above the first foundational skyline. The vehicles zipping around, at least what Zoro thought were vehicles, were strange, sleek models equipped with an array of digital enhancements. They could fly too.

It seemed everything here belonged more to the sky than the earth.

Twenty minutes swiftly passed, and the crew slowly filtered away, each member marching off with their own designation in mind. Luffy wandered, led by his nose, down the streets filled with food stalls. The others offhandedly mentioned their own plans and each went their separate way. They made a promise to meet up in time for dinner, which was when they’d planned on surprising you at the palace.

The invitation itself was vague, but the shiny embossment at the bottom of the paper was the royal seal, a symbol which would, at minimum, grant them an audience with the king—and subsequently you.

A familiar groan made Zoro look up as he readied his own supplies to head out.

Sanji was off in a corner conversing with one of the store owners. They were engaged in what looked to be a heated transaction of sorts where the prize seemed to be a mint-coloured fish the size of a pencil and just as slim. The cook waved his hands in exasperation as the short, stocky salesman stared up at him in defiance.

Zoro shook his head, unable to muster any enthusiasm as he left the two bickering men to their devices. Instead, he ambled away and toyed with the hilt of his swords as he did so, rolling the smooth leather against the calloused skin of his fingers in an effort to expel the frayed nerves that rolled through his veins, causing his anxiety.

The city, alive as it was, had a strange air about it. As Zoro gradually made his way through the harbour and down the smoothly paved walkways that led to the heart of the metropolitan core, it became clearer to him that something had occurred—something important.

Shops had [CLOSED] signs put up despite it being late morning, flowers of all kinds were strewn around and fashioned into careful decorations, and many wore outfits of muted colours—a sea of grey and black trickled through the nation’s paths.

It was as if the city itself was in mourning.

Zoro shut those thoughts away. Perhaps those were the trends of the time. Perhaps the flowers were a cultural custom. Perhaps he was imagining it all and the foreboding thoughts invading his mind were nothing but unwarranted paranoia.

Everything was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . 　

Miraculously, the crew congregated at the palace entrance relatively on time. Getting through the gates was surprisingly easy, and gaining an audience with the king—your father—was even easier.

The tall, imposing man greeted the crew with a wobbly smile. His hands, weathered and wrinkled with age, gripped his staff tightly until his knuckles turned white.

Something was wrong. Zoro was sure of it. Where were you?

“I did hope to meet you all under better circumstances,” he began. His brows furrowed as he worked his next words out. “[Y/N] always spoke so highly of you all.”

Zoro’s entire body tensed. Something was very very wrong.

Robin spoke up. “I apologize, Your Majesty, but what do you mean by that? Where is [Y/N]?”

The king’s expression falls. “I’m sorry… I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?” Zoro demanded, the thought of propriety forgoed. Anxiety bubbled up his throat like acid.

“The invitation was sent so long ago… I assumed that you received my letter regarding the news…”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The letter of…” His lips trembled. “Of passing. I am sorry. [Y/N] is gone.”

The room fell silent.

“What? What are—what do you mean?”

Luffy stared straight at the floor, still as a rock. The rest of the crew looked shell shocked.

Zoro whirled around on the older man, eyes flashing.

“Tell me!”

Despite the obvious tension rolling off of Zoro, the man’s expression only softened in pity.

“I’m sorry.”

“What… what happened?” Sanji rasped from behind. Zoro turned at the sound of his voice and blanked at the sight.

Why were they looking at him like that? Like their hearts were breaking?

“Zoro.” Robin rested a hand on his shoulder in comfort, which was strange considering the tears in her eyes. It seemed she should be the one comforted. But why?

Why were they all…

Realization dawned on him. Heavy. Precise. A shot to the heart.

The tributes.

The singular letter.

A city in mourning.

Zoro dropped to his knees. His ears rang as blood rushed through his head. The reality of it was hitting him all too fast.

No.

He had never known grief like this before. It didn’t come slow. It didn’t creep up on him. It was there. Raw. Searing. Instant.

Sobs broke out from behind, but he barely took notice.

There was no room to breathe, much less think or speak. He tried anyway.

“…dy.”

Robin furrowed her brows, confused. “What was that?”

“The body.”

When no one answered and the tense silence persevered, Zoro lost it.

“I said show me the damn body!”

The swordsman was yelling now, fueled only by pain.

Hate. Regret. Despair.

Such foreign feelings with such an intimate touch. They rolled through him in waves, never fully dulled, ebbing and flowing with the motions of thought and time.

His chest was hollow. Everything was hollow. Empty. Zoro didn’t think he’d ever feel whole again.

How could this have happened?

This couldn’t have. They were mistaken. They had to be.

He had to see the body. It couldn’t be you. It couldn’t.

The screams continued. Curses. He cursed the gods… the heavens… anyone and everyone. He must have looked insane.

He must have gone insane.

The king only shook his head, sadness clouding his expression.

“The fire… nothing was left. Only…” he trailed off, eyes wide and glistening. “Only bones.”

“Oh…God!” Nami gasped and covered her mouth. Her hands trembled as she struggled to keep her cries at bay.

The rest of the crew weren’t faring much better. Each crew member was equally just as shocked and devastated at the news of your death. Most hadn’t stopped crying.

Zoro didn’t cry. He didn’t say another word until they made it back to the ship hours later. The moment he reached the hallways leading to his room, he collapsed. Robin and Luffy, who had been with him, rushed to their friend's aid.

Zoro felt nothing. Numbness had spread throughout his body, paralyzing what little control he had over himself.

The two others tried to help—to console him—to no avail.

They were at Zoro’s door, hands on his shoulders in comfort and solidarity, when he finally spoke up. His voice was rough and cracked; his palm was splayed flat against the wooden panel in an attempt to keep himself upright.

“Leave me,” he gritted out. A final plea. An incontestable order.

And so they did. They left him to that room—to the privacy of the oak door that did little to obscure his pain or muffle the echoes of silent suffering.

For weeks after, the ship was haunted by the ghost of you—of the memories and people left behind, forever tainted. Life, as static as it felt, still moved forward. The motions of the everyday cycled through spring until summer made its way across the horizon. The crew worked tirelessly, taking on odd jobs here and there as they sailed to their next destination, far from the land you once called home.

An accident, the king had said.

Unpreventable.

Inescapable.

You were merely at the wrong place at the wrong time and dealt a tragic hand by fate. Zoro had never quite believed in fate, but now he held a newfound hatred for it.

“[Y/N] was supposed to come back.”

“Zoro…” Nami hesitated. This was the most Zoro had spoken in days.

“Some time would pass. Maybe longer than I wanted, but not more than half a year.” His voice faltered on the last part.

“Everyone would make up. Chopper would cry. Sanji and Usopp too, probably. The awkwardness would linger, but only for a little while. I had it all planned out; what I’d say when we were reunited. I’d apologize. Grovel. Beg on my goddamn knees if that’s what it took. It didn’t matter. I would have crawled through the dirt if asked.”

Zoro’s eyes were unfocused, gazing blankly into the far horizon. The crew stood across from him near the ship’s helm, uneasy and somber, blocking most of the view. Zoro continued to stare forward, unmoving. He wasn’t looking at them. Rather, he stared past them. Through them. Like they weren’t even there. He just…watched. Waiting in silence for something that would never appear.

Time moved forward still, stubborn in its momentum against those so desperate to stay tethered in its past.

It was early morning and not many of the crew were awake yet. Robin and Sanji were the only ones awake aside from Zoro, though they were more preoccupied with the swordsman than their own responsibilities.

Zoro was training on the upper deck. He repeatedly slashed his swords in a sharp movement against a steel mannequin. The poor thing was in tatters from the relentless onslaught of strikes and hits.

Robin, who was watching from a short distance away, asked: “Has he slept?”

Another slash. The training dummy rattled from the force as another gaping hole appeared in its extremity. It wouldn’t last much longer.

“No. But he doesn’t do much of anything. He drinks, sleeps, and trains to the point of exhaustion every day,” Sanji sighed, hand ruffling through his hair in frustration. “He barely even eats. I tried making his favourite meal last night but he couldn’t keep it down for longer than five minutes. I’m… concerned.”

“He’s lost some weight,” Robin noted with a frown.

“Yeah, well… he’s lost a lot of things recently.”

A pause.

“So have we.”

Sanji swallowed. The loss was still fresh in their hearts. Still raw and painful and devastating. Sometimes he’d forget for a little bit. He’d prepare a meal, share a laugh, or lose himself in a job, and for a second he’d forget all about the pain. But seconds were seconds and life moved fast—too fast for them to grasp those moments of peace and hold onto them like lifelines, which they so deeply resembled.

Zoro didn’t have the privilege of those moments.

Sanji turned to face Robin to address her, but kept his eyes on Zoro. “I’ve never seen him so…”

“Out of it?”

“I was going to say ‘crazed’. His screams… god, it sounded like he was the one dying. Right there. Right in front of us.”

“Sometimes, I think he might have been,” Robin answered, a sad finality in her words.

“How do we help him come back from this?”

“I don’t know if he will.”

Zoro could hear them, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Not anymore.

At least, not until a certain day, near the end of summer, when the sun hung low and the breeze turned kind. Luffy had convinced his first mate to accompany him to a small town for a supply run when Zoro had inadvertently found himself lost in the midst of the countryside.

After an hour-long trek, he had all but given up. In a bid to return to the ship, he had tapped the back of a stranger, prepared to ask for directions he inevitably would’ve confused as well, but as the hooded figure turned around, all thoughts emptied from his mind.

All Zoro could do was stare as you turned to him, familiar eyes locking onto his own glassy ones.

“[Y/N].”

You gazed at the man before you, a warm but confused expression graced your face.

Zoro didn’t look like he was breathing. He didn’t feel like he was either. He was too focused on you.

You who stood in front of him.

You who was alive.

You who was real. Not the imagined version that haunted his dreams on the nights he managed an hour or two of sleep.

You who looked at him like he was a stranger.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

—

˚ · . tags: @synchronised-beat @96jnie @guridoodles @metonimia-de-bellota @stranger-chan @sp1ng @diarythroughmylens @mitsureigen @kateswone @idx-xv @leafyturtle @lupidetenebris @captainsolare

[joooooniecore]

After all this time - Chapter 6

Your friends have been successful enough to drag you out of your workaholic routine for a vacation out of country.

The only problem? Your long term crush who actually used to be your best friend is also going there. And he is bringing his girlfriend, your ex-female best friend.

What could go wrong? Right?

✧˖* pairing: ex-bestfriend!mingyu x f!reader

✧˖* chapter count: master-list

✧˖* genre: ex-best friend mingyu, friends to strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, angst, slow-burn, smut.

✧˖* playlist: spotify playlist

✧˖* full work warnings: resurfaced old feelings, toxic relationship(not between the main characters), angst, confusions, resentments, past misunderstandings, a very slow burn

✧˖* explicit warnings: penetration, explicit language, cursing, bodily fluids, praising, body worship.

✧˖* author's note: sorry for not posting this chapter on time. i was severely sick and couldn't get out of bed for five days straight, hence couldn't edit this thing and post it. i hope you like this chapter. this is a long chapter as i wanted to keep the palace tour in one chapter only. did you feel the willingness of mingyu to be friends again? kinda frustrating to not know what he thinks right? well no worries, you will love the next chapter. anyways, thank you to everyone who reached out to see why i delayed the post. i love yall!<3

--- love, artemis.

✧˖* tag-list: @ana-marais98 @hellosighsophy-blog @ppaia @mingyuisthevictimofsvt @tokitosun @iarayara @cheolliesvt @seungcheolsblackcard @alohacrispyrn @lilylikesthat

COMMENT TO BE IN THE TAG-LIST!<3

<< chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5 | chapter 6 | chapter 7>>

The next morning, luckily you woke up right on time. You had set an alarm for 6 o’ clock because you wanted to have a slow morning just for yourself. You got out of your heavy blanket, a bit unwillingly and decided to freshen up first and then dress up well. You love winter fashion and you have brought some good clothes but you were too tired to dress up since the last two or three days. Now that you have time for your own, you decided to dress up like you always do.

You decided to wear a short black velvet dress, with a body warmer below. You paired it with thick stockings and black boots. Throwing a long black overcoat over the outfit, you stood in front of the mirror admiring yourself. Normally a person wouldn’t want to wear boots to a tour of a castle but the boots you own were extremely comfortable and actually didn’t hurt a bit. After putting on some light makeup, you decided to get out of your room and get some breakfast.

You kept the coat on the sofa and decided to get yourself a bowl of cereals. You were not in a mood to make something so this was the easiest way out. The microwave dinged indicating that the milk was warmed up. You chose a cereal and sat on the table, taking bites as you scrolled through your emails.

By the time you were done with your breakfast, you saw the others slowly approaching the dining area. You gave a radiant smile to Chan as he greeted you back with a soft ‘good morning’.

Seungcheol came in next as he grumbled about having to wake up this early. He poured himself some coffee and sat beside you on the sofa, slowly sipping it. You on the other hand opened the book you were reading and skimmed through the pages, clearly trying to not get bothered by Maya.

“Are you trying to ignore Maya?”, whispered Seungcheol.

“Kind of.”, you answered awkwardly.

“Good. She deserves that. I would have punched her face but I don’t think you would like that.”, Seungcheol joked as he flexed his muscles.

This made you laugh as you patted his back and promised to bring him with you whenever you needed a bodyguard.

Soon everyone was done with breakfast as Seungkwan announced that it was finally time to go. You got up, fixing your dress as you wore your coat and the boots that were waiting for you in front of the main door. As soon as you got out of the bungalow, you could feel a pair of eyes on you. You looked up to see Mingyu quickly turn towards Maya and walk up to the front gate. You stared in confusion but decided to ignore it and started walking out.

Chan informed everyone of a tram that was available nearby. One can take the tram and it will take them straight to the Prague Castle. You guys decided on taking the tram as it was cheaper and easier means of transport. The journey to the castle was nothing eventful, as everyone got separated in the tram, to find a seat. You sat beside Seungkwan and stared out of the window, taking in the beautiful scenery of the city. You always loved transport systems as it allowed you to drown in your own thoughts.

After what felt like half an hour, you reached the destination. Everyone got down from the tram and after asking for directions, the nine of you finally stood in front of the prestigious Prague castle. The word ‘beautiful’ would have been an understatement. The castle was beyond words. It was massive and magnificent. The details that were carved on the stones made you stare at it in awe. You have only read about castles in story books that looked this magical. You took a good ten minutes to soak it all in. You wished to stay in this castle forever but that would be weird right?

Seungkwan’s voice brought you out of your thoughts as you walked up to where he was.

“This is our guide and she will help us tour this entire palace.”, explained Seungkwan.

The guide was a small petite middle-aged woman who looked like she knew things about this place that no one knows of. She was dressed in a formal attire and spoke English very well. You greeted her with a with a warm smile and internally thanked Seungkwan for choosing a woman. It’s a weird concept of yours but you always feel lighter when touring a place with a woman guide. It helps you communicate easily and ask various questions that might get annoying at some point.

Walking through the gates of the magical castle, the woman-guide spoke first, “Welcome to the Prague Castle, the largest castle complex in the world and a treasure trove of Czech history and architecture. My name is Elinor and I will be your guide for the day.”

Her voice was extremely professional but also captivating. It was warm and deep and didn’t have an annoying shrill to it.

“How long does it normally take for this tour?”, Chan asked.

“Uhm up to 3 hours. It also depends on how quick you guys walk.”, joked the guide which made everyone laugh a bit.

As you walked through the gates, you could see the history and the talent of the artisans from that age. You always get shocked at how skilled these people were in make something this massive and also detailed.

“As we enter the castle grounds, we find ourselves in the picturesque Hradčany Square. The square is surrounded by stunning Baroque architecture, including the impressive St. Vitus Cathedral, which we'll explore later. Let’s take a moment to admire the square's tranquil atmosphere and the beautiful buildings that surround us.”, said Elinor as she guided your group to the area.

You looked around, taking it all in. It was beautiful. The architecture was to die for and the beautiful buildings surrounding the square gave it almost a heavenly look.

“This is amazing.”, said Jeonghan as he stared at the Cathedral.

Everyone nodded, as if hypnotized by the beauty of this place.

You decided to click some pictures of the place, as Mingyu did the same. You both almost made it look like a competition to click the best pictures.

“I think I will click better.”, spoke Mingyu suddenly to which you gave a smirk as if silently challenging him into a photography competition.

“Ugh why do they need so many pictures?”, you heard Maya speak.

You decided to ignore her as you attempted to click more perfect shots. You were more of a candid photographer. You loved clicking pictures of people, who have no idea they are being clicked. If someone told you to click a picture of them, that’s when you get awkward and wobbly. Right now, clicking the pictures of the intricate designs, seemed so much better.

“Let them. They enjoy it.”, Jihyun strictly spoke, which you could hear perfectly from the distance. You acted like you were too engrossed in clicking pictures so that you could eavesdrop what the conversation was getting at.

“They are best friends, right?”, you could hear Elinor ask, clearly out of curiosity.

Seungkwan laughed and said, “Yeah kind of. They were partners in photography in college. The best team anyone could ever get.”

You couldn’t see Maya’s face but you knew she was bubbling with anger. You decided to end her misery as you walked out of the corner acting completely oblivious of the conversation.

“I am done clicking.”, you declared. Just then you heard Mingyu approaching too, signaling that he was done too.

The guide gently smiled as she guided you guys to the entrance of the massive cathedral.

“We'll now enter the breathtaking St. Vitus Cathedral, the spiritual heart of the Czech Republic. This magnificent Gothic cathedral took nearly 600 years to complete and features stunning stained-glass windows, intricate stone carvings, and the final resting place of many Czech saints and rulers.”, said Elinor as the nine of you entered the closed area of the cathedral.

The inside was even more spectacular. The glass windows, the high ceilings and the beautiful designs. Even if the lighting was low, you could feel the rich architecture. You were so in awe that you almost missed what Elinor said next. The room was dimly lit so you couldn’t even see properly the faces of your friends. You stared in confusion as you suddenly felt a presence behind you.

 “She told us to look up, silly.”, came a deep voice close to your ear. You looked first at the owner of the voice, Mingyu who was grinning as he pointed towards the ceiling.

Then you looked up, craning your neck, and saw the most beautiful ceiling you have ever seen. The details, though too far away to capture with naked eye, were so beautiful. Amidst all this you could still feel Mingyu’s presence behind you as he almost pressed himself against your back. The inside of the cathedral was a bit crowded which explained the minimal distance between you both but it still didn’t help your thumping heart from calming down.

You were too scared to break this spell and decided to selfishly bask in the warmth of his body against yours, even if it didn’t mean a thing to him.

Elinor’s voice made you flinch as you created distance between you and Mingyu and walked up behind her to follow the group out of the cathedral and into a different location. The inside of the cathedral was too dimly lit to click a good picture on your camera. It was an old model and didn’t have much good features to click in the dark.

“I will send you the pictures I clicked inside the cathedral.”, Mingyu said as he walked up to you and quickly joined the group. You gave a small nod as you continued to walk.

You were actually getting scared of the bold attempts that Mingyu made to talk with you. You have no idea why he was suddenly having this urge to talk with you and be friends with you again. You were honestly scared about Maya being jealous and spilling the beans about your feelings for Mingyu which would complicate the situation more so you decided to maintain a respectable distance even though he was being all friendly.

“Next, we'll visit the Old Royal Palace, a complex of buildings that served as the residence of Czech rulers for centuries. We'll explore the palace's grand halls, including the impressive Vladislav Hall, with its unique ribbed vaulting and stunning Gothic architecture. This is where the Czech coronation ceremonies took place, and you can almost hear the echoes of history within these walls.”, explained Elinor as your group got inside the main attraction of this area, the palace.

You quickly took out your camera to click some good pictures of the architecture. You were always intrigued by how artisans pulled such beautiful pieces off even at a time when there were no high - defined machines. You snapped pictures of the details on the walls, ceilings and even pillars. The coronation ceremony arena was even more beautiful as you felt like a princess walking down the area.

You silently clicked pictures of all your friends as they loitered in the area. You were great at secretly clicking pictures of people and you got some pretty good snaps of Jeonghan and Seungcheol being snuggled together. Jihyun looked extra gorgeous in the soft pastel shirt she wore and you couldn’t resist but snap a lot of her pictures. Seungkwan who was adoringly looking at an oblivious Vernon was your next subject of pictures. Then you snapped pictures of Chan who was busy admiring the details and looked cool in the soft glow of the palace walls.

Your camera slowly panned to Mingyu, who was weirdly not with Maya anymore as he kept on snapping pictures of the place. You glanced around to find Maya talking on her phone and concluded that it was the reason why she was not clinging to him.

You hesitated a bit before snapping a few pictures of Mingyu who was so engrossed in clicking pictures himself. He looked extremely handsome in jeans and shirt. The black leather jacket made him look so put together and classy. A sunglass took its place over his eyes once he was done clicking and that gave him almost a boyish look. Mingyu was tall and that itself was an accessory and you almost forgot that you were surrounded by other people.

“I can see you drooling.”, Seungcheol’s voice startled you as your cheeks flushed and you ducked your head to hide the embarrassment.

“Why are you here to torture me?”, you glared at him to which he gave a hearty laugh to simply annoy you more.

“Why don’t you just confess?”, asked Seungcheol.

“Are you crazy? He has a girlfriend for fuck’s sake.”, you whisper yelled as your eyes went wide.

“Yeah, well you confess, he rejects, you get eternal peace.”, he explained casually.

“You are seriously lucky that my best friend likes you or else you would have been ten feet under the ground.”, you glared at him, this time in a murderous way.

He threw his hands up in the air, as a sign of surrender and said, “Sorry ma’am. No need to confess anything.”

“Who’s confessing and what?”, came a voice from behind as you both turned to find Mingyu standing there, dumbfoundedly.

Seungcheol smirked and you could see the wheels turning inside his head. Before you could stop him, he spoke, “Our friend ____ here has a crush on someone.”

Seungcheol ran away from the scene before you could even hit him and you stood there awkwardly under Mingyu’s scrutinizing eyes.

“Y-You like someone?”, asked Mingyu and you couldn’t understand why he was so shocked.

“Kind of yeah. It’s not a big deal.”, you said, wanting this conversation to end.

“Do I know the person? Is it a college friend?”, he asked next which made you internally groan.

“Listen, it’s nothing important. Don’t worry about it. I will confess to that person when the time feels right.”, you replied, suddenly feeling a bit bold.

You could see something wash over Mingyu, as he gave a small smile and walked up to Maya. You couldn’t decipher what happened and decided to ignore it and enjoy the trip. The rest of the walk in the castle was all calm as Mingyu seemed to maintain a distance from you and you decided to not get bothered by it as it was somehow good for your heart.

“We'll now visit the Basilica of St. George, one of the oldest churches in the Czech Republic. This beautiful Romanesque Basilica features stunning frescoes, intricate stone carvings.”, Elinor spoke, like a recitation as you entered the church.

At this point your head was completely empty as you simply decided to wander and enjoy the history with your own eyes rather than clicking pictures. You clung to Jihyun as you both giggled and scanned the place. Jihyun asked you to pose in front of a beautiful mural and she clicked few pictures of your outfit which you were glad for.

The guide quickly ushered your group out of the church, murmuring something about the shortage of time and took you to this place called ‘Golden Lane’.

“This is the Golden Lane, a picturesque street lined with tiny, colourful houses that date back to the 16th century. These houses were once home to the castle's goldsmiths, and today they're filled with quaint shops, cafes, and museums.”, Elinor explained but her voice seemed to be just in the background as you stared in awe at the lane.

Your eyes sparkled as you took in the beautiful colours of the houses. Suddenly you heard the soft click of shutter as you turned to find Mingyu pointing his camera at you. You gave him a questioning look to which he just shrugged his shoulders and started clicking pictures of the streets.

After the street tour was over, Elinor spoke, “Now we have only the art museum left. If you guys are interested in that then I can take you there.”

You all looked at each other, clearly tired from all the walking. You wanted to visit the museum but seeing how tired everyone was, you decided to not bring up the topic. You secretly decided to visit it when you come out for your solo trip day.

“I think we will head back home, if that is, okay?”, said Seungkwan politely.

Elinor showed no sign of annoyance as she quickly guided your group out of the castle area and near the front gate. You guys thanked her for the amazing service and she was kind enough to give you her card to contact her whenever you guys visit again.

After the tour, everyone was hungry so the decision to eat lunch was immediate. Chan again knew a great place near the palace which served great Czech dishes and took you guys there. The food was delicious as usual and the nine of you devoured everything that was ordered. After lunch, everyone hopped on a return tram back to the bungalow.

The afternoon went by in the glimpse of an eye. Everyone went to their respective rooms to rest or do whatever they liked till the sun went completely down and Chan called everyone into the living room to drink some hot chocolate and cookies that he made.

While enjoying the hot drinks and chocolaty heaven, Maya decided to suddenly speak up.

“We should go to the old town square in the evening.”, said Maya enthusiastically.

“Huh? All of a sudden?”, asked Seungkwan, clearly not buying it.

You guys weren’t accustomed to this place and so you weren’t sure it was a good idea to roam a busy place on such an eventful evening.

“Yes! Also, I have a friend who lives here and she was able to give me information about a bar that is celebrating Christmas Eve in full swing today.” explained Maya.

Seeing how everyone went silent, Maya decided to speak again, “Come on guys. It will be fun. It’s Christmas eve after all! Right babe?”

She finished off the sentence and clung to Mingyu to get his validation on the topic.

“Yeah. It’s Christmas Eve after all.”, said Mingyu hesitantly and Seungcheol agreed along with him.

Everyone nodded their heads and decided to get dressed before the outing.

You weren’t exactly willing to go because you felt weird dressing up but Jeonghan was ready to drag you out of your comfort zone. Chan was able to search up about the bar from his contacts and it was a very expensive one. The bar Maya selected also had an in-built heater so covering up wasn’t much needed. Chan was even kind enough to hire a taxi just so that the ladies can dress well.

“Chan is a gentleman.”, said Jeonghan as he rummaged through your suitcase for something fitting.

You nodded your head absentmindedly as you went through the pictures you clicked today.

“You didn’t bring anything sexy! Goddamit!”, yelled Jeonghan out of frustration.

“I wasn’t exactly planning to wear a mini dress in freezing cold Jeonghan.”, you snapped back jokingly.

He looked at you, eyes gleaming with something that you were scared of. He gave a gentle smile as he stood up suddenly and rummaged through his own bag and brought out a wrapped box.

“What is that?”, you asked out of curiosity.

“I was supposed to give you this at night for Christmas but here you go. I bought this dress for you from a store back home.”, he said as he handed the box over to you.

You giggled a bit as you unwrapped the present and inside was the most gorgeous and sexy red dress you have ever seen.

It had a simple front, with rhinestones cascading down . It would end just above your knee. The back was the statement piece itself. A low dip back cut ran down the entire length of the dress just up to the hip area. Rhinestone attached ribbons going criss cross along the entire back and tying into a bow on the lower back. The dress was beautiful, bold and so gorgeous. 

“Are you sure this would suit me?”, you asked, a bit nervous for wearing something this bold.

“You would look breathtaking in this. Mingyu would be begging on his knees.”, joked Jeonghan.

You rolled your eyes and got inside the washroom to change and do your makeup. Jeonghan was right. The dress fitted you like a glove. Your curves accentuated due to the silk fabric of the dress. It made you look sexy and even more attractive. You decided to go for a simple make up look so that it doesn’t draw the attention away from the dress. Letting your hair fall, in its natural way made you look gorgeous. You never really kept your hair open but on such rare occasions, you wanted your waist length hair to have its moment.

As you came out of the washroom, Jeonghan fell on his knees, exaggerating his reaction. You laughed as you twirled to give him a show. Jeonghan stood up and went out of the room to call Seungkwan and Jihyun in.

“Oh my god! You look so fucking good what the hell?”, was what Seungkwan screamed as soon as he entered the room to see you.

Jihyun hugged you tight saying if she had a chance, she would date you.

After mustering courage, you decided to wear the black boots and the coat that you wore in the morning. You wrapped the coat around your waist as you wanted to show your outfit when you reach the bar.

As you came out of your room, Chan explained that Seungcheol, Vernon, Mingyu and Maya were already on their way to the bar and it was just them five here now. After getting ready completely, you guys got into the hired taxi and drove to the place.

The bar was beautiful. It had the classy look, like most of the places in the city. It almost looked like a sophisticated royal party but the neon lights and music gave it a modern look.

As soon as the five of you entered, Chan quickly spotted the rest of the people and joined them. Jihyun was quick enough to order few drinks. You decided to not get much drunk as you ordered a cocktail and decided to nurture it for most of the night. The others decided to go for some strong shots. Seungcheol also backed off from drinking as he was going to make sure everyone reaches home safe.

The night went along as everyone became tipsy and swayed to the music blasting through the speakers. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Maya leave and before you could see where she went, Jihyun and Seungkwan dragged you on the dance floor.

You allowed the songs to flow through your body as you swinged from side to side while bumping playfully into Seungkwan and Jihyun. The three of you giggled drunkenly as the music made everything else tune out from your mind. Suddenly you noticed a presence behind you, touching your exposed back and you flinched. Turning around you saw a man trying to get close to you. Jihyun and Seungkwan were no were to be found as you realized that you got lost in the crowd for a bit.

“Hey babe, wanna dance?”, he asked clearly trying to flirt.

“No thank you.”, you replied politely. The man furrowed his eyebrows and insisted one more time, not budging from the spot. You panicked a bit trying to create a distance and distanced yourself before looking towards the table everyone sat earlier to find Seungcheol. He knew how to handle these situations. Panic rushed through your veins as you saw that no one was there around you that you knew of.

A strong hand grabbed your wrist as you flinched, trying to get away from the smell of alcohol mixed with sweat that attacked your nose. The man smirked as he tried to pull you closer. You are not a weak woman and knew how to hold your ground but at that moment your brain was too foggy to even register how to escape. As a single tear escaped your eye, you suddenly felt the grip loosen and leave your hand.

You looked up to see Mingyu standing there, glaring at the man who was trying to force himself on you. Mingyu was way taller than the man and that made him drop his strong demeanour and scurry away to escape the probable chance of getting beaten up.

Mingyu approached you and gently held onto your shoulders trying to ground you. He slowly bent forward and gently whispered in your ear, “Are you okay?”

You simply nodded, not sure if you still have your voice. Mingyu looked around a bit and when he was unable to find the rest of the friends, he decided to again ask you, “Do you want to go out for a bit?”

The idea of getting some fresh air instantly made you calm. You nodded and Mingyu quickly grabbed your hand, trying to make both of you pass the heavy crowd and out into the fresh chilly air of Prague night. The Old Town Square was itself breathtaking as lights twinkled in every nook and corner. All the shops were illuminated for Christmas Eve and it almost looked magical against the soft snow. You sat on a nearby bench trying to take a breather. Even if it was almost late at night, the area was bustling with people which made you extremely happy.

Mingyu sat beside you as he sighed, “Are you seriously okay now?”

“Yes. I am fine. I was actually terrified. Thank you for saving me.”, you answered shyly.

“Come on. That’s what friends are here for right?”, Mingyu said as he bumped his shoulder against yours.

Friends. Yeah, you both were friends after all. Only friends.

“How are you liking this trip so far?”, you asked, trying to fill the silence.

“Oh. I am loving it. I am actually finding myself through this trip. I don’t know how to explain that but it is so.”, Mingyu said, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“Uhm, can I ask you something?”, asked Mingyu, clearly hesitant.

You nodded your head and internally prayed for him to not ask something awkward.

“Why did you and Maya ended the friendship?”, he asked and you mentally slapped yourself.

“Oh. Uh it was some sort of misunderstanding. I clearly don’t remember it now after so many years.”, you partially lied as she was still his girlfriend.

“No. Don’t lie to me. I know you. You are not someone who ends friendships just because of childish misunderstandings. Don’t stop from answering me just because I am her boyfriend. Tell me. I am very curious.”, he sternly replied.

Mingyu had always been great at reading you. He could read right past your lies and made-up stories. He could see right past the fallacy you create for you.

“Wow okay. I mean I seriously don’t remember much detail but it was I believe a fight over a disagreement. Oh yes. She was dating this one boy in college and we went to a party together and the next day she suddenly came up to me and said that I was trying to steal her man. I was flabbergasted and tried to reason it but she showed me all these blurry pictures of me hugging the guy and I seriously didn’t remember much about that night as I was super drunk. I actually felt guilty because maybe I seriously crossed the line because I was drunk.”

“Then? So did you really do it unknowingly?”, Mingyu asked out of curiosity.

“I don’t think so I should say you this.”, you answered apologetically.

“Please.”, Mingyu pleaded, his eyes glistening under the soft street light.

“She framed me. That is all I can say. I don’t know much details myself but another friend told me. And I was so tired of trying to be better for other people that I never asked her about it again. I just left.”, you answered sadly.

Mingyu nodded clearly not sure what to say. You patted his back in a gesture that it was fine that he has nothing to say. Mingyu had a habit of guilt tripping himself when he realizes that he was unable to help someone and you could tell that he was blaming himself at that very moment.

“There was nothing you could do Mingyu. I distanced myself and I never told you about it.”, you said as you correctly read his mind.

“How? Okay fine. Stop reading my mind.”, he chuckled sadly.

“Wanna head back inside now?”, he asked after a long pause.

“Yes. Let’s do that.”

As you both entered the loud chatter of the club, your mind was a little bit clearer than before and your heart felt lighter somehow. You never really wanted to ruin the friendship you and Mingyu shared and this was the moment you realized that maybe it is your overthinking that is making you distance yourself from him.

The loud music welcomed you both as you walked up to the table all your friends were seated at. Jihyun got up and hugged you as he heard what happened from Chan. Apparently Mingyu had texted him in detail what happened and where you both were. Maya was still not at the table and you quickly gazed around to find her standing near the bar. You sat beside Jihyun and she ordered another cocktail for you to enjoy the rest of the night with.

click <<here>> to go to chapter 7!

✧˖* end notes: posting every monday! do suggest me ideas if you have any. also do like and comment!! it gives me motivation to write better.<3

[oceansblvds]

tunnel vision — three ; coriolanus snow

MASTERLIST

pairing ; king!coriolanus snow x debutante!reader

words ; 2.1k

about ; in the glittering world of panem high society, you were raised to be perfect — the prized daughter of a powerful family. your family was prepared to make the match of the season. but when king coriolanus snow arrives unexpectedly, announcing his intention to marry, everything changes.

warning(s) ; eventual smut, angst, courting (bridgerton style), eventual fluff.

chapter specifics: lowkey horny reader. horny coriolanus. pining. flirting. finger sucking. talks of being 'ruined' in society.

authors note ; i felt silly while writing this

It had been a week. 

A week of the King — Coriolanus — courting you. 

The words still felt strange in your mind, as if they belonged in some kind of book, not your own life. You had read many times of this happening in history books, or in the gossip sheets that sometimes were passed around the ton. Every time it felt like something unattainable, something that didn’t happen to people like you, people who considered themselves like every other debutante that was looking for a husband this season. 

And yet, it had become routine. Almost. 

Sometimes it was lunch beneath the gilded awnings of Victory Square, a private table with crystal and silver while Peacekeepers stood just far enough away to pretend that they weren’t watching for any type of trouble. He would ask questions, never invasive, but always insightful and always one step ahead of where you thought the conversation might go. Other times he invited you to promenade through the palace gardens, your gloved hand resting lightly in the crook of his arm as you walked beneath blooming cherry trees. 

He never rushed. Never pushed. He moved like time bent for him. 

You were becoming more aware of him, not as the King, not as a man, but as Coriolanus. 

You noticed the way that the sunlight often caught in his pale hair when it filtered through the Capitol treetops, how the corner of his eyes crinkled faintly when you were able to genuinely amuse him, how the lines of his jaw shifted when he was deep in thought. He was beautiful, you realized one night when you were laying down staring at your carved ceiling, thinking about nothing but him. 

Not in the way that normal Capitol boys were beautiful, soft and perfumed and eager, always so desperately eager. Their hands reached too quickly, their compliments spilled out like coins towards anyone who would take them. His beauty was quiet, brutal, like something that was earned. Every angle was carved in place to the miniscule detail. He looked like marble and winter and something that you were never supposed to touch. Something ancient, still, and always watching. 

The way he listened. The way he moved. The way he spoke your name like it belonged to him already. The way his fingers brushed yours when he handed you a cup. 

One afternoon, during a quieter lunch in the upper part of the greenhouse, beneath a trellis of flowering vines, he reached for a pomegranate. It sat in the center of the silver tray separating you two like something mythic, heavy and red. You were never allowed to eat these much at home due to how messy they were, your mother would rather have an aneurysm. You especially wouldn’t ever be allowed to eat one in the presence of company. Without a word, he took a knife from the table and split it open. 

Juice spilled across the fruit's inner skin in a soft glow. He pulled a free cluster of the seeds and offered them to you in his palm. You hesitated, not because you were unsure, but because you were too aware of how your fingers would brush his if you took them. And you did. Just a whisper of contact. 

Then he brought a cluster into his own mouth. 

And you watched. 

Coriolanus’ lips parted, his teeth grazed at the seeds, and a single drop of juice escaped down the corner of his mouth. His tongue darted out, slow and precise, to catch it. 

You forgot your name for a moment. 

He must have noticed. 

“Sweet,” he said. Not looking at the fruit. 

Looking at you. 

When you went to bed that night, all you could think about was what this all meant, what this could mean for you and your station.

There were rules. 

Unspoken, but ironclad. Your mother stitched them into your corsets and your governess had woved into every lesson. You were meant to be admired, not touched. Desired, but just out of reach, like you were to only be seen like you were behind a piece of glass. You had never been kissed. Not properly. A peck on the cheek at a childhood game, perhaps, or a clumsy bow from a nervous boy one spring when you were ten. But not the kind of kiss that left you breathless. Not the kind you’d once read about in books that you weren’t supposed to read. Stories about girls who wanted too much and boys who took it all. 

A debutante wasn’t meant to kiss. 

Your mother had warned you, in a voice too calm to be kind. The fastest way to ruin was to let your heart get ahead of your station. Even the suggestion of impropriety could cost you and your family everything. Your name, your chances, your family’s station. Kisses should be saved for marriage. And here you were, heart racing like a foolish girl because the King had eaten a piece of fruit in front of you. But it was then and there that you realized that it wasn’t the fruit. It wasn’t the act at all. It was him. 

It was the way he sat across from you with a composure so complete and proper that it unraveled your own, or the way he listened not with the indulgence of a suitor, but with the hunger of a man who intended to know everything about you. Even if you didn’t know those things about you yourself. 

And it was the terrifying realization that hit you that you wanted him to. You wanted him to know everything about you.

Not because it was expected of a suitor. But because some reckless, forbidden part of you wanted to know what it would feel like if he stopped holding back. What would it feel like to have his marble and winter complexion pressed against your skin? What would it feel like to be chosen, not for your family name, your dowry, but because he could not bear to have you? 

You pressed your palms into the mattress, grounding yourself. 

You were not trained for wanting. 

Certainly not for wanting him. 

When you woke up the next morning, Indira seemed to not notice how flush you were. 

You sat stiffly at the vanity as she brushed and pinned your hair, smoothing it into something elegant and forgettable. Once that was finished, you continued to watch in the mirror as she fastened the tiny buttons down the back, her fingers deft and careful. 

“You seem nervous,” she said lightly, glancing at you in the mirror and making eye contact. 

“I’m not nervous,” you lied. 

“I can hear your heart beating from here.” 

“He’s only coming for tea.” 

You could sense her smiling. 

Moments later, you’re seated in the east parlor of your home. The china had been set, a tiny fire stewing in the fireplace. This has always been your favorite room in the house. There were grand windows that were along one side of the room, the doors to them open to shine the sunlight in and the breeze. The scent of sweet jasmine tea drifted through the hair, mingling with the fresh smell of garden roses that had been placed in a crystal vase at the center of the table. White curtains danced gently in the wind, casting shifting patterns of white across the floor. You could remember playing here as a child, weaving between the armchairs with your brothers, imagining you were a princess holding court. 

There was commotion in the corridor, signalling that the royal carriage had arrived. You could hear it: the soft, purposeful tread of boots on the polished floor, the low murmur of greeting from your family. 

The doors to the parlor swung open. 

You rose automatically. 

Coriolanus cut a striking figure against the light, dressed in a white collared shirt with a blue vest that matched his eyes over it. Against the collar of his shirt was a simple silver pin, like he was a normal man coming to court you. His eyes found you instantly, not sweeping the room or politely glancing over the setting, but straight to you. 

“My lady,” he greeted, low and rich. 

You dipped into a small curtsey. “My king.” 

In his hand was a simple white rose. It was unlike the ones that were sitting on the table in front of you, red and boisterous. This one was slim at the stem, pruned of any dead petals or thorns, but full, its petals thick and soft as cream. It was pure in a way that didn’t belong to the Capitol, like the ones that were in his grandmother’s garden. 

Coriolanus offered it to you, wordlessly. The rose was cool and soft against your palm. 

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered. 

His lips tilted, just slightly. “I thought it suited you better than the others.” 

During tea, you spoke about everything and nothing. He was careful with his words, thoughtful. And somehow, you found yourself laughing more than you meant to, smiling without thinking. No one ever disturbed the two of you. The servants kept a respectful distance, slipping in and out only when necessary. Coriolanus sat beside you, just enough that your skirts brushed when either of you shifted. You held the white rose loosely in your lap now, twirling the slim stem between your fingers without thinking. 

“Why a white rose?” You asked softly, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “You could have picked a red rose, gold . . . lilies, even.” 

Coriolanus turned his head slightly toward you, his profile sharply defined in the light, all high cheekbones and long lashes. Beautiful and utterly — frustratingly — unreadable. “Red is too loud,” he said after a tiny moment. “White, it endures. It doesn’t need to shout in order to be seen.” 

You looked back down at the rose, your chest tightening. But as you turned it absentmindedly, your finger caught on something sharp. You gasped softly, instinctively pulling your hand back. A thorn — hidden along the slim green stem, completely invisible until it had already broken your skin. A bead of blood welled up at the tip of your finger, bright and stark. You gasped softly, instinctively pulling your hand back. 

But before you could withdraw completely, Coriolanus’ fingers closed around yours. He turned your hand slightly, inspecting the tiny red bead welling at the tip of your finger. His grip was steady, though there was nothing detached about the way he looked at you. You expected him to reach for the handkerchief, tucked neatly in his coat pocket. 

He didn’t. 

Instead, without a word, he lifted your hand to his mouth. 

Taking the injured finger into his mouth. 

Your head went dizzy. 

Coriolanus’ lips were warm, impossibly soft at first as your finger touched it, the brief brush of his tongue gathering the blood in a way that made your skin burn. You could feel every movement, the careful pressure, the heat, the hollow of his cheek. He sucked gently, drawing the blood away, the sensation traveled up your arm and settling low in your stomach. 

Warm. Wet. Impossibly deliberate.

Your entire body stilled beneath the weight of it. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. 

When he finally pulled back, he kept your hand in his. His thumb brushed against the tip of your finger, as though confirming that the wound was gone, the blood had stopped. Coriolanus’ touch gentled again, but it didn’t feel any less possessive. 

“Thank you,” you managed. 

He just sat back slightly, just enough to give you the illusion of space. He didn’t pretend it hadn't happened. He just watched you, calm and collected, like he hadn’t just taken your finger into his mouth in the middle of your family’s sitting room. 

Your throat tightened as you reached for your teacup, hoping that grounded you and tethered you back to reality. But your fingers trembled slightly. 

“You shouldn’t have —” 

“Shouldn’t have what?” 

You swallowed. “That wasn’t proper.” 

“And did it feel improper, or did it just feel good?” 

You nearly dropped your teacup. He reached for his own tea like nothing had happened.

taglist: @ib525 @m-ichelles-world @coryosnows @ryomensgirll

[little-miss-of-the-sky]

Telemachus x blessed by Hestia reader

Chapter one : a warmth like home

His first memories of her were vague, nothing more than a drop in the ocean of his memory. However, she had found her way into his head and never left. 

Telemachus was only a child when he first saw her, on that dry winter's day. He was still too young to see the true nature of the men who invaded the palace of Ithaca. To see the damage Demeter's grief was causing. Yet the young prince often heard the maids speak of her, in whispers and gossip. "Child of the hearth", "gift of the gods", "guardian of the fire". So many words used to describe a little girl, seeming rather to evoke something divine. 

The courtiers were like a poison that gradually spread to every corner of Ithaca. The children's laughter had fallen silent, replaced by loud mockery. The corridors, once lit by the soft glow of the sun, were now dirty and desolate. Odysseus seemed to have taken the soul of his island with him when he left for Troy. 

Antinous had had far too much to drink tonight, and the encouragement of his companions only made him madder. Telemachus, sitting at his mother's feet, felt his anger increase with every obscenity he shouted. He, a little boy, could respect his mother, the graceful Penelope of Sparta. So why did men claiming to be courting her turn up every night and harass her like this?

The clamor of the men grew louder with each passing second, like the howling of a wolf pack before a hunt. The maids left discreetly, their heads lowered, and Telemachus felt the courage of his young heart flicker like a flame in the wind. Suddenly, a menacing silhouette detached itself from the group of men. The glow of the torches reflected off his dark skin, and his red tunic evoked the blood he so loved to spill in countless fights. He approached Penelope slowly, each step testing her, preparing to seize her. But the Queen remained dignified, silently weaving on, now carrying the King's honor on her shoulders. 

It wasn't the first time Antinous was trying to force her, unfortunately, far from it. 

Antinous stopped in front of Penelope, letting out a mocking laugh before sighing:

"Let's see, Queen of Ithaca. The King's been gone for 5 years already and you're still thinking about him? So let me...... discover what old Odysseus loved so much".

In an impulse of indignation, Telemachus stood up, his little face taut with anger. This man was leading those who were destroying his life, his home, his father's dignity, and he dared to speak of his mother like a common whore?

"Shut up! My mom deserves better than you! "

The words, fiery with passion, had escaped the young prince's mouth before he could think any further. Under normal circumstances, when Antinous was sober, he would have mocked Telemachus' words, would have launched the other courtiers into countless taunts. But alcohol destroyed his thoughts, fueled the fire in his soul. 

Antinous grabbed a handful of Telemachus' hair, his eyes wide and his mouth forming a menacing sneer. Penelope had stopped her work, frozen at the sight of her son being manhandled in this way, the way her child was threatened. She should have intervened, had to intervene, but that would only make the situation more difficult. 

Telemachus let out a small yelp of pain, a veil of tears covering his eyes as he tried to remove Antinous' fingers from his soft black locks. Antinous simply tightened his grip with a sneer and exclaimed:

"My companions! Who thinks the little prince deserves to learn a lesson the hard way? "

But before anyone could reply, a soft voice was heard: 

"Stop right there Antinous....."

Telemachus turned his head with difficulty towards the origin of the sound. And his heart raced when he saw her, with a mixture of fear and curiosity. A child, hidden by a long crimson cloak, was playing with an old stray cat by the fire . The fabric of her cape was covered with flames embroidered in gold thread, and her worn leather sandals had orange straps. But it was when she revealed her face that the Prince's heart stopped. Her eyes were the color of flames, two orbs blending yellow, orange and red in perfect harmony. 

Some courtiers, annoyed by her intervention, moved towards her, joined by Melanthius and Antinous. The two chatted for a brief moment before Melanthius rushed towards the little girl, raising his hand to slap her across the face. 

She didn't seem bothered at all, preferring to clean the ashes that had accumulated on the cat's paws before declaring, "You, who have so abused Xenia, Melanthius, slapping an envoy of the gods will not appease Lord Zeus's resentment towards you." These simple words were enough to unsettle the courtiers, who all calmed down and returned to their usual huddle. Even Antinous returned to his seat, giving him a nasty look as he passed by her.

When night fell and Telemachus was ready to sleep, snuggled against his mother's chest, a question crossed his mind.

In a tiny voice, he whispered, "Mom? Why was Antinous afraid of the girl? And who is she?" A long silence passed before Penelope answered in a weary voice, her fingers tracing the branches of the olive tree that served as her bed.

With a deep sigh, she declared, "It's....a Girl blessed by Hestia Hestia. We found her asleep amidst the ashes, a few days after your father left. She's your age, and honestly, that child is a true angel. Antinous is afraid of her because she plays at scaring him, but what you saw of her isn't her true personality, far from it..."

Telemachus let out a soft sigh of admiration, his sleepy mind wandering into a world of ideas about this girl blessed by Hestia. With a mischievous smile, he looked at his mother and exclaimed, "She must be as strong as Achilles!"

Penelope let out a laugh as he ruffled her hair and replied, "It is true that she possesses more humility and patience than that great warrior..."

This answer satisfying him, Telemachus snuggled up to his mother again, and before closing his eyes, muttered, "Tomorrow, I will go see her to ask her to play... and tell herthat her eyes are beautiful..."

[litnerdwrites]

There's no indication that anybody from Velaris is, or has the ability to become, a soldier for the night court. The only soldiers we see are darkbriners and Illyrians. Velaris has also been warded two times over to keep it hidden (even though nobody knew it existed anyway). There's also no indication that either Illyria or THC have access to the library in Velaris, or have any similar resourced (even though they are the only places that provide the NC soldiers, and, by the IC's own admission, rife with misogyny and abuse towards woman and children).

The ones who suffered under Amarantha's reign were Illyria and the Hewn City. Exclusively. The ones who fight to protect the Night Court are Illyria and The Hewn City. Exclusively. The ones who were orphaned and widowed by war (up until Velaris was attacked in ACOMAF for the FIRST TIME IN 5000 YEARS (which we can assume was when it was built)) was Illyria and The Hewn City. Exclusively.

Velaris has no slums. The Illyrians live in tents.

Velaris was by no means poor, its people mostly cared for, the buildings and streets well kept. My sister, it seemed, had managed to find the only thing relatively close to a slum. (ACOFAS Chapter 4)

And yet my sister managed to find the seediest, most miserable taverns in Velaris (ACOFAS Chapter 12)

Rhysand talked to the 'governors of the Palaces' and getting them to refuse service to the people from the Court of Nightmares.

“Starting with meeting with the governors of the Palaces and getting them to agree never to serve, shelter, or entertain Keir or anyone from the Court of Nightmares.” (ACOWAR Chapter 27)

“They have been sending out the word to every business owner in the city,” Rhys went on, “every restaurant and shop and venue. So Keir and his ilk may come here … But they will not find it a welcoming place. Or one where they can even procure lodgings.” (ACOWAR Chapter 27)

Velaris is built and protected on the blood of others. One of the only issues that they faced were a lack spices, and probably other imports, due to stopping trade for fifty years.

“It’s just … so lovely to have such spices available again—now that … that things are better.” (ACOMAF Chapter 29)

After it was all over, and Amarantha was dead, they could have reached out to other courts, offered aid and helped rebuild. Or, at minimum, they could've offered Illyria and The Hewn City, aid. They could've helped them recover. But they didn't.

Velaris protected by the blood and sacrifices of Illyria and the Hewn City. What exactly have the IC, or the people of Velaris done in exchange? Deny them service and lodging? Did nobody contest this? At all? Did nobody, in this entire city (a place that's supposed to be the only 'good' in the Nc) ever protest? Or even ask about the conditions in either Illyria or the HC?

I know that there was something similar happening in the winter court, with Viviane protecting a small city near the border, but in that case, Viviane had to stay there to keep whatever magic shielded it strong, whereas in Velaris, the city was already a secret, and shielded, so I'm still not following why he had to shield it again. Also, the city she protected took in any outsiders that made it there, and the wards on Velaris, actively encouraged people away from the city.

And in the aftermaths, there is no reason to think that Viviane, or the people of that city didn't extend their help in rebuilding The Winter Court to others who had not been as lucky. Whereas we know for a fact that neither the IC or the people/governors of Velaris didn't extend help. Instead, they agreed to help segregate the HC residents even more.

So the argument that 'Velaris is the only good place, because the The Court of Nightmares is made of monsters and Illyrians refuse to change' is bs. At this point, the only change either should make is letting the IC, and Velaris fend for themselves during the next war. There is no reason for them to lose their loved ones and spill their own blood for the people of a city that will refuse them service and lodging just because of where they're from, at the encouragement and behest of their shared monarch.

Remind me again, how and why that stupid bat should be high king? He can't even govern his own territory.

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 11

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 6.7k

Trigger warning; mention of clipping, violence, blood

notes; Hey hey hey, back with this hmm hmm special chapter, surprisingly (or not hehe) I truly enjoyed writing thing one (I'm sorry y/n). Well I'm not going to spoil anything but I hope that you will enjoy that one. Also I had a question because I'm already writing the following chapters, would you rather have a long chapter or two different (with one posted one day and the other the day after) ? Well you guys tell me because i'm struggling a bit haha. See you soon, love you ! (I love soooooo much your comments btw <33333)

previous ✧ next

The last day at the palace was filled with bittersweet goodbyes and heartfelt promises. Each healer expressed their gratitude, their voices tinged with emotion as they pledged to stay in touch and continue the work you had all started. Veras, the healer from the Winter Court, clasped your hand firmly, his icy-blue eyes glinting with determination. “Keep pushing forward, Y/N. You always manage to lead us to the right path.”

Even Rordan, the reserved healer from the Autumn Court, offered a rare smile. “We’ll hold up our end of the agreement. Stay safe.”

Amara pulled you into a quick hug, her hazel eyes soft with concern. “Don’t let the weight of it all crush you, Y/N. You’ve got this.”

Lila from the Spring Court, ever vibrant, waved energetically. “Don’t stay away so long this time, alright?”

Lastly, Telyan gave you a steady nod. “The Dawn Court is always open to you. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

The warmth of their words stayed with you as you made your way back to your room to gather your belongings. The setting sun painted the city in hues of gold and orange, casting long shadows across the polished floors. As you finished packing, you paused by the window, drawn to the breathtaking view of Solterra one last time. The bustling city was beginning to quiet, the glow of its lights preparing to welcome the night.

A soft knock on the door startled you, and Azriel stepped inside, his presence commanding yet quiet. His gaze flickered to you and then to the window, where dark clouds were rolling over the distant horizon. “It looks like the Peregrins’ warning was accurate,” he murmured, his voice low. “The winds will be rough on the usual route.”

You nodded, your eyes lingering on the storm clouds. “It’s going to be a detour by the sea, then. Let’s hope it’s calmer there.”

Azriel joined you by the window, both of you staring at the ominous clouds in silence. The moment felt heavy, but not unpleasant. The bond hummed faintly in the background, but you pushed it aside, focusing instead on the task at hand.

“Ready to go?” Azriel finally asked.

“Almost,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Let’s head to the entrance.”

The two of you made your way through the palace’s grand corridors to the main entrance, where Thesan was waiting. His warm smile greeted you, and he stepped forward to clasp your hand. “Safe travels, Y/N. I trust you’ll keep us updated.”

“Of course,” you said with a smile. “Thank you for everything, Thesan.”

His gaze flickered to Azriel, and he extended his hand to him as well. “Safe travels to you too, Shadowsinger. And thank you for watching over her.”

Azriel nodded, his expression polite but distant. “It’s my duty.”

With that, the two of you stepped outside, the crisp evening air brushing against your skin. The city stretched out before you, the pale light of the moon casting an ethereal glow over its winding streets and gleaming spires. Azriel turned to you, his gaze steady. “Ready?”

You nodded, though the prospect of being carried by him again made your stomach flutter with nerves. “Ready.”

He scooped you up with practiced ease, his strong arms securing you against his chest. The bond hummed faintly, a quiet reminder of the connection neither of you spoke of. You tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the sensation of the wind rushing past as Azriel launched into the sky.

The flight was calm despite the warnings, the gentle light of the moon illuminating the path ahead. The vast expanse of the sea shimmered to your left, its waves glinting silver under the celestial glow. Night had fully fallen by the time you broke the silence.

“It’s beautiful out here,” you said softly, your voice carried effortlessly over the wind.

“It is,” Azriel agreed, his tone contemplative. “More than I expected.”

The two of you flew in silence for a while longer, his steady heartbeat under your ear a soothing rhythm. The bond hummed again, but you pushed the feeling aside, unwilling to let it complicate this moment.

When Azriel adjusted his grip slightly, you glanced up at him, catching the faint flicker of a smile on his face as he gazed out over the sea. It was a rare sight, one that made your own lips curve upward despite the tension that had lingered between you.

For now, the world below and the open sky above were enough.

The flight had been calm, serene even, with the moonlight casting its ethereal glow over the endless expanse of the sea below. But just as you were about to comment on how peaceful it was, the first crack of thunder echoed through the sky. The world seemed to shift.

A storm rolled in with a ferocity that took your breath away. The wind howled, whipping rain against your skin in icy sheets, and the sea below churned violently, its waves reaching toward the heavens in jagged crests.

“Azriel...” you began, your voice unsteady as you glanced at him. “Is this—”

And then, everything stopped.

Azriel’s wings, which had been beating powerfully just moments before, froze mid-stroke. The storm itself paused—a thunderclap suspended in the sky, waves frozen mid-crash. Time itself seemed to hold its breath, the silence deafening.

Your heart hammered in your chest as a bone-deep chill swept over you. A presence, ancient and suffocating, made the air feel impossibly heavy. You glanced over Azriel’s shoulder, and your breath caught.

There, in the distance, was a figure—no, a cloud, a mass of shadows and darkness so pure it seemed to absorb all light around it. It wasn’t just death—it was the embodiment of it. The aura it emitted was a promise of annihilation, and your very soul seemed to recoil in its presence.

You wanted to scream, to shake Azriel, to do anything to break whatever spell had gripped the world. But before you could act, you saw something else—arrows. They were suspended in midair, dozens of them, all aimed directly at you and Azriel.

Panic set in. You reached out to Azriel, shaking him desperately. “Azriel! Wake up! Please!” But he remained still, unresponsive, his wings unmoving as though he were a statue.

Your powers surged within you, raw and untamed. You didn’t know how to control them fully, but you didn’t care. A flash of light erupted from your hands, desperate and unrefined, and suddenly, the world roared back to life.

The arrows hurtled toward you with deadly precision, slicing through the air. You barely had time to think. Your hand darted to Azriel’s side, pulling one of his swords free. The blade felt foreign in your hand, but you didn’t hesitate.

You swung with all your might, deflecting the first arrow with a desperate clang that vibrated through your entire arm. The second arrow grazed your shoulder, pain searing as blood blossomed against your skin. The third arrow you managed to divert just inches from Azriel’s wing.

Azriel’s body jolted as time resumed, and his wings beat frantically, his shadows exploding outward in a frenzy. His head whipped around to you, confusion and alarm etched across his face as he took in your disheveled state and the arrows that clattered into the sea below.

“What the—” Azriel began, his instincts kicking in as his shadows swirled defensively around both of you. “What’s happening?”

Azriel’s voice snapped into focus as you both realized the barrage wasn’t over. “Hold on!” he shouted, his wings beating frantically to dodge the incoming arrows. “We need to go down, now!”

You didn’t hesitate, gripping his shoulder to balance yourself as he angled sharply downward, the wind howling past you both. But the next volley of arrows was relentless. Two found their mark, piercing Azriel’s shoulder and causing him to let out a guttural growl of pain. One scraped across your cheek, leaving a sharp sting, before another embedded itself in your shoulder, the force nearly knocking you loose.

The shock of the impact made your body jerk, and you gasped, clutching at Azriel as he faltered in the air. “Y/N!” he called, his voice strained with both pain and desperation, but his hold slipped as your strength gave out.

You fell.

The rush of air around you was deafening, the world spinning wildly as you plummeted. Pain bloomed in your back as three arrows found their mark, their sharp points slicing through muscle and bone. You screamed as your body twisted uncontrollably in freefall. Above, Azriel’s shout of panic was drowned out by the roar of the storm, and you saw him struggling to stabilize himself. An arrow tore through one of his wings, the force sending him spiraling after you.

The sea rushed up to meet you, and the impact stole every ounce of air from your lungs. You plunged deep into the icy water, your body screaming in protest as the salt stung your wounds. The weight of the arrows and the force of the fall left you disoriented, the dark depths pulling at you as you struggled to make sense of up and down.

Forcing your limbs to move, you clawed your way toward the surface, your chest burning with the need for air. You broke through with a gasp, the storm still raging above. Waves crashed violently around you, and the rain made it almost impossible to see.

“Azriel!” you called, your voice hoarse and barely audible over the tempest. A moment later, he surfaced a few feet away, his wings dragging heavily in the water. His face was pale, his expression both pained and frantic as he swam toward you.

“You—are you—” His words were broken by gasps for air, his golden eyes scanning you with a mixture of fear and determination. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t worry about me,” you managed, your voice trembling but resolute. “I’ll survive.” You gestured weakly toward his shoulder and the ragged tear in his wing. “But you—”

“Fucking faebane arrows,” Azriel spat, his tone laced with frustration as he glanced at his injuries. His shadows flickered weakly around him, their usual strength noticeably absent. “They’ve nullified everything. I can’t... I can’t fly.”

Before either of you could say more, a monstrous wave rose behind you, its crest curling ominously as it towered over your heads. “Azriel!” you screamed, the sound ripping from your throat as the wave crashed down with brutal force.

The impact was like being slammed by stone. Water closed over you, spinning you in its unforgiving depths. When you finally surfaced again, coughing and gasping, you were farther from Azriel than before.

“Y/N!” His voice carried over the storm, laced with urgency. He was swimming toward you, his strokes powerful despite his injuries.

You fought to stay afloat, the pain in your back making every movement a struggle. “Azriel!” you called, your voice weak but determined as you tried to close the distance between you.

The storm showed no mercy, the waves tossing you both like rag dolls. When you finally managed to get close enough, you saw the fear etched into Azriel’s face. It mirrored your own.

“We’re not getting out of this,” he said, his voice low and grim as the sea surged between you. “Not like this.”

“We will,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction. “We have to.”

But the storm’s ferocity didn’t waver, and the reality of your situation settled like a weight in your chest. With no magic, no wings, and no sign of land in sight, the vast, chaotic ocean seemed determined to claim you both.

The relentless assault of smaller waves battered you both, sapping what little strength you had left. Your muscles burned, and every gasp for air felt heavier than the last. Azriel was barely keeping himself afloat, his wings dragging in the water like dead weights. And then, beyond the churning sea, you saw it: a massive wave rising like a wall of destruction, its shadow swallowing everything in its path.

Azriel followed your gaze, and you saw it in his eyes—the change. It wasn’t just fear of the wave’s size or its inevitability. It was something deeper, rawer. A realization, perhaps, that this might be the end. That you might both die here, together. Or maybe it was something more—a dawning understanding of what you were to him. His mate.

But there was no time to dwell. You reached out, grabbing his hand as tightly as you could, your fingers trembling with exhaustion and urgency. “Azriel,” you said, your voice barely audible over the roar of the storm. “Look at me.”

His gaze snapped to yours, the golden glow of his eyes filled with turmoil. You pulled him closer, your hand clutching his with desperate strength as you pressed your foreheads together.

“Trust me,” you whispered, your breath mingling with his. His shadows flickered weakly around you, their touch almost hesitant, as if they, too, feared what was coming. You closed your eyes and began to recite, the ancient words of power tumbling from your lips like a prayer. The language was old, older than you could comprehend, its cadence resonating with something primal, something greater than yourself.

Azriel’s hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his touch hesitant but grounding, his thumb brushing lightly against your hair. His wings twitched weakly in the water, but he stayed focused on you, on your voice.

You began to speak, the ancient words spilling from your lips like a song, like a plea. The language was unfamiliar even to you—something buried deep within, rising now in your moment of need.

The words trembled with power, the sound resonating in the air around you, vibrating through your very bones. Azriel held you tighter, his hand now spanning the small of your back, pulling you closer against him as though to shield you from what was coming.

Azriel tried to keep his focus on you, his hands gripping your arms for stability. But the thunderous sound of the approaching wave was deafening, and the force of its presence was palpable, pressing against the air itself. He could feel it nearing, every second stretching unbearably long. His instincts screamed at him to turn, to face the incoming force, but you held him steady, anchoring him with your voice and your touch.

“Don’t look away,” you murmured, your words a promise as your free hand rested against his cheek, grounding him further. The wave loomed over you both now, its height so monstrous it seemed to touch the heavens. Azriel’s eyes darted toward the towering wall of water, and you saw his grip on you tighten—not in fear of the wave, but in fear of losing you.

His shadows curling weakly around both of you in an almost protective embrace. The wave loomed, impossibly large, and for a moment, you thought you’d failed. You could feel Azriel tense, his wings attempting to fold around you both even in their weakened state.

But then, just as the wave began its descent, the power surged through you. The words reached their crescendo, and the light of the moon flared, not as a shield, but as a portal.

A flash—a blinding, all-encompassing glow—and the icy embrace of the storm disappeared. The roar of the wave faded, replaced by silence and stillness. You and Azriel were gone, ripped from the sea’s grasp, leaving only moonlight in your wake.

The town house was warm and welcoming, a stark contrast to the chill of the winter night outside. The scent of roasted meat and spices wafted through the air, mingling with the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. The Inner Circle was gathered around the dining table, their laughter and conversation filling the space with a sense of home.

Cassian leaned back in his chair, a half-empty glass of wine in his hand, his brow furrowed as he glanced at Rhysand. “So, when are they coming back?” he asked, his tone casual but with a hint of curiosity. “It’s been days now.”

Rhysand, seated at the head of the table with Feyre beside him, swirled his wine thoughtfully before taking a sip. “They should be on their way back to Prythian by now,” he replied, though his tone wasn’t as confident as his words.

Mor, who was perched on the edge of her chair, arched a golden brow. “Should be? What do you mean, should be?”

Rhys sighed, setting his glass down and rubbing a hand over his face. “I haven’t been able to reach Azriel,” he admitted. “His mental shields are still up, and I can’t get a clear sense of where they are.”

Feyre frowned, her fork hovering over her plate. “That’s... unusual for him.”

“It is,” Rhys agreed, his violet eyes flicking to Cassian. “But Azriel is nothing if not careful. They’re likely taking their time or dealing with unforeseen delays. The journey from the Dawn Court isn’t exactly quick.”

Cassian snorted, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Unforeseen delays, huh? I’d bet my wings they’ve found some trouble along the way. Knowing Az, he’s probably brooding about something, and Y/N is too busy trying to keep him in check.”

Mor chuckled softly, though her eyes reflected a glimmer of concern. “I wouldn’t be surprised. That male has a talent for finding trouble—or letting it find him.”

Amren, who had been silent up until now, set her glass down with a deliberate clink. “Trouble or not, Y/N is more than capable of handling herself. From what I’ve seen, she’s sharper than most. If anything, I’d wager Azriel is the one who’ll be struggling to keep up.”

Cassian grinned, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Here’s to that. Poor Az, stuck with someone who doesn’t let him get away with his usual brooding nonsense.”

Feyre couldn’t help but smile at the banter, though her fingers brushed against Rhysand’s under the table in silent reassurance. “Still,” she said softly, “I hope they’re okay. It’s been a while since we’ve heard anything.”

Rhys nodded, his gaze distant for a moment before he refocused on the group. “They’re both strong. If anyone can handle the unexpected, it’s Azriel and Y/N.”

Mor leaned forward, her chin resting on her hand. “I just hope they’re not killing each other,” she quipped. “Or, you know, that Az hasn’t scared her off with his silent brooding routine.”

Cassian barked a laugh, shaking his head. “If anyone could out-brood Azriel, it’s probably Y/N.”

The table erupted in laughter, though the undercurrent of concern remained. As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, Feyre caught Rhys’s eye, her own filled with a quiet question. Rhysand gave her a small, reassuring smile, though his thoughts lingered on Azriel and Y/N, his mind brushing against the night’s stars as he silently hoped for their safe return.

The lively warmth of the town house was shattered in an instant. Rhysand shot to his feet so abruptly that his chair clattered to the floor behind him. The easy conversation and laughter ceased as he raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Everything on the table vanished—a soundless flash of magic clearing plates, glasses, and food from sight.

In the same moment, a deafening crash echoed through the room. From above, two figures fell, slamming into the now-empty table and shattering it into pieces.

Y/N landed first, sprawled atop Azriel, both of them drenched to the bone, seawater pooling around them. Their chests heaved as they struggled for breath, their bodies trembling. Y/N pushed herself off Azriel weakly, staggering to her feet before abruptly doubling over to vomit a mix of seawater and blood onto the floor.

Azriel remained on the ground, gasping but visibly more stable than her. His wings were tense but intact, though blood seeped from arrows embedded in his shoulders and arms. He coughed, spitting water onto the floor as he tried to sit up.

Cassian surged forward, his voice a low growl of concern. “What the hell happened?”

Y/N, barely steady on her feet, turned her head, her voice raw and hoarse as she rasped, “Madja... Call Madja.”

Feyre moved immediately, her face pale but focused. Before she could leave, Y/N weakly caught her hand, murmuring a list of plants she needed. “Feyre... There’s no time. From the garden—fetch what I need to start the healing.”

Feyre nodded without hesitation and bolted out of the room.

Y/N stumbled toward Azriel, her trembling hands faintly glowing with healing magic. But before she could reach him, her knees buckled. Cassian was there in an instant, catching her just before she hit the ground.

“Y/N, stop!” Cassian growled, his voice filled with panic. “You’re worse off than he is.”

“Doesn’t... matter,” she rasped, trying to push him off and weakly reaching toward Azriel. “He needs—”

Cassian held her firmly, his face a mask of alarm. “You’re bleeding everywhere. You’re going to pass out.”

“I’m fine,” she hissed, though her head lolled to the side, her strength draining rapidly.

Azriel, sitting up now, looked over at her with wide, alarmed eyes. “Y/N,” he croaked, his voice breaking. “Stop. Just—stop.”

Mor knelt beside Azriel, carefully inspecting the arrows in his shoulders and arm, while Rhysand stood frozen for a heartbeat, his expression betraying the fear he usually masked so well.

Madja burst into the room moments later, her sharp eyes scanning the chaos. The instant she saw Y/N, her expression hardened. “Mother above,” she murmured, rushing to her.

“Start with him,” Y/N wheezed, gesturing weakly toward Azriel. “I’ll—”

“You’ll do nothing,” Madja snapped, kneeling beside her. Her hands moved deftly over Y/N, assessing her condition with a precision that belied her worry. “You’re barely conscious. Don’t even think about giving me orders.”

Azriel, still struggling to his feet, waved Mor away weakly. “I’m fine,” he insisted, his voice strained but steady. His golden eyes locked onto Y/N, and despite the blood trickling down his arm, his focus was entirely on her. “Take care of her.”

Madja glared at him briefly. “Sit. Down,” she commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Amid the chaos, Y/N’s defiant voice broke through. “Azriel... Is he—”

“I’m fine,” Azriel interrupted sharply, his voice firm. “You’re not.”

Madja growled under her breath, barking instructions to Rhysand to reinforce the room’s protective wards and to Feyre, who had just returned with an armful of plants. Cassian held Y/N steady as Madja worked to stabilize her, and Mor hovered close, ensuring that Azriel didn’t try to move too much.

The tension in the room was thick as they fought to manage the injuries and exhaustion. Every glance exchanged between the Inner Circle was filled with unspoken worry, their usual composure shaken.

“You both have a death wish,” Cassian muttered, though his grip on Y/N was firm and protective.

And as Madja’s magic flared to life, it became clear that survival was only the first step in a much longer battle.

Madja knelt beside you, her sharp gaze scanning the damage. Her hands hovered over the arrows lodged in your back, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Go see Azriel,” you rasped, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine.”

Madja’s head snapped up, her eyes blazing with irritation. “Shut up, Y/N. You’re losing too much blood, and if you weren’t in this state, I’d slap you for suggesting something so foolish.”

You coughed weakly, a humorless smile tugging at your lips. “Just... take the arrows out and put me under the stars. I’ll be fine.”

Madja’s eyes narrowed, her exasperation palpable. “If you die because of that nonsense, I swear I’ll bring you back just to kill you again.”

She began assessing the arrows embedded in your back, her movements precise but brisk. “Can I remove your top?” she asked, her voice softening slightly.

You nodded, the movement weak. “Go ahead.”

As Madja carefully eased the fabric away, the pain lanced through you, but it wasn’t what made you tense. The moment your back was fully exposed, you felt the atmosphere in the room shift. Even without seeing them, you knew Rhys, Feyre, and Cassian had seen the scars. The room seemed to hold its breath as their silence deepened.

Their reactions were palpable—Rhys’s grip on his magic tightened, the faint hum of power crackling in the air. Cassian let out a sharp exhale, his usual jovial demeanor replaced with something much darker. Feyre’s sharp intake of breath carried the weight of her empathy, her hand instinctively reaching for Rhys.

Madja worked quickly, her hands steady as she muttered incantations under her breath to stem the bleeding. You clenched your teeth, the pain threatening to pull you under, but you forced yourself to stay conscious just a moment longer.

“Tell them,” you murmured, your voice slurring slightly. “Tell them what happened.”

Madja’s gaze flickered to yours, her expression unreadable, but she nodded once, her attention returning to her task.

Azriel stood frozen nearby, his shadows writhing in agitation. His face was pale, his usually composed features betraying the turmoil within him. His golden eyes flicked between you and the others, but it was clear that his focus was on you.

When Madja pulled the last arrow free, your body shuddered, and the darkness pressing at the edges of your vision began to consume you.

Madja straightened, brushing a hand across her brow. “She needs to be somewhere she can rest and heal without interruption.” 

After hesitating for only a moment Azriel told her “Let me take her to my room. It’s the closest” 

"You will do no such thing Azriel let me take her” Cassian tried to stop him. 

“No, please, no” with confusion the general let him do so. 

His shadows curled around you protectively as he carefully lifted you into his arms. You barely stirred, your body limp against him, your breaths shallow but steady. The sight of you like this sent a pang through his chest, but he buried it, focusing on the task at hand.

As he carried you upstairs, his mind was a storm. The bond that had hummed quietly between you since Solterra now roared with clarity, overwhelming him. You were his mate—and he hadn’t seen it until now. And the sight of you, broken and bleeding, was almost more than he could bear.

When they reached his room, Madja followed close behind, already giving him instructions. “Lay her down gently, and I’ll finish tending to her wounds.”

Azriel placed you carefully on the bed, his movements slow and deliberate. As Madja worked, he lingered nearby, his golden eyes never leaving your face. The scars on your back, the fresh wounds, the exhaustion etched into your features—it was all too much. His shadows coiled around his shoulders, mirroring the storm within him.

When Madja finished stabilizing you, she turned to Azriel, her expression softening for the first time. “She’ll need time to recover, but she’s strong. She’ll pull through.”

Azriel nodded, his throat tightening. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

Madja patted his arm gently before gathering her supplies and leaving the room. 

After coming back in the living room of the townhouse, Azriel sat at the edge of the chair, his elbows resting on his knees, wings drooping with exhaustion. His soaked clothing clung to his frame, and blood still oozed from the punctures left by the arrows, though Madja worked quickly to close the wounds.

Rhysand stood near the fireplace, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, the tension radiating off him palpable. “What happened?” he asked, his voice low but sharp.

Azriel’s jaw clenched as he considered his words. “You should ask her,” he finally said, his voice gruff. “Everything was fine. The storm came out of nowhere, but it wasn’t the weather that was the problem.”

Rhys’s violet eyes darkened, his power flickering faintly around him. “Then what was?”

Azriel exhaled sharply, frustration evident. “We were flying. The storm was manageable until...” His golden eyes lifted to Rhys. “Until the arrows came. Y/N moved out of position suddenly—I didn’t understand why at first—but then she was deviating arrows midair. One clipped me, and the next thing I knew, we were falling into the sea.”

Cassian, who had been silently listening, stepped closer. “Arrows?” he repeated, his voice heavy with concern. “You’re saying someone attacked you in the middle of a storm?”

Azriel nodded, his shadows curling tightly around his shoulders. “The attack wasn’t random. Whoever it was... they knew we’d be there.”

Rhys’s face grew even grimmer. “Koshiev.” The name hung in the air like a curse. He glanced at Azriel, his expression unreadable. “Even if you were caught in the crossfire, this attack wasn’t for you, Azriel. It was for her.”

Azriel’s gaze sharpened, and his hands curled into fists. “Why would Koshiev target her? She’s not a warrior. She’s—”

“She’s more than you realize,” Madja interjected, not lifting her eyes from her work. She sealed the wound in Azriel’s shoulder with precise movements, her tone calm but carrying an edge of urgency. “Do you have any idea the influence she has? The help she’s provided?”

Cassian frowned, glancing between them. “We know she’s a gifted healer, but why would that put her in Koshiev’s sights?”

Madja straightened, her hands pausing over her tools. She glanced at Rhys and then back to Azriel. “Over the last century, many of the continent’s most deadly diseases have been stopped in their tracks because of her. She’s discovered cures where others saw none, saved lives on scales most can’t even imagine. To a being like Koshiev, who thrives on death, fear, and chaos, she’s a threat. A formidable one.”

Azriel’s shoulders stiffened, his mind racing. “But that doesn’t explain—”

“It’s not just what she does,” Madja interrupted, her voice softer now. “It’s what she is.”

Rhys’s brows furrowed, his focus narrowing on Madja. “What do you mean? What is she?”

Madja hesitated, her gaze flickering toward the staircase where you rested. “It’s... complicated,” she said carefully. “But suffice it to say, she’s not an ordinary healer. Her connection to the stars, the moon, to the light—it’s something ancient, something powerful. Something that beings like Koshiev despise and fear.”

Azriel sat back, his gaze fixed on Madja as if searching for answers in her words. His mind reeled with the implications, his thoughts a storm of emotions—fear, frustration, and something else he couldn’t quite name.

Rhysand’s expression darkened further, his hands tightening into fists. “If Koshiev sees her as a threat, then we’ll need to protect her. More than we already have.”

“She’s not going to make it easy,” Madja said with a wry smile. “That woman has a will stronger than steel. But for now, she needs rest. And so do you,” she added, fixing Azriel with a pointed look.

Azriel didn’t respond immediately. His thoughts lingered on you, on the weight of what Madja had said, and on the realization that the attack tonight had been meant for you. He rose from the chair, his wings drooping slightly but his stance firm. “She’ll be safe,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a steely determination.

Cassian clapped him on the back, his grip firm. “Damn right she will.”

But even as the conversation shifted, Azriel couldn’t shake the unease that settled deep in his chest—the knowledge that Koshiev’s shadow loomed closer than ever.

Cassian leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed tightly as he stared at the empty space where you had been carried upstairs. His voice broke the silence, low and heavy. “The scars on her back... are they what I think they are?”

Azriel’s jaw tightened, his golden eyes darkening as he glanced away. He didn’t need to hear the answer; he already knew. His shadows curled tighter around his shoulders, betraying the tension he felt.

Madja sighed, her hands stilling over her tools as she met Cassian’s gaze directly. “Yes. She was clipped.”

The weight of her words hung in the air, palpable and suffocating. Rhysand straightened, his violet eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and confusion. “Clipped?” he repeated, his tone sharp. “How? When?”

Madja leaned back in her chair, her expression weary. “It’s a long story, but if you’re asking how it’s possible... it happened when she was young. Very young.” She hesitated, her gaze softening. “I first met Y/N when she was six, maybe seven years old. Her parents had just died in the aftermath of the war. She was left alone, one of the many orphans wandering Prythian at the time.”

Cassian frowned, his grip on his arms tightening. “She’s from Velaris right?”

Madja nodded. “Yes, but it wasn’t a kind childhood. She ended up in one of the only orphanages we had here. I... I wanted to adopt her, but I couldn’t.”

Rhysand’s gaze narrowed, his tone gentler now. “Why not?”

Madja exhaled slowly, her hands clasping tightly in her lap. “Because I could barely take care of myself. The war had taken everything from us—our peace, our sleep, our stability. I couldn’t bring a child into that chaos, no matter how much I wanted to. But I could teach her.”

Azriel’s eyes snapped back to her, the flicker of surprise evident despite his stoic expression.

“I taught her to heal,” Madja continued, her voice softer now, tinged with something almost maternal. “She was brilliant at it. Gifted, really. Even as a child, she had this... this innate understanding of life, of how to mend it. Time passed, and she grew stronger. Wiser. By the time she was seventy-two, she was already a better healer than many twice her age.”

Cassian ran a hand through his hair, his expression conflicted. “So what happened?”

Madja’s expression darkened, her voice lowering. “She went to Illyria.”

The tension in the room spiked immediately. Azriel’s fists clenched at his sides, and Cassian and Rhysand exchanged wary glances.

“She wanted to visit her parents’ tomb,” Madja said. “To pay her respects. But... it didn’t go as planned. I don’t need to describe the scene to you. You’ve seen what happens to half-Illyrians or even regular Illyrian females who return to those camps.” Her voice broke slightly, but she pressed on. “They clipped her. Left her for dead in the snow.”

Rhysand’s power surged faintly, the lamps flickering as he struggled to contain his fury. “They clipped a healer?” His voice was deadly quiet, his rage barely restrained. “And left her to die?”

Madja nodded, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of sorrow and pride. “She did die.”

Cassian’s breath hitched, and even Azriel stiffened. “What?” Cassian whispered, his voice hoarse. “But—”

“But she came back,” Madja interrupted, her voice steady now. “The Mother brought her back. And with that gift, she was given powers unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Powers tied to the stars, the moon and the sun themselves.”

Azriel’s shadows stilled, his mind racing as he processed the revelation. Rhysand’s jaw tightened, his fury still simmering beneath the surface. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?” he demanded.

Madja’s gaze hardened. “Because it wasn’t my story to tell. And it still isn’t. But perhaps now you’ll understand why Koshiev might see her as a threat. She’s not just a healer. She’s a force of life itself, blessed by the mother and that terrifies beings like him.”

Silence fell over the room, the weight of Madja’s words sinking into each of them. Cassian broke it first, his voice quieter now. “And she’s carried all of this... alone?”

Madja’s eyes softened. “Not entirely alone. But yes, for the most part.”

Azriel sat back in his chair, his mind a whirlwind of emotions—anger at the injustice you had suffered, awe at the strength it must have taken to survive, and something deeper, something he wasn’t ready to confront.

Rhysand finally spoke, his voice resolute. “Then we protect her. Whatever it takes.”

Madja nodded, her expression resolute. “She’s not one to ask for help. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t need it.”

Azriel’s shadows curled around him protectively, his voice low but firm. “She’ll have it.”

The office was bathed in the dim glow of Velaris’s nightlights, the rhythmic scratch of Rhysand’s pen the only sound as he finished his missive to Thesan. Azriel sat in a chair across from him, his posture rigid but his mind clearly elsewhere. He had bathed and changed into clean clothes in a spare room at the townhouse, but the physical comfort did little to soothe the storm raging within him. His thoughts spun, caught between the weight of your injuries, the attack, and the seismic realization that you were his mate.

His mate.

The words felt heavy and unfamiliar, both a revelation and a burden. You. The healer who had worked tirelessly by his side. The one who had challenged him, comforted him, and stood unwavering even in the face of Koshiev’s deadly arrows.

Rhysand’s voice cut through the silence, quiet but heavy with guilt. “Azriel.”

Azriel lifted his gaze, his expression impassive. Rhys set his pen down, turning his full attention to his brother.

“I was wrong,” Rhysand admitted, his tone raw. “What I said to you before... it was cruel, thoughtless. You’re my brother, and you’ve stood by me through everything. You didn’t deserve that.”

Azriel inclined his head, acknowledging the apology but saying nothing. Rhysand studied him, his regret clear in his eyes. “I know words don’t undo the damage. And I’ll spend as long as it takes to mend what I’ve broken.”

“It’s fine,” Azriel said softly, though his voice lacked conviction. He gave a brief nod, more out of obligation than genuine acceptance. Both of them knew that wounds like these took time to heal, if they ever fully could.

A silence settled between them again, heavier this time. Finally, Azriel broke it, his voice quiet but firm. “She’s my mate.”

Rhysand froze for a beat, then slowly leaned back in his chair. A small, knowing smile tugged at his lips, though it was far from mocking. “I know.”

Azriel frowned, his shadows curling tighter around him. “You knew?” he asked, disbelief lacing his tone.

Rhysand’s smile softened. “It wasn’t hard to see, Az. The way she looks at you... it’s the same way I used to look at Feyre when she had no idea we were bonded. Y/N did an incredible job masking it, I’ll give her that. But I’ve been in her shoes. I know what it looks like.”

Azriel’s frown deepened, his mind racing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Rhysand’s gaze turned serious, his voice calm but pointed. “Would it have mattered? Look at how you’ve been with Elain. Do you think Y/N would have told you when she saw you pining for someone else?”

Azriel’s heart clenched, the memory of all those moments with you suddenly taking on a new, painful clarity. Rhysand continued, his tone gentler now. “Why do you think it took me so long with Feyre? I wouldn’t have told her while she was still talking to me about how in love she thought she was with Tamlin. It would have been cruel.”

And then the full weight of it hit Azriel. He had asked you, his mate, for advice about Elain—another woman. You had listened, offered him wisdom, and concealed the pain of your bond so flawlessly that he had never suspected a thing.

A knot of guilt and self-loathing twisted in his chest. He had done a terrible thing.

Azriel leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his head dropping into his hands. His shadows swirled restlessly around him, mirroring the turmoil within. Rhysand watched him silently for a moment before speaking.

“You didn’t know,” Rhys said softly. “And she never wanted you to feel obligated. But you know now, Az. What you do with that knowledge... that’s up to you.”

Azriel lifted his head, his golden eyes filled with conflict. “I don’t deserve her,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Rhysand.

Rhysand’s gaze softened. “You might not feel like it now. But that’s not for you to decide, is it? It’s hers. Just... don’t wait too long to figure it out. Bonds don’t wait forever.”

Azriel nodded faintly, though the weight of the conversation pressed down on him. The image of you—wounded, determined, and selfless—lingered in his mind, a reminder of the strength and grace you had shown even when it must have cost you everything.

And now, he realized, it was his turn to figure out what came next.

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[papasbaseball]

The Wizard x Reader (Wonderful Wonderful Girl)

Pairing: Wizard x F!Reader

Rating: Teen (Rating to Increase)

Warnings: Power Imbalance, Boss/Employee Relationship

Summary: Being a maid in the Royal Palace of Oz is not half so bad. Despite the meager wages, everything else is provided for you for an honest day's work. It can be unnerving working for the most powerful man in Oz, but you are able to avoid him most of the time. This changes during Lurlinemas, your paths soon becoming inextricably intertwined.

Word Count: 2,185

Chapter 2

AO3 Link

The chill fights to work its way through me as I dress quickly. Mint blouse, forest green skirt, and olive apron are donned and tightened before the chill can catch me. I curse Esmet, the head butler for not having gotten the heating fixed by now, the cold of the winter month creeping in and savaging the servants' quarters of the Royal Palace like a fatal disease. I'd be happy as soon as I got into the Wizard's quarters, busying about with the other green bees in keeping the apartments in tip shape. There were several old hearths that had remained there through renovations that could have roaring and crackling fires set to them if needed. Until recently, they had been used solely for decorations.

I strip off the socks that I wore to bed and replace them with a new clean pair that was thick and wooly, and of course dyed green. Emily is still sleeping under the thick duvet when I shake her awake.

"Up, up, sleepy head," I say.

Emily grumbles and pulls the duvet around her tighter now that I'm not under it. She had her own bed, but the staff had taken to sharing beds to provide enough comfort to fall asleep as the sun sank the temperature in the palace with it. I can't blame her for wanting to keep warm, but it was better to rip the bandage off and go start the fire than to wallow in the misery. I cross the shared bedroom to her small little cube of a nightstand and pull her uniform out, throwing it on her sleep-wrinkled face. She flinches, but I'm already lacing up my boots.

"You're going to miss breakfast like yesterday if you don't get up and do your chores," I say. That causes her to wake up. All staff were required to complete their basic morning chores if they wanted to be fed. Emily had overslept yesterday and hadn't seen food until lunch.

I leave Emily to it, not wanting to miss out on my own breakfast. Quickly, I take the old wooden stairs up the servants' way to the Wizard's apartments. They hadn't seen fit to replace those with green marble yet, so they remained creaking from their decades of use. Esmet had already set the first fire in the hearth nearby the door, and for that I hate him a little less. I grab mint sheets from a linen closet and head to the main bedroom.

The Wizard had already risen. This was a little-known fact, one that we in his service had been sworn to secrecy. Nobody was supposed to know that the Great Oracle has needs like any other ordinary man, but looking past the need for sheets and warm baths drawn, he is still as wonderful as the day he came to Oz. Esmet had explained it to me when I was finally trusted to be put into his personal service. It was a privilege to serve him in such close proximity, that those who were unworthy became sick from the good that seeped from him and infected everything that he touched. It was also for his protection that most did not know who he truly was.

I lower my eyes when I knock before entering his room. In the first few weeks in his service, I had been terrified that I would catch some hideous illness that would make me break out in a pox exposing my badness to the world, but it never came. Still, I did not chance it, trying to make sure that I never caught sight of him in case the effects took direct contact to show up.

His room smells sweet with incense and a hint of tobacco. I look up briefly before raising my eyes, making sure the coast is clear. Satisfied that he is not present, I set the clean sheets on the emerald velvet bench at the end of the bed and work at stripping yesterday's sheets off of it. They're much softer than ours, the cotton only the highest quality that can be imported from Munchkinland. I think about the rough sheets that I had left Emily sleeping in back in our cold room.

The door creaks open and I hear her voice. "I'm going downstairs for wood," she says. "We're all out up here. Esmet must have used it all."

I go back to stripping the pillowcases, throwing the old linens into a nearby hamper. At least she's up, I think. Once I have the entire bed bare, I turn back to grab the new sheets, only to be met with the sight of him.

Given my fear, I had never actually seen him in person, but I knew what he looked like. His portrait was hung up in various places around the apartment. One painting that I had quite fancied hung in the dining room. In it, he was sat rather crooked in a chair of gold with green upholstery, a man with gray hair coifed in sweeps and a mustache and goatee to match, his hand lazily resting on the head of a tiger that had been posed next to him. I had always admired his bravery, wondering if he was ever for a second scared when posing for the painting. Seeing him now, any bravery that I had immediately fled from me as I cast my eyes back to the floor, giving an apologetic curtsy.

"Your Wonderfulness," I say, moving off towards the laundry basket, out of his way.

"You haven't happened to see my cufflinks?" he asks. I watch as his green wingtips walk into the room right up to the nightstand next to me.

"No, Your Wonderfulness," I say, trying to still the frog that is hopping in my throat. Why is he talking to me!?

"Could you help me look then?" he says. "They're... well they're green with a little..." he searches for the word. "A little gold flower on them."

I immediately go to searching, looking on the dresser. If I were a pair of cufflinks, where would I be? There are so many fine things laid out on his dresser: a golden hairbrush and mirror set, a snuffbox decorated with emerald and gold beetles, a green satin ribbon. No cufflinks.

"I swear I had them this morning," he says. "Should've had him put them on... Any luck over there?"

I turn to face him, eyes still on the floor. "No, Your Wonderfulness," I say.

"Is there something wrong with my face?" he says. It felt like I had swallowed a peach pit of embarrassment, my cheeks pinkening even more than the cold had roughed them up. I can’t find the words to respond to him, biting my tongue in fear that it may also offend him

"Do me a favor and look me in the eye," he says. "It's weird talking to the top of someone's head, no matter how pretty her braids are."

The compliment makes me want to dive into the basket of dirty laundry, never to be seen again, but I raise my eyes to look at him. This is the first day I have ever spoken with him, and somehow in all of his wonderfulness, he finds it fitting to compliment me. He is just like his portraits, but maybe with a few extra wrinkles around the eyes, the pepper that had generously seasoned his hair reduced to a dash. It can't be helped as those paintings must have been several years old. He smiles and again I fight the urge to bury myself in the hamper.

"Such pretty eyes," he says, crossing the room towards me. My heart beats quickly against my breastbone. Somehow this feels wrong, like I'll get in trouble with Esmet if he walks into the room. I remember Emily, who had gone down to get firewood for the hearth in the bedroom and my lips quiver to form words.

"Do you think they might be in the dresser?" I ask. It's sinful, but I don't want her seeing me with the Wizard. She could be a cruel tease when she wanted to be. I had avoided it for the most part, but the poor Munchkin boy that she had bullied when we'd first come to the palace eventually had to be relocated to the kitchen staff with the way he wept at night in the shared bedroom. Who knows what kind of rumors she might spread if she thought I had looked too swooned by him.

"I suppose," he drawls, making a survey of the top of his gilded dresser, humming in thought. His fingers snatch the ribbon between the middle and index and snap it sharply before holding it up to the sunlight. Satisfied with the assessment, he takes it and wraps it around and ties it into a bow amongst the two braids that wrap the crown of my head. "It looks better on you. Got it as a gift from an ambassador and I hadn't a clue what to do with it."

I go to thank him, but he holds a finger up in the air as if remembering something. Pushing his hand into his pocket, he produces two cufflinks: green, just like he said, with little golden flowers on them.

"Would you mind helping me with them?" he asks. I hadn't put on someone's cufflinks since I was 10 – my father's before he had passed away – but I figure that it can't be much different. I remember Emily once more and quickly guide the metal through the starched cotton, trying not to think too much about how I had gone from never seeing the most powerful man in Oz to dressing him in a matter of minutes.

He gives the sleeves a shake, and satisfied with their solidity, squeezes my cheeks with a tsk of the tongue. "There's a good girl," he says.

As quick as he'd entered the room, he left, leaving me with more than a hundred butterflies in my stomach and sweating palms. I head back to the dirty laundry and wipe off my palms on the sheets. There is a rattling of wood on metal and I know that Emily is back with a bucket full of wood. I hurry to the sheets, realizing that they are still not on the bed, just as they had been when Emily had left.

She enters the room as I'm stretching the second corner of the fitted sheet."What a nightmare that was," she says. "Those idiots in receiving hadn't opened up the wood shipment from last night so I had to wait there for them to cut it open. Here's hoping I still get breakfast." She sets the pail down with a clank, quickly chucking rough-hewn blocks of wood and logs onto the metal grate. "What's taking you so long with that bed?"

I sweep over to the other side, my crinoline rustling under my skirt. "There was a hole in the sheet," I lie. She didn't need to know all about how the Wizard had asked me to help him look for his cufflinks and about me helping him to get dressed afterward. I close my eyes as I pull the last corner of the sheet over the mattress and I can still smell the warmth of his cologne from that moment. It reminds me of the rolls that we get for Lurlinemas, with their cloves poking out of the shiny egg-washed crusts.

"I didn't see you with that ribbon earlier this morning," Emily says, pulling a box of matches from the mantle. "It's pretty. Did you get it in town?"

My eyes go wide as I realize that I still have the ribbon fastened around my head. "Oh," I stutter. I wasn't used to making up so many lies this early in the morning. "It's just some old thing I picked up this summer at the markets."

Emily gets a good strike and soon the fire is crackling quickly into a roar. "Well it looks good," she says. "Maybe we could go into town later this week. I need to get some gifts for Lurlinemas."

I was a little surprised that she was considering gifts, considering the price of everything had been crazy lately. Our meals and housing were complimentary with working in the palace, but any kind of extra clothing or goods besides the uniform that was provided at the start of each year was strictly up to each servant. The last time I had been in the markets I'd gawked at the price of 79 pennies for new laces for my boots. I consider objecting to the potential spending spree but hold my tongue. She's been asking too many questions. "Maybe we could go on Saturday?" I say.

Emily agrees to that, and we pass the rest of our day finishing our chores at a leisurely pace to soak up as much warmth as possible, talking of things we want to go do and see in the markets, away from the cold of the palace.

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 14 Chapter 14 | silent strain⌟

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The days that followed were restless, though you tried to hide it beneath the mask of routine.

Each moment you could spare, your eyes trailed toward Andreia and Prince Telemachus. Whether it was during dinners where the royal families mingled or as you passed by the courtyards in your duties, you found yourself drawn to their interactions.

Andreia's demeanor toward Telemachus was as obvious as sunlight. She was coy, her voice lilting with playful notes as she leaned toward him just enough to invade his space without overstepping.

She'd twirl a strand of her auburn hair around her fingers, her head tilting at the slightest inclination of his voice, as though every word he spoke was a revelation.

Her laughter was sweet, too sweet—a bubbly, ringing sound that set your teeth on edge, especially when compared to the cold detachment she'd shown you that day in the sheepfold.

It was jarring, to see her so kind and open with him, far removed from the icy, calculating figure you had encountered. She radiated warmth, her emerald eyes sparkling with a feigned innocence that you couldn't unsee now that you knew better.

She was a different person entirely—charming, demure, and confident in a way that left little doubt of her intentions. Her fingers would linger on Telemachus' arm just a moment too long, her smile a fraction too wide.

It was as if she were weaving a net around him, one thread at a time.

Telemachus, for his part, seemed polite and cordial, though there were moments when his boyish charm peeked through.

At dinner, he'd lean in closer when she spoke, his face attentive, his easy smile encouraging her to continue.

You couldn't help but notice how his eyes occasionally flickered to her face, perhaps taking in the faint blush that colored her cheeks. But then, there were times he seemed to grow restless, a faint flicker of something unreadable in his gaze as if he were only half listening.

It stung, though you tried not to let it show, especially during those evenings when you'd catch snippets of their laughter echoing through the halls. Your hands would tighten on the linen you were folding, or your steps would quicken as you passed by the feasting hall.

Still, you reminded yourself that this was his role—a prince courting a princess, ensuring alliances. Yet, even with that reminder, Callias' words lingered in your mind, a whisper of reassurance battling against the tightening in your chest.

The days grew shorter as autumn began to edge into winter, the chill creeping into the mornings and biting at your skin despite the midday sun. The air carried a sharper edge, and the light waned faster, casting the palace in long shadows that came too early in the day.

It was on one such brisk afternoon that you found yourself leaving the seamstress' quarters, a small scroll in hand detailing the queen's updated winter measurements. The cold nipped at your cheeks, and you tugged your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you moved through the quieter corridors of the palace.

You were on your way to the queen's chambers for lunch, the scroll meant to be presented alongside her midday tea. The thought of her warm smile and the calm wisdom she carried in even the simplest exchanges brought a small measure of comfort as your steps echoed softly against the stone floors.

"____!" The sound of your name, called with warmth and familiarity, startled you, and your heart leapt in your chest.

You turned sharply, your fingers tightening around the scroll as your eyes landed on Telemachus. He was walking briskly toward you, his steps purposeful yet light, and you couldn't help but notice how his smile grew wider as he caught your gaze.

His eyes brightened, the fatigue that had seemed to cling to him in recent days momentarily lifting, and there was a slight spring in his step, as though seeing you had filled him with a sudden energy.

"____," he called again, his voice carrying easily over the quiet. "I was hoping to run into you."

"Telemachus," you breathed under your breath, his name slipping from your lips without thought as he approached, stopping in your tracks.

Your heart beat faster than you wanted to admit, your heart fluttering in your chest, each beat heavy and echoing in your ears. You tightened your grip on the scroll in your hands, suddenly hyperaware of how cold your fingers felt against the smooth parchment.

As he stopped before you, his smile softened, and his gaze swept over you with quiet intensity. His eyes lingered briefly, studying you as though searching for something. "How are you?" he asked, his voice low and warm, a thread of concern woven through his tone. "Are you feeling well?"

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe, caught off guard by the way he looked at you—his brows slightly furrowed, his head tilted just enough to show genuine interest.

The wind teased at the loose strands of his hair, and the soft sunlight caught in his eyes, making the warm brown hue seem almost golden.

"I-I'm fine," you managed to say, though your voice sounded too light, too forced, even to your own ears. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other before offering a small bow of respect, glancing down briefly before meeting his gaze again. "Thank you for asking, my prince."

His lips twitched, as though suppressing a deeper smile, and he gave a slight shake of his head, waving a hand dismissively at the formality. "There's no need for that," he said, his tone light.

The words seemed to relax the air between you, and his shoulders loosened as he studied you again. This time, his gaze held no urgency, only a quiet satisfaction as he took in the healthy flush of your cheeks, the steadiness of your stance. "Good." The tension around his eyes eased as his smile softened further.

"You look much better," he murmured, almost to himself, before clearing his throat. "I mean, not that you looked unwell before, but... you know." He trailed off, his hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

You felt a warmth rise to your own cheeks, and you nodded quickly, your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest. "Yes, I'm fine now. Thank you for asking, my prince."

He studied you for a moment longer, as though committing the sight of you to memory, before his expression shifted slightly. The softness in his gaze gave way to a more thoughtful look, and he hesitated before speaking again. He shifted his stance, his hands brushing lightly against his tunic as though gathering his thoughts.

"Uhh, I noticed," he began, his voice slower now, deliberate, "at the feast the other night, and... well, even before that." He paused, his brow furrowing slightly as he searched for the right words. "You haven't been playing your lyre. You usually don't go a night without it."

The words hit you like a sudden gust of wind, freezing you in place. Your breath caught sharply, and for a moment, you could only stare at him, wide-eyed. The scroll in your hands felt suddenly heavy, your fingers trembling as your grip tightened.

"I mean," he continued, seemingly unaware of your sudden tension, "you still play beautifully—every instrument you touch, really—but I couldn't help but notice. Your lyre... it always seemed to be your favorite. And now..." He trailed off, his voice soft, almost hesitant. "I just wondered if everything was alright."

You forced yourself to swallow, trying to steady the rising panic clawing at your chest as your mind scrambled for a response.

No one else had noticed—not the queen, not the other servants, not even the musicians you occasionally played with.

You had thought your quiet substitution of instruments had gone unnoticed, a small, insignificant change in the grand scheme of things.

But Telemachus had noticed.

Your chest tightened at the sincerity in his voice, and it only made the lump in your throat grow heavier. How could you explain it? How could you tell him about Andreia, about what had happened?

Only Callias and Andreia herself knew the truth, and you had worked so hard to keep it that way.

The thought of revealing it to him—to anyone—made your stomach twist with unease.

"I..." You hesitated, your voice faltering as you tried to steady your breathing. You forced a smile, though it felt brittle, and shook your head lightly. "I've been trying something new," you blurted out, the words rushed and awkward. "Different instruments, I mean. I thought it might be... refreshing." You forced a smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.

For a moment, Telemachus said nothing, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you. You braced yourself, the seconds stretching into what felt like an eternity. But then, to your immense relief, he nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing.

"That makes sense," he said finally, though his voice carried a note of skepticism. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before his lips quirked into a small, reassuring smile. "You've always been talented. Whatever you play, I'm sure it's worth hearing."

His words sent a strange mix of relief and guilt washing over you, the warmth of his praise clashing with the unease that still churned in your chest.

You nodded, managing a quiet, "Thank you," though the words felt hollow in your throat.

"And, ____, if there's ever anything you need... anything at all—you know you can come to me. Right?"

Your heart ached at the sincerity in his voice, and you nodded quickly, your throat tight with emotion. "Of course, my prince. Thank you."

He held your gaze for a moment longer, as if searching for something unspoken, before his smile returned, softer now. "Good," he said simply, his tone warm. "That's all I wanted to hear."

Telemachus' smile lingered, and for a brief moment, the air between you felt lighter, warmer, as though the weight of the conversation had been lifted. But deep down, you couldn't shake the sinking feeling that the truth was closer to surfacing than you were ready for.

For a moment, the two of you stood there in the quiet corridor, the world around you fading into the background.

You cleared your throat softly, the sound barely breaking the quiet between you. Telemachus' head tilted, his brow lifting slightly as his attention sharpened. For a heartbeat, you hesitated, feeling the weight of his gaze, before the words tumbled out.

"Have you, um—" You faltered, your voice catching for just a moment. "Have you seen any new constellations recently? Or... perhaps something interesting in the stars lately? You know, with the season changing."

Telemachus blinked in surprise at first before his expression shifted immediately, his eyes lighting up with a boyish excitement that made your chest tighten. "Oh, yes," he said quickly, the words spilling out like he'd been waiting for an excuse to talk about it. His smile grew, softer but no less genuine, as his fingers brushed absently over the hem of his tunic.

"The skies have been stunning this autumn," he began, his tone growing warm with excitement. "Just a few nights ago, I was out watching the heavens, and I caught sight of Lyra—the Harp—hanging low near the horizon. It's faint this time of year, but clear if you know where to look." He paused, his lips curving into a thoughtful smile. "It... made me think of you."

Your breath hitched, and his cheeks flushed, the faint pink spreading across his nose as he seemed to realize what he'd said. "I—I mean," he stammered, his hand lifting to rub at the back of his neck, his eyes darting to the ground before flicking back to yours, "it's just—you play the lyre so beautifully, and, well, Lyra always reminds me of music and..." He trailed off, his voice softening, his gaze dropping for a moment as though he needed a second to steady himself.

He cleared his throat, his hands now clasping in front of him, and when he looked back up at you, there was a tenderness in his eyes that made your heart ache. "Since my father returned, he's been teaching me tricks about the stars—navigating by them, learning their patterns—things he picked up on his travels." A faint, bashful smile tugged at his lips. "He says I've got a good eye for it."

You couldn't help but smile, the image of Telemachus and Odysseus stargazing together filling your mind. "That sounds wonderful,"

Telemachus' gaze flickered away again, the faint blush deepening on his cheeks as he nodded. "It is. It's... peaceful, being out there under the open sky. Sometimes, it feels like you can hear the stories the stars are trying to tell."

He hesitated, his weight shifting slightly, his hands brushing against his sides as though searching for something to do.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, softer, almost unsure. "So, uh, tomorrow night, Venus will be at its brightest," he said, his eyes glancing up at you briefly before darting away again. "It's—it's something to see, really. It lights up the sky like a beacon."

He cleared his throat again, his fingers now fidgeting with the hem of his tunic. "I... was thinking—" He stopped, biting his lip as his gaze darted back to you. His voice dropped to almost a whisper, and he stuttered slightly as he continued, "If—if you'd like, you could... join me? To see it, I mean. It's, uh, better with someone else. I think you'd... enjoy it."

Your heart leapt, the warmth in his voice wrapping around you like a gentle embrace. The way he looked at you—shy, hopeful, as though his entire world hinged on your answer—made it impossible to refuse.

Your lips parted, the word "I—" barely forming before a voice interrupted the moment.

"Telemachus~" the voice cooed, smooth, and saccharine, cutting through the air like a blade.

Your breath hitched, the faint warmth that had begun to bloom between you and the prince cooling instantly. Both of you turned toward the source of the interruption, and there she was—Andreia.

Her auburn hair gleamed like polished copper, catching the soft light spilling through the corridor windows, and her practiced smile curved effortlessly across her lips.

She strode toward the two of you with an ease that bordered on regal, her eyes flashing briefly over you before locking onto Telemachus.

"Here you are," she said, her tone light and lilting, as though she'd spent hours searching for him. The way her words flowed, so casual yet so perfectly placed, made your stomach churn.

Andreia's hand brushed lightly against Telemachus' arm, her touch lingering just enough to feel possessive. Her fingers rested there, delicate yet firm, like she had every right to stake her claim. "I was wondering where you'd gone," she added with a soft laugh, tilting her head ever so slightly as she looked up at him.

Telemachus stiffened at first, his shoulders squaring in surprise, the flush still on his cheeks as his gaze darted between you and Andreia. "Oh, uh... Lady Andreia," he greeted, his tone polite but lacking the warmth he'd just shown you.

His fingers flexed at his sides, betraying his awkwardness as his eyes flitted back toward you, only to snap back to Andreia under the weight of her commanding presence.

Andreia's smile widened, a flash of teeth, her eyes glinting with satisfaction. "Don't tell me you've forgotten about our lunch plans," she teased, her tone playful but carrying an undercurrent of reprimand. "You promised to show me the olive grove today."

The words hung in the air, heavy despite her light delivery. Your grip on the edge of your shawl tightened, your knuckles brushing against the scroll you still held.

Telemachus shifted his weight, his unease evident in the way his eyes flitted briefly to yours before snapping back to Andreia. "Right," he said slowly, his voice faltering as though caught off guard. "The olive grove."

Andreia's hand slid down from his arm but stayed close, her posture angled toward him with practiced grace. "Shall we go?" she asked, her emerald eyes locked on his face, her expression one of expectation.

Your chest tightened at the sight, and for a fleeting moment, you thought Telemachus might turn back to you. His lips parted slightly, his gaze turning to linger on you just long enough for something to flicker in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or an apology he couldn't voice.

Andreia's attention, however, was unrelenting. Her smile faltered for the briefest moment as she followed his gaze, her expression cooling when her eyes landed on you. "Oh..." she drawled, her head tilting slightly, the tone of her voice dripping with feigned surprise. "You're ____, yes?"

You straightened instinctively, willing your voice to remain steady. "Y-Yes, Lady An—"

Andreia didn't let you finish. She turned back to Telemachus, her gaze softening as though you weren't even there. "Oh," she said lightly, her voice airy, "am I interrupting something, Telemachus?" The question was directed at Telemachus, her tone sweet but pointed, her wide eyes locked on his face.

Telemachus' face remained carefully neutral, his features set in a mask of calm that he had learned to wear during courtly interactions. But beneath the surface, his mind churned.

He was acutely aware of how close Andreia stood now, the scent of her floral perfume faint but distinct in the chill air. The warmth he had felt only moments ago, while speaking with you, had all but drained away.

His eyes darted toward you again, lingering for a fraction longer than was prudent. You stood stiffly, the scroll in your hands held tightly against your chest, your gaze lowered.

There was something almost imperceptible in your posture—disappointment, perhaps? Hurt? The thought made his stomach twist, though he quickly shoved it aside.

He couldn't afford to focus on that, not now.

"No—no, you're not interrupting," he stammered, his tone caught between reassurance and discomfort. He forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes, and gestured vaguely toward you. "We were just finishing up."

Andreia's smile returned, brighter than ever, the edges curling with satisfaction as though she had won a quiet battle. She stepped closer to Telemachus; her fingers grazed the edge of his tunic, an almost imperceptible gesture that felt calculated, meant to be seen but subtle enough to be dismissed as casual. "Good," she said with a soft laugh, her emerald eyes glinting as they met his. "I wouldn't want to pull you away from anything... important." Her words hung in the air, carrying a subtle challenge that wasn't lost to you.

Telemachus swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw tightening briefly as he resisted the urge to glance at you again.

He knew how this moment looked, how it felt, and it gnawed at the edges of his resolve. But he also knew his duty, the expectations that came with his station.

Andreia wasn't just a princess—she was a potential alliance, a symbol of unity between Ithaca and her own kingdom. To dismiss her or show favoritism toward someone else, no matter how innocent the context, would be unwise.

"Of course not," he replied, his tone even, though his chest felt heavy. He offered a small, polite nod, one that he hoped would convey the right amount of respect and deference. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Andreia tilted her head slightly, her smile softening as though his words had pleased her. She reached up, brushing a strand of auburn hair back from her face, the motion deliberate yet graceful. "You're always so considerate, Machus," she said, her voice light and teasing; her gaze flickered briefly to you again, as though gauging your reaction, before returning to him.

Telemachus felt his pulse quicken, his discomfort growing. He hated how easily Andreia commanded the conversation, how her presence seemed to overshadow everything else in the moment.

But he hated more that he couldn't bring himself to break away, to say what he truly wanted. His role as prince demanded restraint, diplomacy, and sacrifice.

And so, he buried the flicker of guilt that had sparked when he'd seen the look in your eyes.

You shuffled your feet, the use of the nickname "Machus" feeling like an invisible weight pressing against your chest, the easy familiarity of it jarring in its intimacy.

How comfortable she was using it—and worse, how Telemachus neither stopped her nor corrected her—made the moment heavier, more painful than you cared to admit.

You knew better than to take it personally; you knew the realities of his station and the delicate politics at play, but that knowledge didn't dull the ache.

Your throat tightened, and you softly cleared it, drawing their attention briefly. You dipped into a polite curtsy, your voice steady though quieter than usual. "If you'll excuse me, my prince, my lady," you said, keeping your gaze lowered as you took a step back. "I'll...I'll take my leave now."

Telemachus' eyes flicked toward you, his lips parting as if he might say something, but the words never came.

Andreia giggled softly, leaning closer to him as though you had already gone, her hand lightly resting on his arm. "Oh, Machus," she said, blinking up at him with a coy smile. "I almost forgot—one of Bronte's navigators mentioned that Venus will be at her brightest tomorrow. Isn't that perfect? We should watch it together."

Her tone was light and airy, but there was an undercurrent of possession in her words that wasn't lost on you as you turned to leave. The sound of her laughter, soft and musical, lingered behind you as you walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last.

You didn't glance back, though your heart clenched at the thought of what you might see if you did.

You had barely made it halfway down the corridor, your steps deliberate yet distant, when the sound of hurried footsteps behind you broke the rhythm of your retreat. Before you could react, a warm hand wrapped gently but firmly around your wrist, halting your escape.

"Wait," Telemachus' voice came, low but rushed, tinged with urgency. You turned halfway, your heart skipping at the sight of him. His face was flushed, his breath slightly uneven as though he'd chased after you without thinking.

"What are you—?" you began, but he shook his head, his grip tightening ever so slightly as he leaned in closer.

"Please," he said, his tone softer now, imploring. His gaze darted briefly over his shoulder, and you caught sight of Andreia still standing in the corridor.

She was a distance away, her posture poised, though her expression was unreadable. She waited, her presence a looming reminder that you didn't belong in the same orbit as her.

Telemachus turned back to you, his brow furrowed, his words coming in a rush as if trying to explain something too complex for the time he had. "I know how this must look—how she must seem—but you have to understand, this isn't—I-I didn't mean for you to think... I just—" He exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated with himself as he glanced back toward Andreia again, and he looked back at you. "This isn't what it looks like."

Your chest tightened, and you pulled your wrist gently out of his grasp, stepping back to create some distance. "You don't have to explain anything," you said softly, your voice measured, though you felt anything but calm. "I understand."

His eyes flickered, confusion flashing across his face. "You... do?" he asked, his tone unsure, as though he didn't believe you. He stepped closer, lowering his voice as if afraid Andreia would hear. "I just mean... Andreia is a princess and she's here because... because of alliances. It's all political, so I have to entertain her. I—" He stumbled over his words, his frustration evident. "It doesn't mean anything."

The words were like a stone dropped into a still pond, rippling through your mind in ways you couldn't fully grasp. It doesn't mean anything. Then why did it feel like it meant everything?

You tilted your head, searching his face for clarity, but all you saw was a young man caught between two worlds—one of duty and one of desire. His expression softened as his eyes met yours again, his voice gentler now. "I just... I want you to understand, that this isn't real," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I have to do this—for Ithaca, for my father. For everyone. But it's temporary." His explanation was clumsy, the words jumbled as though he didn't quite know how to phrase what he wanted to say.

He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. "I just... I didn't want you to think that this, that she..." He trailed off, his eyes searching yours, desperate for some sign that you believed him. "You see that... don't you?"

You wanted to, desperately. But the words felt hollow, his explanation thin. Temporary or not, Andreia was a princess, and you were... you. Someone who could be excused without a second thought, whose place in this palace was dictated by servitude, not status.

Besides, part of you couldn't ignore the lingering ache in your chest. His words didn't erase the sight of Andreia's easy closeness or the way he hadn't corrected her use of the nickname.

You forced yourself to nod, the movement stiff and mechanical. "I see," you murmured, though your heart felt like it was splintering with each syllable.

Relief washed over his features, his grip on your wrist finally loosening. "Good," he said, exhaling as though a weight had been lifted. "I just didn't want you to think—" He stopped himself, shaking his head again, a faint, almost boyish smile tugging at his lips. "I didn't want to lose your trust."

You nodded again, a small, tight smile finding its way to your lips. "Of course, my prince," you said, the formality slipping out before you could stop it. "I understand."

The formality of your words made him flinch slightly, but before he could say anything else, you curtsied quickly and turned to leave.

This time, he didn't stop you.

As you walked away, your heart felt heavier than before, each step echoing in the quiet corridor. You couldn't shake the feeling that you'd just crossed some invisible line, that something between you had shifted in a way that couldn't be undone.

Meanwhile, Telemachus remained where you'd left him, a heavy sigh escaping him, watching your retreating figure with a conflicted expression. He rubbed a hand over his face, his thoughts spinning in disarray.

He'd thought you understood—hadn't you just said so? He didn't know why the moment still felt so unfinished, why his chest felt tight with an unease he couldn't shake.

He sighed again, running a hand through his hair as he glanced back toward Andreia, who was waiting for him with a curious tilt of her head.

He straightened his shoulders, forcing himself to push it aside.

You understood, he told himself. You knew his actions were only temporary, a necessary pretense, and that was enough.

Or so he thought.

.☆.         .✩.                 .☆.

You barely made it a few steps down the corridor before the tears began to blur your vision. They welled up hot and fast, threatening to spill over no matter how tightly you bit your lip to keep the sobs at bay.

You kept your head down, focusing on the stone floor beneath your feet as you tried to steady your breathing, but the lump in your throat refused to ease. Each step felt heavier than the last, and no matter how much you told yourself to stay calm, the pressure inside you grew with every passing second.

By the time you rounded the corner, the tears had started to fall, hot and unbidden, streaking down your cheeks. You swiped at them angrily, as though erasing them would somehow make the ache in your chest go away.

Another sob tried to claw its way out, but you bit it back harder, a metallic taste filling your mouth as you forced yourself to stay quiet.

You're so foolish, you thought bitterly, your hands tightening into fists at your sides. You don't have any claim over him. He's a prince, and you're... Your chest heaved as you drew in a shaky breath, your steps faltering as the realization settled deeper into your mind. You're a servant. You have no right to feel this way.

And yet, no matter how hard you tried to reason with yourself, you couldn't ignore the way your heart clung to the moments you shared with him—the stolen smiles, the quiet conversations, the way his eyes seemed to soften whenever they met yours.

Were they just illusions? Things you'd foolishly read too much into?

Just as you turned another corner, lost in your thoughts, you collided with something—or someone. The force knocked the breath out of you, and you stumbled back slightly, the scroll slipping from your hands as you let out a startled gasp.

"I'm sorry!" you blurted out, your voice trembling as you hastily bent to retrieve the scroll. Your fingers fumbled clumsily as you wiped at your face, trying to hide the tears that still streaked your cheeks. "I-I wasn't looking where I was going, I—"

A low, warm chuckle cut through your hurried apology, freezing you in place. The sound was rich and teasing, carrying a lilt of amusement that made your heart skip a beat.

"Why," the voice drawled, smooth and playful, "do I always seem to catch you at the worst moments?"

Your breath caught, and you slowly looked up, blinking away the last of your tears. The figure before you came into focus, and your eyes widened in recognition.

Hermes stood before you, his divine presence striking against the mundane backdrop of the palace corridor.

His tousled curls caught the dim light, the faint shimmer of his form almost too vibrant for the simple stone walls surrounding him. His scarlet cloak draped effortlessly over one shoulder, and the faint flutter of the wings on his sandals sent a soft breeze brushing against your skin.

He looked every bit the god he was, radiant and untouchable, yet somehow entirely at ease.

You stared, momentarily frozen by the contrast of his divine radiance in this otherwise quiet corner of Ithaca's halls. His head tilted slightly, a grin tugging at his lips as he observed your stunned silence.

Then, raising a hand, he lightly tapped a finger against your forehead, the motion playful yet deliberate. "Anyone home?" he asked, the amusement in his voice pulling you out of your daze.

You blinked rapidly, heat rising to your face as you realized you'd been gaping. "H-Hermes, I—I'm sorry," you stammered, taking a step back, gripping the scroll tightly against your chest. "I—I didn't expect to see you here."

"No, clearly not," he said with a grin, crossing his arms as he leaned casually against the wall. "Though I must admit, bumping into you is quickly becoming my favorite pastime."

You frowned slightly, glancing down at the floor. "Sorry," you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper. "I wasn't paying attention."

Hermes tilted his head, studying you with a look that was equal parts curious and amused. "Apologies, apologies," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "You mortals are always so quick to blame yourselves. Tell me, little musician, what's got you so distracted this time? Or should I guess?"

Your lips parted, but no words came out. You weren't sure what to say—how to explain the storm of emotions swirling inside you without sounding utterly ridiculous.

A part of you wanted to open up, to let him know everything, but another part held you back, unsure of how much a god could—or would—understand.

Hermes, however, seemed content to wait, his gaze steady, his golden eyes filled with a quiet patience that felt strangely comforting. Still, you couldn't help but wonder what had brought him down to Ithaca this time, and why, of all places, he'd found you here in such a state.

"I—" you started, but the words caught in your throat. Your grip on the scroll tightened, and you swallowed hard, shaking your head. "It's nothing," you said quickly, your voice barely steady. Clearing your throat, you glanced at Hermes, forcing a small, uncertain smile. "What brings you down here? Are you here to deliver another message?" you asked, your voice wavering between curiosity and hesitation.

Hermes waved a dismissive hand, his expression light and amused. "Nah, no messages this time," he said, leaning casually against the wall. "I was bored. Thought I'd drop in on my grandson-in-law, Laertes. You know, see how the old man's doing. Deliever a message for my granddaughter Anticleia and all that."

For a moment, your mind froze, his words not fully registering. "Your... grandson?" you repeated, blinking up at him in confusion.

Hermes chuckled, bending slightly to meet your gaze, his head tilting in mock curiosity. "What's the matter? Didn't you know Odysseus is a descendant of mine?" His teasing tone and the glint in his golden eyes sent a ripple of warmth to your cheeks.

The faintest memory stirred in the back of your mind—Penelope mentioning the royal lineage, the gods woven into their family tree—but you hadn't thought much of it at the time. The knowledge had slipped away, buried beneath the weight of your daily tasks.

"I... think I heard that before," you admitted softly, your brow furrowing as you tried to recall the details. "But I guess I didn't really connect the dots."

"Figures," Hermes said with a laugh, straightening up and gesturing grandly to himself. "It's why Odysseus is so clever, you know. Gets it from me. Same with Telemachus, to some degree—though he's still figuring it out." He shot you a playful grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You're lucky, by the way. Not everyone gets such a close-up view of divine legacy in action."

Your mind finally caught up, a single word from earlier sticking out in your thoughts. "Anticleia," you murmured, hesitant yet certain. "Isn't she...?" You trailed off, unsure how to phrase it delicately.

Hermes raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your reaction. "Dead? In the Underworld?" he finished for you, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "Good ear, little musician." He tapped the side of his head playfully. "I do sometimes stop by to deliver messages for her. She's one of my favorites, you know. Sweet woman. Always appreciated my visits." A fond smile softened his face for a moment before he glanced back at you.

"Why?" he asked suddenly, his golden eyes gleaming with mischief. "Are you interested in going?"

The question caught you off guard, and your breath hitched. "G-Go to the Underworld?" you stammered, blinking at him in confusion. The idea sounded absurd—terrifying, even.

Hermes let out a hearty laugh, his voice echoing lightly through the corridor. "Not permanently, little one. I meant for a visit! Think of it as a 'bring a mortal to work' day." He winked, the boyish charm in his expression making the suggestion sound almost enticing. "I'm due to deliver a message to Anticleia from Laertes anyway. You could come along—get a glimpse of something most mortals only dream about."

You hesitated, the weight of the offer settling over you. The thought of traveling to the Underworld was daunting, to say the least, but a part of you was intrigued.

If you declined, you'd only be left alone with your swirling thoughts of Telemachus and Andreia, so perhaps this unexpected detour was just the distraction you needed.

Swallowing your nerves, you nodded slowly. "Alright," you said, your voice soft but resolute. "I'll go."

Hermes' grin widened, his excitement almost contagious. "That's the spirit! Stick with me, little musician, and you'll have quite the story to tell." He extended his hand toward you, his long fingers steady and inviting.

For a moment, you hesitated, glancing at his hand. It was unlike yours—smooth, unblemished, and seemingly untouched by the trials of the mortal world.

When your hand finally met his, you were struck by the warmth of his palm and the lightness of his touch. His fingers closed gently around yours, cradling your calloused hand with an unexpected tenderness, as though you were something fragile.

The contrast was stark, your roughened skin a reminder of the countless hours spent working and playing music, his touch soft and divine.

"There we go," Hermes said, his tone playful yet reassuring. "Don't worry, I won't let you fall." His golden eyes twinkled with mischief, but there was something else beneath them—a quiet promise of safety. Then, without warning, he pulled you closer, his warmth enveloping you as he bent his head down, his breath brushing against your ear. The soft rush of air sent a shiver cascading down your spine, your skin prickling in response.

"The shadows conceal the threshold, a gateway unseen to mortal eyes," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, carrying an intimate thrill that made your heart race. His breath was warm, each word laced with an excitement you couldn't quite place.

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling ever so slightly in his grasp.

Just as you thought you might ask a question, he pulled back slightly, a playful grin spreading across his face. "You're going to love this," he said with a happy chuckle, his tone shifting to one of boyish enthusiasm.

Before you could respond, Hermes stepped backward, tugging you with him. The shadows seemed to ripple and twist as he moved, pulling you effortlessly into their depths.

And then, you were gone.

A/N: ahhh love a good miscommunication 😩 as promised heres the promised chappie ❤️ next update features more hermes, stay tuned (p.s am i forgiven??? 🥹)

Tag List: @uniquetravelerone

[ihavenoideawhatiamdoingjustgay2]

You should make a arlecchino x femreader series 😋 maybe an arranged marriage where shes doing it from tsaritsas orders and yn is doing it because uh family obligations? I dunno or just do a one shot fast forward they r already recently married not getting along?

Unraveling you at the Seems

Genre : Haters to lovers

Summary : Your new Marriage with the Knave isn't going well, untill a certain invite that will put your world upside down reaches you.

Notes : It's four fucking am on this godforsaken planet, wife! Reader, Husband! Arlecchino, you don't really like eachother, it's like. Obligations? author gave her best, this is actually beta read, how do I tag, help me please, uncle Pierro lol, family issues

I don't think that this is what you wanted anon, but I hope that you still like it. Thank you for the request!

Word count : 3,298

Chapter 1 / 2 / 3

My Masterlist

Take me to ao3

Professional.

Is how you'd describe your Marriage to the Knave to anyone that would ask. Though you preffered to use the word 'Loveless' when no one could hear you. And to describe her? You clutched the needlepoint. One should not get you started. The songs of hate would pour out of you as if you were a robin in the morning hours, sitting on someones window sill. You pricked the needle back in, soon enough the picture would be finished. You chuckled, going over the 'No Bodies, no worries' stitching with your free hand.

The door opened. No knocking, no other warning. The Visitor was obvious.

"What is it?", you asked, crossing your legs, not stopping your very important task. You had been 'allowed' to stay in Sneznaya, aslong as you would mind the business with the Orphanage, which you had no problem with, you had something against Arlecchino and not the Children after all. They were quite adorable, actually.

"We were invited by the Tsaritsa.", you saw the piece of paper between two of her fingers and crocked a brow. She handed it to you.

You groaned as you read the first sentence.

Lord Arlecchino & Lady... ok, it could've been worse. They could have called you her wife. You are hereby formally invited to the annual Winter Ball. Due to status, your presence will be required.

Formal Attire is a must.

You can see the schedule on the back.

We will be happy to expect you this Friday in the Zapolyarny Palace.

You held the needle as if it was a knife, ready to plunge it into her eyes-

You notice her gaze, stood up, but you didn't let go of it. You remembered the ball from when you were younger, you've always loved going.

"I don't wish to go."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "Then I will drag you along.", she took a big step forward, coming nose to nose with you. "Our presence is required, you know that. You can read.", she tapped the required on the letter.

"I'm not saying that I am not gonna go, I'm saying that I do not wish to go. You know the difference, you're not deaf.", you watched her eyes sligthly darken.

She leaned further in, which made you instinctly lean back, but she resorted to towering over you untill you fell back onto the chair. "We talked about your mouth work before."

You blushed and instinctively looked away. "Talking is far fetched..." you mumble, feeling her hands all over you once again. This arrangement has been going on for about half a year, half a year of not flirting with many just because they were to afraid of your Husband. So who could blame you if you fell into her arms every now and then? You are just a woman, after all. "I just returned the insult.", you hissed, looking half back at her. She didn't seem truly mad, if she was, her pupils would glow. You've seen it before. It was rather...you didn't want to think about it.

She closed her eyes and sighed. The sound of her fingernails tapping against leather sounded to your ears for a few seconds before she removed them, standing back, fully composed. You smirked, as always when she got mad. Atleast you've figured out how to push her buttons, or else this would get boring real fast.

"I will come late to the event. I have business to attend to that day, but I expect you'll wait for me in the Foyer."

Great, you'd bore yourself to death. Again. Unless you took a book with you, sneak one from her office and not return it. Preferably one she was reading rigth now. That would annoy her.

"Don't."

You crock a brow, still grinning. "What?"

She looked at the various points in your face. Which made you fix it quickly. Had your expression told her too much? "Just don't.", she squinted, before turning back to the door, half waving at you, as if she was dismissing you. "I will take my leave now, go back to what you were doing before."

"I was planning on that anyways...", you mumbled, waiting untill she closed the door fully...only to scramble to your desk, taking paper and a quill to write.

You'd have to write a great deal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"That was quite the change of scenery, in such a short time too.", the maid said as she buttoned your dress up.

"I wrote to my uncle, he said it was a communication issue.", she handed you a pair of gloves. "I was quite confused when I continued to think about it, since he and even my husband have told me that there are renovations going on in the grand hall." The Knave probably thougth that they had fixed it by now. But they have not. Maybe it was because of all the weird incidents that have accured during the build.

She nodded along, taking a mask fitting to your dress from one of the drawers. "I heard they had to unrequest people."

"It is better this way.", you tell her, pocketing it. "It was a more private event when I was younger anyways.", you thougth carefully about your next words, running them through your mind once or twice, turning to her "So, you can imagine that I am in favor of less people.", but she was to busy marveling at your pockets to listen. It made you chuckle. "Amazing, aren't they?"

"The mask just evaporated!"

You pulled out a whole book -the one you've stolen from the Knaves desk- and watched her gape. "My parents teached me how to sew them in.", you smiled, putting it back, between some other knick knacks. "They are quite practical."

You turned back to look at yourself in the mirror, your hair and make up sat perfectly, complementing your features and dress. "Your work is flawless, as always.", you compliment, spinning, only to notice how stiff she was standing all of a sudden. You groaned, looking at the door, already knowing who it was.

"I thougth you said you'd join me later."

"I wanted to see how you look in the dress. See if what I will wear is truly going to match."

You huffed, pinching the space between your brows. How corny.

"It's etiquette, you know that, doesn't matter if you like it or not. You have to do it."

"I'm not saying I'm not gonna do it, I'm just saying that I won't like doing it.", you huff, lifting your chin up, refusing to look at her. She paroted your huff.

"I'm sure you won't love it.", the door sqeaked "I'll see you in a bit.", she mumbled after a few seconds. Then it shut. And your maid chuckled. Fucking chuckled.

"You truly are newlyweds", she helped you down from the podest. ", I remember when I and my spouse still had that much tension."

"I want to stab her sometimes."

She chuckled. "Oh, I said the same."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The carriage ride had been shorter than if you would've gone to the Zapolyarny Palace. The castle you would go to as a replacement was also 'shorter' though it was still owned by her royal highness, of course, it was just a bit further down, sligthly hidden in the woods. More secretive. You sighed, leaning back.

It was better this way. Maybe your family wouldn't come. You chuckled at the thougth, holding your legs close, rolling yourself up into a ball, ever since your father died five months ago...it hasn't been easy. It was a must for your uncle to be there, but... he was pretty cool. He didn't pressure you, or he just wasn't that obvious. He knew you needed your time.

The carriage stopped out of the blue. You sat straigth up as if pricked by a needle, lifting the small curtain. There it was. You gulped. It had all been planned to the dot, your uncle had been quite annoyed by the fact that you didn't ask him about it sooner, but he wasn't mad, and atlast, had the proper schedule send to you just last evening.

Another tick of yours. It calmed you to know the schedule.

"My Lady, we've arrived.", the cold poured inward as the carriage driver opened the door and you shivered sligthly, before taking his warm hand. You thanked him, waving as he drove off, to then lift your dress and climb the stairs. Considering all the people around, it seemed you have come a bit earlier than expected. The man at the front crossed your name from his list. There were just about fifteen gone. You tch'd, maybe she'd come just on time.

"Where's the Knave?", he asked.

"Hom- at the mansion still. She will come after...in about half an hour."

He nodded, crossing her out, no line like yours, but a cross. You crocked a brow, but shrugged it off and went inside. Only to hear the room quiet down. Your family was gathered on the couches. Your sister, your old mother and her brother, as for some others. He wasn't the uncle you adored. He was the bad uncle, as you'd like to call him. Looking around, you didn't see anyone you knew, which meant that it was hard to avoid them, esspecially when your sister beckond you by lightly patting the place next to her. This would be a...conversation. They were silent as you settled down, their gazes on you, expecting you to speak first.

"It's not that easy-"

"It's been six months.", your uncle interrupted you. "It didn't take me that long."

His daugther sighed, stroking her pregnant stomach, she was dressed in a sad black. "None of us."

You clutched onto your pocket, the book.

"You care to much for her. It could be so easy.", your uncle said, shaking his head. His daugther copied him like a puppet.

Your mother coughed.

"I do not. And even if, it would have nothing to do with that. It also is not my fault that father died less than a year ago. I was in mourning. What do you suppose I do just-"

"Yes.", he said and a part of you broke. "Also quiet down, there are people around."

You stood up from your seat, nearly pushing it back. "You brougth it up!"

"You have to think of our mother.", your sister finally spoke up, taking your hand. Her voice was unusually soft, her touch also. You breathed in and sat back down. Your eyes slowly diverted towards the old woman, the small child at her side. She giggled as it told her something. An uncommon sound these days. "Think of our family.", she mumbled and everyone looked at you expectantly. You wanted to dissapear into the ground. Evaporate. Maybe die a bit, your hands grabbed along your pockets, smothing out folds and you felt the letter opener you used as a bookmark through it. Your family would call you insane, but they all had nice paper ones. Weird people. Best description for your family. Weird.

Then the whole room fell silent. Truly silent. You sighed, knowing why, knowing why they broke out into whispers shortly after. They could still recognize her, despite the mask she was most likely wearing. "Go to your husband.", your sister breathed. You turned away from them withouth another word, having to face someone worse now.

"Your family? They weren't cut?", she extended a polite arm towards you, lowered it however when you stepped away.

"No. Courtesy of my uncle. My other uncle will go with the children however, or take care of them. What do I know..."

She nodded, her arms crossed, looking out of a window, seemingly more interested in it than being in a conversation with you. You huffed. "Seems weird that he came along then. Has he missed you so terribly?"

"He likes pressuring me..." you whispered, taking your mask out of your pocket. It sat perfectly, though it didn't match hers. Hers, with its intricate design of red, gold and black diamonds.

She side eyed you "About what?"

"Nothing that concerns you.", you spat. She shock her head, then went back to her very interesting window.

"We should go in.", she stated after a while.

You crock a brow. "Doesn't it go after a certain order anymore?"

She interlocked your arms withouth a warning and without answering your question. It made you squeel, stumble over your own feet. Oh how you wanted to insult her, but it'd be stupid in front of all these people. "There'll be more people in there..." she mumbled, rather to herself.

You knew that, but to you, avoiding them took presidence. This did not matter to her, of course, you did not matter to her. And this was for the best. You were standing in front of the big door, which was slowly parting before you now. A sliver of ligth washed over the both of you, bathing you in white ligth.

"Tell me whenever you need a break.", she sighed. You pulled sligthly away as you were introduced to the room of people.

It left her to suck in a sharp breath. "Could you please leave your stubborn attitude at home and behave for five minutes? You make us and your family look bad."

It stung. The same way as your uncles words did and you were taken back to that talk, their accusing words and those sharp gazes. She eyed at your face, your gaze which was on the stairs, those red lips you were biting. An unreadable expression crossed her face as you mumbled a soft

"Okay..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The evening went by as fast as your heart was beating. First slow and steady, then fast and irregular. You blamed it on the people and on the overall passing of time. Going home would help. Letting yourself go would help. Finally giving your family what they want would help. You cursed them and your family obligations as you stood in front of your uncle. The good one.

"May I kidnap your wife for a dance, Knave?"

You shock up from your daydreams, watching her shrug. "She was your niece first.", her nonchalant expression changed not one bit. So she really did not care. You huffed, taking the hand of your uncle as he carefully placed one at your waist.

"If you're here to pressure me, I'm afraid I'll have to scream into your ear Uncle Pierro."

He smiled. "No, I think your uncle has already talked to you."

"Ah, that man sucks me dry whenever I

look at him. I strongly believe his existence was solely created just to annoy me!"

He laughed, a deep rumbling sound. Then he spun you to the sudden pitch in music. "Yeah, I thougth the same when I saw him for the first time.", he just pulled you in again, watching the woman on his rigth spin further to her left. The dance repeated. "But you are well? You have all you need?", you think back to your pockets, a book, a book mark, the letter of how the evening would go, other knick knacks.

"To finish this evening? Yes."

He chuckled, kissing the crown of your head. "That's a good woman. Always has the rigth attitude and the perfect timing."

Your shoulders dropped, relieved. "Thank you, uncle."

The dance finished with a last high note, leaving you to step away to courtesy, or in his case, to bow. He gave you a quick nod to the clock. Your eyes went straigth towards it. A quarter before ten. You sighed and a smile formed on your lips. Soon, it would all be over and you could go home to cuddle with your husband, she'd let you into her room for a reason you couldn't get behind and- you shook your head. No. What were you thinking? About this stupid, stupid person. You were stupid. You huffed, turning towards the devil who...had her eyes glued on you, similar to a hawk. Even her eyes were squeezed. A shiver went down your spine. But she didn't scare you. You moved towards her.

"I'll go to the toilet."

"I'll wait.", she simply stated, not moving her eyes an inch from you as you slowly moved out of her vision.

You fell onto the wall rigth when you were after the corner, the sound of the people was densed by the door, though not completely gone. You slipped down the wall, breathing in and out, to then cover your ears. It would all be well, you told yourself. It would all be ok.

Something boomed in the grand hall, you hid behind a pillar and ripped your eyes open along with the door. Peoples screams sounded in your covered ears, together with a constant ringing. "Fuck. Shit.", you cursed, trying to catch your breath as you were trembling. Of course this kind of thing was happening while you were the one so close to it that it would damage your ears. Your pupils looked for any opening, away from the noise, the people and you ended up running towards the big new hole in the wall, despite your trembling, despite your mind telling you to look for your family. The gardens were fine. They were perfect. Like it stood in the rules. Go to the gardens first. You thougth this was a good plan. It didn't take long for you to find a good place, behind a hedge. This was safe no one would see. It was perfect. Your heart was exploding and you still felt the need to run. Despite there being nothing to run from. You took a long breath, held it as you went through your pockets. Most things were still there. Perfect, you had lost nothing important at the impact. But a candy bar, you'd yearn for it at a later point. When you breathed back out, you leaned back against the hedge. Ok. It was good for now, your uncle would come for you. Arlecchino too. You sighed, to then hear their voices. You held your breath again.

"...I just saw her running into this direction.", he said.

The Knave huffed. "I saw her going rigth, you try it, I'll stay here."

Your breathing shortened, concentrated, regular. Perfect.

"Your rigth, maybe she'll come back, or others will get here, take care Knave, I'll see you."

She huffed and you saw his coat, swaying behind him as he went away. You were alone, clutching your book, holding it close as you peaked at the Knave, focused on the fire pot, the flame. You hid back behind the hedge. Your blood was still pumping with adrenaline and your shaking hands fumbled out the 'letter opener' from in-between the pages. You unsheated it, heaving yourself up. You revealed yourself to the ligth of the flame, to which her gaze was set towards. Your footsteps were quiet, like those of a mouse. Then you lifted your arms, clutching the dagger, ready to plunge it into her back and throw her into the bowl.

What was that they say? No body, no worries?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Take me to chapter 2

[itskindofidontknow]

What dreams know about love?

Chapter 17

Dream of The Endless/Morpheus x Love!OFC

Summary: The Queen of Love has grown used to the absence of her husband, the Dream King. After banning her from the Dreaming, they only saw each other when Morpheus summoned her for social or marital duties. He would go decades without calling for her, enamorated by a variety of mistresses. It broke Love's heart. Not that her husband cared. However, after being imprisioned for a century, The Dream King wants to regain his Queen's love. She doesn't believe him, not after centuries of neglect. The question is: Can dreams repair a broken heart?

Tag: Established relationship, arranged marriage, regency romance, eventual happy ending, angst, morpheus is a dick prepare to hate, love is eoster from west germanic mythology, typos are to be expected

Notes: This is the longest chapter that I wrote. It has everything: children, sisters, husband, and it is Solstice day!

The weather in the Dreaming was curiously pleasant. Some might even say it was the finest it had been in ages. To call it a sunny day would be an exaggeration, for no golden rays pierced the skies, and the sun itself remained hidden. Yet the absence of dark, brooding clouds, replaced by a pale blue firmament adorned with clouds like spun sugar, marked a change distinct enough to be noted. Her sisters had arrived the previous evening, as tradition dictated. It was their custom to gather on the eve before the turning of the seasons. Togetherness, this year, meant merely proximity, for Love had taken great pains to avoid the company of Pride, Honesty, and Melancholy. Happiness, as usual, had not yet arrived. Honesty had more than once dubbed her "attention harlot," for Happiness had a tendency to steal the spotlight from whichever sister was being honoured. At a winter gathering, she once appeared mere moments before Pride passed the Seasons Sceptre to Melancholy, an event meant to be the pinnacle of the evening. But with radiant Happiness in the room, who paid heed to the sombre, meek Melancholy? That year, Mel’s wrath unleashed one of the harshest winters known to humankind, its bite lingering well into summer.

Eoster had evaded them all, citing overwhelming demands upon her time and promising instead to join them for breakfast the next morning. And what a morning it was—gentle, fragrant, and graced with the hush of a new beginning. Thank the stars her sisters were not early risers, for as soon as dawn’s light touched her chamber, she donned a bonnet borrowed from one of her dream-servants and wandered through the palace corridors toward the only room—and the only company—she truly desired.

Or rather, company of the plural sort.

She slipped through the door with practised silence, entering a chamber large enough to cradle eight sleeping children. Its ceiling was a canopy of stars that shimmered like ancient constellations. She was surprised by the thoughtful arrangement of the room. More care had been given than she would have believed of her husband, who, to her knowledge, had never met the eight little dreamers slumbering peacefully in their cozy beds. Her heart swelled as she gazed upon them. She had no desire to face her sisters, their prying questions and constant assessments of her marriage, but these—these dear little souls—she yearned for.

She hated that she did not see them more often. The fault was partly her own. Her tangled emotions, her yearning for a family she would never have, too often turned inward—into sadness, indifference, even anger. She feared letting the children witness such turmoil. And yet, by all the stars, how deeply she loved them.

The Queen shook herself free of such thoughts and crossed to the windows, flinging open the curtains and letting soft light bathe the room. The children stirred, groaning and covering their eyes. “I cannot believe you would rather waste such a fine day in bed than accompany me on an adventure!” she declared, her voice alight with youthful mirth, as musical and bright as any storybook nanny.

As deer prick their ears at the sound of rustling leaves, the children responded instantly. Some sat up, two tumbled out of bed, and the rest tangled themselves in blankets in their haste to reach her. Through the double doors echoed a chorus of delighted cries: "Aunt Love!"

“Alright, alright. I missed you too,” she said, laughing as she patted their backs, her arms not nearly large enough to encircle them all.

“A lot, then?” asked Alith, a dark-haired girl with silver eyes, one of Honesty’s brood, pushing her older brother Valkar aside with admirable determination.

“Yes, my love. A great deal,” Love replied, kissing her niece’s brow.

“Like Lady Mother misses Lord Father whenever they dance?” inquired Talon, son of Happiness, sent to the Dreaming with his cousins. He and his twin sisters, Elira and Solin, all bore that Mona Lisa expression that made Love uncertain whether their questions were innocent or sly. At merely six centuries old, they were wise beyond appearances. The “dance” he referred to was the so-called "eternal summer dance" — a euphemism for the violent quarrels Happiness and her husband, Lugh, engaged in each summer. Love had long pitied the triplets, who endured that endless cycle without comprehending it.

“Much more,” she said, lifting Talon into her arms and twirling with him until she fell with theatrical flourish onto the nearest bed, making him shriek with laughter. “Now, we can lie here and calculate precisely how much I missed you, or we can have an adventure in the Dreaming!”

“Are there nightmares here, Aunty?” asked Bellator, Pride’s son and a future war entity, whose greatest joys were swordplay and tales of ancient battles. He idolised his father, Ares, and even more so Wotan.

“Why? Are you afraid of them, Bellator?” she asked gently. He blushed. Of course he was, though he would never admit it. Nightmares to children were monsters, not the burdened beings they truly were.

“N-no! But Vanira is!”

“I am not!” his younger sister protested, shoving him. Fierce, though less battle-hardened, Vanira would not tolerate being cast as the frightened one.

“Yes you are! I’ll bring my sword to protect you!” he retorted.

“Am not!” she shrieked, lunging. Love intercepted her mid-leap.

“As long as you are with me, there is no danger, dears. Now, may I finally tell you our plan before your mothers come and kidnap me for a most dreadful breakfast?”

“Mum won’t wake until afternoon,” Lethe sighed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The child of Melancholy, her gaze always held sorrow, her shoulders bore its weight.

“Then we have time to visit Goldie. My dear friend.”

Heads tilted in curiosity.

“You know, my old friend Goldie the gargoyle.”

Even Lethe’s eyes lit up. If there was value in that ridiculous parade of introductions Morpheus had once conducted through the Dreaming, it was knowing its subjects. Love knew a creature as charming as Goldie would enchant the children and grant her a way to avoid her sisters a little longer.

__________________________

The Dreaming unfolded before them like an impossible tapestry — forests that breathed in rhythms older than time, rivers that hummed forgotten lullabies, and skies that shifted hues with every blink, as if responding to the heartbeat of the dreamers who walked beneath them. Along the winding path toward the Houses — the ivy-cloaked House of Secrets, crooked and whispering, and beyond it, the solemn, time-worn House of Mystery — the children of the divine were ushered gently forward. It was there that Cain and Abel received them.

Well, not exactly, because to receive one must be waiting.

More like invaded.

Could they blame the Queen? Cain sure felt like it, but as Abel told him before she could get any closer, Love did not know many places at the Dreaming. Lord Morpheus took her on a parade and he showed her their houses.

Cain, tall and sharp-eyed beneath his wide-brimmed hat, stood with arms crossed, lips curled in theatrical suspicion. Abel hovered behind him, wringing his hands, a nervous smile flickering under his mustache like candlelight in the wind.

Cain scowled under the brim of his battered hat, his arms crossed like closed gates. “What is this,” he muttered to no one in particular, “a divine field trip?”

“H-hello,” Abel, ever stammering, offered a nervous wave. “W-we weren’t told—um—exactly that anyone was—visiting today, but it’s—it’s lovely to see you! Isn’t it lovely, Cain?”

Cain grunted. “Lovely is not the word I’d use for a swarm of divine brats threatening to trample my roses.”

“They’re not trampling, they’re just—uh—exploring,” Abel offered, glancing nervously at the children.

“I saw one licking a sundial,” Cain growled. “And the twins are using my prized irises as catapults.”

Abel blinked rapidly. “Oh, n-no, that’s—that’s probably just creative play—” Just then, Solin shrieked with delight and launched herself at the House of Mystery’s doorknob, trying to hang from it like a tree branch. Cain flinched.

“That's it. I'm retiring. I'll go live in a dream of mildew and silence.”

But even Cain's usual snarl softened when Love approached. Hair half-loosened by children’s hands, her cotton gown brushed with grass, the timid sunlight caught in the folds like memory. The air itself seemed to hush at her arrival.

Cain tipped his hat with a reluctant grace. “Queen Eoster.”

“Cain,” she returned, warm but distant.

“Your—um—Majesty,” Abel added, nearly tripping over his own feet in a frantic bow. “A-a pleasure, an honor, and also a bit of a surprise—though not, not unwelcome, of course!” Love raised a brow, smiling slightly. “ I apologize for the sudden intrusion. These are my sisters’ children. Someone told them about Goldie and they desperately wanted to meet her. Would you find in your good hearts enough patience and decorum to make the introductions?” Even Cain could not say no to her request. Morpheus demanded, he ordered as their sovereign, Eoster charmed them, making it impossible to deny any request she made.

Cain would deny ever falling for her ‘spring tricks’ as he would secretly call her looks and sweet voice, but he only fooled himself. Anyone who did not deal with Love daily, got mesmerized by her. Abel gave a solemn nod, which earned him a broader smile from the queen. “Thank you, Abel. You’ve always had the kindest heart in this realm.” Cain rolled his eyes with theatrical exasperation, but Abel made no attempt to disguise the way he lingered—caught, perhaps, a moment too long in the glow of her gaze. He nodded again, slower this time, entirely entranced.

Cain delivered a sharp jab to his brother’s ribs.

Dream and the queen were not known for the blissful harmony of their union. But. Lord Morpheus was fiercely possessive of anything he deemed his own, so Cain knew that if he even considered that Abel was gazing so longingly at his wife, he might find himself dispatched—swiftly and unceremoniously—into the darkness. Love, for her part, merely chuckled. She was quite accustomed to such reactions.

Turning a vivid shade of pink, Abel abruptly thrust the gargoyle into the air like a talisman of self-preservation. “G-Goldie!” he stammered, voice cracking slightly. “W-would you like to meet Goldie?” The children turned their heads in perfect unison—like chicks glimpsing corn for the very first time—before stampeding toward him with divine enthusiasm.

Abel knelt with reverence, cradling the small stone gargoyle in his arms as though presenting a sacred relic. Goldie blinked once, languidly, his wings curled inward like a sleeping bat. A collective gasp of awe escaped the children. For a moment—just a breath—the world stood still in perfect reverence.

It lasted, of course, precisely three seconds.

Then came the inevitable storm.

“Do gargoyles dream?” “What’s the difference between a secret and a mystery?” “Can nightmares be nice if they’re yours?” “Can Goldie eat nightmares?” “Can Goldie eat you?” “Do nightmares taste like pepper?” “Are you a nightmare or a dream?” “Are you a nightmare because you are bald?”

Abel’s smile became a grimace of earnest panic as he tried to answer all of them at once — stammering explanations, making vague gestures, and nervously glancing at Cain for help that would not come.

Cain looked appalled in the singular manner only an ancient murderer could manage.

“Why,” he asked, deadpan, “are they asking so many questions? Is this the Inquisition?”

“No,” Love replied with a lightness born of divine patience. “It is curiosity—unfiltered, untamed, and—”

“Sticky,” Cain finished grimly, “like the footprints on my ceiling.”

“I do apologize, my dear Cain,” Love said, her voice a gentle murmur as she turned toward him with regal grace. “My nieces and nephews can be rather—”

“Pampered pests?” he interrupted, one brow arched with dry derision.

To that, Love responded with a smile—not a bright, beaming grin, but something measured, opaque, designed to suggest that she neither agreed nor disagreed.

“Spirited little wonders,” she corrected, voice still warm. Where Cain saw unruliness, unpredictability, and a complete disregard for order, Love perceived a sacred spark. That wildness—so often misnamed disobedience—was, to her, vitality itself. Promise. Emotional honesty in its purest form. She had once known such a spark herself, before her role demanded it be quieted. She saw their chaos not as an affront, but as a kind of necessary, divine disorder—a garden left wild to grow what it would.

Cain, with a huff and inward sneer, thought darkly: Ah. So that’s what they’re calling it now. A polished name for gremlins with crowns.

“If they break anything,” Love added, her voice as honey poured over wine, her hand reaching gently for his as though it were the most natural thing in the world, “do let me know. I shall see to it myself.”

Even Cain—who distrusted monarchs as a matter of philosophy—found himself offering the faintest of nods, grumbling something incoherent about compensation in blood and sanity. It was, of course, meant as dramatic embellishment, though in truth, only partly so.

He didn’t look her in the eye. He never did, not for long. Not because he feared her, exactly, but because something happened when he did. She had that same crownless weight that her husband wore — that gravity of old laws and older roles — but she wore it like silk instead of stone.

Looking at her too long made Cain uneasy. Made him feel like maybe the children weren’t demons in disguise. Like maybe he was a bitter old caretaker who had simply forgotten how to laugh. Looking at her too long made him question the narrative — and Cain had only ever felt safe when he controlled the story.

“One of them,” he said instead, voice dry as the Deadlands, “I’m not naming names, but it rhymed with Vanira — threatened to lick my sundial.”

She smiled.

Not a smirk. Not a courtly grin. Not even a polite upward twitch. Just a slow, genuine thing — like spring thaw on a grave. She didn’t take offense. She took it as truth, offered in the only way Cain knew how to give it.

It was enough for her.

She gave him a farewell glance — all rose-gold and soft firelight — then turned back to the chaos of the garden, skirts trailing moss and the scent of honeysuckle. Cain watched her walk away, and for a moment he felt something like vertigo. Like the whole world tilted around her steps.

Cain had seen kings and gods and nightmares rise and fall. He had seen galaxies burn out like candle wicks. But he had never seen anything quite like her.

She moved through the children like a song remembered. Her presence calmed the riot — not through commands, but through grace. They gathered around Goldie now, chattering, climbing, touching feathers with reverence. And in the center of them, Love knelt to cradle the smallest one.

Lethe.

The quiet one. The watcher. The child with eyes like fogged glass and a silence that made even Cain uneasy. But now she folded into Love’s arms like a shadow drawn to a flame.

And Love? She held her without hesitation. Without fanfare. As though the girl had always belonged there.

Cain swallowed thickly. It wasn’t natural.

Morpheus never did that. Morpheus loved through architecture and silence, through stories told in sand and sorrow. His affections were distant stars — beautiful, cold, precise. But her? She was the sun at dawn, and the children bloomed around her like stubborn weeds.

She didn’t ask for loyalty. She received it.

Cain looked away.

There was something unsettling about that kind of power — soft and boundless. He didn’t like the way it twisted the narrative. It made him doubt the ending. And Cain, above all else, hated stories that refused to end the way they should.

And then — as always with her sisters’ offspring — chaos bloomed like weeds after rain.

Soon, Bellator had conscripted Abel into a dramatic reenactment of The Siege of the Screaming Bridge, complete with phantom blood, exploding ghosts, and impromptu stage directions shouted by Valkar.

Meanwhile, Cain had been strong-armed into playing “Two Truths and a Lie” with Happiness’ triplets, cornered near the garden wall like a reluctant suspect. Alith, her curls bouncing, insisted she could unmask any deception with a single question. Cain snorted. “Good luck, girl. I’ve been lying longer than your mother’s been dancing.” Vanira and Talon solemnly sealed a bet over the outcome — fifty years of servitude, paid in song or silence.

Elsewhere, Solin and Elira whispered conspiratorially, discussing the ancient rumor that Cain always killed Abel over petty grievances. They wondered if he’d try the same with one of the cousins—since, admittedly, they were spoiled, annoying brats—and most importantly, what Aunt Eoster would do if he dared.

After all, no one had ever seen Aunt Love truly angry. And wasn’t that a story worth witnessing? Would she have any power over him? Would she tell their uncle? And what would their mysterious, cruel, cold, never-before-seen uncle do? And most important: Could they watch?

But not all the children plunged headfirst into mischief.

While the rest of the cousins dashed through the gardens with the recklessness only children possess, Lethe lingered behind. She was not like the others—soft-spoken, inward, always watching, rarely joining.

The others burst into the world like firecrackers.

Lethe was mist — silent, ungraspable.

And only Aunt Eoster seemed to notice.

Of all the divine sisters, it was Eoster — not Pride, nor Happiness, nor even Melancholy herself — who knelt to tie a child's ribbon, who laughed at their riddles, who wiped their tears with the same tenderness that once birthed spring into the world. Sometimes, Love even preferred their company to that of her own siblings.

Lethe once overheard her mother murmur to Aunt Happiness, "Darling, It’s because she’s no mother herself." But Lethe wasn’t so sure. Eoster, to her, felt like the heart of motherhood—radiant and aching. Valkar once told her it was jealousy she heard in their aunts’ voices—even in Honesty’s. Lethe didn’t quite understand why. Valkar didn’t either. He could only sense it.

Now stroking the little gargoyle’s snout with reverence, his leathery wings curled in like a sleeping bat, his blinking eyes half-closed in pleasure. Her fingers moved with sacred care, as though Goldie might stir and sigh if only touched gently enough.

“Will there be spring this year?” she asked, voice nearly inaudible. A breath more than a question.

Eoster froze — her fingers halting mid-stroke in Lethe’s curls.

“Of course, my heart,” she said softly. “Why would there not be?”

Lethe didn’t answer. She whispered into Goldie’s ear, as though confiding in something older than stone.

“You feel like Mama… before the grey years.”

The words were quiet—but they landed like thunder.

She feels it.

The grey years. Melancholy’s reckoning. The age when the world was wrapped in silence, rivers forgotten, skies brittle with sorrow. Even the pulse of the land grew dull, the seasons slipping their rhythm.

Lethe remembered. A child too young to name grief, yet old enough to drink its bitter draught. Born in the stillness between thunderclaps, raised on lullabies that never lifted above whispers.

Viddar, Lethe’s father, stood unwavering beside her—dusk made flesh, a shadow born of twilight’s grief. He loved Melancholy not despite her sorrow, but through it—mesmerized, as a sculptor who bows before his masterpiece wrought from ruin and mourning. Together, they moved through their kingdom without warmth or laughter—only the sacred and terrible art of despair.

But Lethe was still a child.

She longed not for myth or shadow, but for her parents.

“Maybe a cold spring,” Lethe breathed, fingers brushing Goldie’s weathered ridge. “Would you like that, Goldie?”

Her niece’s word digging deep beneath her skin, stirring her pulse.

She feels it.

Lethe bore more than softness. She saw with her skin, felt with her breath—the frost gathering before the grass shivered.

A cold spring.

Would such a thing come to pass?

“Aunt Love,” she asked with devastating innocence, “Would different flowers bloom if the spring were cold?”

The question struck earth like a spade turning soil.

Cold ground yields no blossom. Seeds sleep beneath its frostbound shroud. Love knew this truth well. No matter how gently she sowed, no matter how fiercely she warmed the earth—nothing could rise from barren stone.

A cold spring meant no spring, the seasons would collapse, the mortal realm would be put in danger.

No.

Mortals must have spring.

Fertility. Renewal. The turning of the ancient wheel.

Even if she could not feel the earth calling for her. Even if the Garden ached, and her own heart faltered, the earth must awaken.

Duty was the reason she kept being faithful to her broken marriage, the reason she came back when he asked. Everything was her duty.

Eoster drew Lethe close, her lips brushed the child’s brow in solemn vow.

“No matter what shadows linger in my heart, little one,” she murmured, “spring will come—warm, fertile, and true.”

Lethe looked up, eyes deep as still pools, heavy with knowledge no child should bear.

“That’s good,” she said, voice soft as a prayer. “Because I heard the earth whisper it’s waiting.”

_____________

By then, both Cain and Abel had surrendered — not with dignity, nor in any gentlemanly terms of parley, but with the panting breath of men besieged by a force of nature in silk ribbons and opinions. Cain had made a valiant stand. He had raised his voice (twice), bared his teeth (once), and at some point brandished a rake with all the pomp of a ceremonial halberd. Yet children — especially the overindulged sort born of immortals — do not fear monsters they consider decorative. And to them, Cain was simply an eccentric antique from a nursery tale, dusted off and brought into the sun. Little Alith, curls bouncing with the entitlement of a minor empress, had fixed him with the imperious stare of the terminally unamused. “You do own a skull made of glass,” she had declared, “and you did steal a kiss from a banshee. So that means—”

Cain had thrown up his arms in despair. “Fine! Yes! I was married to a troll. It’s all true. I regret nothing except my willingness to participate in this conversation.”

That was when he knew he had lost the war.

Abel, poor soul, had fared no better. He had been conscripted into a reenactment of the Siege of the Screaming Bridge — a historical travesty if ever there was one, written and directed by Bellator himself, who claimed strict accuracy despite ghost-skeletons, jellybean bombardments, and a goat in epaulettes serving as Supreme Commander.

At one point, Abel found himself crowned with dandelions and declared “Queen of the Fallen River.” His confusion was audible.

“Do I… do I have to be?”

“Yes,” intoned Valkar gravely, “Until the moon cries” He took a second to think, and childish shrugged it off “Or snack time. Whichever is first.”

From the corner of her eye, Love perceived the signs of fatigue — the twitch at the corner of Cain’s mouth as he feigned civility, the shrill edge to Abel’s laughter, half a beat too late and half a tone too high. They were fraying, unraveling before the altar of indulgent youth.

But Eoster did not need to raise her voice. She did not chastise. No thundercloud darkened her brow.

She merely stepped forward “My little lords and ladies I would take my tongue out if I have ever encountered a group as,” she said, her voice a warm gleam upon the garden stones, “Valiant as you and…” Her eyes flicked gently to Bellator and Valkar. “As sharp of mind and tongue as you” she added, with a wink to Alith. “And of course, never met any group of such kind hearts, that I believe I do not even need to request, would kindly let both Cain and Abel rest, after such an enthusiastic visit.”

The children blinked. And then turned. As if her voice had magnetized the air.

“But we were about to—” Valkar began.

“Let me guess,” said Love with a smile that suggested omniscience and a touch of mischief. “A third attempt at the Siege of the Screaming Bridge?”

Bellator squinted up at her. “How did you know?”

She touched a finger to her lips in mock secrecy. “Because I know you, dearest.”

She paused — dramatically, deliberately — then sighed, a picture of feminine regret. “Of course, if you prefer playing at battles you’ve already won, you may stay here and rehearse what you know. But… I had thought you were brave enough to undertake a proper quest.”

Their ears pricked up.

“Only the truest of knights,” she said in a whisper full of promise, “Have ever dared the Maze of the Garden and retrieved the hidden treasure kept by Cain in its center. Some returned. Not all.”

Vanira gasped. So did the others.

Then — a shriek. “EVERYONE FOLLOW ME!” Vanira shoved Bellator aside and took off like a comet, the rest thundering after her in a flurry of satin and shrieking valor.

Somewhere beyond the hedgerows, a flowerpot shattered with a dramatic crash. Cain did not turn. He merely blinked slowly, like a man awakening from a fever dream.

She had untangled the storm with half a dozen words and not a drop of sweat.

Love approached them now with Lethe nestled upon her hip “They will not trouble you again,” Love said simply, her voice still laced with mirth. Then she dropped into a graceful courtesy. “You have my eternal gratefulness.”

Cain’s mouth opened. Closed. Then, in a low mutter: “That was deeply unnatural.”

“Merciful,” Abel breathed, crumpling into a heap. “She’s like… like spring with hands. And an agenda.”

Love laughed — the sound chiming like glass in sunlight — and glided past them. Her hair caught the wind like a banner. Lethe blinked sleepily at the brothers, then buried her face in Love’s collarbone.

Cain watched her go the curve of her shoulders, the ease with which she carried Lethe, the way her presence transformed chaos into choreography, and how just as calmed the storm, she returned humming an old spring melody.

“She’s not like him.” Cain finally said.

Abel tilted his head. “You mean Lord Dream?”

Cain nodded. “Morpheus commands with silence. Fear. Presence. You obey him, even when you don’t want to. But her? She makes you want to follow.”

As the children scattered into the winding garden maze behind the manor, their laughter echoing like windchimes through the hedgerows, soft moss and violet petals cushioned their quick and heedless steps. Love tried, with no success, to forget that her sisters were almost certainly hunting her down as one might a wayward lamb.

No doubt they had already cornered poor Lucienne and Elijah, pressing them for her whereabouts with the veiled ferocity only sisters and sovereigns could manage. And no doubt they were simultaneously inspecting every corner of the Dreaming, fingers twitching for some small imperfection to criticize.

It did not matter that this was the very realm from which their own dreams arose, that it was shaped, nurtured, and guarded by her husband.

Or perhaps it mattered precisely because of that.

Of course they would hate it. That was the nature of sisters and old grudges, particularly when thrones and pride were involved.

But her brief illusion of peace shattered not with footfall or trumpet, but with Alith’s unmistakable, high-pitched declaration ringing through the hedges “It is a dance!”

Vanira shouted from behind the hedge, exasperated. “There’s music and twirling and dresses! That’s the definition!”

And that was enough for both brothers to hide in their houses. Love could not blame them.

Elira and Solin responded with an unison groan. “It’s not a dance if half of you are throwing acorns at each other.”

“And it’s not a dance if you keep complaining” Valkar chimed in, arms flung wide. “Dances are supposed to be fun!”

“You don’t even know how to waltz!” accused Bellator, pointing at Talon, who was awkwardly attempting a waltz step and looking like he might trip over his own lineage.

“I do know how!” Talon snapped, red in the ears. “It’s just—these boots are cursed.”

“Cursed with clumsiness,” Solin muttered, earning a shriek of laughter from Elira.

The commotion had reached an operatic pitch — dandelion crowns flung like gauntlets, accusations of cursed boots and rigged duels echoing behind the hedges. Eoster watched from the edge of the garden with a bemused expression, one hand gently smoothed Lethe’s silken hair while the other stayed loose and open, catching the breeze like it might hold music.

Lethe murmured softly into her aunt’s warm breast, “They are trying, you know—to dance as grown folks do at parties.”

Eoster smiled down, a faint crease touching the corners of her lips. “And do you think they succeed?”

Lethe tilted her head with the curious innocence of youth. “Only in covering themselves with mud. Are you going to put a stop to this, Aunt?”

Love regarded her niece with a brow slightly knit. “Surely, no one has thought to teach them to dance at this tender age?” It seemed strange, indeed, considering how she and her sisters had been initiated into the art of the ball as soon as their feet could carry them.

Lethe shrugged with a quiet admission. “The nannies despaired of the attempt. And the dance instructors—well, they would sooner meet an untimely end than face this crowd. And my uncles did threaten them. It is a most hopeless endeavour.”

She spoke with the modest reserve of one who had herself been taught young, yet had never quite embraced the ritual. No one of her gentle stature usually danced. Moreover, her parents, she reflected, were seldom inclined to do so themselves.

“They are merely spirited children,” Love replied softly, “not creatures beyond hope.”

“Only with you, Aunt.”

With that, Love rose—graceful and unhesitating—and stepped into the tumultuous circle her nephews had wrought.

She clapped her hands once; the clear note rang out like the herald of spring’s first morning.

“Attention, my dears,” Love called out with the regal mischief of a sovereign who had long ago mastered the art of gentle command. Her voice rang out over the din like a silver bell at court. “I can no longer bear witness to this slaughter of the precious art of dancing.”

All movement ceased.

She stood at the center of the garden like the eye of a storm—grace in full bloom, skirts catching the breeze, hands folded as if cradling laughter. Her gaze swept over them with playful severity.

“I shall teach you,” she declared. “And I will not—will not—tolerate partners being twirled headlong into hedges, nor acorns being lobbed as though they were battlefield missiles.”

A guilty cough escaped from Talon. It was swiftly followed by Elira’s elbow jabbing him with sibling efficiency.

Love’s smile curved into something warmer, almost wistful. “I can assure you, your parents once spent many evenings—often at the expense of their dignity and shoes—engaged in precisely this sort of amusement.” Some look surprised that their parents would actually engage in dancing.

If only they would know what men do to catch the way of women.

“It is, after all, how a princess shows her grace,” Love continued, eyes twinkling, “And how she may observe equally graceful princes.”

What she did not mention—though her tone held the faintest flicker of memory—was how such dances led to couples slipping off into hidden alcoves, or vanishing entirely into garden mazes. But that was knowledge her nephews and nieces would acquire in time. Hopefully not too soon.

“Sometimes,” she added with a perfectly timed pause, “Matches are made.”

Rather than sighs of romantic delight, she was met with synchronized groans and noises of pointed disgust.

Ah, children.

“But only when you are much older,” she conceded, fighting a smile. “Until then, if you do especially well…” she lowered her voice as if sharing the most coveted secret in the realm, “they award you cake and lemonade.”

She delivered it with the tone of one offering a consolation prize.

The children, of course, did not know it was a consolation prize. Probably because Love had invented the entire idea—complete with ritual and ceremony—just to keep them interested.

To them, cake and lemonade were the crown jewels.

“Now! Two lines, if you please,” she instructed, “Princesses on one side, Princes on the other. I would hate to assign partners as if this were a lesson in old-fashioned matchmaking.”

A cheerful scramble ensued. Valkar and Solin nudged each other in mock opposition, Vanira helped Talon discern left from right, and Bellator tried and failed to change sides thrice before being intercepted.

“May I have this dance?” Love inquired, extending a hand and fluttering her lashes with an exaggerated coquettishness.

Before Bellator could comprehend the invitation, Talon pushed him out of the way, but Solin put his foot in front of his younger brother, and, ever the peacock just like his mother, swept an exaggerated bow before Love, one hand tucked behind his back, the other extended with all the pomp of a courtier triple his age.

“My Lady Queen,” he proclaimed with theatrical flourish, “May I claim the honour of your first dance?”

Love laughed, the sound like bells on a spring breeze, and took his hand. “You shall, my dear prince.” She gave a delicate curtsey and called out the steps, her voice a clarion call to joy. “Face your partner. Hold your heads high, no barn owls among you, but royalty at the grandest ball of the season. Yes, even you, Alith.”

Alith’s eyes rolled in mild rebellion.

“Now, bow,” Love instructed, dipping into a gracious curtsy. The children tried, some with dignity, others more like wobbly storks. But Love made no correction, only laughter, and that was enough to bind them together.

They began to move, hesitant at first, then with growing confidence. Love’s skirts billowed as she floated across the clearing, guiding—not commanding—the steps, weaving their disorder into a fledgling harmony.

“Observe me,” she said, taking Solin’s hand. ���Step forward—one, two—and then back. To the side, and switch. Like so. The secret is to feel the music, even when it dwells only in your hearts.”

The Dreaming itself seemed to respond; the trees bent with the rhythm, the breeze caught an unspoken tempo, and the dappling sunlight across moss and stone marked time with quiet precision. She spun lightly, her feet barely touching the earth. The children followed, clumsy and imperfect, but eager and bright.

Partners exchanged; Love passed Solin to Elira, calling to Vanira as she spun her beneath an arm and caught her again, “Remember, it is not the precision that matters, but the presence you bring.”

Talon hesitated, cheeks flushed with uncertainty, until Vanira grasped his hand firmly and gave him a look that brooked no refusal.

Though far from perfect, the scene was enchantment made flesh—children whirlwinds of laughter and effort, trying, stumbling, rising anew. Love was the quiet axis around which their world turned, her laughter the subtle force binding them.

Then, suddenly—a faint crack. Her heel betrayed her.

She should have known better; with such wild company, one never knew if the dance might become battle or chase. The sound was soft, but her balance faltered. She caught herself, now barefoot on one foot.

The children halted, breaths held.

A broken heel might have ended the revelry for any of her sisters.

But Love waved a hand, light as spring air. “The first rule of any ball, my dears,” she said, lifting the ruined shoe for all to see, “is to choose good shoes.”

It was a shoe of lilac satin, delicate as a petal, embroidered with hearts and trimmed in lace, a small silk rose perched on its toe. The very pair she had worn on the night she and Morpheus first appeared as husband and wife—perfect shoes for a perfect dance, and yet never danced, not until today. And it broke. Guess it was not the perfection she had hoped.

She tossed the broken slipper aside, then shed the other, the movement freeing her utterly. The children exhaled—some in delight, others in wonder. Solin offered another bow, his relief plain. Love curtseyed barefoot in return, looking every bit the woodland spirit rather than the queen of love.

A strange pang struck her—a yearning for a freedom lost, for years slipped away like shadows at dusk. This was no fault of Dream’s, she knew. Long before him, she had yielded her wildness—bit by bit—to the demands of mortals, to their need for rules and order.

Love had once been simple and raw, a force as impulsive and untamed as spring itself. But mortals complicated their affections, weaving them into codes and customs. So Love evolved, mastering protocol and etiquette, becoming a keeper of ceremonies and expectations. Only now, with bare feet upon moss, did she realize how dearly she missed the unbound wildness of her youth—when she could be all that she was meant to be, unshackled by the endless rules.

Perhaps it was the mortal fate, she thought, to surrender the lightness of youth to the weight of responsibility.

“Shall we continue?” she asked, and the children nodded eagerly.

The music resumed—if one could call the chaotic clapping and humming that—but one by one, the children surrendered themselves to the spirit of the dance. Even Talon dared a twirl that was more than mere stumble. Lethe smiled, clapping her hands.

Eoster let the dance dissolve, watching the children scatter back to their small worlds. She stood at the clearing’s center, skin warm with laughter’s glow, tendrils of hair clinging to damp temples. Her white underdress, loosened and flung carelessly in play, revealed glimpses of a gold-stitched corset beneath—delicate, intricate, and somehow a symbol of all that held her together. It was then she felt it.

Not in sight, nor in sound, but in the quiet stir that filled the space between heartbeats—a presence that made the air itself pulse with meaning.

She did not look.

But she knew.

A silence—not from the children, but from the world itself, a deep sensation like a bell in form of a bond. Their bond.

He stood between the trees — not walking, not arriving, but simply there. Morpheus, cloaked in dusk and memory. Watching her, the children, the circle of joy she'd conjured with nothing but will and affection.

His eyes moved to her bare feet. Her flushed face. Her undone laces. Her joy. He never saw her like this. Was she this free at the Garden? And why did she looked more beautiful than ever? He had seen her wearing pieces made with the sole purpose of entice a man, wrapped for his pleasure, black and lace, silk, see through, also seen her dressed like a queen in thick chiffon, velvet, silk gowns heavily embroidered in pastel colors, but he never saw her this…free and unpolished. The thought made him glance away back to the safe innocence of children.

One by one, the children slowed down until they fell silent. They stopped their game mid-laugh, staring. Lethe tugged at Eoster’s skirt, asking quietly to be held. Their mothers didn’t talk a lot about their uncle but when they did, none of the stories they told were comforting. It didn’t help that Morpheus looked more scary than friendly.

He didn't speak. He simply watched.

Love turned toward him, her breath catching — not in fear, but in something she didn’t have a name for. The air seemed thinner, charged with the silent awareness only he brought, cutting down the idyllic domestic scenery.

As a reflex she fixed Lethe in her lap. Suddenly hyper aware of her state, the hem of the dress painted in mud, feet at the ground , hair falling down with many threads wild. He would be disappointed. He would think she was provoking him just a day before they had their understanding in amicability. He will think that she is doing this to embarrass him.

Love only hoped he would berate her behind closed doors and not in front of their nephews.

The children clustered closer to her, even Bellator’s grip on his wooden sword faltered.

Then, a small voice spoke.

It was Elira, one of the triplets. Wide-eyed and unblinking, her golden curls tangled from running. She stepped forward, hesitantly.

“Lord uncle, is it true…” she asked, clutching the hem of her dress, “that you put bad children inside mirrors forever?”

A hush fell like snow. Love’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth, unsure if to scold, reassure or protect. Would he even answer her? Morpheus knew how to be painfully cold. Worse than that was the fact that she couldn't sense anything other than silence in the bond, which must be wrong.

But Morpheus knelt slowly, folding himself like dusk, his cloak rippling across the ground like ink spilled in reverse. It made the queen hold her breath.

He looked at Elira, then at the others, and softly answered “No, Elira, daughter of Happiness and Lugh, Princess of Joyous Light, I do not punish children for being loud, or wild, or afraid. I dream them stories of who they might become… and sometimes I walk beside them, if they are very brave.”

The silence cracked, gently. Talon tilted his head. Lethe's eyes shimmered with something unreadable, but she still clinged to Love like Morpheus could take her away from her aunt’s arms at any time.

Bellator didn’t speak, but took a cautious step closer.

“Lord uncle, do you… do you make dreams just for us too?” Vanira asked, arms crossed like she wasn’t impressed but her voice too hopeful to match her stance.

“All dreams are made for someone, Vanira, sister of Bellator, Princess of the Proud Blade.” He said, “and I remember each of you when I make them.”

“But you never saw us before!” Alith said, voice a bit too loud and too accusing, before hiding behind Love’s skirt, as it was the strongest shield in the realm. Morpheus remained kneeling a moment longer.

He didn’t look at Love, but his eyes wandered far too long over the cotton dress, lingered where her corset faulted and showed more of her skin.

Then he raised one pale hand and blew gently into his palm, sand took the air.

From his breath came shimmer: motes of starlight and ink, catching in the air like drifting embers. The children gasped as the dream began to bloom around them.

The sky above them shifted, deepening into velvet blue, and stars began to arrange themselves — not randomly, but precisely. Shapes formed. Whole constellations danced into life.

A silver wolf descended from the sky, made of smoke and moonlight. It circled Lethe gently and bowed its head. “ Lethe, daughter of Melancholy and Viddar, Princess of Whispering Shadows and Quiet Lament.” the sad-eyed child reached for it, her fingers vanishing into the soft illusion. “Her name is Threnody,” Morpheus said quietly. “She remembers your sorrows so you don’t have to carry all of it.”

Bellator’s wooden sword glowed suddenly with runes of fire. “Bellator, son of Pride and Ares, Prince of Proud Wrath” The air split with a war drum’s rhythm as phantom warriors rose on the horizon — but none of them fought. They saluted him. He stood straighter, stunned. “A soldier’s worth,” Morpheus said, “is not in battle… but in restraint.”

Elira and Solin found themselves atop a floating tower of books, with feathered wings sprouting from their backs. They flew — awkwardly, at first, then laughing. Talon watched as a map of doors unfolded in midair, each leading to strange, enchanted summers that only he would know.

Valkar and Alith’s hands filled with mirrors. But these didn’t reflect faces — they showed paths. Choices. Some difficult. Some beautiful. One cracked when he hesitated, then healed when he whispered his name. “Even truth must make peace with uncertainty, Prince of the Iron Resolve and Princess of the Unyielding Truth” Morpheus said, his voice low.

Vanira found herself inside a storm, not battered by it — but dancing in its center. Lightning obeyed her hands. Her hair lifted like a goddess, and she grinned in wild wonder. Love blinked a few times, she mechanically had to let Lethe down, because the girl was unusually agitated with her dream wolf.

From afar Cain and Abel watch the couple Her husband being kind and gentle to children. Her nieces and nephews. Chaotic, full of energy, overwhelming. Everything she knows he hates.

Or at least she thought.

Eoster had never glimpsed him with children — perhaps that was how he had been with... Orpheus. A sharp, forbidden ache tugged at her heart, a secret she dared not cradle, as if she were touching a flame meant to burn but not to warm. Was this the father Dream would be? Would he cradle his cubs with tenderness, their warmth woven into his shadow? Or would he drift cold and distant, a ghost among them, as Morpheus’s own blood had been — as her own kin had been with her? Or worse still, would he mirror her brothers-in-law? Men who saw their children only as prizes of virility and tokens to secure the fragile legacy of their bloodline.

It seems unlikely.

The children’s eyes sparkled—wide and expectant, limbs already twitching with anticipation. And just like that, they were gone—scattering through the garden like starlings loosed from a cage. Some danced, some tumbled, others plotted dramatic duels under rose arches. Goldie fluttered after them like a small, winged sentinel. Love turned… and realized the garden had grown still behind her.

She was no longer surrounded by laughter and limbs and petals. Instead, she stood with her husband again.

Alone.

It was as though the universe—quietly insistent and more meddlesome than it let on—had conspired, yet again, to fold time just so, to hush the world around them. To leave them alone. As if it knew something still needed to be said. Or done. Even though they had already settled their marriage in words, drawn the lines between them with solemn civility.

“Thank you, husband.” She said softly “You didn’t have to be this kind”

Morpheus remained where he knelt, cloak still pooled like a second shadow, mud in the hem of his cloak. His eyes followed the children as they scattered into their dreams — laughter rising like flocks of birds into the deepening twilight. And Eoster pretended that the bond and his presença alone did not edge their bond, aching inside her, whispers of attraction she was shutting down.

“I did not do it out of obligation,” he said, his voice quiet but resonant, he was perfectly presentable not a single hair out of place which made Eoster even more aware of herself. Vulnerable. This wasn’t a moment for him. She wasn’t ready to be presented, not wearing her armor in disguise of gowns, or pre-rehearsed speeches, or even had the time to think and prepare her actions.

“And neither did you when you gave them your lap or your laughter.” He softly said, as it was something so obvious.

Love didn’t answer, lips parted slightly, a breath she hadn’t meant to hold catching in her throat, he had been watching her longer than she felt comfortable with. She felt her cheeks burn and thank the gods for the natural flush from dancing hiding it.

She couldn’t answer, out of embarrassment but also because his voice held that aching softness — the one he never used with her unless it slipped through his walls by mistake. And the Dream King rarely made a mistake.

He stood slowly, and the night stirred around him, folding back into its usual gravity. When his eyes met hers, they weren’t cold — just unreadable, as always. But softer at the edges, like moonlight over still water.

“It is the Solstice today,” he said, hands behind his back, changing the subject, though not without meaning. “The day winter dies.”

She let a breath out through her nose. “Or fails to.” Why did she confess this to him? Why did the words felt so easy in her mouth? Even to her sisters she would not confess this uncertainty.

He tilted his head. “Do you doubt your power?” His voice did not hold judgment, as her sister would, but a hint of curiosity and worry.

She looked where Lethe now curled against the wolf made of sand, where Elira was still circling overhead with a crown of stars trailing behind her. Love pressed her palm to her own chest, where the warmth should have been rising.

“The earth is not answering my call” she admitted. “I usually hear a hum that grows louder and louder until it turns to pure music at the spring solstice. I thought I was just too busy with the arrangements and your return that I was too distracted not to hear” She sighed, hugging her arms. “And then came today.” She could hear every palace noise, but not the melody she needed.

She has come to an understanding with Morpheus, Lucienne and Elijah were working together, the cupids were at the Dreaming, the preparations were at full speed, guests from all over the universe were coming, everything was on course but spring herself. “I can’t feel the thaw.” She confessed. More frustrated than sad “I can’t feel the earth sing the beginning of the spring melody.”

Silence stretched between them again — not uncomfortable, but fragile. Morpheus and Eoster knew little of each other, although they had more than a few centuries as a couple, but one thing the Dream King knew as he knew his own soul, his wife was one of the most dutiful entities he has ever know, and her work was her reason to be proud or a failure. He understood that.

“You are not failing,” he said at last. “You are afraid.”

He hadn't meant to say it aloud, but the bond had whispered it to him — not in words, but in the ache between her shoulders, the tremble veiled beneath her poise. He could feel it in his spine, as though her unrest had become his own.

He saw it clearly now — the weight she bore, invisible but immense, taken up not for glory nor favor, but for him. The Spring Solstice celebration had not been mere spectacle. It was strategy. She had summoned the universe to witness not festivity, but stability. Strength. Continuity. She had done so not to be seen — but to make him seen again as unassailable.

She did not need to orchestrate the revelry of gods and spirits and stars. She did not need to summon ancient rites or lace each ritual with symbolism that even he, until now, had failed to decipher. She did it because she saw the danger — the silence left behind by his imprisonment, the way rumors curved like blades when they sensed weakness.

Did she always work like this?

In the footnotes of his reign, hidden between sentences of silence, weaving safety into beauty, diplomacy into dance?

Had she always carried this weight — unasked, unthanked — to ease burdens he didn’t even know he bore?

Even after everything. Even after the betrayal, the hurt, the cold chasm between them, she still thought of how to protect his realm, his name. Still chose him, not with words, but with action. Even when it cost her.

And he — in his blind sovereignty — had not seen.

He could not have asked for a better queen.

She blinked at him. As if stunned that he had seen at all.

There was no accusation in his voice, no attempt to correct or contain her. Just a truth, spoken plainly — like someone offering shelter to a stranger in a storm.

But Love — who had learned long ago to make her home inside tempests — flinched at the kindness. It was too raw. Too real. She had grown accustomed to surviving in harsh winds and cold silences. This warmth was disarming.

“I did not know you could be kind to me,” she confessed.

The bond seemed to push the words forward, as though they had to be spoken — and she regretted them the instant they left her lips.

“It is not kindness,” he replied, his brow barely furrowing.

The words weren’t entirely true — not to the marrow — but he knew they would make her more comfortable. Eoster had never wanted to be wooed by gentle gestures, had never asked for softness. She had learned to distrust it.

“I am afraid it is mere selfishness,” he added, gently. And Eoster could swear there was a smile hidden somewhere in the shadows of his voice. “You promised a spectacle of strength.”

He could sense her unease with his support — the discomfort of needing someone — and they silently agreed it was better to keep things rational. Easier that way. Cleaner. He was simply giving her what she needed to hear, because it served him — not because he wanted to carry the weight she bore.

Not because he saw her. Not because he felt for her.

Not because he loved her.

He wouldn’t know how to offer help without it sounding like pity. And pity would break her.

When you’ve stepped on a rose a hundred times, there’s no way to pick it up without it falling apart.

They stood close, within arm’s reach. Neither moved.

He looked past her, to the garden’s edge, where the first crocus had quietly opened near the fountain. Life, soft and defiant, returning despite the cold.

“You could have performed a spectacle on your own,” she said. Her voice was quiet, steady. “You are Dream of the Endless.”

He had regained his full power. He could shape stars and storms with a blink. He didn’t need her. She had always been — in her mind — an ornament, a footnote, a beautiful distraction that fate bound to him by error or design.

But even as she said it, she looked at him. Still searching. Still hoping for an answer that would prove her wrong.

Morpheus didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped forward — only slightly — just enough to brush the edges of her presence with his own.

How many times, in one day, would she hold her breath near him?

His voice, when it came, was lower now. Softer. Like an embrace they couldn’t share.

“No. Today… I am Spring’s husband. Or perhaps only a man who knelt before your nieces and nephews and gave them dreams.”

A beat passed.

“Tomorrow, I may be the Dream King again.”

She couldn’t tell if it was the answer she wanted. But it sounded like something shaped carefully for her heart, like a dream constructed to feel like truth.

She swallowed. Her voice wavered.

“And if I fail to bring the spring?”

If she failed, it would not just be as his queen, but as Love itself — as the Princess of Spring, the Queen of All Four Loves, patroness of desire, affection, devotion, and care. She would fail the mortals who adored her, the cupids who served her, the sisters who expected her strength, the children who believed in her. She would fail herself.

Morpheus could feel it in the bond — the weight behind her eyes, the tight coil in her stomach. The tension she carried like a second skin.

Had she always felt this way? Every spring? Who helped her? Who listened?

Not the cupids — she would not burden them. Not Lucienne. Not her sisters, who had little mercy for vulnerability, especially in one of their own.

He should have noticed.

He should have been there.

His face turned fully to hers then — all shadows, stars, and sorrow — and he spoke with a devastating calm:

“Then I will dream the thaw for you.”

A promise, quiet and vast. A spell cast in syllables.

“Mortals will dream of blossoms. Of warm winds. Of golden light that clings to skin and wakes the soul. They will dream of spring so vividly, so achingly, that the world will be unable to resist its call.”

She almost turned away — not in rejection, but as if to shield herself. To hide whatever rose in her throat. She wanted to offer him something — not forgiveness, not warmth, not yet — but something like belief.

Could she trust this? Would he hold her if it all collapsed? Would he soothe her aches or punish her again?

And just then — the breeze shifted.

Not cold. Not harsh.

But scented.

______________________

Lilac, myrrh, smoke, rosehips and a sweeter perfume, intoxicating, refreshing, intense.

She didn’t even need to look.

A battalion of sisters, commanded by The Queen of Summer herself, Happiness, looking over them.

She was draped in honey-colored silk and jewels that shimmered like laughter, she walked as if the world applauded each step. She always made an entrance — late, radiant, deliberate.

“My, my,” she said, surveying the scene with raised brows and a wicked smile. “Is this our Spring Queen? Or a shepherdess from a pastoral tragedy?”

Love felt her throat tighten. Happiness had always shone like sunlight — beautiful, beloved. But it was a brightness that burned, especially when turned on her.

“We’ve been waiting nearly half an hour! Is this the new dress rehearsal? Muddy hems, tangled curls and flushed cheeks?” Pride’s voice came, rich and honeyed with contempt. If Love was conscious about her state, feet covered in moss and mud, sleeves wrinkled from carrying children.

It was way worse under her sister's judgment.

Love straightened instinctively, smoothing her cotton dress to conceal her corset and crossing her arms. But Pride and Honesty’s sharp eyes and even sharper tongues missed nothing. They exchanged knowing smiles — if smiles could speak, Love was certain she could hear the unspoken thoughts flickering between them: “Playing the innocent, tempting peasant, are we?” — “Could Dream truly be as naive as a lovestruck stable boy?” — “Indeed.” They would all agree.

Honesty, trailing dark silk and wearing a smirk sharp enough to cut the air, offered a brief curtsy. “My dear brother-in-law, what an unexpected pleasure to see you,” she murmured, her tone deliberately cool. “I confess, I could never have imagined you might be so…”

“Unexpectedly domestic,” Happiness finished smoothly, eyeing Morpheus up and down with a glint of mischief.

Morpheus remained unmoved, as ever — unreadable and still. Yet Love could feel the subtle thinning of the air around him. Not with anger, but with restraint. He would need it, facing her sisters’ sharp tongues, their polished pleasantries concealing barbed wit. Pride and Honesty together were like a hive of vipers.

With a slight bow — both courtly and cold — he greeted, “Ladies.”

Pride rolled her eyes with a faint scoff. Happiness, her velveteen voice dripping with mock sincerity, continued, “We watched from the terrace. Though, one might think the terrace was doing its best to avoid us.”

Love glanced at Morpheus. Was this true? Did he not want his sisters to see them? Or see her? Did he shield her from their inevitable judgment? She only wished he would be a bit more effective.

Honesty pretended to brush dust from her bouffant sleeve, her tone thoughtfully casual. “Dream of the Endless, on his knees, conjuring fairy tales for children. You do have a remarkable talent for appearing sincere, my dearest brother-in-law.”

“We were nearly moved to tears,” Happiness added, placing a hand dramatically over her heart, though her expression betrayed nothing but disdain. Happiness and Love were almost like twins — their hair and eyes differing in color, but their faces and figures much alike. Where Love’s dark curls were thick as oak branches, Happiness’s tresses were long, sun-kissed, and flowed almost to her knees. Where Love had green eyes framed by thick dark lashes and skin as pale as lily petals, Happiness’s eyes were the blue of a clear summer sky, with golden lashes and sunlit skin.

Yet where Love carried gentleness and compassion, Happiness bore cunning and decisiveness. If, centuries ago, Happiness had chosen to pursue Morpheus, it would not have been a trap for two but a long, strategic design made by Happiness. She was as relentless as the summer sun at its peak, intoxicating and overwhelming.

That would be the villain Morpheus thought Love was for all these years.

But Happiness had no taste for men who spoke in riddles or lived in illusions. She preferred the calloused hands and sun-baked skin of rustic honesty. Any day, she would choose a blunt, even rude man over one who moped about like a forlorn cat.

“But we did not,” Honesty interjected, her smirk sparkling like cold steel. “Forgive us, dear brother, if we remain unmoved. Children and tender hearts often mistake illusions for promises.” Her eyes settle in Love with a warning and a correction, turning back to Dream “We, however, are old hags with cold hearts.”

Melancholy, silent as her name, took Love’s arm gently. Her voice was like mourning lace, trailing soft and sorrowful. The long grey-blue veil she wore fluttered in the breeze, framing her ghostly pale features. Her disdain for Morpheus was so complete, she barely acknowledged him.

“Come, dear Love,” she said softly. “You have a season to awaken and rituals to uphold. Unless, of course, you intend to summon spring like a milkmaid pulling flowers from the moist dreams of soldiers at war.”

Melancholy began to pull Love away from the children and Morpheus, but before she could lead her toward the waiting sisters, Love planted her feet firmly and met her husband’s gaze.

“I should go,” she said quietly.

Morpheus nodded once. “You should.”

Yet neither moved, even with Melancholy’s gentle but persistent tug.

Then he stepped closer, while her sisters watched like hawks, their eyes sharp and unyielding. Not close enough to touch, but close enough for Love to feel that familiar pull—the terrible gravity between them they both pretended to ignore.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured.

She didn’t ask which part.

Instead, her voice barely above a whisper, she asked, “And if I fail?”

He tilted his head, his voice softer than the breeze stirring the garden leaves. “Then you did, but you will rise—and I will dream the thaw, until you feel it again.”

She swallowed hard; her throat ached with unshed words.

“Careful,” she managed a smile. “If they hear more of that, they’ll accuse you of the greatest crime: tenderness.”

He gave no smile. But the space between them shifted—not warmer, not colder—just... closer.

“Eoster.” Melancholy tugged her arm once more. She would not let her sister say another word.

“Let them,” Morpheus said, before Love was drawn away, swallowed by the furious ocean of colorful skirts his sisters-in-law made.

“And brother,” Pride called out with a sly smile, “Since you’re so taken with domesticity, might you be kind enough to guide our nannies in rounding up our little brats? I dare say they’re in desperate need of a bath.”

“Or an exorcism,” added Happiness, clutching Pride’s arm as she giggled over their terribly pampered little angels.

With a sharp snap, Pride opened her fan and turned her back on Dream of the Endless, issuing commands in his own realm as if he were but a humble servant.

Barely the sister turned dragging Love away, an army of old women, in Victorian uniform, with long black skirts and white appron, walked down the hill, trying to prepare themselves to catch their little lords and ladies, who despised baths as they were liquid poison.

The barbs from his sisters-in-law struck deep, yet Morpheus maintained his posture, the faintest flicker of restraint in his otherwise unreadable gaze. He had been expecting their sharp tongues, but it was never quite easy.

If only these weren’t his sisters-in-law.

@secretdreamlandmentality @littlemoistcarrot @lokigirlszendaya @notyourwildestdream @roxytheimmortal @your-favorite-god @damnitmaddie

[th3-c0rps3-r0gu3]

Arranged marriage

Chapter three

Royal au

Princess Natasha X queen autistic reader

Warnings: Natasha being a bitch. Natasha being jealous. Woman flirting with y/n. Swearing (minor) lemme know if there anymore. Natasha getting feelings? Oblivious y/n

Natasha pov

I want to rip out my eyes. Why on earth am I here. This is so stupid. Riding in a carriage with this idiot queen. Those are my first thoughts as I stare angrily out the window of the carriage me and queen y/n are sitting in. Said queen is hiding from the crowds of people outside the carriage. She's so backwards. Never wanting too many people around and only tolerating socialisation for a specific time frame before vanishing for sometimes days. In my opinion she's not fit to be a queen.

Fresh air finally. I think to myself as me and the idiot behind me climb out the carriage into the town square. People have crowded near the carriage. Ofcourse they have. Their "queen" is here. I grumble slightly as the guards help down y/n. Gods she can't even get out a carriage by herself what a useless idiot. I don't know why but my thoughts of rage and hatred have increased towards y/n. Perhaps it's to make up for the fact she's cute and her hands are soft and she really nice. Like right now with how she's thanking the guard who helped her over and over like the absolute sweetheart she is. What. No. Absolutely not. Y/n is a idiot on the throne and I will murder her. I don't find her cute I don't find her sweet and Queen y/n is not a sweetheart.

There's a wyvern on that houses roof. I wonder if y/n will notice it and rant about its species. I already know it's a wyvern because y/n said earl- why am I thinking that. It's just an idiot dragon. And boom y/n has seen it. She's ranting again. Gods I hate it. What on earth is a blood bellied wyvern and why does it matter. That dragon was black not red. I hate cobblestone too now that I think about it. My heels keep threatening to buckle beneath me. Good thing I'm an absolute goddess and can walk in heels anywhere.

Y/n pov

The carriage ride to the town square was quiet. I didn't want to interrupt Natasha too much. And if I spoke even a word I'm pretty sure she'd tell me to shut it anyway. Besides looking out the window was fun. I saw so many different dragons. I wish I could've been able to get a proper look so I could see what species they are. There's so many people outside watching the carriage though. I should've held this off until my social battery filled again. I am going to hate this trip. I really should stop letting Natasha's parents coerce me into stuff.

Finally the carriage stops and the doors open and fresh air hits me like a train. I go to step out but a guard offers me a hand. I have told them to stop doing that. They really should listen I can get out of my own carriage. But I accept his help not wanting him to feel foolish. The cobblestone streets are filled with people and horses and carriages. I like the town. Aside from the bustling people and market stalls scattered around the town square it's a nice break from the palace. A nice break from being a queen. Princess Natasha is scowling. Like always. I am pretty sure it's her default expression.

Me and the princess have walk a little now. Passed a stall selling dragon egg remains. I don't like those stalls. They often steal and break dragon eggs to get the product. I shudder slightly. Natasha hasn't been paying any attention. She's been grumbling about idiots and cobblestone. She wore heels so I guess that's why. Should've worn flat shoes like me. I did tell her so. I look up at the houses around us and.. no way. A blood bellied wyvern right there on the rooftop of a civilian house. They only come down this way in the winter! I've never seen one before aside from in books.

My mouth is running again. I never know why I do this. But I excuse myself mentally this time since I've never witnessed this dragon before. Their scales are reflective of their blood colour which is why they're called blood bellied wyverns. Well the belly part is because you see the actual veins and blood but still. I haven't had a single interruption from Natasha yet. She's just walking silently beside me as I rant. I slow down and pause looking at the queen feeling a bit bad now. I must've pissed her off in some way again.

"are you ok princess?"

I ask hesitantly. I don't like the way Natasha has paused. She's staring at me funny and I'm prepared for her to scowl and scream at me. She huffs instead.

"I'm fine just keep walking."

I blink surprised as Natasha keeps walking and I speed up to catch up to her.

Natasha pov

She's still ranting. Something about the wyverns scales reflecting their blood colour.. oh that's why it's called whatever it was. I can't help but steal glances at y/n. She's so annoying. So very annoying. And absolutely perfect at the exact same time. No. I won't go down that rabbit hole. I am not stupid. Falling in love is for pitiful useless peasants. Not royalty. Why does my heart not agree with my head. It's stupid. I'll fix it.

"are you ok princess?"

Y/n's voice stops me. That's not about dragons. I glance down at her attempting a scowl but I can't respond. She's looking at me with wide y/e/c eyes and I can't help but find her expression adorable. No. No no no no no. She's not adorable and she's not cute. I huff slightly shaking away all those intrusive thoughts

"I'm fine just keep walking"

I scowl again as I pick up pace once more. Y/n speeding up to get back to my side. She's so small. Like a puppy. No. Absolutely not. Puppies and y/n have nothing in common. I'll kill her. And I won't feel bad about it and I won't regret it. Everything will be fine. I go to yell at y/n as per normal but she's not by me anymore. I glance around and.. there. By a stall selling books and scrolls. I stand and watch her annoyed. Ofcourse she'd stop to look at scrolls and books. And judging by her expression it's dragon bullshit again. The woman serving her is leaning over the counter and talking to y/n about different species. That grin on the merchants face. That's not a friendly grin...

It's been ten minutes and y/n has not stopped talking to the merchant. She's bought atleast three books and five scrolls. And that merchant is clearly flirting with y/n. Doesn't she know the queen is engaged. To me no less. Why is this bothering me. I mean I should be annoyed it's taking so long that's normal but why am I pissed that the queen is being flirted with. Why does it irritate me more than the books. I want to tear that merchant's eyes out and turn them into a necklace for y/n to wear and I don't know why.

She touched her arm. That merchant touched y/n's arm. And I don't like it. Rage hits me like a brick. That bitch can't touch what's mine. There is a clear engagement ring on the queen's finger and it's public knowledge that y/n is betrothed to me. I storm over absolutely enraged at this pathetic sellers attempt to steal MY y/n. Swiftly wrapping an arm around y/ns waist I glare down my nose at this merchant. Watching in sick satisfaction as she backs up scared. Good to know she recognises me.

"back the fuck away from my fiancee."

I snarl. Pulling y/n closer to me. She's so small and she's looking at me shocked. I'll deal with it later. That merchant gets the hint and backs up mumbling apologies and handing y/n her books. I grab them and pull the queen with me away and back towards the carriage. I don't y/n until we are both in the carriage and leaving.

Y/n pov

I saw a dragons scroll and books stall. That looked fun so I told Natasha I was looking at it and went over. I haven't seen this stall before and it has so many books and scrolls. Most I already own but a few I don't! I immediately purchase the scrolls and books I don't have. It would be foolish if I didn't. A waste. Besides I'm the queen I can do as I please. The merchant running the stall is wonderful too. She's really friendly. Immediately we are in conversation about gilded bronze dragons and their subspecies. I haven't met a single other person who could talk dragons with me.

Don't recognise the touch at first. The seller just put her hand on my arm and smirked at me. I blink and smile back not really knowing what's happening before I'm grabbed into someone and the merchant is backing away. I frown wanting to continue talking about dragons and books still. I glance at the person who grabbed me prepared to tell them off for grabbing me politely because yelling at people is Soo mean and I don't have the heart until I realise the person who grabbed me is princess Natasha romanoff.

"back the fuck away from my fiancee."

Natasha scowls at the merchant as she pulls me closer. I didn't realise how much taller the princess was compared to me. Jesus Christ am I actually that short. I blink slightly and glance around trying to gouge out if this is normal or weird and nope this is definitely weird the townspeople are looking at us funny. I'm about to speak until Natasha grabs my books and scrolls and begins dragging me back to the carriage. I don't even argue with her I'm in a state of shock. I never thought I'd see the day Natasha would get... Jealous?

A/n: I am sorry this is so late I didn't like the ending originally and rewrote it like three times so I haven't been on much but I've started chapter four and I will go back to normal posting again I promise.

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[takeholdofthesun]

Hi so I made a MoShang thing inspired a little by these two other prompts that I'm just gonna leave here pls enjoy

In which SQH is given a hair pin: + In Which SQH is bride napped:

Equal This: looking to update more chapters soon. Also posted below the cut for those who don't want to leave the site.

Shang Qinghua wanted to throw his head through the wall for the... fourth, fifth... ninth time this evening. The overwhelming number of guests pouring into the Welcoming Hall that he had to greet continued, and he had no clue how many more may arrive. He was certain that the hall had not seen a gathering like this in many generations. Even Mobei-Jun had only recounted one time in his youth that this great guest welcoming hall was full of warm bodies, instead of the frigged ice demons that usually wandered through.

Tonight though, it was brimming with demons. Shockingly. Shang Qinghua was pretty certain that the most of them were here for the spectacle of the event. The Northern Palace had been closed to outsiders for quite some time after all.

It was like this that Shang Qinghua's worst nightmare, one he had never even dreamed possible, came true; a large-scale event in which he had no hand in planning, and no right to object to. When he was told a few months ago that he would not have to lift a finger in preparation for the Winter Festival, he sighed in relief. He washed his hands of it and felt like a massive weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

At that time, something should have lit the alarms in his head, but he was just so happy to not have to bother with it. The Winter Festival was a yearly event throughout the demon realm, it's just that Mobei-Jun never really bothered to host any celebrations for it, so likewise, Shang Qinghua did not have it on his radar. When his king first mentioned that the Northern Palace would be hosting for the event this year, a cold sweat broke out on his back.

Shang Qinghua spent the evening after that announcement at his desk, fervently pushing aside work and scheduling time to plan for this event between peak lord duties and Northern Kingdom affairs, when Mobei-Jun appeared at his side like a ghost. With a firm hand, Shang Qinghua was forbidden from looking any further into the planning of the event. Since Mobei-Jun said so, Qinghua figured he could just spend his time on An Ding Peak, since he had no reason to be present to oversee it. Maybe try to catch up on Peak Lord duties since it was basically taboo for the Northern Kingdom to do anything during the celebration.

Now, Qinghua's shoulders were taught, his head spinning, and his fingertips itching with all the possibilities of everything that could go wrong. When was the next set of sides coming out, they were already running so low. And the guests, exactly how many of them were still coming in? Could this room hold them all? was there enough food prepared? Did anyone think about the toiletries needed for these many guests?! Ah! Shang Qinghua could scream!

He very much felt the urge to pinch some cheeks and get some answers. But Since Mobei-Jun forbade him from becoming involved, he didn't even know who had planned it, so there was no one he could chew out. And Mobei-Jun had disappeared long before the event began, so Shang Qinghua was left loitering around this full demon infested hall fighting off wave after wave of overzealous guests with lofty request and probing questions, worrying about every aspect of this event that he had no interest in even attending.

That was how Shang Qinghua found himself trying his best to avoid his fourth encounter with the strange demon general from the Western Plains.

"My lord, your offer is very generous, but I must defer any further decisions on this matter to My King." Shang Qinghua held his hands up and maintained the cordial smile on his face. The urge to step on this General's toes and runway was strong, but he held out if only to save face for his King.

"I know, I know. You have been so diligent in your deference to the King. I just wonder if you have had a moment to see the King this evening. It seems to be getting very late, and I only wonder where he could be off to?"

Shang Qinghua's smile strained, and he did not answer. Though Shang Qinghua was very familiar with this General's attendants, due to past arrangements he has fostered between the North and West, this was his first time actually meeting the Demon general.

He didn't like it.

It seemed like he was up to something. And no one would know that better than Shang Qinghua. His life used to depend on understanding the hidden motives of adversaries. Now he could see all of that was training for this encounter with a Demon General that, due to his lofty career, was bestowed Land to rule over. Land that, for the better part of Shang Qinghua's night, he had been pestering Qinghua about until the unfortunate brain in his skull was jumping ship. He would come and go, come and go. Asking first about the King, reminding Qinghua of his request, then starting some off-hand conversation about hell knows what until distractedly being pulled away.

"Remind me once more, your role under the King?" the General's voice came out soothingly. As if he fully understood his charm (relative to demon standards, Qinghua thought bemusedly) and was willing to use it to get his way.

"I am his trusted Advisor." It had only been a few hours ago that they were introduced, Qinghua thought, he can't be so dull?

"And you do your job very well. I have been eagerly watching the new Northern King's ascension for some time. I'm certain it's no small amount of his success that can be attributed to you."

"Not at all, my lord. This humble one wouldn't dare take any credit for the great decisions My King has made." Though his mouth was humble, but pride surged in Shang Qinghua's chest. Hell yeah, it was all him! His king was astonishing in many ways, but diplomacy was not one of them. Why use diplomacy when hitting people and winning proves your point faster? Finally, someone recognized Qinghua's brilliance!

"Nonsense! Rumors of the Northern King's lone advisor have been circulating for quite some time. I am very pleased to make the acquaintance of such a figure."

Shang Qinghua fought to keep his peacock feathers smooth and unruffled.

"It's no wonder..." The general trailed off.

"There is nothing mysterious about me. What is there to wonder?" Shang Qinghua wave a hand in front of his face. The massive sleeves of the Northern tribe formal attire he was made to wear billowed and swished with the movement, attracting the General's gaze.

"Oh, forgive me. it's nothing really. I was only admiring this advisor's apparent skill and remembered something my servant's reported after concluding talks between our land and the Northern Kingdom."

"If my lord is willing, please share."

"Certainly. They only reported that The Northern King's advisor was a strong adversary. That you alone were enough to secure a favorable outcome for his Majesty in the agreement. 'Such a sharp mind, cunning and coy" they told me."

Shang Qinghua allowed his tail feathers to fan just a bit. basking in the feeling of being praised. How many years had he been Peak lord of the number one Logistics and analytics cultivation peak? How many years had he served Mobei-Jun? It was about time someone saw his great mind in the background. Cang Qiong Mountain sect would have tumbled to the ground without him! Mobei-Jun's kingdom a scattered mess without his careful guidance!

"My lord is too kind to this lowly advisor. My King made all of the worthwhile decisions. I only presented my King's offers, and we reached an agreement."

"Surely." The General nodded in agreement.

Well, that was anticlimactic. But it's not like he could dis the intelligence of the host of the event he was attending, patriarch of the Palace he was standing in, and Ruler of the kingdom who's soil he was on. Shang Qinghua couldn't really expect him to keep singing his praise after so long.

"I mean only the best when I say this, but are you really just an advisor to the King?"

"I'm Sorry." Shang Qinghua force out a strange chuckle. "I am afraid this lowly one is too slow and doesn't understand."

"Well... Advisor Shang Qinghua seems to have many appealing qualities that could be useful for more than just advising." For a moment the General's eyes languidly drifted back over the excessive sleeves, delicately embroidered and laced with fine jewels and patterns. It was a bit much for Shang Qinghua. More expressive than he had ever been in his peak lord robes. And suddenly he felt like he was too over dressed and attracting too much attention. He was a Peak Lord after all, an well-known one to many of these demons, but still a lone cultivator, dressed extremely well in the traditional attire of a well establish demonic tribe.

Actually, if Shang Qinghua really started to think about it, the comment made a sweat break out across his back.

He wasn't certain what his relationship to Mobei-Jun was at this point. He was still Mobei-Jun's most trusted advisor, but some things had muddied the waters a bit. What was mostly getting to Qinghua's head was how... gentle Mobei-Jun had become. Before, Shang Qinghua also had a reputation for being Mobei-Jun's punching bag and had become used to minding the distance between him and the king for fear of activating some rage that he would be the sole subject of enduring. Lately however, Qinghua had been caught off guard on more than one occasion with Mobei-Jun at a distance previously deemed unacceptable. The first few times it happened, Qinghua had flung himself across the room, fearing he had been pacing mindlessly too close to the demon king and fearing retribution. Instead of retaliating though, Mobei-Jun stood in place and continued on like nothing had happened.

At some point, the knee jerk reaction to launch himself into the sun subsided and Shang Qinghua began to notice something else. In those moments when Mobei-Jun got close, He would spend what felt like an eternity just staring. On a few occasions, he even tried to get the king's attention with no luck. Qinghua would just be trapped, swimming in his own heartbeat, his own breath becoming the only thing he could hear as everything else.... He was left waiting for that aloof expression to change, move, do anything other than stare!

The amount of work Qinghua did as an advisor had also dropped pretty drastically as Mobei-Jun started to delegate tasks to other workers around the palace. And, if Qinghua was being honest with himself, he liked it. More rested, more relaxed, less beaten. Actually, every aspect of Qinghua's life in the Northern Kingdom had become increasingly comfortable. So much so that he caught himself looking forward to his time in the Northern Palace with Mobei-Jun these days.

Hello strange and uncomfortable feeling, goodbye strange and uncomfortable feeling!

Before Shang Qinghua could say anything further, a chill suddenly appeared across his back. A familiar chill.

"Ah, Your Majesty." The General bowed and smiled towards the imposing figure behind Shang Qinghua. At the same time Qinghua himself turned to bow to the figure.

"My King."

Mobei-Jun stood silently before him. Just staring. Silently. Upset? It would have been more concerning if he wasn't already so used to such strange behavior from the emotionally constipated demon King he pledged his life to.

Mobei-Jun Finally directed his gaze towards the Demon General and exchanged cordial greetings with him.

Shang Qinghua stood by quietly and let his mind wander away a bit. Mobei-Jun had been more earnest in his role recently and had taken up the mantel as king. Also, Qinghua already knew what they were talking about, so he felt comfortable with letting himself become distracted with other things.

Things like Mobei-Jun.

Wow.

Just....

Wow.

He remembered the almost tender way that deep, cool voice called his name from just over his shoulder, jerking Qinghua out of his work. In that perpetually messy room, at that desk he called his workspace, Mobei-Jun leaned over him in a way that invaded Qinghua's space unnecessarily and placed that Northern Tribe attire in front of him. His King was picturesque and did not dawdle. Qinghua barely picked his senses up off the floor when Mobei-Jun left. Only asking that Qinghua wear that specific outfit for the first Day of the Winter Festival before leaving.

And Shang Qinghua wore it. How could he say no? The only thing he couldn't figure out how to wear was the head dress that Mobei-Jun left behind. Since it was a formal outfit, or so he had been told, it wasn't common to see demons walking around with it on. The end result? He was not able to figure it out. In the end, he left it behind in favor of his simple hair ribbon. Better for a lowly servant like himself not to stand out too much anyways. Besides, he had not seen any others wearing their headdress tonight either. Even Mobei-Jun's hair wasn't very different from usual. extra braids and beads, but no headdress. So, Shang Qinghua was probably fine. How embarrassing would it have been if he was the only one in the room wearing such a gaudy thing on his head, drawing attention to himself.

Shang Qinghua let himself get a little lost in his imagination for a moment, something he's only been able to do recently with his lightened workload.

"Qinghua."

Mobei-Jun's voice jolted Shang Qinghua out of his own thoughts. He looked up to Mobei-Jun's furrowed brows. Oh no, he looked upset. And that damn demon general was still there, a bemused expression on his face and he looked to Shang Qinghua as well.

"Yes, My King?" Shang Qinghua quickly bowed with his hands pressed over one another in front of him, covered by the giant sleeves.

"After the Winter Festival, arrange time for an official meeting with Western Plains to discuss further on their concerns."

"Yes, My King."

"And I kindly ask that the Western Kingdom follow Winter Festival customs. There will be no further mention of court affairs during this time."

"Yes, we will be aware of this custom in the Future."

The General didn't seem eager to leave but could not argue with Mobei-Jun's dismissal of him. So, he left promptly, and Shang Qinghua was left with Mobei-Jun for the first time that day. Alone was relative; the room was still packed with guests on all sides. But Shang Qinghua suddenly missed the presence of another soul taking Mobei-Jun's attention, because his unrest and upset seemed more obvious now that there was no one else but him on the receiving end of it.

"This lowly one greets his King and begs forgiveness for not having found my King sooner. I hope that you have not been burdened by my absence with unreasonable requests this evening. Please Let this one know what he can do for you. I hope that the celebration is prepared to your liking. If only this lowly one could have been present to learn from the planners of such a magnificent event." Shang Qinghua wasn't sure why, but a sudden urge to ramble hit him with fervor. However, Mobei-Jun cut him off.

"Do you like them?"

"Like them?" Shang Qinghua responded dumbly.

"The clothes."

Oh! how could he forget that this was his first time wearing something so formal and so distinctly Demonic. So unlike his daily attire of peak lord basics and a heavy cape.

"It's very comfortable, and fits perfectly, my King."

"Mn." was the only acknowledgment Mobei-Jun gave.

Then there was more silence. This was becoming too common for them. But somehow this moment felt more taboo with so many demons around.

"If Qinghua likes it, his King wonders why he is not wearing all of it."

Before he could control himself, Shang Qinghua touched his head. "Right, my King, forgive this lowly one. I was not able to understand how it is presented, and so left it off. I did not mean to offend my King."

Qinghua was almost certain he was the only one who heard Mobei-Jun's next words, they were so soft. "But This will not do. Take it out."

That hand on his head pulled at the end of his hair ribbon, letting it all fall lose against his back. The ribbon tightly clutched between his fingers as he waited for Mobei-Jun's next instruction. That instruction came with only a gesture. Mobei-Jun pulled a hair pin out from the front of his robes and held it out to Shang Qinghua. Wordlessly, he took the pin and parted his hair till half of it was secure on top of his head.

Mobei-Jun nodded and, with a seemingly satisfied expression, walked away without another word. On the other hand, Shang Qinghua just stood there for a moment. He moved a little to eagerly before, and the hair on his head was not only uncomfortably wound up, but he scratched his scalp with the pin. Whatever the mess on his head looked like now would have to remain that way. There was no time for him to sneak away and fix it.

"Qinghua." Mobei-Jun's cool voice called out from a few paces away. That command was beckoning him to follow. Like a dog heeding its call Shang Qinghua turned and followed, trying his best to ignore that scratchy, tight feeling on top of his head.