#chapter: winter palaces | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lokisgoodgirl · 11 months ago

Text

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

#loki x reader #loki smut #the rite #loki fanfiction #loki x you #loki x you smut #loki odinson #loki odinson x reader #lokismut #loki laufeyson #loki fanfic #loki x yn #loki x female reader #loki x female reader smut #loki imagine

1K notes · View notes

marscardigan · 1 month ago

Text

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, t¡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."

228 notes · View notes

oceansblvds · 22 days ago

Text

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

#coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus x reader #the hunger games #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow x you #tbosas #the hunger games fanfiction #coriolanus fanfiction #coriolanus fic #my lust for coriolanus snow has me crawling up the walls

186 notes · View notes

litnerdwrites · 3 months ago

Text

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.

#anti rhys #anti inner circle #anti rhysand #anti ic #anti cassian #anti amren #anti mor #anti morrigan #anti sjm #anti velaris #sjm critical #ic critical #inner circle critical #acotar critical #acomaf critical #acowar critical #acofas critical #rhysand critical #anti high king rhys

212 notes · View notes

fr0stf4ll · 3 months ago

Text

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.

don't hesitate to comment if you want to be added to the tag list ;)))

tag list : @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @bravo-delta-eccho @messageforthesmallestman @celestialgilb @tiredsleepyhead @annamariereads16 @arcanefeelingz @fuckingsimp4azriel @adventure-awaits13 @diaouranask @rcarbo1 @6v6babycheese @goodvibesonlyxd @sa54va87to90re12 @firefly-forest @babypeapoddd @hailqueenconquer @daughterofthemoons-stuff @lilah-asteria @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @judig92 @pinklemonade34 @sourapplex @wickedshadowsinger @shinyghosteclipse @rose-girls-world @leptitlu @acourtofsmutandstarlight @feyrescanvas @dreamloud4610 @plants-w0rld @tele86 @dragonsandrinks @making-it-big @itsbonniebabe @motheroffae @azrielswhore @casiiopea2 @whyucloudingmymind @onebadassunicorn @prettylittlewrites @moondustxy @panickedmushroom

#azriel fic #azriel x you #azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #acotar fanart #acotar #rhysand #azriel acotar #cassian #a court of thorns and roses #acotar x y/n #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar fanfiction #azriel shadowsinger #elain #feyre

258 notes · View notes

little-miss-of-the-sky · 1 month ago

Text

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..."

#epic x reader #telemachus x reader #epic the musical #hestia #antinous epic #Melanthius

141 notes · View notes

papasbaseball · 5 months ago

Text

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.

#wicked fanfiction #wicked 2024 #The wizard x reader #the wizard fanfiction #wicked 2024 fanfic #jeff goldblum

199 notes · View notes

winxanity-ii · 4 months ago

Text

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

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

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

162 notes · View notes

th3-c0rps3-r0gu3 · 7 months ago

Text

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.

Tag list:

@cd-4848

@idkwhatever580

@gemz5

If you wanna be added to the taglist just ask in the comments:)

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x you #black widow #natasha x y/n #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #black widow x reader

217 notes · View notes

jeankluv · 5 months ago

Text

The tale of the fox and the knight - Satoru Gojo | Chapter 01

summary: You have been living all your life in almost isolation due to your true nature, one your parents want to hide and protect you from anyone finding it. But when the spring of your 20 year your parents grant you the wish of being able to walk around the city, you meet him. Your doom. Satoru Gojo, a white haired knight whose intentions in your eyes are unkown. And whose presence in your life will change everything, from how you see the world to your way of being.

words: 4,5k

tags: enemies to lovers, blood, eventual smut, Gojo is pretty rude at the beginning, Gojo ooc, betrayal, fantasy, magical creatures, angst, injuries, heavy language, no use of y/n or minimal use of y/n, female protagonist

notes: To celebrate Gojo’s birthday I’m posting the first chapter today!! I hope everyone enjoys it and pls take into account that Gojo is ooc. Now enjoy it 🤗

materialist | prologue | next chapter

Jujutsu Kaisen materialist | ao3

It had been five months since you met Gojo, or like he insisted on calling him, Satoru. His presence had truly shaken your world, not only because now thanks to him you could leave the castle and see more of the kingdom, but because it stirred your heart in an extremely strange and new way.

Your breath escaped your lips as you walked your private garden, autumn was almost over and winter was about to enter. Therefore the flowers were starting to die, one by one. You didn’t like that, you always loved the colorful views. You liked spring especially, because of how beautiful everything looked. On the other hand you hated winter, it was cold, wet and you didn’t have the chance to go to your private garden due to the low temperatures, but maybe now with your new knight with you, you could visit the famous winter festival Utahime told you about in the past.

“What are you planning on doing today princess?” Satoru’s voice placed you back in your reality.

You looked at him through your eyelashes, he was smiling and staring at you. “Can we go to the market? I wanna eat those sweets again.” You smiled.

“Whatever you wish for, princess.” He smirked.

You turned your head away from his gaze, you could not deny something, and it was how nervous your heart turned whenever it was just you and Satoru.

You tried to act as normal as you could on your way to the market. Satoru sat across from you in the carriage, with his arms crossed and his gaze fixed on the window. It had been five months since Satoru had started working as your knight, but you barely knew anything about him.

He didn’t talk about anything other than work. You wondered if his parents were still alive, if he had siblings, if he was from the city or perhaps from a nearby village. You really wanted to get to know him better, build up a stronger bond between the both of you. But still you were hesitant.

“Ask me, princess.” You heard his voice.

“Huh?” You looked at him and his bluish eyes were penetrating you. “Oh… I wasn’t…”

“C’mon princess, I think I have spent enough time with you to know that your pretty face is a big question mark right now.” He smiled cockily and you felt the need to jump off the carriage.

“I… Well…” You hesitated, was it find to ask him? Wasn’t he going to get angry or upset? “I was wondering where are you from?”

Satoru smiled and composed himself on the seat. “From the east, near the coast.” You opened your eyes slightly. “What princess, are you impressed?”

“Have you been to the sea?!” You said with excitement.

Satoru nodded and then looked at you with a strange face. “You have never been to the coast?” You shook your head. “How is that? Doesn’t the royal family own a castle near the west coast?”

“Oh…” You smiled sadly. “Yeah… but I used to stay in the main castle with my nanny.” You looked at him.

“Why would they leave their beloved daughter alone?”

“I wasn’t alone!” You said out loud. “My mother used to be gone only for two or three days and everyone in the palace used to take good care of me, Utahime was always with me.”

“But why, princess?”

You bite your bottom lip and sighed. “It’s complicated…”

The carrier stopped moving and a voice shouted. “We have arrived princess.”

Your eyes left Satoru’s and you looked outside, a big smile forming on your lips. “Yes! Let’s go Satoru.” Satoru nodded and he got out of the carrier before you, giving you his hand to get out of the carriage.

That gesture, which was the usual one that any gentleman had to do when a noblewoman got out of her carriage, made your heart race. And it shouldn't.

You walked before him, feeling his steps right behind you, like a shadow. But his presence quickly faded away when your eyes saw the stores of food in front of you.

You mind could only thing about the delicious food you were going to taste that morning.

You walked up to the little stand that was manned by an old lady and smiled. “Good morning. May I have one of these?” You said pointing at one of the caramelized apples.

“Of course dear.” The old lady replied with a smile.

The fact that no one knew what the princess looked like was an advantage, you could walk freely through the streets without any problem, although the gazes were constantly on you, due to the companion who followed you. It was not surprising, he was handsome, tall and had a smile that made everyone sigh.

“Thank you.” You said as you took the apple.

“Enjoy it!”

A shadow fell over you and someone’s breath hit your ear, Satoru Gojo had leaned over and just bit into the caramel apple you had bought.

“Hey!” You shouted. Satoru licked his lips and smiled.

“I’m sorry princess, but I have to make sure it’s not poisoned. It’s for your safety.” The flirtatious smile spread across his face.

“Oh, what a cute couple.” The lady at the stall exclaimed.

“We are not…!”

“Yeah, my wife is beautiful, isn’t she?” Satoru smiled.

“Oh she surely is, both of you, I’m sure your babies would be adorable.” You felt how your cheeks grew warmer as the old lady’s words sunk on your ears.

“I’m sure they will. Now if you excuse us.” Satoru said and guide you away from her.

You walked in front of Satoru, feeling ashamed of his words and his bold act, he knew that if he did that act with any other member of the royal family, Satoru Gojo would be headless right now.

“You lost your mind?” You told him, once you were far from the place.

“Princess, what if that apple was poisoned?” He leaned slightly towards you, feeling his breath brush against your cheek.

Your gaze lowered, avoiding his. “That… That’s not possible!”

“You don’t know that.” Satoru said, crossing his arms.

“You can’t go around saying that I’m your wife, you can get your head cut off for it.” You said, looking back up.

“Are you going to report me?” He said, a cocky smile appearing on his face.

“I… I should!” You shouted.

“But you won’t.” The smile never leaving his face. “Now c’mon princess, it’s time to go back.”

“What already? We just arrived…” You pouted.

“Yeah, but you said it was going to be quick, right.” He started walking. “Besides, didn't you have to meet your maid, the one that secretly is preparing your dress for the autumn ball?”

“Utahime… her name is Utahime.” You responded with annoyance.

“Whatever…” He rolled his eyes.

“And yeah. I’m going to be the prettiest girl in the whole ball thanks to Utahime’s dress.”

“I’m sure you will, princess.” He gave you his hand to help you get in the carriage.

The ride back to the castle was in complete silence, Satoru didn’t say a single thing during the whole trip, his eyes were always focused on the window. And you couldn’t help but wonder what was hiding behind those bluish eyes.

He left the carriage before you and like always he helped you down. Following your steps, you both went to your room, where Utahime was already waiting for you, with your dress for the ball.

“You finished it?” You ran to her with excitement.

“Yeah…” She said with a shy smile. “You should try it on, to see if I need to fix something.”

You nodded. “But I’m sure it will be perfect.” You hugged her. You heard a small chuckle coming from behind and you turned to look at the owner of that laugh. “What?”

“My bad princess…” He said with a smirk. “But be careful, if you look so stunning, someone might ask for your hand in marriage.”

“That won’t happen.” You said.

“It might.” Utahime spoke. “This is your first public appearance for people outside and a lot of dukes, someone might want to propose to you.” She said touching your hair. “You are so beautiful so it wouldn’t be surprising if tomorrow’s night someone asks for your hand in marriage.”

You looked down with your cheeks slightly red. “I will try the dress.” You said moving away from Utahime’s touch and going to try the dress.

“I will help you.” She said following you.

You both entered the separate room and Utahime started to help you out with the dress, you were confident about it, you knew Utahime did a good job with it and that everyone was going to be amazed at the dress. And hopefully, seeing Utahime’s work, your parents would allow you to help her with her studies to become a designer.

But you couldn’t help but notice how something was off with Utahime.

“Uta… it’s something wrong.” She stopped moving her hands and looked at you.

“Nothing… I was just… thinking, nothing important.” She gave you a fake smile and you sighed.

“Utahime, talk to me.” You turned around, holding her hands.

She avoided your gaze for a brief moment. “I… princess I don’t trust that man.” She whispered.

Your eyebrow rises up slowly. “Gojo?” She nodded. “Why?”

“I just… I don’t know princess, I have a bad feeling.”

You shook your head. “Utahime you are overthinking, Gojo has been the best knight I could ask for. Look!” You pointed at yourself. “I have been going out and I’m still here.” You said with a bright smile.

Utahime bit her lip and then sighed. “Princess, just… be careful.”

“I will, but there is no need to worry.” You said back, searching to calm her down. “Now, how do I look?” You turned around to look at the mirror.

Your eyes lit up when you saw the dress Utahime had prepared for you, fitting perfectly to your body. The emerald-colored fabric fell softly and the deep, heart-shaped neckline highlighted your chest. While the corset was adorned with golden chains, which shone brightly under the light of the room. The skirt fell like a waterfall, the translucent fabric that Utahime had placed created a play of light and shadow with each of your movements. Adorned with beautiful crystals that made that dress come to life.

“Utahime…” You said, trying to find the words. “This is…”

Utahime smiled. “You look beautiful, princess.”

“Thank you Utahime.” You turned around to hug her. “This is absolutely magical.”

“I’m glad to hear that, princess.” She broke the hug and smiled at you. “The green really suits your red hair.”

You looked back at the mirror and smiled. “Yeah… it does.” It really did. “I will show it to Gojo.” You walked out the room.

When you walked out of the room you had changed in, Satoru was standing by the window, looking out at the view from your room. His back was to you and he didn’t start to turn around until you made a small sound in your throat, indicating that you were there. Your heart was pounding as you watched him slowly turn to look at you.

You didn’t quite understand the feeling, but you could imagine it and you wanted to suppress it by any means necessary, but the moment Satoru’s eyes landed on your figure, your heart exploded. You wondered if Satoru’s heart also fluttered like yours had.

Satoru stood there, staring at you, his blue eyes scanning every part of you. Your heart wanted to believe it was because Satoru wanted to record every detail of that dress, how it fit you, how you looked.

A smirk appeared on Satoru’s face. “If you don’t want anyone to ask for your hand, you are doing a terrible job, princess.” He approached you. “Because all the eyes will be on you.” He whispered to your ear, making a shiver go through your entire body. “Now, I have to leave.” He stepped away from you and with his hand on his chest he bowed. “I will see you later, princess.”

You looked at him still frozen in place. “Yeah… yeah okay.” You said before Satoru left the room.

The room felt in complete silence, as you looked at the closer door.

But that silence didn’t last long when Utahime’s voice called out to you. “Don’t tell me you’re in love with him…” She whispered with her gaze on you.

You coughed, surprised by Utahime’s accusation. “No… no, no, it’s just that Sa-Gojo has that aura. He’s my knight.” You shook your head and smiled.

Repeating that in your head, over and over, trying to make sure it was real and not a lie you were telling your best friend.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Satoru sighed as he stepped outside of your room. Five months of having to be your shadow was really exhausting, but fortunately everything was ending tomorrow. If the plan went as planned, tomorrow would be the last time Satoru would have to set foot in that palace and he would head home.

He was only worried about one thing, and that was you. But not because he cared about you, Satoru didn’t give a single fuck, but because his king asked him to bring you to him alive and for what he knew about you, you were like a deer, so fragile and scared, but at the same time always excited about new things.

Satoru hated that so much. How your big eyes would always sparkle for anything. He couldn’t stand it, you were just a princess, a princess who never suffered from anything, who was born with a crown on your head and everything you needed to care about was about choosing the perfect dress for your every day.

It was annoying. But the last part of the mission was about to begin. After arriving at Zerua a year ago and infiltrating himself as part of the knights, he was finally going back home. Who could though, he missed Sukuna’s annoying ass the most.

“Where are you going?” Satoru's eyebrow raised up when he heard the voice.

“Just for a walk, and check the place where the dance will take place.” He turned around with a cocky smile.

“Careful Gojo, my eyes are on you.” The long haired guy let out.

“You hate me that much because I took your spot.” His arm crossed over his chest. “Geto?”

Geto stayed silent while he looked at Satoru with anger. “You came out of nowhere and won the privilege of serving the princess… you are not trustworthy.”

Satoru chuckled. “Maybe you should've worked harder to get the position.” He mocked. “And maybe like that you could be serving your dear princess.” Satoru's smirk grew bigger when he noticed the anger on Geto’s face. “Am I wrong, Geto? You love the princess.”

“Gojo, watch your tongue.” He replied.

He laughed. “You should watch your heart, I hope you don’t die tomorrow night when you see me walking with the princess to the ball.” And turned around without giving the opportunity to let him say a word.

Satoru proudly walked away with his head high, but knowing that Geto could be a problem for his plan. His steps continue going in one direction.

Satoru never turned his head to look at Geto's expression, he knew that his face was probably still red and his fists were clenched in rage. It was no secret to anyone when they were preparing to be chosen to be the princess's direct knights that Suguru Geto had feelings for her, apparently the boy had grown up in the stable and had interacted on some other occasion with the princess, and Satoru did not deny it, the princess had a natural charm, a charm that could make any fool fall.

But he was not like those stupid fools there.

The air of that last summer day hit Satoru’s cheeks as he stepped outside the palace and walked towards where his horse was.

“Hey buddy.” Satoru touched his horse face gently. “You hungry?” He said giving the animal a carrot. “There, there…” He said. “Tomorrow will be a rough night okay…” He whispered. “I want you to be ready.” The horse moved his head up and down as if he was nodding and Satoru smiled.

Satoru had been with that horse for more than five years, he had always accompanied him on all his journeys, they were the best of all, what less for someone like Satoru Gojo.

The sound of an eagle gained the attention of Satoru who looked at the sky and smirked.

His eyes then falled, looking around to each corner, making sure he was alone. Once he was sure he started walking towards the forest, making sure no one was following him and that he got lost on it.

Once he was far enough, he extended his arm, letting the eagle approach him. The eagle had a small piece of paper rolled up in its right paw. Satoru carefully took it from the eagle and unfolded it to read it.

“The wolf is on the mountain and will howl when the blue moon shines in the sky.”

Satoru smiled, everything was going to turn out as planned, tomorrow the wolf would howl and the little bunny would run away from the castle.

Soon he was going to be back at home, soon he was going to bring back the honor his family lost when the kingdom of Zerua killed them, soon he was not going to be there. Only one more day. Just one.

“What are you doing?” He heard the same voice as a few moments before.

Satoru chuckled and let the eagle go, making sure the pirate of paper was attached to the leg of the animal.

“Geto…” Satoru turned around. “You followed me here?”

“Respond to my question!” He black haired guy shouted.

“Wow!” Satoru smiled. “Someone is angry? C’mon I was just here, I heard strange noises and came here to check.”

“And an eagle came to you?” Geto tilted his head.

“What can I say? I’m charming!”

“Cut that shit Gojo!” Geto He unsheathed his sword and pointed it at him. “This is where it all ends.”

Satoru’s gaze darkened and a devilish smile appeared on his lips. “Yes, for you, partner, or have you forgotten who always came first during our training?”

Geto swallowed hard, Satoru was right, he had no chance of winning against him but he couldn't allow him to continue walking through the castle, he couldn't let your safety be in the hands of that white wolf.

Geto's fists turned white as he gripped his sword tightly and charged at Satoru without hesitation.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You didn't see Satoru again after he left your room, the sun had risen again when his face appeared in your bedroom. Your heart suddenly raced as his eyes locked on you, you were already fully dressed but you still felt light being watched by his blue eyes.

“Today is the grand ball.” He said. “You nervous princess, a Prince might come for you.”

“I… no that won’t happen!” You didn’t want that to happen.

He chuckled. “Your face turns red when you are angry, you know right?” He approached you.

You turned around, avoiding his gaze. “Today we are going to the garden.” You told him. “I won’t go to the town, because I will have to start getting ready for the ball early and I want to be near the castle.”

“Okay.” He responded, he was already in his position, with his back straight, his arms behind his body and his feet forming a V.

When you saw him like that you remembered that you were from different worlds, that he was your knight and your heart stopped beating with so much joy.

“Princess?” Your eyes blinked as you looked at him. “If you are going to stay there looking at the horizon, maybe I should take a seat.”

“Sorry! Let’s keep going.”

You walked as always before him. He followed you in silence, as he always did and then while you were reading he stood there, in silence too.

You would like to hear his jokes and silliness, but you knew it wasn’t right, not when your parents' guards were not far away. Any bad word or something that could be interpreted as offensive towards the crown and Satoru would be executed.

The pages of your book started to fly as the minutes started to run, the only sound in that place was the sound of birds singing, which were starting to be less since winter was beginning.

A thick cloth rested over your shoulders, and you looked up in surprise, meeting Satoru’s gaze. “It’s going to rain and the temperature is starting to drop.” He said in a soft tone. “You should go back to your chambers and start preparing for the ball.”

You held the soft fabric that had rested on your shoulders and nodded. “Thank you…” You whispered, unable to formulate anything else.

He gave you his hand for you to take it and it was when you noticed a small wound on it.

“Did you hurt yourself?” You asked, looking at his hand.

“Just training, nothing to worry about princess.” He smiled and you nodded trusting his words.

The walk back to your chamber was silent, Satoru walked behind you without saying a word. Before even reaching your chamber the heavy water drops started to fall from the dark clouds that now covered the sky.

A cold shiver ran through your back as if something was going to happen. Something you were unaware of.

Your eyes left the big window on the side and kept on walking until you stopped right in front of your chamber. Satoru farewell and you were left with your maids, who helped you start getting ready.

The rain was heavy, making noise on your window, it almost felt like the rain was trying to tell you something. The knot in your stomach grew bigger and bigger as the sound of the rain became more overwhelming.

The soft brush touched your cheeks, while another of your maids combed your hair. The dress looked better than when you had tried it on and the accessories and hairstyle were only going to make your beauty dazzle the place.

With the click of the hairpin adjusting to your hair you opened your eyes, looking at yourself in the reflection of your dressing table mirror. All your maids began to praise your beautiful appearance, to the point of making you feel shy at their words.

Utahime watched you from the side, with a loving smile. That night you were going to tell everyone that that beautiful dress had been made by her, you wanted, you longed for Utahime to receive the recognition she deserved.

You thanked each one of them and walked towards Utahime. “Thank you…” You whispered to her.

“You look beautiful, princess.” She smiled as she looked at you.

“All thanks to you.” You said back.

“Princess.” One of the other maids spoke. “Mr. Gojo is outside waiting for you.”

“Oh!” You nodded and briefly looked at Utahime. “I will see you later.”

“Have fun.” She said.

You walked towards the door, nervous. To see Satoru, for the night, for everything that was about to happen.

The doors of your room opened, letting you see Satoru.

Silence fell over you and you felt like the world had faded away the moment your eyes met.

You felt like it was just the two of you there, that there was no one else and you felt like you could do whatever you wanted. Whatever you wanted.

“I…” You began. But soon enough that fantasy broke.

“You look amazing, her majesty.” Satoru bowed to you.

You couldn’t do anything.

“Let me escort you to the ball.” He handed you his arm and with shaky hands you accepted.

The walk to the ballroom was shorter than you would have liked, and before you knew it, you were surrounded by your parents and noble people who were greeting you for the first time.

Your eyes looked at Satoru, away from you. Distant from your world.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It was past eleven when you finally were able to break free from all the guests and especially from the guy who had been trying to ask for your hand all night.

You walked straight to one person, to him.

“Dance with me.” You looked at him.

Satoru furrowed his eyebrows slightly as he studied your face. “I’m sorry princess, but it wouldn't be correct.”

“Please, just one dance.” You begged, you needed that, you wanted that.

Satoru's eyes then move to the side and picture a guy looking at you. “Is it because of him?”

“I… please Satoru…” You looked to the guy, who was looking at you.

Satoru sighed, he didn’t want to dance with you and he shouldn’t dance with you, but he…

“Alright.”

His hand took yours and together you walked to the front, all the eyes fell on you and as the music began the whispers between the people also began.

“Relax princess, your hand is starting to wet mine.” He said with a grin.

“Oh… I…” You tried pulling your hand away, you were nervous and it was starting to show up.

But Satoru pulled you closer to him, guiding you through that room with the melody of the song that they were playing. Your heart started to pump on your chest, almost sounding the same as the drums of the room.

Looking up, to look at his face didn’t help, because his eyes were right on you, not blinking and studying you.

In that instant, you wonder what he was thinking, he was too difficult for you to read, his eyes were hiding something, something you felt like you were too far away from reaching.

His movements were smooth, almost as if he knew what he was doing, which was strange but you didn’t care. You just let yourself enjoy that moment, a scenery that you imagined maybe more than once.

When the last note of the piano resonated across the room, Satoru and you stayed there, looking at each other.

Your heart started to rise, with the words you were trying so desperately to bury.

“Satoru…” His eyes were locked on you, not blinking. “I… I li…”

A deafening extrusion causes your ears to start ringing loudly.

What was happening?

Soon you started coughing, the room had started to fill with smoke.

“Princess!” Satoru called you. “We need to leave, now!”

You didn’t quite understand what was going on, the screams were so loud and your head was starting to spin. Satoru’s strong arm held you tightly and guided you outside the palace to where the horses were.

“Wait…” You said coughing. “My parents… Utahime… they are…” You tried speaking.

“Don’t worry…” Satoru said. “I’m sure they will be alright, but I need to put you safe.”

He held you by the hip and sat you on his horse, then climbed in. Your head still hurt and the questions kept coming.

Leaning against Satoru's chest, you closed your eyes hoping that when you opened them again you would be back in your chambers and everything would be okay.

— wait patiently for the next chapter

{comment if you wanna be added to the tag list}

💌: @zoeyflower @faeriesworld101 @coffee-and-geto @alifromtheotherworld @fangirlingtod3ath @laeve-rae-alone @megumisthirdog @wlwkorrasami @starlight5cat @yourfaveava @manyno @kianatrg @iamtherealestet @tracysdemise @certainduckanchor @aloserprobably @glittercherry777 @sylussss7 @n1vi @chocolatepalacecloudhoagie

#jujutsu kaisen #fanfic jjk #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x oc #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru smut #jujutsu kaisen gojo #satoru gojo x you #satoru x you #satoru x reader #gojo x you #gojo angst #gojo satoru fanfic

130 notes · View notes

shaiyasstuff · 1 month ago

Text

a dance of ice and fire | zayne | chapter three

synopsis : Betrothed to the Crown Prince for the sake of peace, you are seen as a weapon to be wielded, not a queen to rule. But it is not your arrogant, power-hungry fiancé you fear—it is his brother, Zayne. As alliances shift and tensions rise, one truth becomes clear: he never wanted the crown, but for you, he will take it content : medieval!au, strategist/advisor!zayne x princess!reader, loads of eye-fucking, savage reader and zayne, political intrigue quote : “I am fire as I am fury. I am not yours.” - reader

parts | one | two | three

It had rained that day.

Not the sharp storms that lashed against the palace walls in the dead of winter, but a warm, quiet kind of rain—the kind that softened the air and blurred the edges of the world.

You were sixteen, standing beneath the twisted arch of the fire gardens, the scent of cinders and blooming flamevine curling in the mist.

Your ceremonial robes were too heavy, your crown too tight, your patience worn thin after hours of being paraded through the halls like a prized artifact.

You had pulled away. Just for a moment.

And he had followed.

Zayne, in his crisp uniform, slightly damp from the rain, his silver-threaded cloak pulled loose and dragging against the stone.

He leaned against the column like he had nothing better to do, arms crossed, watching you with the lazy amusement that had always infuriated you.

“You’re not supposed to be out here.”

You didn’t look at him. You let the rain soak into your sleeves, tilting your head to the sky. “Neither are you.”

He hummed, a soft sound, and you could hear the smirk in it. “Difference is, no one expects anything from me.”

You turned then, narrowing your eyes. “That’s not true.”

Zayne shrugged. “It’s not untrue.”

You studied him—this boy who wore disinterest like armor, who said little but saw everything, who stood in the shadow of a brother who was born to rule.

“You let them underestimate you.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours, quiet, steady. “It’s easier that way.”

You stepped closer, your voice low. “And what happens when they stop?”

Zayne didn’t answer. Not at first. His gaze lingered on yours a second too long. The kind of silence that carried weight.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to remind them why that was a mistake.”

A beat passed. The rain pattered softly on the stone.

And then, he smiled. Just barely. “You look ridiculous in that crown, by the way.”

You scowled. “I hate it.”

He chuckled. “Good. It’ll suit you when you actually take it for yourself.”

You frowned. “That’s not how it works.”

“No,” he murmured, turning back toward the shadows. “But one day it will be.”

You watched him walk away, the rain soaking into the edges of his cloak, and you didn’t know it then—

But that was the first time Zayne ever said he believed in you.

Not with declarations.

But with truth.

Quiet. Steady. Unshakable.

Like him.

—•

Court had dragged, the air in the war chamber thick with tension masked behind noble civility. Discussions of trade disputes and rising unrest droned on, but the real conflict never touched parchment.

It moved in glances. In silence.

In knowing.

Zayne hadn’t said much. He hadn’t needed to.

Each time the crown prince tried to assert himself, Zayne’s gaze would flicker—cool, unreadable—and a few well-placed words would shift the conversation away.

Not forcefully. But deliberately.

By the time the court was dismissed, the power in the room had quietly shifted, and everyone felt it—though most couldn’t name it.

You rose from your seat, smoothing the fabric of your gown, already preparing for another wave of nobles seeking your favor.

But before you could take a step, Zayne’s hand brushed your wrist. Light. Barely a touch.

“Walk with me.”

You looked up. And that’s when you saw it.

Something in his eyes.

He was calm. But there was a gleam behind it.

Not just calculation.

Movement.

Something had already happened.

You followed him without question.

He led you through the quieter halls of the palace, corridors meant for whispers and strategy, not ceremony. At the end of one passage, a man waited—tall, composed, robed in dark green and silver.

Lord Varyn.

Loyal to the crown prince. At least, until recently.

You slowed, your gaze flicking back to Zayne.

Of course.

He had moved the board again.

Without needing permission. Without making a sound.

Zayne didn’t stop walking until he stood just beside the older noble. “He wants to speak with you.”

You arched a brow. “You arranged this.”

Zayne glanced at you, his voice low. “It was time.”

Lord Varyn bowed his head slightly. “Your Highness. I no longer believe the crown is resting on the right heir.”

You kept your expression still, but your heart gave the faintest twist.

He had done it.

Quietly. Cleanly.

And now, the first real piece had shifted.

Zayne’s voice was quiet behind you, meant only for your ears. “They’re watching you. All I had to do was show them where to look.”

And for the first time, you realized—this wasn’t him waiting for power.

This was him taking it.

Lord Varyn bowed his head again in deference, but his eyes remained sharp—measuring. Curious. The kind of man who had survived court politics not by loyalty, but by knowing when to shift it.

You looked between him and Zayne, then allowed the corner of your lips to curve, just barely.

“You’re quick to the point.”

Lord Varyn gave a slight nod. “At court, delay is a luxury only the losing side can afford.”

Zayne stepped forward, hands clasped loosely behind his back. His posture was relaxed, but there was nothing casual about the way he spoke.

“The court is shifting. Slowly, but visibly.” His eyes flicked to Varyn, then back to you.

“My brother rules in name, but he’s losing the confidence of those he depends on. His temper’s too sharp, his actions too loud.”

You said nothing, letting him go on.

“He thought marrying you would be the answer.” There was no venom in Zayne’s tone, only fact. “But now you stand beside me in every council session. You speak with weight. You act with power.” He tilted his head.

“They see it. They see you.”

Varyn shifted slightly, enough for you to notice the approval behind his gaze.

“What are you offering?” you asked, directing it to both of them.

Zayne didn’t miss a beat. “Stability. A court that listens. A ruler who knows the difference between command and control.”

Varyn added, quietly, “And a match that would bring clarity to the line of succession.”

The room fell still. That last line was not a suggestion—it was an alignment.

Zayne didn’t react, didn’t press. He was letting it sit. Letting it be your choice.

But everything about his presence told you—this wasn’t just a meeting.

It was a turning point.

You met Varyn’s gaze again, then turned back to Zayne, studying the man who had once stayed behind the curtain, and now stood inches from the throne.

He had moved first.

And now, all eyes were on you.

You let the weight of Varyn’s words settle, the subtle declaration behind them not lost on you. He wasn’t just pledging interest.

He was positioning himself.

You turned your gaze fully to him, your voice smooth, deliberate. “We will need more support.”

Then—you looked to Zayne.

Not as a question.

As a signal.

And he understood. Instantly.

There was no need to speak it aloud. This was no longer about influence. If they were going to move against the crown prince, it would require more than whispered alliances and political pressure.

It would take force.

You returned your attention to Varyn, your tone unchanged, but your words now edged with steel. “What are your numbers currently?”

A beat passed. The air in the room tightened.

Varyn’s expression didn’t shift, but something sharper moved behind his eyes. He straightened slightly, folding his hands behind his back with practiced grace.

“Just over four hundred. Trained, loyal. Mostly stationed along the outer ridges of the eastern garrison.”

Zayne’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The crown’s been unaware of that positioning.”

Varyn gave a quiet nod. “Because I preferred it that way.”

You studied him. His posture, his tone, his calculated restraint. Varyn wasn’t just some noble clinging to influence—he had been preparing. Waiting for the right time.

Waiting for someone worth backing.

“Four hundred is a start,” you said calmly, eyes locking with his. “But not enough to threaten the throne if he suspects us too soon.”

Zayne stepped forward, his voice lower now. “He won’t. Not yet. He’s too busy trying to keep the court from slipping out of his grip.” He glanced at you. “Let him believe he still has you, and he’ll keep reaching.”

“And when he reaches too far,” you finished, “we break his hand.”

Varyn’s mouth lifted in the faintest smile. “Then I suggest we begin coordinating quietly. My banners will not rise until you give the word—but when they do, they will not fall.”

You nodded once.

Not as permission.

As a pact.

The first of many.

—•

The corridors had long emptied, leaving only the echo of footsteps that were no longer there and the faint whisper of torchlight against stone.

You didn’t speak as you and Zayne walked, the silence stretching between you not out of discomfort, but something else—calculation, anticipation, certainty.

The conversation with Lord Varyn was still fresh. You had crossed a line tonight. One that couldn’t be uncrossed.

Zayne led you into a quiet chamber tucked near the old observatory. A fire already burned in the hearth, its light casting long shadows across the walls. No one else would come here. Not tonight.

You stepped inside first. He followed, and when the door shut behind him, it felt like the world outside ceased to matter.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, Zayne’s voice broke the silence—quiet, but certain.

“That was more than a conversation.”

You turned toward him. “It was a beginning.”

He nodded once, slow. “He’s with us now. One of many we’ll need.”

You stepped toward the fire, your arms folded loosely, your gaze fixed on the flickering flames. “We’ll need more. And we’ll need them to choose us, not just abandon him.”

Zayne stepped beside you, his presence a familiar chill wrapped in steadiness. “They will.”

You looked at him then, studied him. The weight in his eyes, the sharpness of his calm.

“You moved before I ever said yes.”

He didn’t deny it. His mouth quirked in the faintest smirk. “You never needed convincing.”

You let a soft breath escape, something between a sigh and a laugh. “You really were always one step ahead.”

Zayne’s voice dropped, softer now. “Only when it came to you.”

That pulled your gaze back to him. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes—his eyes said everything.

Not strategy. Not power.

You.

And just like that, the heat in the room felt heavier, pressing in with everything unspoken.

Your fingers brushed his, light at first, testing. When he didn’t pull away, you laced them together.

“We’re doing this, aren’t we?”

Zayne’s voice was low, sure. “We already are.”

His hand tightened around yours, grounding you—not just in the moment, but in the war you were both about to wage.

Together.

He stepped a little closer, his other hand brushing your waist, anchoring you. He didn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

But his forehead rested against yours, and the air between your lips was shared like a secret.

“Let him hold the empire in his hands,” Zayne murmured, “for a little longer.”

Your voice came softer still. “He won’t see us coming.”

And in the stillness that followed, the war outside the walls felt a little further away.

Because here, in this stolen moment of fire and quiet, you were no longer standing behind the throne.

You were ready to claim it.

The fire crackled softly beside you, casting golden light across the room and painting Zayne’s features in warm, flickering shadows.

His forehead still rested against yours, his hand steady at your waist, grounding you. There was no rush in his touch, no hunger in his silence—just that same undeniable certainty that had followed him since the moment he made his move.

The war outside these walls felt distant now.

But what stood between you felt sharp. Alive. Inevitable.

You drew in a breath, quiet, controlled. “You’ve changed.”

Zayne didn’t pull back. His voice was soft, near your lips. “So have you.”

Your fingers brushed his chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “You stopped pretending you didn’t want this.”

His mouth quirked, a near-smile. “Because you stopped pretending you didn’t see it.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because everything had already been said in the way you followed him here, in the way you stood this close without flinching.

Because of the way his lips found yours so easily. Measured, ready.

Like he had been waiting.

Like he always knew this moment would come.

Your lips moved with his, quiet but unrelenting, his fingers curling slightly at your side.

The way he touched you wasn’t demanding.

It was decisive.

And you leaned into it.

Into him.

Letting the weight of what had been, and what was coming, melt away just for this breath of time.

When he finally pulled back, his voice came low, rough at the edges. “He’ll come for you.”

You looked up at him, calm and clear. “Let him.”

A beat passed.

“You’re not afraid?”

Your lips brushed his once more, softer this time. “Of him? No.”

Zayne’s smirk returned, sharper now, and he leaned closer, his voice a murmur in your ear.

“Good. Because I don’t plan to let you go.”

You turned toward the fire, still close, still tethered to him by something heavier than touch.

“Then you better be ready to take the empire.”

Zayne’s reply came without pause.

“Only if you’re standing beside me.”

And with that—the moment broke.

Not in silence, not in regret.

But in a quiet, unshakable understanding:

The storm could come.

And you would face it together.

—•

The throne room was thick with tension—stifling, cold, and too still.

Sunlight filtered in through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured light across marble floors, but there was no warmth in it. Only the kind of stillness that came before a storm.

Every noble was summoned without reason.

You stood near the war table, flame-red cloak trailing behind you, chin high. The nobles whispered in tight clusters, casting furtive glances between the throne and where you stood.

And then—he rose.

The crown prince.

He wore black and silver, shoulders squared, the empire’s crest pressed into his chest like a claim. His voice rang out clear and commanding.

“Let the court bear witness.”

Silence fell.

“The alliance between fire and ice shall be bound, as was promised. And before all gathered here, the Princess of Fire will speak her vow. She will take her place at my side—as my future Empress.”

The words were not request.

Not proposal.

They were law.

Murmurs stirred like wind against glass. Some in shock, others nodding, as if they had been waiting for this moment to be forced.

You didn’t move.

You felt the weight of his gaze pressing into you. Challenging. Cornering.

He stepped toward the center of the dais, hands outstretched as if delivering the final blow.

“You swore yourself to the empire. You swore yourself to me. Do not forget what that means.”

Your breath was steady. Controlled. But the heat beneath your skin rose, not in a burst—in a warning.

You stepped forward. Slowly. Each heel against the marble cracked the silence open a little more.

Then you spoke.

“I remember my vow.” You met his eyes. “And I remember who you were when I gave it.”

He blinked. Just once. You saw the flash of something behind his eyes—uncertainty.

“You rule with fear,” you said, voice rising, steady and sharp. “You corner, you command, and now you summon the court like a blade to my throat. And you think this makes you strong?”

His tone dropped, cold and cutting. “It makes me Emperor.”

A hush fell.

You stepped onto the first step of the dais. Then the second. Fire danced around the edges of your cloak—rising, responding, not wild, but watching.

“No,” you said. “It makes you afraid.”

The court held its breath.

“Afraid of losing what you never truly held.”

He stared, unmoving, but his hands curled into fists. Frost bloomed at his feet—uncontrolled, jagged.

“You are mine by oath.”

Without missing a beat, “I am no one’s possession.”

Then—you raised your hand.

The flames at the torches lining the hall burst higher, bright enough to draw startled gasps.

You turned, slowly, addressing the court.

“Let all present remember this day.” Your voice echoed through the chamber. “I was promised to power, not to fear. I was promised to the empire, not to its heir.”

And then—you looked him in the eye.

“I am fire as I am fury. I am not yours.”

The court broke.

Some nobles stepped back. Others exchanged hurried whispers. The divide had been drawn—clear, irreparable.

And from the far side of the chamber, Zayne moved. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

He was already walking toward you.

The crown prince said nothing as you stepped down from the dais—as you passed him without pause.

But the cold from where he stood clung to the floor, sharp and silent.

He knew.

This was the beginning of the end.

Your footsteps echoed as you descended the dais, the flames trailing in your wake slowly dimming, falling quiet. The chamber buzzed, tension strung tight across every noble’s shoulders. A line had been drawn.

And everyone knew it.

The crown prince did not speak immediately. He stood frozen at the center of the dais, expression unreadable. But the frost at his feet crept outward, curling across the marble like veins of ice cracking beneath glass.

Then—his voice rang out, louder than before. Cold. Commanding.

“You would humiliate the crown before the court?”

You stopped walking. Slowly, you turned to face him again.

“I simply speak the truth.”

His jaw clenched. His hands were at his sides, but tight, trembling with restrained fury.

“You insult your title. You insult the unity our fathers built. You insult me.”

“Then perhaps you should ask why so much crumbles around you,” you replied, “every time you try to hold it.”

A gasp from somewhere in the court. The frost reached the base of the war table, creeping up its legs.

The prince stepped forward now, descending one step from the dais, his voice sharp with something darker than pride.

“Enough.”

You didn’t flinch.

“You defy the throne,” he continued. “You defy your duty.”

“No,” you said evenly. “I defy you.”

The frost snapped, a crack tearing through the marble beneath his feet as the chill in the room surged outward, reaching toward you. A few nobles stepped back instinctively. Some didn’t move at all—afraid of taking the wrong side.

But, for the first time, the crown prince truly dropped his mask.

His voice echoed with cold power. “Then you will be stripped of your station.”

The court gasped again.

“You walk away from your vow?” His eyes burned with fury, but his voice remained deathly still.

“Then you walk away from everything. From your title, from the council, from the court.”

Silence.

Heavy. Thick.

Even the fire dimmed.

But before anyone could react—another voice cut through.

“That decision isn’t yours to make.”

Zayne.

He stepped forward, his hands behind his back, his face calm, but his eyes—glacial. Unmoving. Dangerous.

The room turned.

The crown prince’s gaze snapped to him.

“You dare speak for her?”

“I don’t need to,” Zayne said smoothly. He glanced at you, then returned his gaze to his brother. “But you’re not the Emperor. Not yet. Perhaps, if you try acting like it.”

A thin crack of frost spread toward Zayne’s feet, but he didn’t move. He simply smiled—slow, deliberate.

“Let the court remember this day,” he said softly. “You tried to silence fire.”

He paused.

“And you burned for it.”

The tension broke.

Court erupted—raised voices, divided loyalties, the nobles now forced to choose where they stood.

You turned from the dais once more. Zayne was already beside you. No words exchanged. Just a shared glance.

The war had truly begun.

And the empire would never be whole again.

—•

The court had descended into chaos.

Not the kind with blades and blood—not yet.

Because in the world of nobles and crowns, whispers were sharper than swords, and every word spoken in that throne room now carried the weight of a kingdom.

In the days that followed, the ripple became a wave.

Some houses backed away from the court entirely, withdrawing their banners under the guise of “neutrality.” Others aligned themselves more openly—some with Zayne, some with the crown prince, but very few dared to remain undecided.

The empire had fractured. Not with fire, not with ice—but with choice.

Behind closed doors, secret meetings unfolded. Promises were made. Old alliances were tested.

Some shattered.

Others quietly re-formed beneath new names.

Zayne moved swiftly.

Where the crown prince ruled with cold commands, Zayne dealt in quiet confidence, gathering influence not through fear but through certainty—the kind of certainty that made men believe the crown might sit better on someone else.

And beside him stood you.

No longer just the Princess of Fire, no longer just a political tool to be passed between kingdoms.

You had become something else—a symbol. A storm.

A threat. One that cannot be ignored.

Your refusal in court had changed everything. You had burned away the illusion of unity. And from its ashes, a war for the future of the empire had begun.

Whispers of rebellion rose in the eastern provinces, where Varyn’s banners gathered in silence. Scribes in the capital noted an unusual number of military transfers.

And more than one noble who had once spoken in favor of the crown prince now remained conspicuously quiet.

But in the palace, the most dangerous game was still being played.

Zayne and the crown prince walked the same halls.

Sat at the same council meetings.

Smiled with the same teeth.

But every word was a test.

Every look a blade.

And you?

You were the spark between them.

Chosen.

Feared.

Watched.

Not for what you were.

But for what you might become.

The tipping point.

The war hadn’t broken out.

Not yet. But it was coming.

And everyone knew, the first true strike would not be made with steel—but with a decision.

The sun was setting when you found him again.

Not in the war chamber, not in the shadowed corridors where deals whispered to life, but on the old terrace overlooking the southern cliffs. The wind carried the salt of the sea and the scent of old stone warmed by the sun.

Zayne stood alone, arms braced on the stone railing, cloak drifting with the breeze. He didn’t turn at your approach. He didn’t have to.

He always knew when it was you.

You stepped beside him, the silence between you familiar now.

Not heavy. Not uncertain.

Shared.

Below, the waves crashed against jagged rock, constant and restless.

“You’ve set it in motion,” you said, voice low.

Zayne didn’t flinch. “So have you.”

You watched the ocean for a moment longer, then turned your eyes to him. He looked calm—too calm for a man who had just thrown the empire into quiet revolt.

But you knew better.

“You always knew it would come to this.”

He finally looked at you, eyes cool and unreadable. “I didn’t want it to.”

“But you prepared for it.”

A pause.

His lips quirked, dry and humorless. “Because I knew he would force our hand. Eventually.”

You studied him—this man who wore silence like armor, who spoke in strategy and subtle defiance, who had once stood in the shadows and now stood at your side, unapologetic.

“You move like someone used to being overlooked,” you said. “But you’re not hiding anymore.”

Zayne’s gaze dropped briefly to your hand resting on the edge of the stone, then back to your face. “I never hid from you.”

The words weren’t soft. They were true.

You drew in a breath, letting it sit in your chest for a moment before releasing it. “Everything’s changed.”

“It had to.”

You leaned in, just slightly, voice a murmur between you. “They’re going to come for us.”

“Then let them.”

His words were quiet, but beneath them was steel.

The same kind you’d seen in his eyes the day you first defied the court together.

You watched him for a long moment.

Then—your hand found his.

No grand gesture. No declarations. Just a steady, simple touch.

And he let it happen.

Because this wasn’t a moment of passion or politics. This was acknowledgment.

Of what you were.

Of what he had become.

Of what you were becoming—together.

The silence stretched again, this time comfortable, a lull before the tide rose.

“We’ve crossed the line,” you said finally.

Zayne’s hand tightened around yours.

“Then we don’t go back.”

You smile, nodding down at nothing.

The sea rolled below you, endless and indifferent, its rhythm the only constant in a world that had shifted beneath your feet.

Zayne’s hand remained in yours, steady. Unyielding.

But your gaze was distant now, fixed on the horizon where fire-tinted clouds met water.

“I didn’t want it to come to this,” you said, voice quiet. “Not like this.”

Zayne didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The silence gave you room.

“There was a time I thought I could live within the system. Be what they needed me to be. Marry him. Stand beside the throne. Try to change things from inside the cage.” You exhaled, the memory bitter at the edges. “I thought that would be enough.”

Your fingers tightened around the stone railing, knuckles white.

“I wore the crown they gave me. I smiled when they told me to. I said nothing when they looked at me like a weapon wrapped in silk.”

Zayne turned his head slightly, watching you—not with pity, but with that quiet attention he always offered when your walls cracked.

“And when you stopped?” he asked softly.

You huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “When I realized no matter how still I stood, they were always going to set me on fire.”

He was silent again. But he moved closer, his shoulder brushing yours. His presence an anchor.

“And now you’re burning everything down,” he murmured.

You looked at him then, and there was no regret in your eyes—only truth.

“No. I’m just refusing to be the thing they strike a match against.”

Zayne’s lips twitched—just enough to be something like approval.

“You were always going to reach this point. You just didn’t want to be the one to start the fire.”

You nodded slowly, your voice softer now. “Because once it starts, it doesn’t stop.”

He turned fully toward you, his hand rising to tuck a piece of wind-tossed hair behind your ear.

“Then we make sure it burns the right things.”

You didn’t look away.

Because in that moment, you both understood—this was no longer about power. It never really had been.

It was about freedom.

About choice.

And about the fact that neither of you were willing to stand back while the empire collapsed under the weight of someone else’s crown.

“Then we see it through,” you said.

Zayne’s eyes held yours. “Together.”

And with that word, the fire you had been trying to contain didn’t feel like a burden anymore.

It felt like purpose.

The wind shifted, brushing against your cheeks with salt and dusk and the faintest chill.

Zayne hadn’t moved. Not really. But you could feel it—how present he was.

How still.

And yet, inside you, there was a flicker of something else.

Not fear.

Not doubt.

But guilt.

Your gaze dropped to where your hand still rested in his. You traced the shape of his fingers with your thumb, quietly, before you spoke.

“I know you didn’t want this.”

Zayne tilted his head slightly, watching you. Saying nothing.

“You never cared for power. You were content to stand in the shadows, to pull the strings and let your brother wear the crown.” Your voice dipped, softer now, heavy.

“But now you’re stepping into the fire. Into something that was never meant to be yours.”

Still, he didn’t speak.

So you went on.

“And I can’t help but wonder if it’s because of me.”

His brow twitched, almost imperceptibly. But his hand didn’t pull away.

“I dragged you into this.” You swallowed. “I made a choice in that court. I struck the match, and now the whole empire’s watching to see if it burns. I didn’t mean for it to fall on you.”

Zayne’s fingers tightened around yours—not harshly, but enough to make you stop. To feel him.

“You didn’t drag me anywhere.”

You looked up, and there it was again—that quiet, unshakable certainty.

“I stepped forward the moment I saw the path.” He paused, eyes locked on yours. “And if I’m walking it beside you, it’s not a burden. It’s a choice.”

The words sank into you slowly, like warmth returning to frozen skin.

But still, something in you resisted.

“You’ve already sacrificed more than you ever intended to.”

Zayne gave a faint breath of something like a laugh—barely audible. “I’ve only ever sacrificed what was worth letting go.”

A pause. He leaned in, his voice quieter now, just for you.

“But I’ve never once considered letting go of you.”

Your throat tightened. The weight of it—his resolve, his loyalty, the way he never asked for thanks, never asked for anything, not even now—it settled into your chest like something too sacred to name.

You reached up and placed your hand against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath your palm.

“You should’ve walked away when you had the chance.”

Zayne smiled then, slow and sure. “You should know by now, I don’t run from fire.”

And you believed him.

Because he never had.

masterlist

#lads #lads x reader #lads zayne #zayne love and deepspace #lnds zayne #love and deepspace #zayne x non mc #zayne x you #l&ds zayne #zayne x reader #lnds x reader #lnds x you #dr zayne #love and deepspace x reader #lnds #l&ds x reader #lads x you

105 notes · View notes

brunchable · 6 months ago

Text

Winter King, Chapter 7: Look What You Made Me Do

Pairings: King AU Bucky Barnes x Queen Reader Words: 11.5K Themes: Royaltycore AU, love and power, arranged Marriage, georgian/regency era misogyny, profanity. Warning: Acts of Violence. Attempted Murder. Summary: Y/N defies tradition by joining the equinox fetivities. Fitten in equestrian attire, she draws onlookers, including Thor, Loki and Pietro, while Bucky watches with visible frustration as others practically undress her with their eyes. Despite the tension, Y/N remains focused on the race.

Flashback: Edges of the Country

Isaac stood at the edge of the crowd, blending seamlessly with the common folk. His cloak was pulled low over his head, obscuring his features, and his eyes scanned the scene. The town was one of many far from the heart of the kingdom, and it had been growing increasingly restless. Isaac could feel the tension in the air, the unease that crackled like a storm ready to break.

In the middle of the square, Brock Rumlow stood tall and imposing, his voice carrying over the crowd with the confidence of a man who knew how to stoke a fire. The townspeople, desperate and angry, gathered around him, hanging on his every word. Isaac's lips pressed into a thin line as he watched Rumlow incite the crowd, his eyes sharp and calculating.

“This kingdom has grown weak!” Rumlow’s voice boomed, his fists clenched at his sides. “Your king—your so-called leader—has been absent in his duties! While you starve, he is nowhere to be found. Where is he? Where is his protection for you?”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. The townspeople, many of them gaunt from hunger and weary from constant struggle, nodded, their faces hardened by the truth in Rumlow’s words.

“The shipments of food, of supplies, have been blocked for weeks now!” Rumlow continued, his voice growing louder, more fervent. “And what has your king done? He ignores your plight! He lets you suffer while he plays the royal game in his palace, far removed from your reality!”

Isaac shifted slightly, his jaw tightening. He knew that this was exactly what those pulling the strings behind the scenes wanted—doubt, unrest, rebellion. Rumlow was merely a tool in a larger plan, but the power of his words was undeniable.

“And what of your queen?” Rumlow spat, his lips curling into a sneer. “She cannot bear a child, cannot provide an heir! Your king is absent, your queen is barren—is this not a sign from the gods? A sign that the crown has fallen out of favor?”

The crowd grew restless, some nodding, others muttering in agreement. Rumlow raised his arms, his voice dripping with venom. “The gods have turned their backs on us! This kingdom, this weak, crumbling kingdom, is on the verge of collapse! We cannot wait for the royalty to save us, because they won’t! They do not care about you!”

Isaac’s eyes narrowed as he took in the scene. Rumlow was riling them up, feeding their fear and their anger. It was dangerous—more dangerous than Isaac had initially thought. His hand twitched toward the dagger hidden beneath his cloak, but he stayed his impulse. There was more to learn here, more to uncover.

Few days before: at The Siren’s Song

The tavern was dim with the faint scent of smoke and ale filling the air. Isaac sat at a corner table, his back to the wall as he watched the room carefully. Across from him sat Clint Barton, one of his most trusted spies, his face hidden beneath the brim of a hood.

Clint leaned forward, his voice low and serious. “Unrests are growing in the towns on the edges of the country.”

Isaac's brow furrowed slightly, though his face remained impassive. “How so?”

“There’s been talk of shipments being blocked,” Clint explained, glancing around the room before meeting Isaac's gaze again. “Food, supplies—everything’s being cut off. Rumlow’s been making speeches, stirring up dissent. People are starting to lose faith in the crown.”

Isaac's expression darkened. “Do we know who’s behind it?”

Clint hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. “Not yet. But it’s coordinated. Too many towns are being hit at once for this to be random.”

Isaac nodded slowly, his mind already working through the possibilities. “Keep an eye on him,” he said quietly. “And on the lords. We need to know who’s pulling the strings.”

Clint tipped his head in agreement, his eyes sharp as ever. “I’ll keep you informed.”

Back in the Square: Rumlow’s Speech

“The king has abandoned you!” Rumlow shouted, his voice ringing out across the square. “He is absent, lost in the games of royalty while you starve. And your queen—she cannot bear the weight of an heir, much less the weight of this kingdom. The gods have shown us the signs—this is a bad omen—that they don’t want the line to continue. The crown has failed.”

The crowd erupted into murmurs and shouts, anger and desperation filling the air. Isaac’s eyes swept over the faces of the people, their pain and hopelessness. Rumlow had them in the palm of his hand, and Isaac knew that this was only the beginning.

Rumlow raised his fist in the air, his voice growing louder with every word. “We deserve better! We deserve a ruler who will fight for us, who will not abandon us in our time of need! The kingdom is failing, and if we do nothing, we will fail with it!”

Isaac’s jaw clenched as he turned, slipping silently away from the crowd. He had heard enough. This unrest was spreading, and it was no longer just whispers in the dark—it was becoming a movement. He would have to act swiftly, but for now, he had to report back to Bucky.

Private Meeting in Annecy

The small council assembled in Annecy was tense, the weight of Isaac’s words hanging heavily in the air. Bucky sat at the head of the table, his fingers drumming lightly against the wood as he processed what had just been shared. Beside him, Steve, Sam, and Tony sat in silence, their faces grim, while Isaac stood at the opposite end, his gaze sharp and unwavering.

Isaac leaned forward slightly, his voice steady but laced with urgency. “The unrest is growing faster than we anticipated. They're targeting the outer towns first, cutting off supplies and causing desperation. Once they have destabilized the edges of the kingdom, they'll start working their way inward, toward the capital.”

Bucky's brow furrowed as he considered the gravity of the situation. His jaw clenched, and his eyes flicked over to Tony, who had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the meeting.

“Tony, have you heard anything? Any whispers in your network?”

Tony, who had been leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, straightened at the question. His expression was serious, his usual wit subdued.

“Nothing concrete,” he admitted, his voice low. “But there’s been some chatter—rumors about shipments being delayed, and certain noble families getting nervous. It didn’t seem like anything at first, but now that Isaac’s mentioned the unrest, it’s starting to make sense.”

Sam, who had been sitting quietly next to Steve, leaned forward, his voice filled with concern. “So they’re trying to isolate the kingdom? Make the people suffer so they turn against the crown?”

Isaac nodded grimly. “That’s the idea. They’re creating chaos on the outskirts, hoping it’ll spread like wildfire. The longer it takes, the worse it’ll get. The people are desperate, and Rumlow is feeding that desperation. He’s giving them someone to blame.”

Steve’s jaw tightened, his hand forming a fist on the table. “And the lords? Do we know who’s supporting him?”

Isaac shook his head. “Not yet. But there are whispers—some of the more ambitious lords might be backing him, quietly of course. They want the crown weakened, but they’re too cowardly to show their hand until the time is right.”

Bucky’s gaze shifted back to Tony, his voice steady but filled with an underlying tension. “Keep listening, Tony. We need to know if anyone on the council is involved.”

Tony nodded, his face darkening. “I’ll keep my ears open.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the gravity of the situation sinking in. They were not just facing external threats but the possibility of betrayal from within their own court. Bucky leaned back in his chair, his eyes hard as he looked around at the men gathered.

“We need to stop this before it spreads any further,” Bucky said, his voice quiet but firm. “We can’t afford to let them destabilize the kingdom from the outside in.”

Isaac’s expression was unreadable as he met Bucky’s gaze. “I’ll head back to the border towns. Rumlow’s stirring up trouble there, and I can follow the trail from him.”

Bucky nodded, a determined set to his jaw. “Be careful. If Rumlow’s got backers, they won’t hesitate to strike if they know we’re onto them.”

“I’ll watch my back,” Isaac replied, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Sam looked between them, his brow furrowed. “And what about the people? They need to know we haven’t abandoned them.”

“We’ll send relief,” Steve interjected, his voice steady. “Food, supplies, whatever we can spare. But we’ll need to be strategic—if the shipments are being blocked, we’ll have to find new routes.”

Tony leaned back again, his eyes narrowing as he considered the logistics. “I can work with the traders, see if there are any alternative routes we haven’t thought of. But it’s going to be tricky.”

Bucky’s gaze hardened, his eyes dark with determination. “Do whatever it takes. We’re not losing this kingdom.”

The Dungeons (Back at the Palace, a few days after.)

The dim, flickering torchlight cast long shadows on the cold stone walls of the dungeon. The air was thick, damp, and heavy with the scent of mold. The guard they had kept alive, now shackled to a chair in the center of the room, sat trembling under the weight of what was to come. His eyes darted between the two brothers—Isaac, leaning casually against the far wall, watching silently with a cold smirk, and Bucky, standing directly in front of him, radiating a dangerous calm.

Bucky held a rolled-up piece of parchment in his hand, his gaze hard as steel as he unrolled it slowly. The detailed portrait of Rumlow came into view, the artist’s precision capturing the man’s scarred face and cruel sneer with chilling accuracy.

Bucky’s voice was low, almost too calm, but the threat within it was unmistakable. “Do you recognize this man?”

The guard swallowed hard, his eyes widening as they fixed on the portrait. His breath quickened, his lips trembling as he hesitated to answer. Bucky took a slow step forward, the measured sound of his boots against the stone floor echoing ominously in the small chamber.

“I asked you a question,” Bucky said, his tone cold. He leaned down, bringing his face closer to the guard’s, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

The guard’s breath hitched, and he looked away, trying to steady himself. “I—I’ve seen him,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “At the docks… several times.”

Bucky straightened, his arms crossed, his eyes never leaving the guard’s face. “And what was he doing there?”

The man swallowed again, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill of the room. “He… he seemed to be overseeing things. Shipments, deliveries… but it wasn’t normal work. He was careful and quiet. And he always had men with him—dangerous men.”

Bucky’s gaze darkened, and he took another step forward, looming over the guard. “Go on.”

The guard’s voice shook as he continued, his eyes darting between Bucky and Isaac. “I overheard something once. I—I wasn’t supposed to hear it, but they didn’t see me. Rumlow was talking to one of his men, and he mentioned someone on the council.”

Isaac’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the council, his casual posture stiffening slightly. Bucky leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Who?”

“I—I don’t know,” the guard stammered, his voice trembling with fear. His gaze darted around the room, avoiding Bucky’s cold, relentless stare.

Bucky’s patience snapped, he grabbed the guard by the collar, yanking him upright and slamming him back against the stone wall. The sound echoed through the room, and the guard let out a whimper, his breath hitching in panic.

“Who?” Bucky growled, his face inches from the guard’s, his grip tightening until the man could barely breathe.

The guard gasped, eyes wide with terror. “Alexander!” he sputtered, his voice barely audible. “He said the name Alexander.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as the name sank in. Alexander Pierce. He released the guard with a forceful shove, and the man collapsed back into the chair, wheezing as he clutched his chest.

Isaac, who had been watching in cold silence, exchanged a knowing glance with his brother. Pierce—one of the most influential and cunning members of the council. It wasn’t entirely surprising, but it confirmed their suspicions that the conspiracy ran deeper than just Rumlow’s schemes.

Bucky paced for a moment, his hands flexing at his sides as the information settled on him. He could feel the anger boiling under the surface, the urge to act immediate and violent.

Isaac’s voice broke the tense silence, his tone low and thoughtful. “It's Mother's birthday tomorrow. Then the Autumn Equinox the day after.” He glanced at Bucky, his expression calculating. “We can’t act on this right now. The court’s eyes will be on us the entire time.”

Bucky paced for a moment longer, his mind racing, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. The revelation of Pierce's name added a dangerous layer to the already delicate situation, and every instinct in him wanted to act now, to confront Pierce head-on. But Isaac had a point—they couldn’t afford to make a scene with the queen's birthday tomorrow and the Autumn Equinox celebration right after. Too many eyes would be watching.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to think clearly, before turning to Isaac. “Is Tony sending any relief to the affected towns?”

Isaac gave a curt nod, his expression steady. “It’s already in motion. Tony's rerouting the supplies through alternate routes—ones Pierce doesn’t control. Shipments are bypassing the docks and moving overland. The towns should start seeing relief soon.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened with a mix of relief and lingering tension. “Good. We can’t let them suffer while those bastards play their games. The people are losing faith in the crown.”

Isaac’s voice remained calm but firm. “The relief will help ease the unrest. But we can’t act too soon, not until we have Pierce cornered. If he suspects we’re onto him before we’ve gathered enough evidence, he’ll slip through our fingers.”

“No, we cannot wait! Our people are being forced to starve! We have waited long enough. The longer we wait, the stronger they get, and the more our people suffer.”

Isaac watched him intently, the wheels in his head turning. “Then I guess it’s time to spill more blood,” he said, his voice calm yet filled with dark intent. “I’ll start with their positions at the docks.”

Bucky’s gaze locked onto Isaac, his chest still heaving from the force of his anger, but there was a grim satisfaction in his brother’s words. Isaac, ever calculated and precise, had already started strategizing another plan.

“This time, don’t be clean,” Bucky advised, his voice lower now but laced with menace. “I want to see how Pierce would react.”

Isaac’s smirk widened ever so slightly, a flicker of dangerous excitement passing through his eyes.

“As you wish, brother.”

× × × ×

Present

The Autumn Equinox Celebration was in full swing, and the town square buzzed with excitement. Lanterns in warm hues of gold, red, and orange illuminated the cobbled streets, casting a soft glow over the vendors selling hot cider, roasted chestnuts, and the season’s bountiful harvest. The air was crisp with the early bite of fall, a perfect contrast to the warmth of the bonfires that flickered in the distance. The people, dressed in their finest autumn attire, gathered in celebration of the changing season, their faces alight with joy.

It was a time-honored tradition, one that the royal family always attended. In previous years, their presence had been more symbolic—watching from elevated platforms or giving formal addresses before retreating to private dinners. But this year felt different.

You stood beside Bucky and the Queen Dowager, your eyes scanning the lively crowd that filled the bustling festival square. There was something in the air tonight, something electric, pulling you away from the suffocating formality that had become your life. The weight of the crown, the title of "queen," had forced a distance between you and the very people you had vowed to serve.

You were tired of it.

Tired of watching from afar, tired of being on the sidelines. Tonight, you had decided that things would be different.

“I shall participate,” you declared suddenly, your voice cutting through the gentle murmur of conversation between Bucky, Isaac and the Queen Dowager.

All three of them froze. Bucky’s head whipped toward you, his eyes widening slightly in surprise, while the Queen Dowager blinked, clearly caught off guard by your unexpected declaration.

Even Isaac turned his head sharply, his eyebrows raised as if to say, Did I hear that right?

You didn’t wait for them to respond. You had already made up your mind, your heart pounding with a mixture of defiance and exhilaration. With a firm nod, you began descending the steps from the royal platform, your gown flowing behind you as you moved purposefully toward the festival grounds. Your decision was final, your stride unwavering.

Scott hurried after you, “Your Majesty,” he began, his tone gentle but insistent. “I must advise against participating in the horse race… or the archery competition. You’ve been… frail as of late, and these are not activities usually undertaken by—"

"Women?" you interrupted, raising a brow, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.

Scott shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not that, Your Majesty, it’s just that—"

You shook your head, cutting him off again. “Scott, enough. The people need to know who their queen is, and standing on some platform like a distant figurehead isn’t going to do that.”

Before Scott could protest further, you turned to the Queen Dowager and Bucky, your eyes steady as you made your case.

“May I?”

The Queen Dowager hesitated for only a moment, her sharp eyes assessing you.

"Well..." she began, her voice laced with curiosity. She turned to her son, raising a brow, waiting for his response.

Bucky, who had remained quiet until now, felt a weight settle in his chest. He studied you, the determination in your eyes unmistakable. His initial instinct was to say no—to protect you from what could easily become reckless.

But he could see it, the fire burning in you, the need to connect with the people in a way that felt real. The weight of upcoming events—the ceremony, the consort issue—still hung between you, and he knew this wasn’t just about tradition. This was about you asserting your place, your own strength.

He let out a soft sigh, reluctant but understanding.

“Fine,” he said quietly, though his voice carried a hint of tension. After a pause, he added, “But I shall be joining you.”

Your lips tugged into a grateful smile, though you could see the concern lingering in his eyes. You nodded, your resolve only strengthening.

Without another word, you turned and strode toward the festival grounds, the sounds of the bustling town filling the air around you as you prepared to show them exactly who their queen was.

"Scott, why don’t you fetch me some riding attire?" you called over your shoulder.

Scott, still flustered by the sudden turn of events, stammered, "B-but, Your Majesty, the attire is only for men."

You arched a brow, a glint of defiance in your eyes. "Even better. Find me a size that would fit, then."

Bucky chuckled softly, shaking his head as he watched you walk away with a newfound fire in your step.

As Scott hurried off to fulfill your unusual request, you glanced back at Bucky, who was now following your lead toward the race track. Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly, his voice calm but with a teasing edge as he walked beside you.

“You are angry,” he repeated, though there was a hint of playfulness in his tone.

You tilted your head, lips curving into a faint smirk as you feigned innocence. “Hm? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You are. I can tell.”

“I’m not,” you insisted, though your expression betrayed you. The defiance in your stance, the way you had commanded Scott to fetch the riding attire—it all spoke volumes, and Bucky knew you too well to miss it.

“You are,” he said again, this time with more certainty, stepping closer until you were walking side by side. His voice softened, but there was still that lingering humor. “You’re upset about something.”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, trying to hold onto your composure, but the warmth in his gaze made it difficult. He was giving you that look—the one that always made you feel like he could see right through you.

Bucky’s smirk deepened, but he raised his eyebrows as if to prove a point.

“I see,” he said, his tone light but with that knowing edge that always managed to get under your skin. “So you're not mad. You’re just… a little defensive.”

You felt your pulse quicken, your composure slipping for just a second.

“I said I’m not,” you repeated, but the sharpness in your voice betrayed the calm facade you were trying to maintain.

Bucky raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Alright, alright,” he said with a chuckle, though the amusement never left his eyes. “But you know you’re only proving my point, right?”

A huff escaped you, your gaze flicking forward as you quickened your pace slightly.

"It is because you keep insisting that I am mad." The words came out faster than you'd intended, the frustration bubbling with you.

Bucky didn’t miss a beat, falling into step beside you again. He shot you a sidelong glance, his smile softening into something more understanding.

"Perhaps... but I know you, Y/N. There’s something you’re not telling.”

You kept your eyes ahead, unwilling to meet his gaze, knowing that if you did, the wall you were trying so hard to keep up would crumble completely.

Of course, you were mad—mad about tonight, mad about the expectations, mad about the fact that after everything, you’d be left to bear the weight of it while Bucky... while Bucky would have to fulfill the duties that came with naming a consort. But you weren’t about to admit that. You couldn’t.

Instead, you bit back your real thoughts, holding your chin high. “I just want to win this race,” you said with forced resolve, brushing past the truth and focusing on the task at hand.

Bucky chuckled softly, shaking his head, but there was no teasing left in his tone when he finally spoke again. "If it’s about the upcoming ceremony and the consummation, you know it doesn’t mea—"

“Don’t,” you cut him off quickly, your voice quieter this time but firm. You didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to discuss it—you knew you made this decision for him—but still.

Bucky hesitated, studying your face for a moment, then sighed softly. He didn't push further, though you could sense the tension still lingering between you both. Even though he didn't say it, you knew he understood. The heaviness of the night ahead pressed on you both, but for now, neither of you would speak it aloud.

You had an image to maintain, after all.

× × × ×

The field was abuzz with excitement as the riders gathered for the horse race, the energy palpable in the crisp afternoon air. Townspeople and nobles alike lined the track, eager to witness the festivities of the equinox. The usual banter of the crowd was suddenly replaced by hushed murmurs, the kind that always followed when something—or someone—unexpected made an entrance.

You stepped onto the field, your figure commanding attention in a way that immediately silenced those around you. Dressed in a fitted equestrian outfit that hugged every curve, the tailored trousers marked the first time people saw a woman in pants—let alone their queen. The absence of a helmet left your hair loose, a deliberate choice that only amplified the boldness of your appearance. The cut of the clothing emphasized your form in ways your royal gowns never had—every inch of you exuding confidence and power.

“This is blasphemy, how could he allow this?” Lord Carter muttered toward the other lords, shaking his head in disgust as he watched you stride confidently across the field, dressed in your fitted equestrian attire.

Tony Stark, overhearing Lord Carter’s complaint, raised an eyebrow and smirked.

“Blasphemy, Lord Carter?” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “I’d call it bold. A queen who knows how to make an impression. You should try it sometime.” He nudged Pepper, who was standing beside him, her expression calm but approving.

Pepper glanced at you, a smile tugging at her lips. “It doesn't just suit her—she’s setting a new standard,” she added, her tone firm. “If anyone can’t handle it, that’s their problem.”

Tony chuckled, giving Lord Carter a pointed look. “Quite right, let them grumble. She’s not just ruling—she’s rewriting the rulebook. You might want to take notes.”

Lord Carter scoffed, clearly unimpressed. “A queen rewriting the rulebook? That’s not how tradition works, Stark,” he muttered, his tone dripping with disdain.

Before Tony could respond, Lord Pierce chimed in, his voice smooth and calculated.

“Tradition has its place, Tony,” Pierce said, his gaze flickering between the queen and the lords. “But there’s a fine line between boldness and rebellion. And I’m not sure which side of that line our queen is walking right now.”

Tony, ever unflappable, raised an eyebrow. “Boldness, rebellion—call it what you want. But progress doesn’t happen without shaking things up.” He leaned closer to Pepper, adding with a smirk, “And she’s shaking things up in the best way possible.”

Wanda, standing near the edge of the crowd, watched with a mixture of quiet awe and tension. Her eyes flickered with admiration for your boldness, but there was a shadow of concern in her expression, knowing the stir it would cause among the more traditional members of the court.

Beside her, Natasha smirked, crossing her arms with a knowing glance toward Wanda. “She’s always known how to make an entrance,” Natasha murmured, her voice low, though the pride in her tone was unmistakable.

Wanda’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, as she tried to stifle a smile, her gaze briefly shifting to the far end of the gathering. Her fingers brushed absently over a simple ring she wore—small and unadorned, hidden in plain sight yet easily overlooked. It was not a royal symbol, but one with personal significance.

Natasha’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the movement, and her smirk deepened knowingly. “I’d wager there’s more than one reason you’re watching so closely,” she said in an even quieter tone, her eyes flickering toward Isaac, who stood further back, observing the crowd with his usual intensity.

Wanda’s expression faltered for just a moment, the barest flicker of something unspoken passing between her and Natasha. She quickly composed herself, her voice soft but firm.

“You know the court likes a good spectacle,” she replied, deflecting with a grace that only someone well-versed in keeping secrets could muster.

Across the field, Isaac’s gaze briefly locked onto Wanda’s, and for the faintest second, his lips curled into a smirk—a fleeting gesture, but one that carried a world of meaning between the two of them.

As you made your way toward your horse, the whispers grew louder, though no one dared to speak directly to you. But you could feel their gazes on you—on your legs, your hips, the way the trousers clung to your body as you moved to mount your horse.

Beside you, Steve adjusted his reins, giving you a knowing glance. “So, is this your plan tonight? To cause a stir?”

You smirked at him, your eyes glinting with a mixture of challenge and mischief. “Don’t tell me you’re going to lecture me too, Captain.”

Steve chuckled, his eyes sweeping over the crowd briefly before returning to you.

"Not my place. Besides," he added with a wry grin, "I don’t think anyone’s in a position to lecture you right now."

Your gaze flickered to Bucky, standing just beyond the track, his eyes dark as they followed your every movement. His posture was calm, but the way his jaw clenched and his hands tightened at his sides told a different story—he looked unimpressed. It was the way the majority are practically undressing you with their eyes, their curiosity and barely concealed admiration not going unnoticed by him.

Thor, ever the blunt one, muttered something under his breath that earned him a sharp elbow from Loki. Pietro, catching Thor’s comment, snickered and leaned over to nudge one of the nearby riders, clearly enjoying the stir you were causing.

“Sons of. . .” Bucky muttered under his breath.

You stole a glance at Bucky from your peripheral vision, noticing the sharp way he mounted his horse. His movements were precise, but the tightness in his jaw and the simmering anger behind his eyes were impossible to miss. He looked like a man barely holding back.

Steve also caught sight of him, his brow furrowing slightly. “Looks like the king’s decided to join,” Steve muttered, his tone neutral but observant.

You kept your eyes forward, not wanting to give Bucky the satisfaction of your attention. Your grip tightened around the reins, frustration still simmering inside you, unresolved and heavy.

Bucky maneuvered his horse next to yours, his presence imposing. He said nothing at first, but you could feel the intensity radiating off him, a storm waiting to break.

“Are you really joining the race now, Your Majesty?” you said, your voice tight, lacking the usual teasing tone. It wasn’t a playful question—it was a challenge.

Bucky’s gaze flicked to you, his eyes dark with frustration of his own. “Someone needs to keep an eye on things,” he muttered under his breath, though you knew his words carried a double meaning.

You didn’t respond, your jaw clenched as you stared ahead, trying to keep your emotions in check. Steve, noticing the tension between the two of you, stayed quiet, though you could sense he felt uneasy.

As the starting horn blared, signaling the beginning of the race, your heart pounded not just from the anticipation of the race, but from the unresolved tension hanging thick in the air between you and Bucky.

The horn blasted through the crisp evening air, sending a jolt of adrenaline through your veins. You nudge your horse forward, feeling the powerful surge of muscle beneath you as the mare shoots ahead. The pounding of hooves echoed all around, the cheers of the crowd turning into a muffled roar as you focused on the track ahead.

Beside you, Steve was a steady presence, his horse galloping in sync with yours. His gaze remained forward, his focus razor-sharp, but you could sense his concern, even in the midst of the race. To your left, Bucky pushed his stallion hard, his frustration clearly feeding into his determination to win.

You leaned forward, your grip tightening on the reins as the wind whipped through your hair. The scent of the earth beneath you, the thundering of hooves, and the rush of the competition were all-consuming. For a moment, the weight of the palace, the consort ceremony, and your own personal turmoil faded away.

Bucky drew closer, his horse nearly neck-and-neck with yours. You could feel his presence beside you, the unspoken tension between you thick in the air. You didn't look at him, your focus entirely on the path ahead. But you knew he was pushing just as hard, if not harder, trying to overtake you.

Steve, on your other side, matched your pace, his horse galloping fiercely as the three of you tore down the track. The crowd was a blur, their cheers blending into one cacophonous sound. You couldn’t focus on anything but the finish line, your heart pounding as you urged your horse forward.

The ground flew by beneath you, the wind tugging at your clothes as you edged ahead, your mare responding to your commands with every ounce of strength she had. Bucky’s stallion was right beside you, his breaths coming hard, his eyes locked on the finish line just as yours were.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a dark blur shot past both you and Bucky, startling the horses. You blinked, barely able to process what had just happened as a familiar figure streaked ahead of the pack—Isaac. His horse, sleek and black as night, thundered down the track with blinding speed, leaving dust in his wake.

Isaac, of all people, had appeared out of thin air.

“What the—” Steve muttered under his breath, his eyes widening in surprise as he watched Isaac speed toward the finish line, his usual smirk plastered on his face.

You and Bucky exchanged brief glances, both of you equally shocked by the sudden intrusion. But Isaac’s horse was too fast, and within moments, he had crossed the finish line first, the crowd erupting into wild cheers and laughter.

Isaac slowed his horse, turning it around with effortless grace, a smug grin spreading across his face as he trotted back toward the rest of the riders.

“Well, well,” Isaac drawled, his tone smug. “It seems I’ve beaten the king and the queen at their own race.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, but a small smirk tugged at your lips despite the tension still lingering inside you. Isaac, always the showman, had once again stolen the spotlight.

Bucky, however, was less amused. His jaw was clenched tightly, his knuckles white as he gripped the reins. He gave Isaac a look that could melt steel, but Isaac only laughed, thoroughly enjoying the moment.

“Better luck next time, brother,” Isaac said, his tone teasing as he dismounted with ease, handing the reins of his horse to one of the stable boys.

You dismounted as well, patting your mare’s side appreciatively. Steve shook his head, still catching his breath, a bemused smile playing on his lips as he watched Isaac bask in the attention of the crowd.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Steve remarked dryly, glancing at you with raised eyebrows.

“Nothing’s ever simple when Isaac’s involved,” you replied with a sigh, though a small part of you was relieved. At least, for a brief moment, the focus had shifted away from the simmering tension between you and Bucky.

× × × ×

The archery field was abuzz with excitement, the tension thick in the air as the nobles gathered to watch the competition. It was a favored event of the equinox festival, where skill, precision, and a bit of bravado were put on display. You stood at the edge of the range, the familiar weight of the bow in your hands calming your nerves. The festival had drawn in many of the lords, and though this was meant to be a lighthearted competition, you felt the eyes of the court upon you.

Across the field, Lord Carter stood with his usual haughty air, his gaze flicking toward you with thinly veiled disdain. He held a small scroll in his hand, one that he had been waving around during conversations, clearly making a point to anyone who would listen. The sight of him only fueled the fire that had been smoldering in you all day.

You took a steadying breath, narrowing your gaze at the target in front of you. Initially, your focus was sharp on the bullseye—your bow raised, the arrow nocked perfectly. The tension in the string built, the anticipation thickening in the air.

But then something shifted.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught sight of Pierce—his face pale and tight with frustration. He looked as though he had just received dire news, and his entire posture screamed of someone desperately trying to leave unnoticed.

Isaac, however, stood in his way, blocking his path with a casual but firm presence, his lips curled into an amused smirk as he conversed with the clearly flustered councilman.

Your lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Carter had initially been your target, but this new opportunity was far too tempting. With a subtle adjustment to your aim, you set your sights on Pierce instead.

Beside you, Steve stood still, his sharp gaze catching the subtle shift in your movements. He didn’t speak, but you felt the weight of his attention on you, ever steady and watchful.

“Are you ready, Your Majesty?” the official called out, waiting for your signal to begin the round.

You gave a slight nod, your eyes never leaving Pierce now. The bow raised, string pulled taut, the arrow perfectly nocked and ready to fly.

The arrow sliced through the air with deadly precision, the sound of it cutting through the stillness of the field. A collective gasp echoed through the crowd as the arrow veered away from the intended target—a bullseye—and instead found its mark: Pierce’s coat, pinning it cleanly to the wooden post behind him.

Pierce froze mid-step, his eyes wide as he looked down at the arrow now securing him in place. His face flushed with a mixture of shock and fury, but before he could fully react, another arrow swiftly followed the first, pinning the opposite side of his coat, effectively trapping him.

Isaac, who had been standing beside Pierce, took a startled step back, his usual composure briefly faltering as he flinched when the arrow thudded into the post. His eyes widened for a moment, clearly taken aback by the sudden display of your boldness.

But as quickly as the surprise came, Isaac’s face shifted into a toothy grin. He leaned against the post casually, the smirk deepening as he locked eyes with you from across the field. Pierce, now quite literally stuck, looked from the arrows to you, his face a mask of barely contained rage. But even he knew better than to cause a scene now.

The nobles, too, were silent, eyes wide as they processed what had just happened. The message was unmistakable.

You lowered your bow with the same calm, collected grace, turning away from the target as if you hadn’t just sent the boldest statement of the day.

Steve, mounted on his horse nearby, chuckled softly under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well, I’d say that hit the mark.”

You smirked, glancing up at him. “I was aiming for something a little more symbolic.”

Across the field, Pierce’s face burned with fury, but the message had already been sent. The crowd had seen it, and no words could undo the statement you had just made. Isaac, though momentarily caught off guard, seemed to enjoy the chaos you had stirred, his smirk never leaving his face.

Isaac’s grin widened as he watched Pierce struggle, the councilman’s face contorting in frustration as he tugged at his coat, trying to free himself from the arrows that had pinned him to the wooden post. The crowd had already started to murmur, but no one dared move to assist Pierce, unsure of how to handle the situation.

Isaac leaned casually against the post, his arms crossed, an air of mock amusement hanging around him. He glanced down at Pierce, his tone light but dripping with playful malice.

"Having some trouble there, Lord Pierce?"

Pierce grunted, his hands desperately trying to pull one of the arrows from the wood. His face reddened further with each futile attempt.

“Get these off, now,” he growled through gritted teeth, his voice low but seething with rage.

Isaac chuckled softly, making no move to help.

“You seem perfectly capable,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “But if you insist, I’m sure one of the guards could lend a hand. Then again,” he added with a smirk, “it’s quite the spectacle. I’d hate to rob the court of such entertainment.”

Pierce shot him a venomous glare, his anger only deepening as Isaac remained where he was, clearly enjoying the moment far too much. With a final grunt of frustration, Pierce yanked harder at one of the arrows, but the force only caused him to stumble slightly, his coat still firmly attached to the post.

Isaac raised an eyebrow, his smirk growing wider. "Perhaps you should have a bit more practice at the archery field, my lord. It appears those arrows are giving you quite the challenge."

Pierce was panting now, his hands trembling slightly from the exertion, but Isaac only took a step back, waving his hand dismissively.

"I’ll leave you to it," he said lazily, as if this were all just a game to him. "Good luck, Lord Pierce."

With that, Isaac turned on his heel and strolled away, his posture relaxed as if he hadn’t just left one of the most powerful members of the council humiliated and trapped in front of half the court. As he walked, he glanced back briefly, catching your eye from across the field. The knowing glint in his gaze spoke volumes.

Meanwhile, Pierce, still pinned to the post, continued his struggle, his pride preventing him from calling for help, even as the sweat beaded on his brow. The scene played out before the gathered nobles, each one pretending not to notice but clearly watching with bated breath as one of their own remained stuck, while Isaac walked away with an easy swagger.

× × × ×

The evening had descended into something almost ethereal. The soft glow of lanterns cast a warm, golden light across the festival grounds, the crackle of bonfires filling the air with the scent of woodsmoke. Along the shore, people gathered with lanterns in hand, preparing to send their wishes into the sky. The vast expanse of the ocean reflected the flickering lights, making it seem as though the heavens and the sea were one.

People gathered in clusters, their faces illuminated by the soft flicker of flames as they prepared their lanterns—small, delicate paper structures painted with wishes for the coming winter.

All around you, there was a quiet anticipation, a sense of magic in the air as families, couples, and children alike whispered their hopes and dreams into the night, preparing to send them into the sky.

You stood at the edge of the bonfires, the glow of the flames casting shadows across your face. Despite the crowd, you felt a strange sense of solitude, as though the weight of the night had draped itself over your shoulders, keeping you apart from the festivities.

The murmurs of the crowd fell into a soft lull, the crackle of the fire becoming the only sound as you watched people begin to release their lanterns into the sky. The first few floated up gently, their soft light flickering against the dark canvas of the night. One by one, they began to rise, slowly at first, then with more purpose, as though they were being drawn toward the heavens.

It was breathtaking, a moment that felt almost too perfect for the reality of the world you had come to know. The lanterns drifted higher, the soft glow creating a shimmering constellation of hopes and wishes above.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Bucky’s voice came softly from behind you, and you turned to find him standing there, his face partially illuminated by the flickering light of the bonfire. His eyes, however, were trained on the sky, watching the lanterns rise like tiny stars escaping into the night.

You hadn’t expected him to find you—not tonight. You hadn’t expected him to break away from the formalities of his role. And yet, here he was, his presence grounding you in a way that only he could.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The lanterns were already rising, drifting gently into the night sky, their soft light like stars scattered against the darkness. It was breathtaking, but the beauty of it only heightened the sense of longing that had settled deep within you.

“It feels like the whole world is wishing for something,” you said softly, your gaze returning to the sky. “. . . better. Something brighter.”

Bucky moved closer, his hand brushing against yours. It was such a simple gesture, but it was enough to ground you in the moment. His fingers curled around yours, warm and securing. You didn’t pull away.

“I’ve been wishing too,” he said quietly, his voice almost lost in the sound of the waves gently lapping at the shore.

You hesitated, your chest tightening as you turned to face him more fully. “And what is it that you wish for, James?”

His eyes met yours, and in that moment, the world seemed to slow. There was a vulnerability you rarely saw in him—one that he only ever revealed to you.

“For you,” he murmured. “to be genuinely happy.”

Bucky's hand tightened around yours, his eyes, so full of unspoken love and longing, held yours with a certainty that left no room for doubt.

“What did you wish for?” Bucky asked.

Your gaze dropped to your intertwined hands, your fingers still gripping his as though letting go might cause the world to crumble around you.

"I wished for peace," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "For all of this—the chaos, the pressure—to end."

Bucky’s thumb brushed softly over your knuckles, a silent reassurance. “And for yourself?”

You looked up, meeting his gaze once more. His blue eyes were filled with a tenderness that made your chest tighten. You swallowed hard, searching for the right words.

“I wished for…” you trailed off, the truth threatening to spill over. But you stopped yourself, the weight of duty pressing on you again. You forced a smile instead, your fingers tightening around his. “I wished for the kingdom to thrive.”

“That’s not for yourself. . .”

Bucky’s gaze softened, but he didn’t push further. He simply nodded, his expression unreadable as he turned his head back toward the lanterns drifting higher into the sky. His silence was deafening, but the way his fingers held yours told you he understood what you couldn’t bring yourself to say.

Around you, the lanterns continued to rise, hundreds of them now, filling the sky with their soft, golden light. The bonfires crackled softly in the distance, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the world felt peaceful. The magic of the moment lingered in the air, and in that quiet space, you allowed yourself to believe—just for a little while—that the wishes drifting into the sky might actually come true.

Bucky’s hand slipped from yours, but only for a moment. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, unlit lantern, holding it out to you.

“One more,” he said softly, his voice steady but laced with emotion. “For us.”

Your fingers brushed his as you accepted the lantern, a quiet understanding passing between you. Together, you lit it, the warm glow illuminating both of your faces as the flame flickered to life. Slowly, you both lifted it, ready to release it into the sky.

Just as you were about to let go, Bucky’s voice, soft and full of longing, stopped you. Your breath stilled as his fingers brushed against yours, his eyes locking with yours in a way that made the world around you fade. The noise of the festival, the glow of the lanterns, everything melted away until there was only him.

“I wish…” he began, his voice barely more than a whisper, his gaze unwavering. “I wish that one day, we’ll have a child of our own. A piece of you and me, together.”

The warmth of the lantern’s flame flickered between you, casting a soft glow on his face, illuminating every detail—the way his lips parted slightly, the gentle curve of his jaw, the unspoken promise in his eyes.

And then, without another word, you both released the lantern together, you watched it rise into the night sky, carrying his wish—your shared wish—into the heavens.

Bucky’s gaze never left your face, even as the lantern disappeared into the sea of lights above.

× × × ×

It was the day of officializing the Consort.

The towering oak tree stood at the edge of the palace gardens, its massive branches stretching out like protective arms. You had always found solace here, the leaves whispering in the breeze, the rough bark grounding you when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.

Scott stood at the base of the tree, his arms crossed casually as he looked up at you. By now, he had grown used to your need for solitude, often finding you up in the branches after difficult moments. He had long stopped trying to convince you to come down, knowing that this was where you found some measure of peace.

“They’ve sedated Lady Monica,” Scott said, his voice carrying up to you. “She had a mild wrist fracture, but the physician said she’ll recover quickly. You can visit her once she’s awake.”

You nodded from your perch, though your mind was still far from the present.

“I’ll visit her before the Ceremony.”

The world felt muted, your emotions dulled by today’s event. You had wanted to visit Monica earlier but duty had held you back. Now, there was nothing to do but wait.

The sound of footsteps on the grass drew both you and Scott’s attention. Steve approached quietly, his usual careful, measured strides carrying him toward the oak tree. His gaze flicked up to you, concern written plainly on his face. You knew he’d come to check on you.

Scott glanced at Steve, then back at you.

"I'll give you two a moment," he said, his voice gentle. With a nod, Scott stepped back, disappearing into the distance to give you some space.

Steve stood at the base of the tree, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his gaze soft. He tilted his head back slightly, looking up at you with an expression you had come to recognize—gentle concern mingled with adoration that seemed to grow more obvious.

“Good Morning,” Steve called up quietly, his voice carrying up to your branch. “I figured I’d find you here.”

You glanced down, the feel of his presence tugging at the edges of your solitude.

“I needed some air,” you replied softly, your voice carrying down to him.

Steve nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "Understandable. It’s been... a long couple of days."

For a moment, there was only the rustling of the leaves and the distant sounds of the palace. Steve remained silent, giving you the space to speak if you wanted to—but you didn’t. Instead, you closed your eyes briefly, letting the wind play with your hair, trying to push the ache in your chest deeper down.

But Steve, ever patient, didn’t press. He simply waited, knowing that being there was enough.

After a long silence, you opened your eyes to find Steve studying the branches above him, calculating something. Then, he lifted his arms up, he grabbed hold of the lowest branch and began to climb.

Your brow lifted as you watched him pull himself up, his movements a bit more confident than the last time he attempted this.

“Your climbing skills have improved,” you teased, leaning back against the trunk as he hoisted himself onto the branch across from you.

Steve let out a breath, a half-smile tugging at his lips as he settled himself on the branch, facing you.

“Not like a schoolboy anymore, huh?”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “Not quite.”

There was a brief silence between you as Steve adjusted his position, leaning his back against the trunk. He watched you for a moment, his usual guarded demeanor softening just a touch. It was clear he wasn’t here simply to check on you—there was something else in his expression, something deeper that he hadn’t yet found the words for.

“I figured I’d come see how you were holding up,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. His eyes never left your face.

You gave a small shrug, trying to keep your tone light. “I’m fine. Just… thinking.”

Steve’s gaze lingered on you a little longer than usual. He could see right through the façade you were trying to keep up—he always could. “Thinking about the ceremony?”

You hesitated for a moment, your fingers idly tracing the bark of the branch beneath you. “Among other things.”

Steve nodded, his expression thoughtful. He shifted slightly, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he turned his gaze out toward the horizon.

“You don’t have to be fine, you know. Not with me.”

Something in his voice made you pause. There was a gentleness there that you hadn’t expected, a quiet invitation to drop the mask you wore for everyone else. For a moment, the walls you had built around yourself wavered.

“I know,” you said softly, your eyes dropping to the space between you. “It’s just… complicated.”

“It usually is.” Steve let out a small breath, nodding in understanding.

There was a brief silence between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt as though the two of you were suspended in time, the weight of the palace, the crown, the duties all falling away for just a moment.

Steve shifted again, this time leaning in a little closer, his voice quieter, almost conspiratorial. “You know, I was half expecting you to climb even higher. Maybe hide out completely.”

“And what would you have done if I did?” You raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Probably tried to climb higher too,” he said with a shrug, his lips quirking into a playful grin. “Though I’m not sure how well that would’ve gone.”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “I think you’d manage.”

The lighthearted exchange brought some relief, but your thoughts quickly drifted back to the heavier matters weighing on your mind. You shifted slightly, drawing a deep breath before speaking again, though this time, you found it harder to meet Steve’s gaze.

“Steve,” you began slowly, almost cautiously. “What… will happen after?”

Steve’s brow furrowed slightly, sensing the shift in your tone. “With… what, exactly?”

“The things that happen after the ceremony... I heard it’s a two-day ritual? Consorts weren’t a tradition in Zienna.”

Steve let out a quiet breath, clearly understanding the underlying tension in your question. He shifted a little closer, his voice soft yet steady.

“Yeah, the council has their way of doing things, stretching it all out. There’s usually some symbolic rites for the consort to cement their place. A formality, really.”

You nodded, but your eyes stayed focused on the ground. “And then… after all that?”

Steve could see through your hesitation, the way your words trailed off as if you were too afraid to say what you were truly thinking. His heart clenched, knowing what weighed on your mind but not wanting to cause you more pain.

“You’re wondering about the heir,” he said, gently pulling the words from your silence.

You didn’t answer, but the slight tension in your shoulders spoke volumes.

Steve’s gaze softened as he looked at you, his voice filled with the quiet confidence you had always relied on.

“Look, Y/N… I know the council will push for an heir, but don’t get caught up in their expectations. Bucky’s heart? It’s yours. No matter what they want or what they say… he’s yours.”

You lifted your eyes to meet his, and for the first time in a while, you felt a small sense of relief. Steve’s words held a warmth that wrapped around you like a protective shield, something solid to hold on to amidst the uncertainty.

“But... what if…” you trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Steve’s expression softened, his gaze unwavering. “It will not change his feelings toward you,” he said firmly, his tone steady and assured.

You let out a quiet breath, but the unease still lingered. “Really? I cannot help but think feelings do shift as one spends more time with another.” Your eyes held him with a knowing look, one that hinted at a deeper understanding of what lay beneath the surface.

Steve’s jaw tensed slightly, his composure faltering for a fraction of a second as your words hit their mark. His gaze flickered away, just briefly, before he composed himself once more, his voice low and measured when he spoke again.

"You should stop now, Captain, before it gets deeper."

Steve chuckled softly, the sound tinged with a hint of resignation, as though he'd been caught red-handed. His tongue briefly swiped across his teeth, a small, reflexive gesture that gave away more than he intended. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, his eyes briefly meeting yours again, but this time, there was something lighter in his gaze—something that spoke of a truth he'd been holding onto for too long.

“Hm,” he said quietly, his smile faint but genuine. “Guess I’ve been found out, huh?”

You tilted your head slightly, a teasing glint in your eyes. “You’re really obvious.”

Steve’s gaze flickered with amusement, though there was a trace of something deeper behind his expression. “Maybe I wasn’t trying too hard to hide it from you.”

But then Steve’s expression softened, the playfulness fading into something more sincere. His hand dropped from his neck, resting on his knee as he leaned forward, his tone quiet but resolute.

“But you don’t have to worry. I won’t act on it. I won’t pursue you—because I can’t.” He hesitated, his eyes searching yours, as if wanting to make sure you understood. “You’ve got enough on your shoulders as it is. I won’t add to it.”

There was a steady resolve in his voice, a reassurance that he wouldn’t let his feelings complicate things further. Yet, even as he spoke the words, you both knew that the tension between you would remain.

His smile returned, softer this time, though tinged with a hint of sadness. “Just know… wherever you go, that's where I follow. Always.”

× × × ×

You walked slowly down the corridor, Isaac at your side, his silent presence a steadying force, though unease curled deep in your chest. The weight of guilt gnawed at you, but you forced it down. Now wasn’t the time to fall apart.

Isaac's eyes were sharp, ever watchful, as you neared Monica's bedside. He hadn’t said much since he insisted on coming along, and though a part of you wondered why, Steve's lack of resistance made you push the thought aside. Isaac always carried that quiet intensity, a storm kept at bay but ready to break if needed.

His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, a habit he never quite lost, even when no danger was immediately present. His demeanor was far from relaxed, his presence reminding you of the subtle tensions that still ran through the palace.

“Are you sure about this?” Isaac asked in a low voice, his eyes scanning the corridor ahead.

You nodded, keeping your face neutral despite the knot tightening in your stomach. “I should have come sooner.”

Isaac gave a curt nod but said nothing more, pushing open the door to the infirmary. He stepped aside, allowing you to enter first, though his sharp gaze never left you.

Monica lay in the bed by the window, her complexion still pale, but her eyes open. When the door creaked, she glanced over, her lips curling into a faint smile upon seeing you.

“Your Majesty,” Monica greeted, her voice strained as she tried to sit up.

You moved quickly to her bedside, gently motioning for her to lie back. “Don’t strain yourself,” you said, keeping your tone as stern as possible.

Monica gave you a small smile, her hand reaching out weakly toward you. You took it, her skin cold against yours.

“It’s good to see you,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, your mind racing. The guilt was there, gnawing at you, but you refused to let it show. “I should have been here sooner, Monica. I should have known something was wrong.”

Monica squeezed your hand, though her grip was feeble. “Don’t… blame yourself.”

Your jaw clenched. “But I can’t help feeling responsible. I should have been more vigilant—I’ve been too focused on my own self pity.”

Monica shook her head weakly, her gaze steady despite her weakened state. “No, your majesty… this is not on you. They’re targeting you… you know that. But this… this wasn’t your fault.”

You took a breath, glancing toward the window. “It still feels like I missed something. I should’ve been paying attention to the signs.”

Monica’s gaze softened. “You’re doing your best, my Queen. Don’t carry a weight that isn’t yours.”

Isaac, who had been standing silently near the door, his arms crossed as he observed the exchange, let his gaze drift between the two women, his face impassive but his mind already calculating. His fingers drummed lightly against his arm, betraying the restlessness stirring beneath his calm exterior.

A long silence stretched between them before Monica’s expression shifted. Her gaze became more serious, a glint of worry creeping into her eyes.

“Your Majesty… are you still drinking tea?”

You blinked as confusion crossed your features.

“Tea? Y-yes, but not often why?”

“Any tea,” Monica pressed, her voice a little stronger now. “Not just the tea Lady Sharon brought you… have you been drinking anything else?”

Isaac’s eyes narrowed sharply. He took a step forward, his voice low and measured, though his tone carried an unmistakable edge.

“Why do you ask?”

Monica hesitated, glancing between you and Isaac, her lips pressing into a thin line before she spoke. “Because… I ran a test on the tea that was brought to you—I believe you saw me. . .Prince Isaac?”

Isaac recalled and nodded twice.

“What do you mean?”

Monica’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, her voice grave. “It wasn’t just tea. It was tainted with Silphium.”

Your brow furrowed. “Silphium?” The name meant little to you; you had never studied such herbs in detail. “What is that?”

Isaac’s gaze darkened, a flicker of recognition passing through his eyes, though his expression remained inscrutable.

He spoke, his voice a shade colder now. “Silphium is a contraceptive, Your Majesty. Highly effective… and not something that should have been anywhere near your cup.”

Monica nodded grimly. “And worse than that… it wasn’t only Silphium. There was also a small amount of wolfsbane mixed in.”

Isaac’s face hardened, his fists clenching at his sides. He stepped forward, his posture predatory, a dark storm cloud on the verge of eruption.

“Wolfsbane? Poison?” His voice was dangerously quiet, simmering with a lethal calm.

Monica shook her head, her face clouded with concern. “The combination is dangerous. It could have harmed her far more than just preventing an heir. Silphium alone is potent, but adding wolfsbane could… well, it could weaken her considerably.”

Isaac’s lips curled into a faint, dangerous smile, though an ounce of humor was absent. He turned toward you, his eyes flashing with barely-contained fury. Isaac scoffed under his breath, shaking his head as if disgusted by the messiness of the situation.

“Huh. I see now,” he muttered, his voice low. He met your gaze, his eyes gleaming with a predatory intensity.

The tension in the room mounted, the implications of what had been revealed settling heavily in the air. You felt your stomach twist, a cold realization sweeping over you—someone wants you dead.

Isaac’s voice cut through the charged air, dark and commanding. “This is an attack.”

Monica’s voice broke through the charged air, her tone still soft but filled with caution. “Please, Your Majesty, you must be careful. Whoever is behind this. . . have something against the royal family.”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest, but a steely resolve building within you.

Isaac stood by your side, his presence a silent vow of protection, his demeanor now cold and calculating, ready to do whatever was necessary. As you glanced at him, you could see the fire in his eyes.

× × × ×

As you left Monica’s chambers, the weight of the revelation pressed down on you like a physical burden. The air felt colder, the hallways stretching endlessly ahead as you walked side by side with Isaac. Each step seemed heavier, your thoughts racing as the full implication of the situation crashed over you. Silphium. Wolfsbane. Someone had ordered to poison your tea—someone who wanted to weaken you, perhaps even kill you.

Your breath quickened, coming in shallow bursts, your chest tight as anger and fear swirled within you, threatening to spill over. The rage—it was too much to contain. Hot tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision as you tried to hold it together, to keep the storm of emotions from escaping. But it was no use. Your breathing became frantic, fast and shallow, and you could feel the tingling in your fingers and toes as the lack of oxygen spread through your body.

Isaac’s sharp gaze flickered toward you. He sensed the shift immediately, the way your steps faltered, the way your shoulders trembled. Without a word, he moved closer, his hand resting firmly at the small of your back, guiding you forward, keeping you upright as your legs threatened to give way beneath you.

“Steady,” he murmured, his voice low but filled with a surprising gentleness, one that cut through the storm in your mind. “Breathe.”

But you couldn’t. The air wouldn’t come. Your chest tightened further, your vision darkening at the edges as the tears spilled over. You tried to focus, to ground yourself, but it was like drowning in your own fury and helplessness.

Isaac’s grip tightened around you as your legs buckled. His arm looped around your waist, pulling you against him with swift, protective force. He held you up effortlessly, his expression hardening with concern as he watched you struggle for breath.

“You’re not collapsing here,” Isaac said, his voice firm, steady, but not unkind. His grip on your shoulders tightened just slightly, “Y/N. . . Y/N! Slow your breathing. Breathe with me.”

His voice, deep and commanding, cut through the haze of your panic, pulling you back. You were barely aware of your surroundings, but Isaac’s presence was solid. His breath was slow, deliberate, and he leaned in closer, bringing his face level with yours.

“Look at me,” he said softly, his voice carrying an undercurrent of urgency. You forced your eyes to meet his, and the intensity of his gaze almost made you falter. But you held on, your breaths coming in short, sharp exhales, your chest tight with anger and frustration.

“Breathe with me,” he repeated, his eyes never leaving yours. Slowly, he inhaled, his chest rising and falling in a controlled rhythm. You tried to follow his lead, matching his breaths, but the rage inside you made it difficult.

Tears welled up in your eyes, your vision blurring once more. Isaac’s expression softened, just slightly, as if he could see the storm raging inside you. His hands moved from your shoulders to gently cup your face, his fingers cool against your heated skin.

His gaze held yours, intense and searching. The world around you seemed to come back, his attention pulling you back to the present.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice low but firm, his eyes locked onto yours.

Your breath began to slow, your body responding to his calm, but your heart still raced, not from fear but from the intensity of the moment. His eyes never wavered, holding you there, steady and secure, until you felt yourself coming back into control.

“You need to pull yourself together,” Isaac whispered, his voice barely audible but sharp with purpose. His hands remained firm against your skin, grounding you. “Just a bit longer. The ceremony is coming, and everyone is there. You need to be ready.”

His words sliced through the haze clouding your mind, a harsh reminder of the responsibilities that awaited you. His eyes never left yours, as if willing you to find the strength within yourself. Despite the rage and the panic, you knew he was right.

With a deep, shaky breath, you nodded, feeling the last remnants of panic begin to ease. Isaac nodded, his expression softening just slightly as he saw the determination return to your eyes.

“Let’s go,” he said quietly but firmly, releasing your arm and stepping back, giving you a moment to gather yourself fully.

You straightened, your heart still pounding but your mind now clearer, sharper. Without another word, you and Isaac turned and began walking toward the Great Hall.

The ceremony took place in the Great Hall where the council members stood in a semi-circle, watching closely, their faces impassive—except Pietro Maximoff who now seemed to be getting weird looks from other council members. The Queen Dowager sat quietly at the head of the hall, her expression indecipherable. Steve stood by the entrance, arms crossed, his gaze never leaving the center of the room. But Isaac who you swore was there mere seconds ago was gone.

× × × ×

The infirmary was eerily quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the nearby fire in the hearth. Shadows danced across the room, casting a faint glow over Monica’s resting figure. The heavy scent of medicinal herbs lingered in the air, and the soft rustle of linen was the only other sound.

Sharon stood by Monica's bedside, her eyes narrowing as she watched the stillness of her body. Her heart pounded, her mind racing with the grim task she had come to finish. With a steady hand, she reached for the pillow beside Monica’s head, her fingers tightening around the fabric.

Without hesitation, she lifted the pillow, bringing it close, her breath quickening as she hovered over Monica's face, prepared to snuff out the last remnants of life As Sharon pressed the pillow down, Monica's body jolted awake, her hands flailing wildly, clawing at the fabric with desperate panic. Her legs kicked beneath the blanket, trying to fight for air, her eyes wide with fear.

But before Monica's struggling could fully register, Sharon was suddenly ripped away from the bed. A powerful hand clamped around her throat, yanking her back with such force that she slammed into the stone wall behind her.

Isaac stood over her, his expression dark and commanding, his hand still wrapped tightly around her neck. His eyes gleamed with a cold, dangerous intensity, his lips curling into a faint smirk as he held her against the wall. The casual, almost predatory ease in his posture made her blood run cold.

“You’re really becoming quite the nuisance, aren’t you?” Isaac’s voice was low, dripping with dark amusement. His thumb brushed lightly over her throat, sending a shiver through her, though there was no mercy in his eyes. His grip tightened slightly, making her gasp.

Behind them, Monica's hands were still weakly reaching toward her throat, gasping for breath, but Isaac's focus remained solely on Sharon.

Sharon struggled in his hold, her eyes wide with shock as she grasped at his wrist, but Isaac didn’t budge. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her skin, his gaze never leaving hers.

“You should have known better than to try something like this under my watch,” he murmured, his voice a soft, lethal purr. “Now, tell me… was this your own idea, or are you following someone else’s orders?”

Sharon’s chest heaved, her breath shallow, jaw clenched as she refused to answer. He tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening.

“No? Well then, perhaps I’ll give you a moment to reconsider before I lose my patience,” he added, his voice like silk, though there was a lethal promise hidden beneath the surface.

For a moment, Sharon struggled to breathe, her eyes darting between Isaac and the doorway, her mind racing for an escape. But Isaac’s hold didn’t falter—he was in complete control, and he knew it.

Finally, after a few tense seconds, Isaac loosened his grip just slightly, enough for her to gasp for air. He raised an eyebrow, watching her intently, waiting for her to speak.

"You have a choice here, Sharon," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with barely contained menace. "Answer me… or I can make this much worse for you.”

Tags: @theendofthematerialgworl @httpb3a @spiidergirlsworld @sebastians-love @stevesbbgorl

@targaryenhues @almosttoopizza @scott-loki-barnes @brckenmemories @vicmc624

@classicrebound @nommingonfood @greatenthusiasttidalwave @railmesebstan @annawilk

@landoslutmeout @winterslove1917 @missvelvetsstuff @s0kovianwitch @lveegsoi

@suckerfordylansstuff @daydream-believer19 @shadowzena43 @itsshellzy @decaffeinatedjellyfishduck

@melsunshine @barnesxstan @singsosworld @kitsunetori

@im-normal-about-characters @hayleythecannibal @tallaennatargaryen @honeywithemoney

158 notes · View notes

importantstudentbusinessspy-blog · 8 months ago

Text

Heirs

Pairing: Robb Stark x Baratheon/Lannister reader

When Ned Stark comes to King's landing, he learns that out of Cersei's children, you, the arranged bride of his eldest son, are the only legitimate heir of Robert's. This discovery challenges the Lannisters and costs Ned his life.

When Ned Stark is executed, Robb is left broken, his family torn apart... and the only person he can take his frustration out on is you, his arranged bride, and the sister of the boy who ruined his life and had his father killed.

Tags: Arranged marriage, Robb is a bad boy in this one, corruption, innocent reader, first time,

CH. 1 First Meeting - Ned Stark's eldest son and Robert Baratheon’s eldest (legitimate) daughter got off to a relatively exciting start.

Chapter tags: fluff, first meeting, Robb and reader are kids here, teasing, Cersei is nice,

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♠︎♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤

The lord of Winterfell sat stoic, alongside his lady wife at the long table, on which one side seated his people, across from the other, which seated the party from Kings Landing. Ned Stark's sons were sitting by his side. The eldest, Robb, had just turned eleven. Now, in the midst of his warrior training, the boy wasn't small by any means. Though his body was developing and he had already reached his mother in height, Robb still maintained a spark of childlike michieve in his grey eyes.

Ned had wanted Robb to have a good childhood, but circumstances had forced him to educate his son to fight and rule from a young age. He was glad Robb still had cleverness in him to retort his brothers jests, and the chivalry to protect his little sisters, but knew the playfulness would someday come to an end when Robb will need to lead his people into winter.

The Baratheons visiting from Kings Landing sat alongside the Starks, eyeing the table in front of them, some were eating away happily, like the king, while some, like his wife Cersie grimaced at the display of meat, likely not used to the lack of decorum in her sheltered palace.

Ned hid his guilty smirk at the discomfort. Cersei and her children all sat together as well, the eldest, a pretty girl of nine was helping her rowdy little brothers and sister to food, mixes of greens consisting of fruits, nuts, and vegetables, with measured and delicate movements.

Ned both loathed and excited at the idea of betrothing his son to the kings daughter. There would be peace in the realm on one hand. On the other hand, her grandfather Tywin's and your mother's ambition and the Lannisters' reputation for manipulation made him uneasy.

The girl was frail, weak even compared to Rob’s small and hyper siblings, let alone to Robb himself. Already you were attracting attention, as the boys at the table kept turning to look at you. With long hair falling on the side of your tanned face and freckles decorating blushing cheeks.

Before the feast, he was pulled Robert and Cersei aside and discussed the match.

Not enjoying the attention some of the boys and even some men were giving you, Ned gave Robb a nudge, interrupting his conversation with his brother, Jon. "Perhaps you should entertain your guest, son?"

The boy followed his fathers gaze to you, then to the men eyeing you and understanding set. Robb nodded and stood to head over to the table where you sat. He bent down and whispered something in your ear, making you jump in surprise at first, before listening in. You looked up at him, feeling a slight warmth on your ears and cheeks, and turned to ask your mother for permission to go with him. The queen nodded at your request, smiling fondly at you, momentarily eyeing Robb with suspicion.

The boy offered one of his signature, easygoing smiles, offering you his hand before leading you outside.

One of his footsteps was twice as big as yours. You had to jog rather than walk to keep up with him, lifting up your dress high enough not to trip but also low enough not to expose yourself. He didn't slow down to match your speed either, which caused your father, the king, to smirk to his old friend.

Ned and Catelyn watched their heir leave the feast with the princess, then turned to his men, who asked him questions about the following year's harvest.

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♠︎♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤

You let yourself be led out of the warm and loud comfort of the great hall and out into the chilled, windfilled night of the north. "Where are we going?"

"Anywhere," the boy leading you replied. "My father told me to entertain you."

"Oh," you let out a small breath and looked down shyly. Of course, he wasn't with you of his own free will.

"Wanna see what northerners do for fun?" He asked.

You felt a flash of nervousness go down your spine. "Is it dangerous?"

He turned around to look if you were serious, grey eyes studied you in amusement before he let out a chuckle. "No. We just climb up the walls," He nodded towards a massive stone wall of the castle of winterfell, rising up to touch the night sky.

you eyes traveled all the way up, and you mouth dried. Your fear of hights warred with your desire to impress him. In the end, your fear won. "Then, m-maybe we shouldn't."

"Oh, princess.” he drawled, tilting his head mockingly. “Are you scared?"

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. He was so unnecessarily teasing. Nevertheless, you would stand your ground, just as your mother taught you to. "You can not speak to me that way."

He stopped walking and turned to look at her. "Oh, I see. You do have guts…" He said calmly, approaching you. Deep grey eyes staring at you under messy dark brown hair. Taking a step back, you had decided you'd rather he yelled. It would have scared you less than this.

You tried your best not to cower. "I don't want to do something dangerous -" you winced at how your voice rose louder than you had intended, making you sound all the more afraid. "Sorry," you added in a small voice. "Can we do something else?"

He raised one dark brow at you as if considering your question. Finally, he spoke again. "No." He said, and he pulled you by the hand anyway.

Your eyes widened in fear, and you glanced back to the feast, to you, mother, and sister.

"Easy, princess." He said before facing you again and saying quietly, "I won't let you fall."

You didn't trust him, but it didn't feel like you had much of a choice, feeling like you were fighting an uphill battle.

The two of you climbed up the wall. It went up around five meters and was already on a hill. It was the highest you had ever been, and the effects were obvious, as you panted, your lungs trying to catch up with you. Robb had no trouble, effortlessly climbing the slope, not carefully stepping around the slippery ice like you were. At some point, he began pulling you along with his free hand, bringing them to one level. How was he holding on to the jagged, frost-covered brick without a rope? Without gloves? And able to carry both of your weights?

You felt lightheaded as you gripped onto him. At last the two of you reached the flattened top. The sounds of laughter and signing caused you to turn to the right. There were young people everywhere along the top of the wall. A few of them cheered and waved as they saw the two of you climb up.

You blinked and let herself be put down, concentrating on staying upright. You were taking labored breaths, and you turned to look at their surroundings, gasping when you saw the view. The snow-covered roofs were magnificently illuminated by the streetlights and the full moon, and misshapen clouds danced in the stars above you. You were looking in fascination when all of a sudden, a flask was thrust in front of her.

"Drink up," You turned to see Robb wipe at his chin, a clear liquid making his lips shine.

She took the bottle tentatively, gasping "What's in it?"

"Something tasty. Trust me."

"I don't think I should." You shook your head.

He rolled his eyes at that. "Live a little, princess. I already said I'll look out for you. If anything bad happens to you, the king will skin my ass-"

You gasped.

"- so you're safe."

"Why do you speak like that?" You admonished. "You are a prince!"

He gave you a condescending smirk, flashing a set of perfect white teeth. For some reason, you didn't understand. Some Northerners sharpened their canines. Robb was one of them. Had his teeth even fallen yet? You snapped out of your thoughts when he said. "Because it's fun to watch you squirm. Are you gonna have any or not?"

You eyed the container and shook your head, handing it back to him. He took anotyou couple of sips and howled at the moon, startling you again. His was followed by a series of howls from the teenagers on the rocks. They sat on a cold rock and looked over the clouds and mountains. There wasn't enough time to take in all the gorgeous scenery, from the hills to the planes to a big snowy mountain in the distance.

He draped one arm around your shoulders casually, which made you ragged, breathing even more difficult. Bringing his shaggy head close to hers, he squinted. "Do you know what you're looking at?"

"The wall," you supplied. From his close proximity, you could smell the metallic scent of the drink coming from his lips.

"Very good,” he nodded, the praise making a warmth spread in your chest. “The wall. so far away, and here we are. And all our problems. So insignificant." You felt a tug at one strand Of your hair and turned to see his hand pulling at it playfully.

You disregarded the gesture, which made your heart speed up and focused on his words instead. “What's beyond it? What's hiding?”

His look turned serious all of a sudden as he gazed on to the faraway intimidating pile of ice. Then he turned back to you, blue eyes staring in melancholy into your soul. “Nothing a princess should ever worry you thoughts with.”

She blinked up at him, and a shiver ran up your spine. You turned back and looked at the moon. It was marvelous that up close,you could clearly make out the craters and valleys. You wondered, not for the first time, how it came to be.

You were opening your mouth, about to follow up with more questions, but the climb had tired you out quicker than you had expected, and your vision blurred. You felt herself fall back, waiting to hit the ground, when your vision went completely dark.

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♠︎♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤

You woke up to a black sky filled with stars. Blinking, you realised your head was in someone's lap, and someone was gently stroking your cheek. You took a long breath, and your vision became clearer. The muffled sounds around you were clearing up as well. You realised whose lap your head was in and who was stroking your cheek. You got up with a start, making him move his hand. Grey eyes focused on you with curiosity. "I've never seen anyone pass out from speaking before. Good instinct on not drinking the ale."

Your brows furrowed. "The what? Nevermind. It's the air. It is hard to breathe up here."

You felt yourself going dizzy again. In Winterfell, you had never been this elevated before back in Kings Landing, but sitting on the walls of the castle itself… What were you thinking about again?

"Woah!" Rob caught and held you before you could fall once more, heat from his large, muscular body bringing you somewhat back to reality.

"Bring... me... down," you managed between gasps. You mustered the strength to add, "or my lungs will rupture, I will die, and my father will skin your… ass."

But it looked like the second part of your rant was unnecessary because he lifted you in his arms, said goodbye to his companions, who hooted and laughed. You caught some muttering about a "first timer" or “southerner”. They were laughing at you. The king's daughter. But you didn't have it in you to care as you struggled to stay awake.

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♠︎♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤

By the gods, this girl was fragile, Robb thought to himself while he carried the gasping, shivering little thing to the edge of the castle walls. He felt around with one hand to find his rope, always neatly tied at his belt. He'd thought to himself, could carry you all the way down and have a boring evening, or, he could excite you a bit. He chuckled to himself, knowing exactly which option he was going to choose. He lowered you to stand on your own and got his axe from his belt before tying it to his rope. He zeroed in on the tall oak in the courtyard. His target. He's practiced and hit with longer distances. He will be fine this time.

You shivered and stared as he did so.

Robb kissed the hilt of his axe, saying a quick prayer. "You may want to crouch."

You did so instantly, making a ball on the ground. Robb took aim and held the end of the rope, which wasn't tied to the axe, and sent the blade flying. It pulled and pulled on his rope until wedging itself sideways in the oak.

Robb grinned down and said, "You can get up now, princess."

You stood up slowly, your eyes widening at his shot. "How…?”

He grinned and tied the other end of the rope around himself, then offered you his hand.

You eyed his outstretched hand, then the rope, the tree, then the wall. "I think I'll just go down the steps-!" He pulled you against himself and jumped. Your lungs must have recovered because you screamed the whole way down. Robb used his weight to swing you both once around the oak before landing in the snow.

He looked down at you and saw a shudder when you glanced back at the top of the wall where you both were a minute ago.

"Gods," you gasped before turning to look up at him, your eyes reflecting the stars. "Thanks for not dropping me."

He raised a brow, implying that you did not need to say that.

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♠︎♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤

That evening, his father told him something Robb already suspected: the king and queen had arranged a match between you and him.

#eventual smut #game of thrones #got fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones fluff #robb stark #robb stark x reader #robb stark x you #robb stark fluff #robb stark smut

294 notes · View notes

ihavenoideawhatiamdoingjustgay2 · 4 days ago

Note

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 sems

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/?

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

#genshin impact #genshin arlecchino #arlecchino genshin #genshin impact arlecchino #arlechinno genshin #arlecchino x reader #arleccino genshin #genshin x reader #arlecchino x you

69 notes · View notes

dolliels · 8 months ago

Text

I’VE BECOME THE FIANCÉ OF THE VILLAIN?! pt4

synopsis: going to bed after reading a horribly self indulgent romance novel, you seemed to wake up as an extra of the series. what stories will unfold while on a mission to find a way out?

author’s note: freaky ass chapter lol

[one] [two] [three] [four] [epilogue]

"why do you come over so often?" you asked leaning back against your couch.

leona was comfortably resting his head on your thighs. "you said you liked your house better than the palace." he replied.

"ohhh so that's what the question was for." you said to yourself out loud. leona just grunted and leaned in closer.

it had been about a week since what you would call 'the incident.' (the kiss. don't be embarrassed!) and you found that leona really did enjoy lounging around your house. it was like he was living here again, except he went home after dinner because after disappearing for months (and hiding at your place) he was apparently scolded very hard and had two sets of guards follow him everywhere.

they were the two royal guards that asked you about leona's whereabouts before. it seemed as if only those two and leona were the only ones who knew (and figured out) that you had been unknowingly hiding him and keeping the royal family very vulnerable with leona’s disappearance. (oops!)

you've heard people whispering about the second prince's whereabouts, which was why you were so insistent that he goes back home to the palace. which he did. way later than he should've.

the two guards were named ruggie and jack. you kinda felt bad that they had to stick around waiting for leona all day so every time you cooked a meal, you'd prepare little lunchboxes for them to enjoy, and gift them books you think they might like, free of charge.

jack, apparently, was new to the job. he looked very righteous, definitely a guy who trained to work for the royal family his entire life. he did not look at least one bit bored waiting around for leona all day long. he was also reluctant to eat the food you made, but after seeing leona wolf it down and snag a few from your plate when you weren't looking, jack started to take them a lot more comfortably.

ruggie, on the other hand, seemed to be a seasoned veteran. not in battle though. just dealing with leona.

apparently, ruggie had been on leona's ass since they were teenagers so everyone thought it would be better to just let ruggie stick with leona even after he was promoted to knighthood.

ruggie was fine with it. he claimed it was easy money and he didn't mind sticking with leona. he said it was a lot easier now that you could take care of him (you flushed at this comment) and greedily took the food you offered without a second thought.

you laid your head back. the fire was cackling and the hot cocoa was letting out steam. winter was really near, and the house was often cold so you mostly stayed around the living room or bundled up tightly in bed. you were too scared to leave the fire on overnight to warm the house, so it got pretty chilly at night.

these were the days you really missed modern living with their heaters and air conditioners. summer was pretty hard to deal with as well, heavy heatstrokes hitting your house every second of every hour. but the cold days were the worst. you could just wear less layers during the summer, but the winter meant you had to be prepared. you thanked the heavens that leona was warm and toasty, as you started to often hold onto him for warmth.

you weren't sure what you'd call whatever you and him had. a relationship? a couple? your boyfriend? you shook your head. you had no idea if this world had some sort of courting tradition and leona just threw away the rules and kissed you right then and there, but you didn't really care. you still had intentions to leave this world, even if that seemed to be way far out of your reach.

sometimes, you'd compare the leona who was hogging your thighs right now to the leona you read in the novel. in the novel, leona rarely showed any physical contact with roselia, nor did he kiss her until the very end of the story, where it was left to a happily ever after. he was often shy with his advances and would rather show his affections and love through the sidelines, doing things for her ambiguously. this leona, however, was very, very handsy. the moment you guys kissed, he hadn't been able to keep his hands off of you. hand on your waist, holding hands, little pecks on your face, a hug, you name it, he's done it. he had zero shame.

"hey, do you want to eat out tonight?"

"sure. i'm tired of cooking. where?"

"isn't there a branch of mostro lounge nearby."

"what? that place costs so much!"

"did you forget who I am?"

there was one thing that the novel got right about leona's preferred way to show affection.

both versions of leona loved to flaunt their money.

a month into whatever the hell was going on between you and leona, you were skimming through a book about transmigration. the hope of leaving never really left, even if you seemed to be pretty settled (and even in a relationship)

sometimes, when the body's owner wake up in a completely new body in a completely new life without their consent, they tend to almost never find a way out, no matter what they try.

hah, you'd been there.

however, some speculate that the only way to go back home in those situations is through feeling alone. if the transmigrator doesn't have a 100% unchangeable desire to go back home, the chances are zero to none. this is why those who end up settling down at a life in their new world usually have a hard time getting back. especially those who form meaningful bonds. those who are stuck in the middle are called to have a 'transmigration conundrum.'

you thought to yourself. do you truly like it here? like, before you met leona and started liking him like that. were you truly content? you were mixed with emotion.

if the transmigrator really does have a strong desire to go back home, they find themselves suddenly awake in their beds as if no time has passed and no changes had happened at all. those who claimed that they have experienced this state that they were usually able to go back home after they resolved some complicated feelings they had with those in the other world.

your eyes were starting to get droopy. you were relaxed, lying down on your bed, leona right next to you, snoring as loud as a person would possibly be. it was nearing dark and you wanted to wake leona but you got distracted staring at his face.

for a prince, he looked pretty unguarded. but then again, he did have two royal guards standing right outside of your door.

you kissed the top of his forehead and looked up at your ceiling.

attachments… what were you attached to in this world?

leona, for starters, was very special in your heart. the bookstore was quite special too, you guessed. you've come to grow fond of the smell of vintage yellowed paper pages or the way fresh ink would glide smoothly from your quill.

you were also a little fond of ruggie and jack, and the fresh produce you were able to get (you eventually became friends with the grocer after bargaining with the guy so much) and the delicious foods you were able to make with it.

but you were also fond of the extremely processed, sugar snacks, and the easily accessible internet, transportation, phones and your bedroom.

you truly did have a transmigration conundrum.

you were getting sleepy and felt like dozing off, but you knew leona couldn't sleep over so you slowly shook him.

"hey. leona, wake up."

he growled and turned to sleep over you. you groaned and smacked his back. no reaction.

"leonaaaa wake upppp you know you're not allowed to sleep over and i don't want ruggie or jack to bust into my house again. if they break my door again you better buy me a nicer one."

you sniffed. something was burning.

"leona. do you smell that?"

you saw him scrunch up his nose, then open his eyes.

"something's burning."

leona stood right up and you followed behind.

your house was fine, so you had no idea where the burning smell was coming from. leona probably thought the same as he grabbed your hand and proceed to head to the back door. the door connected to the bookstore.

the moment he opened the door, a rageful fire bursted through and he immediately closed it back. you eyes widened. the books!

letting go of his hand, you ran out the other door to walk out and see your bookstore in full. it seemed as if both jack and ruggie had just noticed the fire as they scurried right behind you.

the entire bookstore… it was in flames. but how? never mind that. you needed to put the fire out!

you had never felt so desolate in your life.

by the time you managed to stop the fire (with the help of ruggie, jack and leona– jack especially) the entire placed was screwed over. the books were pure black in ash, the supports were fallen off and the roof was just, not there.

the fire somehow transported itself to your house as well, so some of the area was burnt off. but you still had a livable house, luckily.

leona offered to pay to rebuild the place but you just shook your head. the words transmigration conundrum echoed in your head and you had a subtle urge to try and let go of this place you've come to love.

you still had some books lying around your house. thank the sevens you had stacks of them at home.

but the comfort of a leatherback storybook wasn't there. just a pitted void of what you used to do. you also didn't have a job anymore. so what now?

leona was beside you once again, this time wide awake. he still did look sleepy.

"i have no job, and i'm deadbeat broke most of the time… what am I to do now?" you laughed weakly. you could still see the hints of burnt wood creeping on your walls and you felt even more devoid.

"you could live with me. then you won't have to work at all. or work at the library archive." leona suggested, leaning his head onto your shoulder.

"living with you? in the palace? me? with the royal family? that's insane. you'd need a good reason to house someone perfectly healthy and fine like me."

"what about amalgamation?"

"amalgamation? like marriage? haha."

"yea."

you turned your head. he looked dead serious.

"...what?"

"i'm saying we could be engaged, or something. then you could live in the palace."

that's right… roselia had no reason to worry about food or housing, because the palace took care of that for her… the pros of being a prince's fiancé.

but you had to be smart. you were just a commoner. the royal family didn't know you, the kingdom's people didn't know you, you didn't even know yourself.

you also weren't sure if people would take it to liking when leona randomly announces a wedding engagement.

the words transmigration conundrum still echoed loudly in your head. the desire to go back home seemed to have been ignited brightly once more.

"...no." you decided.

leona genuinely looked surprised. "no?"

"i can't… i just can't." you fumbled your words. you couldn't bring yourself to explain why. you wanted to spill your guts out with reasoning, but you could not find the right words.

"so if i asked you seriously and proposed, would you say no?"

you felt tense. "I… I guess so…"

leona straightened up. "then you should've said so in the first place. then i wouldn't have bothered with you or this relationship at all."

he walked out the door, his tail swished left and right rapidly. he was upset, you could tell that easily. but you didn't have the strength to get up and chase after him. you were tired. tired of this world, tired of somehow having the worst luck, and being struck with guilt over everything.

huh, so did leona intend to marry you in this relationship?

that wouldn’t be a good idea. right?

you probably wouldn’t be able to fully commit to it— considering your position right now.

were you not able to or did you just simply not want to?

you saw snow fall outside the window.

transmigration conundrum.

it had been two or three days since you last saw leona. you couldn't remember, as you laid in bed all day, mourning over who knows what (you felt as if you got over the whole bookstore thing– the responsibility of running it did take a toll on you. so what was making you so miserable now?) (you knew. it was because leona wasn’t there.)

he visited nearly everyday. this was the longest time you've gone without seeing him since the beginning of your relationship.

relationship? what relationship?! what even were you two? he just kissed you and got all touchy with you. and you, being touch starved and miserable without your friends or family, probably just leaned into the attention! and- not even two months in and he asked about marriage. what is this?! is this world really that weird or is leona just a freak?

you groaned into your pillow. being welled up in your own home was suffocating. this entire world was suffocating. you needed a breath of fresh air.

it was nearing sunset, and you decided you wanted to take a quick walk on a whim.

bundling up in your warmest clothes, you stepped outside to experience winter in this universe for the first time. it was truly beautiful, with its flawless, untouched and pristine white snow, the way the sun dimly makes the shadows appear in dark and warm hues of blue… you wished you weren't so frustrated so that you could appreciate it properly.

stomping in the snow, you huffed and breathed in the cold winter air as it entered your lungs. you were suddenly starting to feel better, and your mind was emptying.

however, due to your enjoyment of simply taking a breather outside, you realized it was nearing nightfall. you have to go home as soon as possible, you had no light source with you.

stomp, stomp you could hear your shoes step into the snow as you trudged through them like the total athlete you are.

you could barely see ahead of you, as it was dark at this point, so you were just following the footsteps in the snow you left. but it was snowing again, and your markings were fading away. you had to hurry.

stomp, stomp, stomp…

gotta hurry home…

stomp, stomp, stomp….

transmigration conundrum?

stomp, stomp, stomp…

you laughed at yourself. no way you're stuck in the middle. what conundrum is there?

stomp, stomp, stomp…

you just want to go home. done deal.

stomp, stomp, stomp…

who cares about anything else?

stomp, stomp, stomp…

who cares about leona king- OOF!

you were too engrossed into your thoughts that you ran into someone.

“I’m sorry.” you said, not bothering to look up. the shoes the guy was wearing looked fancy.

“y/n.”

you finally realized what you were doing and look up in hurry. it was leona.

“why are you here?”

“i followed the footsteps from your house.”

“oh. okay then. bye, i guess.”

psh. you didn’t care about leona either. you lost interest in everything. you wanted to go home.

“wait.”

transmigration conundrum.

leona grabbed your wrist. you turned around, both your faces fleshed in red from the cold. you didn’t want to see leona anymore. the more you looked at him, the more the guilt grew.

ultimately, the only thing keeping you from leaving this so called ‘conundrum’ was him.

if you decided to stay all for the sake of him, like roselia did, instead of going home, then you wouldn’t be able to go back. you’d lose everything you’d ever known. your friends, your family… although you were pretty boyfriend-less in your world, you were still happy because everyone and everything you loved was still there.

you missed your bed, your parents, your friends. you missed fast food and sodas and reading comic books. you missed having a cool AC to fight against the summer heat, unlike now where you had to just deal with it while withstanding a wrist-pain inducing fan.

leona was here, but everything else was there. you just couldn’t give it up.

leona’s eyes were wide, his chest heaving up and down as the winter fog surrounded you both.

“i love you.”

you blink.

“y/n. y/n i love you.”

you felt tears well up in your eyes.

“i-“

“i love you. i love your tryhard cooking, your shitty medical skills. the books stacked around your house— i did enjoy reading them. i love you. why can’t you understand that? what is blocking you from being with me? is it because i’m a prince? is my status scary? i’m not even after the throne. i have no interest. i just want to be with you.”

wow. so your guess was right. you thought that leona maybe lost interest in going after the throne. this was a red flag.

leona lost interest in all his evil schemes when he finally settled and accepted his feelings of roselia. which meant only one thing— he accepted his feelings for you. from how early on he stopped caring for the throne, he’s accepted his love for you a long, long time ago.

“i— i don’t mind settling down in a small town. i don’t care if my reputation crashes. we- we could rebuild that bookstore together. and not through my family’s money. we can actually work for it.”

this was bad. he was willing to lose everything. the leona kingscholar, who only cared about the throne, was now showing the most emotion you’ve ever seen, in person or in novel— for you.

you heart tightened. you truly did believe that leona could work something out. that you guys could work something out together and live happily, a happily ever after, like he originally did with roselia.

no. he didn’t deserve you. going home was still at the very top of your mind now, more than ever before. he deserved someone like roselia, someone who was willing to loss it all for him, like he would for you.

except you weren’t roselia. you could never be her, and you would live the rest of your life with a huge hole in your left because you lived feeling unfulfilled.

you had to put a stop to this. his desperation tugged at your heart. you couldn’t handle it anymore.

“you don’t know me like you think you do.” you started. you let go of leona’s grip on your wrist.

“i’m not from here.” you sighed. “i can’t explain it. but I’m not from here, and i need to leave. that was my objective from the very beginning.”

“i can’t… i can’t be with you because i don’t belong here. not because of you, but me. it’s because of me.”

leona seemed to understand the situation. perhaps your mannerisms, the way you speak, all the books about transmigration, your current avoidance, it seemingly all connected.

he grabbed both your hands.

“i… okay. i understand. at least, i think i do.”

the crisp winter air danced between you two.

“thank you. for everything.” leona said.

you laughed weakly. ‘you’re saying thank you now? what gives?”

“just because. it feels like i’m never going to see you again.”

you wrapped your arms around leona’s back, hugging him tightly. the soft, fluffy clothes protecting you from the cold smushed between you too.

and then you woke up.

to be continued...?

a.n: thanks for anyone who stuck around all the way to here !! if this was ao3 i would expand on it more but i feel like the romance got a little too rushed (i tried to make it evenly paced as possible but that added the whole doc to 20k words my phone cannot handle all of that i WILL lag and screw something up) so i hope its not too negatively silly!!

#disney twst #twisted wonderland #twst #twst fic #twst wonderland #twst x reader #x reader #leona kingsholar x reader #leona kingscholar #leona x reader #savanaclaw #isekai au #isekai

233 notes · View notes