#emerald-green gown

[preraphaelitepaintings]

The Day Dream

Artist: Dante Gabriel Rossetti (English, 1828–1882)

Date: 1880

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Victoria and Albert Museum, London, United Kingdom

Description

The sitter for this painting was Jane Morris, the wife of William Morris, who often posed for Rossetti. At the time this was painted Rossetti was involved in an illicit love affair with Jane. He shows her sitting in the branches of a sycamore tree and holding a sprig of honeysuckle. This sweet-smelling climbing plant symbolized the bonds of love for the Victorians, and Rossetti may have included it here as a subtle reference to the relationship between artist and model. Rossetti was also a poet, and the title relates to his poem of the same name which ends:

She dreams; till now on her forgotten book Drops the forgotten blossom from her hand.

[mythologypaintings]

Circe Envidiosa

Artist: John William Waterhouse (English, 1849-1917)

Date: 1892

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Art Gallery of South Australia, Adelaide, Australia

Description

The myth of Circe, Glaucus, and Scylla originates in Book XIV of Metamorphoses. The specific scene that Waterhouse bases this painting on occurs in lines 52–65 of the epic poem:

There was a cove, a little inlet shaped like a bent bow, a quiet place where Scylla, at midday, sought shelter when the sea and sky were hot; and, in midcourse, the sun scorched with full force, reducing shadows to a narrow thread. And Circe now contaminates this bay, polluting it with noxious poisons; there she scatters venom drawn from dreadful roots and, three-times-nine times, murmurs an obscure and tangled maze of words, a labyrinth— the magic chant that issues from her lips. Then Scylla comes; no sooner has she plunged waist-deep into the water than she sees, around her hips, the horrid barking shapes.

Waterhouse's version similarly shows Circe floating over the water in the cove, pouring bright green poison into the pool below. Under her feet, Scylla's "barking shapes" already swirl in the bubbling depths below; the transformation is well underway. Neither Scylla's human form nor her monster form is the emphasis here. Rather, the power of Circe's grave face and tangible jealousy rules this scene, as the vivid colors swirl all around her figure.

[aretis]

Elie Saab!!!

[lunss-couture]

Unique Pattern Lace Appliqued Green Satin Prom Ball Gown

Royal and gloried, this emerald green floor-length ball gown Quinceanera, sweet-16 prom dress features a spaghetti strap scoop neckline and puffy skirt with unique pattern lace appliques adorned on the whole dress.

[wifdc]

𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐩𝐚 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐨-𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐄𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐝 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬

Shilpa Shetty stuns in an Indo-Western emerald green dress that perfectly blends traditional elegance with modern style. Discover how she effortlessly combines chic fashion with cultural heritage in this breathtaking look. This emerald green dress is the epitome of grace and sophistication. Dive into the details of Shilpa Shetty's mesmerizing fashion choice and get inspired to elevate your wardrobe. Don't miss these stunning photos!

[swordgrace]

& 𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐈’𝐌 𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ gwayne hightower x wife!reader.

SYNOPSIS: you and your husband decide to take advantage of the quiet gardens near the red keep.

anonymous request.

{ FORMAT: drabble — requested by anonymous.

{ WORD COUNT: 4.1K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), porn with little plot, risk of getting caught, semi-public sex, gwayne is a switch, cunt-drunk gwayne, sex in the red keep gardens, teasing, hair-pulling kink, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, groping, making out, dirty talk, mild praise kink, p in v sex (unprotected), mild scratching, soft ending.

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am on the Gwayne train right now, I just adore writing for him. This is a smaller story, and I think writing some drabbles might do me a bit of good! I hope that you all enjoy! ❤️ Thanks so much for the love & support!

𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐩, 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡, 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐚.

The smell was akin to a perfumed dowager, the air thick with roses and honey, petals drifting along in the evening breeze. It was a stark contrast to the pungent scent of the rest of the city — perhaps that is why you favored the gardens.

Orange tendrils of a waning sun spread across the leaves, verdant and bright, turning the gardens all sorts of colors — shades of emerald and gold, intermingling with the many flowers there.

Most souls that had occupied the gardens had made themselves scarce, turning it into a paradise that only you shared with another. You often admired the general splendor even when it was crowded, but now, it gave you a rather unobstructed view.

The various palette of the gardens, particularly any deeper shades of forest-green, matched that of your husband’s doublet, embroidered with golden thread. It was strange to see Gwayne removed from his armor, his silvery vassal that kept him well-protected.

In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, there were days spent in respite, much to your delight. Though, war would steal him away from you again — you intended on making the most out of each moment, beseeching him to remain by your side. He obliged you, fortunately, and you never objected to it.

A golden hour, brightest before dusk, painted you in shades that Gwayne had committed to memory, your features bathed in dying light. You were swathed in gowns of cerulean, a deeper shade of azure that had brought him to heel when you emerged with it on.

Merrily, he often touted that he had the most beautiful wife in all of the realm, and such a sentiment didn’t change nor waver. It was resolute, done with a fondness that made its way to you.

“Perhaps, once this conflict comes to a close, you and I shall return to Oldtown,” Gwayne’s gallant resonance cut through the contented silence, his timbre often filled with regality, the elegant poise of a well-learned Knight. ���I’ve grown surfeited by this grisly place.”

If Gwayne had not been so proficient with a blade, you suspected that a quill and his sharp tongue would’ve done him a world of good in another lifetime. His flowery speech had charmed you time and time again, and you were left captivated.

Oldtown had become your home, a sanctuary of which you and Gwayne had built a peaceful life together. With Prince Daeron in your care, it was something of a family — one that you suspected would grow in the near future.

“As have I,” With a gentle sigh, your fingers danced along his velvet-clad forearm, your arm interlaced with his as he led you through the teeming labyrinth. At twilight, it had become wonderfully quiet, a place of solace away from the bustling hum of the Red Keep. “It is a dour place.”

Dour was a mere understatement — Gwayne knew what harm this city could do, crushed beneath the oppressive weight of the Red Keep. Even in its architectural splendor, it remained a shadow, haunting your every step as it loomed above the both of you.

Even in the sanctuary of the Gardens, one could not escape it. He did not envy his sister for being sequestered here for most of her lifetime — he imagined that it likely led to a path of misfortune and frustration. Being in Oldtown, he could afford many liberties, freedoms that weren’t permitted in King’s Landing.

As you continued on your path, a stone terrace opened before you, a comely overlook with a sizable gazebo, marked by dimly-lit torches. Save for the picturesque view of Blackwater Bay, it was surrounded by foliage and flora on all sides.

Gwayne felt your concern in waves, an unspoken sentiment, knowing that he would be called to leave again. Cole’s armies were rallying to march to Harrenhal, and he was summoned to ride alongside him, the second-in-command. You had made your disdain for this known, and Gwayne couldn’t fault you for it.

“I would sorely dislike it if our time together was to be spent in silence,” He watched you through cerulean hues as you rounded the gazebo, moving toward the overlook. Waves gently lapped at the outcropping of rock, breaking upon it, saltwater kisses peppering your cheeks. “I have a duty, dearest.”

A begrudging sigh tore past your lips, and you staved off the sudden onslaught of turmoil. You had come to-terms with the inevitability of his departure — you had dealt with it once before, but the sting never lessened. “I understand. I loathe you and love you for it.” You murmured, your smile threadbare.

Your answer retained a twinge of lightheartedness to it, in the face of a bleak future. Gwayne couldn’t help but scoff, visage dancing with amusement as he stepped toward one of the massive walls of gardenias. Plucking a pale blossom from its stem, he crossed the stone to you, a gesture of affection.

“Loathe me, is that it?” Gwayne wouldn’t have your last moments together spent in melancholy — and you seemed to be in agreement. He placed the blossom behind your ear, carefully tucking it into place. “Have I vexed you so easily?”

Planting a palm against his chest, you allowed your fingertips to trace across plated velvet, dancing toward the Hightower sigil, embroidered into the collar. He was resplendent in noblemen’s garb, painfully handsome and fresh-faced, save for the healing cut upon his lip and bruised brow.

A taut, muscled arm moved to snake around your waist, effortlessly caging you in against him. Your saccharine scent invaded his senses, swarming around his head like a thick haze, one that he delighted in. Beneath the evening sky, he made his ardor for you known, a real and living thing.

“You are swift to credit yourself, husband. I may resort to knocking you from your pedestal.” You teased, tender voice growing softer, a mere purr to his ears. Gods, you were wonderfully divine — Gwayne brazenly squeezed your hip through your gowns, auburn brows lifting in amusement.

Instead of puffing his chest with a playful retort, Gwayne could no longer resist the tempting curve of your lips, craning down to kiss you. It was a sweet mingling of mouths, slow and exploratory, happy to take their time with one another.

The first inklings of an amorous heat crackled between the both of you, a rapturous hunger that hadn’t been sated since he returned from Rook’s Rest. You simply could not get enough of your beloved husband, hands clamoring from his plush doublet to his mane of copper tresses, gripping them tightly.

Even with the thicker material of your dress, Gwayne greedily grasped at your curves, able to feel the pliant swell of your physique beneath. You had already seduced him with your steep necklace and ample bosom — sometimes, you were more of a salacious minx than you were a maiden. He enjoyed you both ways.

Your chambers in the Red Keep seemed so far away, and neediness began to take root, desire flourishing where propriety could not. As you insistently tugged upon his auburn locks, Gwayne felt his cock stir to life within his trousers, twitching as if to remind him of his carnal need for you.

“Incomparable, I must confess,” Gwayne exhaled, hot breath fluttering across your visage. Hints of wine retained their presence upon his tongue, skin smelling of woodland musk and fine soaps. “Not a single wandering eye to find us here.” His timbre dropped into a delectable purr, lips pressing themselves to the curve of your jaw.

Exhilaration struck at the pit of your stomach, coupled with the familiar wave of arousal, its inklings slick and warm between your legs. “What are you implying, husband?” You asked, breathy and wanton, clinging to him like a drowning woman.

A low, teasing hum slipped betwixt his lips, mouth molding to your flesh, gliding across the slender column of your throat. One hand dropped to cup your derrière through the thicker material of your dress, longing to see it around your feet, instead.

A sheepish moan tore past your mouth, unabashedly stoking the fire that simmered between the both of you. Gwayne greedily lapped at your sweet skin, like a thick honey upon his tongue. “It is just you and I, sweetling. Might you indulge me?” He hummed, desperate to have you now that desire had taken hold.

Gods, you wanted him terribly.

It was a fascinating twist, with Gwayne wanting to have you here, given the publicity of the locale. He was often a man to take you to your chambers in the name of chivalry, but this daring, yearning side to him — you quite enjoyed it, his change of heart.

“Gods, I love you.” You sighed, feeling him relocate the both of you towards one of the thick, stone columns that held the gazebo aloft. It was rough against your back, but you cared little for it, hastily unlacing the bodice of your dress. The silken smallclothes you wore beneath would suffice.

A low, stifled groan escaped Gwayne’s mouth, cerulean hues sharp and amatory, roving over you with a thinly-veiled desire. “Seven Hells, you drive me to the brink of madness, wife.” He murmured, swiftly relieving you of that mound of azure velvet.

The simple slip you wore beneath clung to your curves, accentuating your physique in pale shades of ivory, nipples peeking through the thin material. His hand slithered beneath, seeking to find the slick heat of your cunt, pushing your legs apart with his thigh.

Gathering your slip within your hands, you tugged the material up, until it pooled around the swell of your hips, giving him unhindered access. Gwayne careened forward, mouth colliding with yours, lips desperately craving every fiber of your being.

His other hand moved to cup your breast through your gown, thumb languidly swiping over your pebbled nipple, teasing the bud as he rolled it between his fingers. A sharp, noisy gasp escaped you, followed by the unrestrained sound of a moan.

Your hands clamored to perch atop his shoulders, sinking down into the velvet, longing to see him naked. If you closed your eyes, it was easy to imagine, but you desired the real thing. With haste, your digits slipped toward the line of golden clasps along the front, aiming to get it unbuttoned.

“You minx.” Gwayne panted into your mouth, digits beginning to stroke along your slit. Much to his delight, you were already warmed, wet and honey-thick upon his fingers. Lips twined in hot clashes, and he never allowed it to devolve into something sloppy. Each kiss possessed meaning, a fervent love for you.

As you unclasped his doublet, he moved his arms enough to relinquish the stuffy weight of the fabric, musculature lean and taut, his skin pale and glittering in the gentle twilight. It let you squeeze his shoulders, tracing over the freckles there, reveling in his bare flesh.

Gwayne released a few breathy ‘I love you’s’ into your lips, before he relocated to the sensitive column of your throat. He spoke with reverence, as if he had come to worship his goddess, lay himself down at your feet. Your fingers wove themselves against the nape of his neck, tugging on his copper locks.

Practiced, dexterous digits continued to caress along your cunt, before pushing past your folds. He grazed your clit, sending a rush of goosebumps cascading down the length of your spine. “Gwayne,” You moaned, the sweetest melody to his ears as you rocked forward, desperate for any shred of friction. “Please!”

His cock twitched again within his breeches, aching with something powerful, needing to be inside of you. Patience was his virtue and his agony — he still wanted to taste your first. He continued to knead into your breast, evoking another blissful whine from you.

Despite wearing his honor and chivalry like a coat of armor, he cared little for the consequences of potentially being caught. He would ravish his beloved wife here in these gardens — there was no sin in such an act. Kissing along your jugular, he felt you grip and pull on his hair, filling him with an excitable fire.

“Gods, I must taste you,” Gwayne groaned, voice tinged with an alluring husk, palm continuing to caress the plush swell of your breast. The thin, silken strap of your slip began to sag, and he did not fix it, exposed to the unblemished plane of your collarbone. “If you will permit me to do so.”

“You needn’t ask, husband,” A wanton whimper left you when Gwayne’s digits abandoned your cunt, though it would soon be replaced with the fine heat of his greedy tongue. Through a lovesick gaze, you observed in rapturous silence as Gwayne sank to his knees, as if he were preparing to pray. “I belong to you.”

Watching his auburn crown move towards the apex of your thighs was a most tantalizing sight, causing your breath to hitch within your throat. Molten heat surged within your belly, churning with a violent anticipation as you braced one hand atop his shoulder.

A sight to die for, to kill for — Gwayne would’ve fought a thousand battles if it meant that you were the reward at the very end, a resplendent maiden in all of your glory. He would’ve endured torture unimaginable for you, razed down armies, destroyed cities all for you.

The first lap of his tongue caused your knees to buckle, raking hot embers across your cunt. He wedged his way in between your legs, shoulders keeping you apart just enough. Gwayne was quite candid about his enjoyment of tasting you — thoroughly cunt-struck.

A groan stirred within his chest as your fingers grazed through his copper tresses, finding their purchase near the base of his skull. He did not relent, tongue carefully splitting past your folds, greeted by the saccharine onslaught of your arousal.

“Gwayne.” A breathy sigh tore past your parted lips, lulled into subservience from the steady, exploratory laps of his tongue. He was sluggish, allowing the anticipation to mount, nose brushing along your mound.

Your taste was ambrosial, thick and heady, like a haze that he had no desire to escape from. There were many moments where he’d dreamed of this, on the march to Rook’s Rest, sprawled across his cot, fantasizing of you again and again.

He quite enjoyed the way in which you sighed his name, passion bubbling forth from your chest, head rolled back against the stone column. Careworn palms reached for your haunches, delighted to take their fill of you, caressing along the backs of your thighs.

“Exquisite,” Gwayne exhaled, catching his breath to press a string of kisses all along the inside of your thighs. “By the Seven, you taste divine.” He groaned, drunk and dizzy from your cunt. A soft moan escaped you as you coaxed him back, and he willingly obliged.

With another hot, eager lap of his tongue over your core, your knees rattled like leaves in the breeze, feeling his shoulders bully their way between your legs. A brusque, warm breeze fluttered throughout the gazebo, bathed in the waning light of the sunset. Stars began to glisten overhead, unhindered by the clouds.

Gwayne’s eagerness was palpable, able to be felt as he buried his face into your cunt, cerulean eyes fluttering shut in an expression of bliss. A groan stirred within his throat, fluttering throughout his chest as you fisted his auburn tresses, soft beneath your palms.

You could not get enough of him, keeping your hands on him in whatever way you could, chest heaving with wanton sighs. Carnality and desire permeated the air, the atmosphere thick with desperation. You always treated each moment as if it would be your last.

His mouth fervently worked against your slick cunt, sending pleasant shockwaves into the pit of your stomach. Goosebumps danced along your spine, followed by a shiver that made you moan. Your hips rolled forward, shamelessly grinding yourself into your husband’s waiting lips.

With a flick of his tongue, Gwayne sought the pearl of your cunt, lips eagerly kissing their way to your clit. He planted feather-light kisses around that sensitive clutch of nerves, causing you to tremble, digits tightening within his hair. Your grip was ironclad, but it was pleasurable for him, knowing you were enjoying yourself.

“Gods, Gwayne,” You whined, listening to the lewd noises of your chivalrous paramour suckling on your clit. Another onslaught of molten heat swirled within your stomach, seeping into your bones, manifesting as arousal between your thighs. “Do — Do not stop!” The urgency in your voice had increased exponentially.

If there were any evening stragglers in the Royal Gardens, you prayed to the Seven that they would not stumble upon the both of you.

The sight itself was inherently sinful, with you haplessly pressed against the stone column, gallant dress strewn across the ground, slip sagging along your physique. Gwayne’s emerald doublet had joined your garments below. You reveled in the sight of his head between your thighs, causing you to whimper.

Gwayne could detect when you were accelerating towards your release, able to feel the twitches and tremors in your thighs. He soothingly stroked along your silky flesh, interchanging between the greedy suckling of your clit, to long, broad strokes of his tongue.

His lips glistened with a sticky sheen of your nectar, of a finer stout than many, more delectable than any wine that had befallen his mouth. Gwayne worshiped you, kissed the ground you walked upon, and he did not feel an ounce of shame in it.

His cock throbbed with a desperate ache, precum slick around the head as it strained against his trousers. Your own satisfaction spurred him on, and your delightful noises only sent him spiraling into the depths of depravity. You hadn’t a clue of the things you did to him.

In a brazen maneuver, his tongue prodded against your entrance, gingerly thrusting inside of you. You gasped, biting at the inside of your cheek, digits raking through his auburn locks. You let your grip loosen, hips careening forward into his mouth again.

Gwayne ravished you, with the ravenous appetite of a starving dog. He moved back just enough to lap at your cunt, making a blazing trail from your entrance to your clit. “I’m close,” You huffed, issuing some warning to him before the dam had burst altogether. “Gwayne!”

It was the only word you knew in the present, his name — it rolled from your tongue in a delighted cry, laced with ardor and reverence. You reached your peak, shamelessly spilling yourself upon his tongue, and he was enamored with you.

With careful, sluggish strokes of his tongue, he delicately cleaned the mess he made of you, allowing you to bring yourself down from your peak. Even if the intensity had made you burn at a fever pitch, you were far from finished, tugging on Gwayne’s tresses to get his attention.

“Take me, husband,” It wasn’t a request — it was a demand, a command made upon a yearning wife. Desire glistened like a thick sheen within his cerulean eyes, which happened to widen at the sight of you. “Please.” You didn’t have to beg — Gwayne wanted you just as terribly.

He swiftly rose from between your legs, pupils dilated with lust as he steered you toward the stone bannister of the overlook, wide enough to support you. You sat down, hastily fumbling with the leather ties of his trousers. Gwayne parted your legs again, bending over you as he sought your mouth.

The taste of arousal — yours — fell heavy upon your tongue, lips clashing together as you desperately sought to free his cock from its confines. “I need you,” Gwayne husked against your mouth, pearlescent teeth briefly snagging on your lower lip. “Gods, how I’ve missed this, missed you.”

“Gwayne,” A moan escaped you, intermingling with his husky pants and sonorous groans. His forehead nudged against yours, lips hot and needy, and you were more than happy to reciprocate. “I need you, I …” Your voice tapered off when his cock slid against your folds.

He kept you steady, hands caging you against the bannister, the stone biting into your back as he kept you at an angle. Silk gathered around your hips, friction wafting between the both of you as he thrust forward, cock sinking into you.

Hitching a leg around his waist as best as you could, your hands roamed to his chest, nails digging into his collarbone as he began to find an erratic pace. He was loving and passionate, even still, but there was something inherently quick about his rhythm.

Perspiration glittered along his brow from the warm evening, yet it did not stop him from pounding away at you. His cock filled you perfectly, providing a delectable stretch that made your toes curl. It wasn’t an intimidating thing, but it was pretty, just like the rest of him.

Through his clenched teeth, Gwayne sang your praises, savoring the way in which your cunt constricted around him, as if drawing him in. “Seven Hells, your cunt is perfection,” Such lewd, crass words sounded so eloquent coming from his lips, as debonair as a Prince. “I cannot get enough of you, sweet wife.” He groaned.

Despite his crudely-spoken compliment, you were lost within the throes of your own pleasure, body rocked into submission by each snap of his hips. His cock bottomed out within you, movements swift yet punctuated, as if every thrust possessed meaning.

You loved Gwayne unconditionally — perhaps too much, if such a thing were possible. Your chest heaved with sweet, passionate sighs and gentle moans, forehead occasionally brushing against his. His hands kept themselves firm along your waist, curling into the silk of your slip.

His cock battered away at your slick cunt, aided by your mounting arousal. Everything felt so feverishly warm, as if you had been set ablaze, nerves feeling like they were steeped in fire. “More,” You moaned, and it effectively caught Gwayne’s attention. “Gwayne, please.” He was weak to your soft pleas.

Your beloved husband lacked harshness when it came to intimacy, something you adored about him. Even when his thrusts became desperate and erratic, chasing after his release, he never resorted to using you. His lips sought the column of your throat, nose brushing along your jugular.

A string of kisses peppered themselves against your sweet flesh, with the occasional suckling of his lips to your neck. A myriad of throaty whines and whimpers continued to leave you in droves, cunt pathetically clenching around him.

Buckling forward, Gwayne planted one palm against the stone bannister, the other caging in around you as he continued to pound away into your needy cunt. He kissed you wherever he could, dwindling into desperation and the innate desire to taste your sweet flesh.

His lips parted slightly, a strained grunt escaping him as he thrust forward again, until there was nowhere left for him to go. Gwayne pulled back just enough, the head of his cock still inside of you before he moved forward again. The friction made you shiver, fingers grasping at the nape of his neck.

His name continued to slip from your mouth, over and over again, like a whispered prayer. Your nails left behind red crescents upon his skin, sharp brands of your lovemaking. Gwayne groaned against your throat, desiring to kiss you once more, lips laying claim to yours with a fervor.

With another snap of his hips, Gwayne shuddered, nearly collapsing into you as he reached his peak. Hot ropes of seed brazenly spilled inside of you, warming your insides as he attempted to catch his breath. You pressed your forehead to his, breathing with him, allowing your hands to slack.

Gwayne politely removed himself from you, mindful of your garments as he fixed your gown back into place. The slip itself was disheveled, but he ensured its tidiness before you got dressed again.

“How divine you are,” Gwayne hummed, planting gentle kisses along the side of your face before it ended at the curve of your jaw. “Beautiful beyond comprehension.” He murmured, using two digits to delicately place the strap of your slip back upon your shoulder.

“You flatter me, husband,” Your smile was warm and amiable, the brightness of springtime, bringing a rosy flush to his features. “I quite enjoyed your brazen streak.” Through a smitten confession, Gwayne kissed your brow, lips twitching into a debonair smirk.

“I am not ashamed of ravishing my wife, be it in our chambers or in the garden,” He replied, reaching for his velveteen doublet and your azure dress. It was easy for him to slip back into the stuffy material, and he was more than happy to assist you. “I cannot get enough of you.”

His words were tantalizing, as if intended to bring about another string of salacious thoughts. Gwayne stood behind you as you stepped back into your dress, helping to lace your bodice up again. He planted a kiss along your exposed shoulder, and then to the crook of your neck.

You reached for his hand, letting it drape across your shoulder as you pressed a delicate kiss against his bruised knuckles. “You shall have me, Gwayne — for as long as you desire me.” You sighed, feeling his nose brush along your cheek, the warmth of his body pressing in behind you.

With a kiss to your temple, one oozing with such fondness and ardor that you feared you might melt, Gwayne’s lips hovered near the shell of your ear. In the twinkling dusk, he held you close. “Forever, then.��

[pandapetals]

The Whispers at Howlett Manor

Your parents are forcing you to marry Lord Howlett in hopes of securing the future of Langley House. However, there is more at play than you realize.

lord logan howlett x fem!reader - no use of y/n, light reader description, reader has a last name - langley for story purposes, angst, forced marriage, regency era stuff, brooding logan, reader is stubborn, reader has sisters and a family, some fluff towards the end, sexual tension, light enemies to lovers, logan is a softie

a/n: Okay, so i love pride and prejudice/bridgerton (anything like that) so it was only a matter of time before i wrote something like that for logan. Anyway, this was going to be inspired by bridgerton but ended up being more inspired by logan’s comic book childhood mixed with just regency typical era stuff. 

Also, i literally didn’t think this would be this long (i will admit the ending isn’t the best, i got tired of writing/kinda got writers block so sorry). also sorry it took so long to post but it's long af.

word count: 28k

divider credit: @pommecita

“Must you always be so difficult?” Lady Langley’s voice carried across the room like the crack of a whip, sharp enough to pierce through the layers of the emerald chiffon being draped over your shoulders. The maid fumbled with the fabric, her hands trembling as she tried to secure the delicate buttons along your back.

You drew a long breath, pressing your lips together to steady your voice. “Mama, I have done everything you asked,” you said, your tone strained but calm. You waved the maid away, your impatience slipping out in the motion.

“Everything?” your mother scoffed, her fingers coming up to massage her temple in a familiar gesture of frustration. “Dearest, you have done the opposite of everything. That dreadful scene at dinner the other night—do you even realize how close you came to ruining us? Lord Howlett was barely polite by the end of it.” She turned, her skirts sweeping across the polished floor as she began to pace, the rhythmic click of her heels only adding to the mounting tension.

You spun away from the mirror, the sight of your own reflection—eyes dark with resentment, cheeks flushed with the heat of suppressed anger—was too much to bear. 

“Why must it all fall to me?” you burst out, meeting her gaze with a defiance that startled even you. “Why must I be the one to endure it all, to wear the fine dresses and force a smile, as though I am some precious porcelain doll to be displayed? Did you and Father not bring us to the brink with your own decisions?”

Lady Langley’s eyes widened at your boldness, though whether with indignation or a glimmer of guilt, you couldn’t say. “We did what we had to do for this family,” she replied, her voice low and tremulous. “And now, you must do your part. Marrying Lord Howlett will restore everything. His wealth is our salvation—our only chance to keep Langley House from crumbling.”

You turned back toward the mirror, but not to admire your appearance. The gown was exquisite—deep green with gold stitching along the neckline, chosen for the way it complemented your hair and hinted at your mother’s hope that it might catch Lord Howlett's eye once more. 

All you saw was a stranger trapped in silks, her future bound to a man she hardly knew. A man whose stern gaze and gruff manners at the dinner table had left her with a vague sense of unease.

A man who seemed old enough to be your father, though still handsomely rugged, with a strength in his bearing that spoke of battles fought far from the comforts of an English drawing-room. Lord James Logan Howlett—his name alone seemed to carry a weight that threatened to crush you beneath it.

“I will not be sold off like cattle,” you said quietly, almost as if testing the words. The defiance wavered in your chest, but it was there—small and growing. “You cannot force me, Mama.”

Lady Langley’s gaze softened, if only for a moment, and her hand reached out but stopped just short of your shoulder. “My dear, there is no force. Only necessity,” she whispered. “Think of your sisters. Think of your father’s health. We cannot afford a scandal.” 

The room seemed to close in, the walls heavy with expectations that clung like dust to every surface. You felt the weight of it pressing down, smothering that flicker of defiance before it could truly catch fire. There would be no escape from the duty laid upon your shoulders—not without dragging the entire family down with you.

As the maid returned to finish securing the gown, your gaze drifted back to the mirror, catching a glimpse of your own reflection. You tilted your chin up and straightened your spine, forcing yourself to appear composed. You would have to play the part—at least for tonight.

The question lingered in the back of your mind: Who would Lord Howlett be, once the doors closed and the pretense fell away? It scared you more than you cared to admit. 

Without another word, your mother swept out of the room, leaving behind only the faintest rustle of silk in her wake. You exhaled, shoulders drooping as the maid finished pinning the last curl into place. Downstairs, the murmur of your sisters' voices drifted up, accompanied by the distant sound of your father’s halting footsteps.

As you descended the grand staircase, your sisters gathered at the foot, their eyes bright with excitement and curiosity. “Oh, look at you!” one exclaimed, reaching out to brush the delicate fabric of your gown. “Such a beautiful color,” another said, her fingers tracing the lace trim with envy.

Your father stood at the end of the stairwell, leaning heavily on his cane. His smile was gentle but tinged with a quiet weariness. “You look lovely, my dear,” he said, extending a hand toward you. His voice had lost some of its usual strength, but there was still warmth in his gaze as he squeezed your fingers. “I am sure you will have a splendid time at the play.”

You returned his smile, though it felt stiff, as though someone had drawn it onto your face with a trembling hand. “Thank you, Papa,” you replied softly. “Though I—”

Your mother’s sharp voice cut across the hallway, shattering the moment. “You shall behave tonight,” she declared, appearing around the corner with a frown etched so deeply into her face that you wondered if it had been permanently carved there. “Do you understand?”

You sighed, dropping your father's hand as your sisters scattered like birds startled by a hawk. “Yes, Mama. I understand.”

“I am serious, girl.” Lady Langley stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as though she could will obedience into you through sheer force of will. “The Dowager Lady Elizabeth Howlett is to be your chaperone, and I have heard she is not a woman inclined to kindness. This is your last chance to make a favorable impression on Lord Howlett.”

Before you could reply, your father interjected, his tone soothing, yet strained. “My love, she will be fine. There’s no need to fret.” He reached for his cane again, wobbling slightly, and one of your sisters, who had been listening around the corner, darted forward to steady him.

You took a step toward him to help, but a knock echoed from the front door, interrupting you. The butler promptly moved to answer it, revealing Lord James Howlett and his mother standing on the threshold.

Lord Howlett’s dark, brooding eyes swept over the entryway, landing on you with an unreadable expression. His face was set in its usual stern lines, the strong jaw rigid as though it had forgotten how to soften. Beside him, Dowager Lady Elizabeth Howlett stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her thin lips pressed into a line of disapproval as if the very air of Langley House was beneath her.

“Good evening, Miss Langley,” Lord Howlett said, inclining his head slightly. “I trust you are ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be, my lord,” you replied with a polite curtsy, though your tone carried a hint of edge. “It is, after all, only a play.”

The faintest glimmer of something—was it irritation?—flickered in his eyes. “Indeed. Perhaps you might endeavor to watch this one instead of glancing longingly toward the exit.”

You arched a brow, a small, mirthless smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “I assure you, my lord, I shall be entirely captivated—provided, of course, that the performance is not as stiff as some of the company I keep.”

The Dowager’s eyes snapped to you, sharp as a hawk’s. “Mind your tongue, girl,” she said in a low voice that dripped with condescension. “A lady ought not to jest so carelessly.”

“Oh, but I am quite in earnest, Lady Elizabeth,” you replied, meeting the older woman’s gaze with a practiced sweetness. “I would not dare make light of such an important evening.”

Lord Howlett’s lips twitched, not quite forming a smile. “Let us hope, then, that your enthusiasm lasts until the final act,” he said, offering his arm. “Shall we?”

You hesitated a moment before taking his arm, the rough fabric of his sleeve brushing against your skin as you settled beside him. His posture was rigid, as though every step was calculated to maintain the distance between you, and there was a tension in the air that crackled like static.

“Tell me, my lord,” you said as you descended the steps together, “do you always bring your mother along when courting?”

His gaze slid sideways to meet yours, a dark brow arching slightly. “Perhaps I thought you might benefit from a proper example of decorum,” he replied, his voice as dry as autumn leaves.

You tilted your head, your lips curving into a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “How considerate of you,” you said. “Though I should warn you—I’ve never been easily subdued. Even with a watchful eye upon me.”

“Then let us hope,” he said quietly, “that you find something worth behaving for this evening.”

Together, you descended the steps with Lady Elizabeth two steps behind. You climbed into the carriage and the weight of the Dowager’s gaze bore down on you like a cold hand gripping your shoulder. Lord Howlett settled opposite you, his expression veiled in shadow, and for a moment, you wondered if there was more beneath that brooding exterior—something other than duty and disdain.

The thought was fleeting, and as the carriage lurched forward, you turned your attention to the dimly lit streets outside, wondering if the play would prove to be the most engaging performance of the evening, or if the true drama lay in the careful dance of words between you and the man who might soon be your husband.

────୨ৎ────

The play had begun with a flurry of activity on the stage, enough to momentarily capture your interest. But as the actors’ exaggerated gestures dragged on and the dialogue grew stale, your thoughts drifted elsewhere. By the halfway point, you were tapping your finger impatiently against the gilded armrest of your seat, biting back a yawn.

Lord Howlett sat beside you, his posture rigid, gaze fixed on the performers as if he were determined to will some life into the lackluster production. Behind you, two rows up, his mother, the Dowager Lady Elizabeth Howlett, sat in conversation with Lady Drummond, her sharp whispers cutting through the quiet like a needle through cloth.

“Must you do that?” Lord Howlett murmured, his voice low and taut, though he didn’t look your way.

You arched an eyebrow, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “If you mean by ‘that,’ not falling asleep in my seat, then yes, I must. This play is dreadful.”

His jaw tightened, the muscles working beneath the skin as though he was grinding down the words he truly wished to say. “It is hardly the fault of the actors if your attention span is as short as your temper,” he muttered.

You bristled, half-turning toward him. “Or perhaps, my lord, it is because I find greater amusement in watching the dust settle on these velvet curtains than in enduring one more moment of this drivel.”

Without waiting for a reply, you stood and swept out of the aisle, the swish of your gown echoing in the hushed theater as you made your way down the dimly lit hallway. The air was cooler out here, and you took a deep breath, feeling a mixture of relief and defiance coursing through you. Surely, there must be something more engaging than sitting like a doll, pretending to be enthralled by dreadful theatrics.

“Miss Langley.”

The clipped voice was unmistakable, and you rolled your eyes before turning. Lord Howlett had followed you, pushing the theater door open with a firm hand, his expression shadowed and irritated as he stepped into the corridor. “You cannot simply leave in the middle of a play,” he said, his tone laced with exasperation. “It is beyond improper.”

You let out a dry laugh and crossed your arms. “I can do as I please, my lord. If I find myself losing the will to live through another act, I shall not sit there and suffer just to uphold some antiquated notion of propriety.”

He took a step closer, his brow furrowing as though you were some curious creature he was trying to decipher. “Why must you always defy what is expected of a lady?” His voice dropped lower, edged with something like genuine bewilderment. “It seems you take a particular delight in making a spectacle of yourself.”

“It seems you take particular delight in brooding and casting judgment,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes at him. “Is that not a spectacle in its own right? Or is it simply the pastime of a man who finds fault in everything and amusement in nothing?”

For a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something else in his gaze—amusement, perhaps, or even admiration. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by the same stony look he always wore. “You think this is a jest?” he said, his voice low and rough. “You have no idea what is at stake.”

You scoffed, turning away from him and pacing a few steps down the corridor. “Oh, I am well aware. My family’s reputation, our fortune—such as it is—dangles by a thread. You are meant to be our savior, are you not?” You whirled back to face him, your eyes flashing. “I am to marry you and secure my family’s future, regardless of my feelings on the matter.”

He stepped closer still, his eyes hardening as he looked down at you. “You do have a choice, Miss Langley,” he said, his voice almost a growl. “You may refuse me, of course. You may tear up the marriage contract and walk away. But do not pretend you are unaware of what will follow if you do.”

You felt the sting of his words, the cold truth in them. “You mean the ruin of my family, the loss of our home, our dignity?” you replied, bitterness curling in your voice. “You think I do not know what is at stake? I know it better than anyone.”

“Then why do you resist so stubbornly?” His tone was quieter now, the anger ebbing into something else, perhaps even a touch of weariness. “Do you truly wish to see Langley House crumble? Your sisters scattered to find their fortunes, your father’s health worsening under the strain of financial ruin?”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, the bravado slipped. “Of course not,” you said softly, the fight draining from your voice. “But that does not mean I wish to spend my life bound to a man who sees me as a duty—a burden, even.”

His expression shifted something unspoken passing through his gaze. “I do not see you as a burden,” he said, though the words sounded as though they cost him something to admit. “But I will not pretend this arrangement is anything other than what it is: a necessity.” He took a step back, his jaw tightening once more. “However, necessity does not mean cruelty. I would not make your life a misery, Miss Langley. I may not be the husband you would choose, but I would see to it that you do not suffer.”

You searched his face, looking for some hint of insincerity, but found none. “You speak as though you would do me a favor,” you said, your voice quiet but edged with defiance. “But I cannot help but wonder if you say this only because you, too, have no other choice.”

He inclined his head, a faint, humorless smile curling at the corner of his lips. “You are selfish,” he said, his voice low and edged with disdain. “You would let your family slip into ruin simply because you find me... unlikable? Is your pride worth so much, Miss Langley? Why can’t you be an obedient lady and do what is required of you?”

“Obedient?” You scoffed, the word scraping against your throat like gravel. “Oh, I see. I am a dog to be trained, then? A creature to sit and stay at your command?” You stepped closer, defiance burning in your gaze as you met his eyes without flinching. “That is where we differ, my lord. You would have a wife who falls meekly at your side, a pretty ornament to nod and smile on cue. But I would rather have a husband who doesn’t haunt brothels while demanding loyalty in return.”

 His expression hardened, a flash of something dangerous igniting in his eyes. The silence between you was like a blade drawn taut, ready to cut. “You do not know me, Miss Langley,” he said quietly, the words seething between clenched teeth. “You presume to judge, but your knowledge is nothing but rumor and spite.”

“Then enlighten me, my lord,” you shot back, your voice rising despite yourself. “Tell me why the other ladies of the ton avoid you like a blight. Explain why a man of your wealth and standing must settle for a bride who has no choice in the matter. It seems to me that you are as desperate as the family you claim to save.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might reach for you—whether to silence your insolence or pull you closer, you could not say. But he kept his hands at his sides, though they were balled into fists. “Watch your tongue, Miss Langley,” he said in a voice so low it was nearly a growl. “You speak of things you cannot understand.”

“Then perhaps you should make me understand,” you replied, refusing to back down. “Because what I see before me is not a savior but a man grasping at the last thread of respectability. If you think marrying me will somehow restore your standing, then you are the one who is mistaken.”

He exhaled sharply, a bitter laugh escaping his throat. “You truly believe you have the upper hand here, don’t you?” His gaze flicked over you, as though appraising something less than worthy. “But let me make this clear, Miss Langley. It is not just your family’s name that hangs in the balance—it is your sisters' futures and your father’s health. Or do you not care about that, either?”

The words stung, and for a moment, the fight drained from your voice. “Of course, I care,” you whispered, the anger giving way to something more vulnerable. “But do not expect me to be grateful for a fate I did not choose, nor for a man who believes he can command my respect by demanding it.”

He took a step closer, and you felt the warmth of his breath as he spoke. “And do not expect me to offer comfort where there is no gratitude,” he said, his voice a rough murmur. “I do not need your approval, Miss Langley, only your cooperation. Your disdain matters little in the grand scheme of things.”

“Then you shall have my cooperation,” you said, your voice steady even as a knot tightened in your chest. “But make no mistake, my lord—cooperation is all you will ever have. If you are hoping for an obedient wife to dote on you, you shall find yourself sorely disappointed.”

“Obedience is not what I seek,” he replied, his gaze unwavering. “But I will have a wife who understands duty. That, at least, I can count on from you.”

You turned your face away, refusing to let him see the flicker of uncertainty that stirred behind your anger. “Then you shall have what you wish, Lord Howlett,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. “But do not mistake duty for affection. You may secure this marriage, but my heart is another matter entirely.”

For a moment, his expression softened like a cloud breaking to reveal the faintest glimmer of light behind it. Then it was gone, replaced by that same stern resolve. “Affection,” he repeated, as though the word itself were a foreign concept. “I think we both know that sentiment has little place in arrangements such as these.”

With that, he turned and strode back toward the theater, leaving you standing in the dim corridor, your breath coming a little too fast, your pulse thrumming with a mix of fury and something unsettling that you could not quite name. The door closed behind him, muffling the distant applause from the stage and the dull murmur of voices, leaving you to wonder whether this confrontation had left either of you any closer to understanding the other—or if it had merely drawn a deeper line in the sand.

The carriage had barely rolled to a stop outside Langley House when you flung open the door and stepped out, your movements quick and agitated, as if you could outrun the suffocating weight of the evening. The cool night air bit at your cheeks, but it did nothing to soothe the roiling in your chest. All you wanted was the solace of solitude, to shed the layers of pretense like a stifling gown.

Your steps had scarcely touched the gravel drive before you heard the heavy thud of boots behind you.

"Miss Langley." Lord Howlett’s voice cut through the quiet, steady, and unyielding as ever. His mother, the Dowager Lady Elizabeth, called after him with an impatient huff, but he paid her no mind.

You quickened your pace, the glow from the house’s lanterns casting long shadows along the steps ahead. "I wish to be alone, Lord Howlett," you said sharply, your voice fraying at the edges. The marble step was slick with evening dew, and your foot slipped, your balance faltering.

In an instant, his hand was at your elbow, steadying you before you could tumble forward. The grip was firm, strong enough to remind you of his presence but not rough. Still, the warmth of his touch burned like an affront, and you wrenched your arm free, glaring up at him. "Do not touch me," you hissed, taking a step back.

His jaw tightened, but he did not retreat. "We need to speak about the marriage," he said, his tone low and even, though there was a trace of something gentler beneath it—a reluctant concern, perhaps, that seemed to soften the hard line of his brow.

"There is nothing to discuss," you scoffed, folding your arms tightly across your chest as if to barricade yourself against him. "The terms are clear—I have no choice in the matter, so let me have at least this one freedom." You gestured toward the door behind you, your voice trembling with anger. "Allow me to go inside and be alone before I am forever bound to you."

For a moment, he said nothing, merely studied you in the dim light, his gaze searching yours as if he could see the truth buried beneath your defiance. He exhaled a soft, reluctant sound. "You think I wish to force this upon you?" he asked quietly. "You think I delight in binding myself to a woman who loathes the very sight of me?"

"Then why follow me out here?" you retorted, your voice rising despite yourself. "If you do not wish to force my hand, then why not leave me be?"

"Because," he said, his voice firming again, "if there is even the slightest chance that we could find some common ground—some understanding—then we owe it to ourselves to try." He took a cautious step closer, his expression gentling just a fraction. "I do not want a wife who feels trapped," he murmured, as though the admission cost him something. "But I cannot simply walk away from this marriage without condemning your family to ruin. Nor can you."

You hesitated, caught off guard by the faint softness in his tone. It was the first time he had spoken of the marriage as something other than a grim obligation, the first time you glimpsed a hint of vulnerability in him—like a crack in a fortress wall, small but real. "And you truly believe that 'understanding' will change anything?" you asked, skepticism thick in your voice.

"I believe it could make the difference between a life of misery and a life of endurance," he replied, his eyes never leaving yours. "Or perhaps even... something more." The words were spoken so quietly you almost doubted you’d heard them right, but there was a sincerity in his gaze that made your pulse quicken in an unfamiliar way.

You swallowed, the chill of the night air seeping into your skin as the anger ebbed, replaced by a cautious unease. "And what would you have me do, my lord?" you said, your tone softer now, though no less guarded. "Pretend to be content? To play the obedient wife you seem to think I should be?"

"No," he answered, his voice rough with honesty. "I would not ask you to pretend. I would ask you to give us a chance to learn who we truly are, beyond what is expected of us." He hesitated, then added, almost hesitantly, "You may find that I am not the monster you imagine me to be."

A bitter laugh escaped you despite yourself, and you shook your head. "You ask much of me, Lord Howlett," you said, taking a step back toward the door, your hand finding the cold brass of the doorknob. "But I shall consider your... proposal, if only because it seems I have little choice in the matter."

He inclined his head, accepting your words with a solemnity that surprised you. "That is all I ask," he said quietly. "For now."

Without another word, you turned and slipped inside the house, the door closing behind you with a soft click. As you leaned back against the cool wood, you pressed a hand to your chest, where your heart still raced with the remnants of anger and something unsettling. 

It was a small concession, what he had asked for—a chance. Whether it would lead to any true understanding between you was as uncertain as the flickering candlelight in the dim entryway.

────୨ৎ────

For the past few days, you had managed, almost miraculously, to forget the looming specter of your engagement to Lord Howlett. The bustle of your sisters’ chatter and the endless duties of tending to your father’s needs kept your thoughts mercifully occupied. It wasn’t until afternoon tea, in the quiet stillness of the drawing room, that reality began to creep back in.

"Dearest, you should be getting ready," your mother said, her tone as clipped as the neat pour of tea into her porcelain cup. She glanced at you over the rim, the same expectant look in her eyes that always made your stomach twist.

"Getting ready?" you echoed, glancing up from the delicate pastry you had just bitten into. "Whatever for?"

She set the teapot down with a soft clink. "Lord Howlett is calling upon you this afternoon. I told you several times already—he said it was urgent."

You paused, your brows knitting together in confusion. "I don’t recall—"

"Of course, you don’t," she cut in, already turning her attention back to the list she kept by her saucer. "But mark my words, he’s coming to make his proposal official. It is time you finally accepted your future, dear. There are matters to be arranged, details to prepare for the wedding. You should be grateful he’s being so… proper."

The word grateful sat uneasily on your tongue, and you swallowed it down along with your annoyance. Pushing back your chair, you rose hastily, a flutter of unease stirring in your chest as you rushed toward your room. The idea of marrying Lord Howlett had begun to seem less daunting—he had not been altogether unkind, and there was a certain steadiness about him that could be called reassuring. The thought of him proposing, of that moment when he would slide a ring onto your finger and the arrangement would become irrevocably real, sent a jolt of panic through you.

When you entered your chambers, you found your maid already laying out a gown of ivory muslin—a gesture of assumption that made your cheeks burn with resentment. Still, you let her help you into the dress, her fingers quick as they tied the ribbons and smoothed the fabric. You wore your hair loose, allowing it to tumble down your back in soft waves; an act of small rebellion, for you knew your mother would have preferred it neatly pinned.

By the time you descended the stairs, Lord Howlett was already waiting in the drawing room, standing near the window where the afternoon light softened the harsher lines of his features. He turned as you entered, his gaze sweeping over you with a measured look that betrayed nothing.

"Miss Langley," he greeted, inclining his head with that familiar formality. "Thank you for receiving me on such short notice."

You curtsied, your movements practiced and restrained. "I was told you had something urgent to discuss, my lord. I must confess, I am curious as to what could not wait."

His lips twitched, not quite a smile but something close. "Then I shall not keep you in suspense." He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small, velvet box, opening it with a quiet snap. Inside, nestled against the dark lining, was a ring—a delicate band of gold set with a single emerald, flanked by two smaller diamonds. The green stone gleamed in the light, as deep and rich as the forests of Howlett Manor.

You were surprised by the quick stab of pleasure that rose in your chest. "The ring… it is beautiful," you admitted before you could think better of it. You caught his eye and saw something flicker there, a brief, almost imperceptible softening.

"I hoped you would like it," he said quietly, and for a moment, the tension that always seemed to hang between you loosened ever so slightly. "The emerald reminded me of—" He stopped, glancing away as though he had already said too much. "Well, I thought it would suit you."

A silence stretched between you, more thoughtful than awkward, before he cleared his throat and closed the box, slipping it back into his pocket. "There is also another matter," he said, his tone returning to its usual steadiness. "My mother is hosting a ball in our honor tomorrow evening. She insists it will be a grand affair, and I—" He hesitated, as though weighing his next words. "I would be honored if you would accompany me, Miss Langley."

"A ball?" you repeated, and though you meant for your tone to sound disinterested, you couldn’t quite keep the hint of dread from creeping in. "So soon? I would have thought we might… wait, given the circumstances."

"Lady Elizabeth is not a woman inclined to wait," he replied, a wry twist in his voice that was not without sympathy. "She wishes to make our engagement known to society without delay. It will be… expected, of course, that we present a united front."

"Naturally," you said, though the word felt bitter on your tongue. You looked away, toward the gilded clock ticking away on the mantel. "And what, precisely, would that united front entail, my lord? Do you expect me to pretend to be a willing bride, eager to embrace my future with you?"

He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was low, almost kind. "I expect only what you can give, Miss Langley. If all you can manage is civility, then that will suffice."

You glanced at him, taken aback by the gentleness in his tone. "You surprise me, Lord Howlett," you said, your voice softer than before. "I did not think you capable of such… understanding."

"I am not as devoid of feeling as you seem to believe," he replied, a faint, rueful smile tugging at his lips. "But I would not have you think I am resigned to a marriage without hope of something more than mere obligation." His gaze met yours, steady and unyielding. "If there is any chance at all that we might find some semblance of happiness, I would take it."

The words lingered in the air, as fragile and uncertain as a new leaf on a winter branch. You hesitated, and a small part of you were reluctant to dismiss him entirely. "Very well, my lord," you said at last. "I shall attend this ball, and we shall play our parts for society. But do not mistake my agreement for acceptance."

"I would not dare," he murmured, and there was the faintest hint of relief in his voice. He pulled the velvet box from his pocket handing it to you before taking his leave. 

You found yourself opening the box, glancing at the ring once more, that emerald stone glinting like a tiny spark of hope. It was a beautiful ring, you thought, though whether it would come to signify a promise or a prison remained yet to be seen.

────୨ৎ────

"My, my. Howlett Manor is even more magnificent than I imagined," Lady Langley breathed, her voice hushed with awe as the two of you stepped into the grand entryway. 

The butler bowed with a practiced grace, and the quiet echo of your footsteps on the marble floor seemed to emphasize the vastness of the space. "This is to be your home, dear," she added, her gaze drifting upward to the vaulted ceiling, where intricate plasterwork and painted frescoes caught the morning light.

You huffed softly, resisting the tug at your heart. The manor—no, the estate, as it ought to be called—was indeed more splendid than you cared to admit, though you had steeled yourself not to show it. Even from the approach, its beauty had been undeniable: the sprawling gardens with their perfectly trimmed hedges, the marble fountain in the circular drive, its water sparkling like diamonds, and the lush oak trees lining the path like silent sentinels. Yet the sight of the interior, with its polished wood paneling and gilt-framed paintings, stirred something inside you that you could not quite name—a feeling somewhere between wonder and resentment.

"It is... pleasant," you said at last, the word falling flat even to your ears. Your tone was deliberately blasé, a feeble attempt to veil the fact that the grandeur of Howlett Manor made Langley House seem almost shabby by comparison. You watched your mother drift toward a painting—a portrait of some long-dead Howlett ancestor, his expression as stern as the current lord's.

"Pleasant?" She shot you a disapproving look over her shoulder, one brow arching in that way that always made you feel like a child again. "Do not be coy, dearest. This estate could rival a palace, and you know it." Her voice took on a lilting quality as she turned back to admire the ornate chandelier suspended above you, its crystals glittering like a thousand tiny stars. "It will be quite the step up from Langley House."

You bit the inside of your cheek, turning away from her. "If only that were the most important consideration in a marriage," you murmured, more to yourself than to her. As if marble floors and gold leaf could ease the unease that settled in your chest. The manor may be exquisite, but it was still a cage, albeit a gilded one, with walls that seemed to close in the moment you stepped inside.

Just then, a door on the far side of the hall opened, and Lord Howlett emerged, his dark gaze sweeping over you and your mother with a hint of appraisal. His expression softened—though only slightly—as his eyes settled on you. "Miss Langley, Lady Langley. I trust the journey was not too taxing?" His voice was low and measured, as though politeness was a formality he had long since mastered but did not particularly enjoy.

"It was quite manageable, thank you," your mother replied, flashing him a practiced smile. "And I must say, Lord Howlett, your home is truly breathtaking. I believe my daughter finds it to her liking as well, though she is being rather modest about it."

You bristled at the suggestion and shot Lord Howlett a look that was equal parts defiance and wariness. "It is certainly... impressive," you said, your tone more guarded than before. "Though I would imagine it feels rather empty at times, with all this space."

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "It is certainly quieter than the bustling atmosphere at Langley House, I imagine," he said, with a slight lift of his brow. "But I assure you, it is far from lonely."

His words hung in the air, and you wondered if there was an unspoken meaning hidden in them, something deeper than mere pleasantries. For a moment, you allowed your gaze to wander over the grand staircase that swept upward, the dark wood banisters gleaming under the chandelier's light, and the tall windows that overlooked the grounds, where sunlight poured in, bright and unforgiving. It was a beautiful place, undeniably, but it wasn’t yours.

"Well, I suppose I shall have to grow accustomed to all this… splendor," you said, your voice softer now, almost resigned. "After all, it will soon be my duty to see that Howlett Manor is properly kept." The words felt strange on your tongue, as though you were speaking of another woman’s life.

Lord Howlett’s expression shifted, just a touch. "It will be more than a duty, Miss Langley," he said quietly, his gaze steady on you. "I would have you feel at home here. In time." There was a note of sincerity in his voice that gave you pause, and for a fleeting moment, you wondered if he truly meant it—or if he was simply trying to soothe you like one would a skittish horse.

You nodded, though you did not entirely trust yourself to reply. The weight of the ring on your finger suddenly seemed heavier, its emerald catching the light with a glint that reminded you of promises yet to be fulfilled, and choices that had been made for you long before you ever set foot in this grand house.

"Come, dearest," your mother interrupted, her voice bright with forced cheer as she swept back over to you. "Lord Howlett’s mother is expecting us for tea. We wouldn’t want to keep the Dowager waiting, now would we?"

You inclined your head in reluctant agreement and began to follow her, but just before you reached the door, you glanced back at Lord Howlett. His gaze met yours, and for a brief, disquieting moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something genuine there—a glimmer of hope or perhaps doubt. Then he turned away, and you were left wondering if you had imagined it altogether.

────୨ৎ────

"I am pleased you accepted my invitation for tea," Lady Elizabeth said, her tone as cool and crisp as the fine china from which she sipped. 

The butler moved gracefully between the three of you, filling cups with practiced precision. "I am a very busy woman, as you can imagine, but I thought it prudent to speak with you before the ball this evening." Her gaze slid over you and your mother with an assessing look that felt more like judgment than welcome. 

Your mother offered a polite smile, though you could see the strain in it. "We are honored, Lady Elizabeth. I have heard so much about your journeys. You must have seen some remarkable places. I do envy such a fulfilling life… though, of course, my duties keep me at home with my family."

Lady Elizabeth’s lips tightened as if your mother's words had struck the wrong chord. Her eyes—cold and calculating—rested on you, and you could feel the weight of her scrutiny. It was clear she did not much care for the Langleys, despite the upcoming union. Perhaps she tolerated this match because it served her son’s purposes, but not out of any fondness for you or your family.

Sensing the chill in the room, you made an effort to soften the atmosphere. "You must have had some wonderful experiences. Where do your travels take you, Lady Elizabeth?" you asked, attempting a pleasant tone.

The older woman waved the butler away, her movements sharp as she took up her teacup once more. "All over England, and occasionally the Continent. I have been fortunate enough to travel extensively," she said, though there was a faint trace of bitterness in her voice. "Of course, it was never meant to be a solitary pursuit. My late husband and I had always dreamed of seeing the world together." She paused, her expression hardening. "Alas, we do not always get the lives we wish for."

Your mother nodded sympathetically, though Lady Elizabeth seemed to pay her little attention. "How dreadful, losing one's partner," your mother said softly. "It must be some comfort to have your son by your side."

Lady Elizabeth gave a faint, humorless chuckle, setting her cup down with a little too much force. "Logan?" she said, as though the name itself tasted sour on her tongue. "He is a dutiful son, I suppose, though I always did wish..." Her voice trailed off, and she pressed her lips together in a thin line before continuing, "Well, it does not matter. One cannot change what is already done."

You felt a jolt of surprise at her words. There was no warmth when she spoke of Lord Howlett—only a veiled disappointment that seemed to cut deeper than mere disapproval. The realization unsettled you, and against your better judgment, a small pang of sympathy stirred in your chest. What must it be like, you wondered, to be judged so harshly by one’s mother? To be seen as little more than a reminder of unfulfilled dreams?

"Lord Howlett has been… kind," you offered, your voice gentler than before. "He has made efforts to make me feel welcome."

Lady Elizabeth’s sharp gaze flicked to you, her eyes narrowing as though she could sense the faintest hint of defense in your tone. "He is a man who understands his duty," she said curtly. "Nothing more, nothing less. But you would do well not to mistake that for kindness, Miss Langley. He has his father’s temperament—stubborn and unyielding. It will not be an easy life for you, no matter how pretty the ring on your finger."

Her words were like a slap, though you weren’t entirely certain if they were meant for you or her son. The way she spoke of him, as though he were a disappointment, made your chest tighten with an emotion you hadn’t expected—pity. It was a curious thing to feel toward a man you’d only just begun to know, but it was there all the same, lingering at the edges of your thoughts like a stubborn shadow.

Your mother quickly changed the subject, her voice a touch too bright. "Well, Lady Elizabeth, I must say, your home is simply splendid. The ball will surely be the event of the season." She turned to you with a pointed look, the silent reminder clear: Remember why we’re here. Play your part.

"Yes, I’m sure it will be… lovely," you murmured, though you felt none of the enthusiasm your mother’s words suggested. The idea of the ball—a grand spectacle where you and Lord Howlett would be displayed like fine wares, a symbol of union that felt far from heartfelt—made you want to retreat even further into yourself. But retreating was not an option, not when duty beckoned.

Lady Elizabeth's expression softened, though only slightly. "I expect nothing less," she said, her gaze sweeping over you both. "We must present a united front, after all. Appearances matter, even when the heart is not engaged."

The words hung in the air, heavy with implications. You glanced at your mother, who was nodding as though everything Lady Elizabeth said was perfectly reasonable. Yet you couldn’t help but wonder if there was a warning hidden in her tone—a reminder of what this marriage was truly about.

"Well, then," your mother said, setting her empty teacup aside, "we should go upstairs and prepare. There is much to be done before this evening."

Lady Elizabeth waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, yes. I have given instructions to the maids. They will see that everything is in order."

With that, you rose from your seat, grateful for the excuse to leave the stifling parlor. As you and your mother made your way up the grand staircase, you cast one last glance at Lady Elizabeth, who was staring into the distance, her expression as cold and remote as the marble statues that lined the hall.

At that moment, you thought of Lord Howlett again and wondered what it would be like to grow up under the shadow of such an unforgiving woman—one who seemed to see nothing but what could have been, rather than what was. It didn’t excuse his sternness, his brooding demeanor, but it offered some small insight into why he might be the way he was.

────୨ৎ────

The ball was a spectacle of shimmering lights and lavish décor, each detail carefully orchestrated to impress. The chandeliers above cast a warm, golden glow over the guests, who moved in graceful circles across the marble floor like figures in a painting. 

Your gown—an opulent creation of deep sapphire silk embroidered with silver thread—caught the light with every turn, the fabric glinting like starlight and drawing the eyes of those around you. You felt their stares lingering, appraising, but it was as if they were looking at a finely dressed doll rather than a flesh-and-blood woman.

Your mother had drifted off, eager to mingle and sing the praises of this grand match. It left you standing alone in a sea of unfamiliar faces, the polite chatter around you blurring into a single, indistinct hum. Though the event had ostensibly been arranged in your honor, it felt more like you were a prize on display, set out for the approval of society rather than for any true celebration.

Determined not to appear lost, you moved to the edge of the ballroom, your gloved fingers trailing over the polished surface of a side table laden with flowers. You caught snatches of conversation as you passed by small clusters of guests, their voices rising and falling like the strings of an orchestra.

"Well, I must say, it's quite the surprise that Lady Elizabeth managed to secure such a match for her son," a woman's voice murmured, low and conspiratorial. You glanced to your left and saw a pair of elegantly dressed women in their middle years, their fans fluttering as they spoke. "I had begun to think poor James would never find a bride. His temperament is not exactly… charming."

Another voice chimed in, this one with an edge of mischief. "And his mother hardly helps matters, does she? Lady Elizabeth has been a terror for years, ever since her husband died. I can't imagine growing up under such a cold hand."

"Well," the first woman continued with a sigh, "he was always the dutiful son. But duty is hardly enough to make one pleasant company, is it?"

Their words settled over you like a damp mist, uncomfortable and cloying. You were still learning who Lord Howlett—or James, as they called him—truly was, but you had already sensed that the relationship between him and his mother was strained. Hearing it discussed so openly, with such dismissiveness, only added to the unease you had felt since the start of the evening. It was as though you were intruding on a story that was not yours, but in which you had unwillingly become a central character.

Feeling a knot tighten in your chest, you turned abruptly and made your way toward the terrace doors. You needed air—something to clear the suffocating sense of being scrutinized, and judged, even before the real marriage had begun. 

Pushing through the doors, you stepped out into the cool night, grateful for the brisk wind that carried the scent of autumn leaves and distant rain.

The garden stretched out before you, illuminated by lanterns that flickered in the dark like tiny fireflies. You had barely taken a few steps when you saw a figure leaning against the stone balustrade at the far end of the terrace. His silhouette was unmistakable, broad-shouldered, and tense, with the light of the nearest lantern casting half his face in shadow.

"Lord Howlett," you said, your voice carrying a trace of surprise despite yourself. "I didn’t expect to find you out here, avoiding your ball."

He turned at the sound of your voice, his dark gaze finding yours in the dim light. "And I didn’t expect to find you fleeing the festivities," he replied, his tone dry but not unkind. "Is the grand occasion not to your liking, Miss Langley?"

You moved closer, folding your arms against the chill, though it was not entirely the cold that made you shiver. "It is grand, yes," you said, the words feeling hollow even as you spoke them. "But it is also… overwhelming. It seems everyone here has something to say about you and your family."

His expression tightened, a shadow passing over his features. "Let me guess," he said, his voice dropping to a rough murmur. "They’ve been speaking of my mother and me, as though we are some tragic figures to be pitied or criticized." He gave a short, humorless laugh. "People always do."

You hesitated, uncertain whether to reveal what you had overheard. Something in the darkness of his gaze, in the way his shoulders seemed to carry a weight that had nothing to do with the fine tailoring of his coat, made you speak. "They said… that your mother is difficult, and that you…" You trailed off, suddenly unsure. "That you have always been dutiful, but that it does not make you pleasant company."

His jaw tightened, and for a moment you thought he might turn away from you and retreat into the silence of the garden. But then he sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. "My mother is a difficult woman," he admitted, his tone devoid of any attempt at pretense. "She was not always so, but after my father died… she became colder. As though his death froze something in her. She has never quite forgiven me for not being the son she imagined I should be."

The raw honesty in his voice startled you. It was the first time you had heard him speak so openly, and the words cut through your resentment like a knife through silk, leaving you with an unexpected ache. "I'm sorry," you said softly, though you knew the words were inadequate. "It must be… difficult, to carry that."

His gaze shifted back to you, his expression softening just a fraction. "It is," he said quietly, "but I do not seek pity, Miss Langley. I am only telling you this because—" He hesitated as if weighing the significance of what he was about to say. "Because I would have you understand that I do not wish to marry out of obligation any more than you do. But life is rarely kind enough to allow us our preferences."

You took a slow breath, feeling the tension in the air between you, taut and humming. "Then what do you wish for, my lord?" you asked, the question coming out softer than you intended. "If not obligation, then what?"

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze steady on you as though searching for something in your eyes. "If we must go through with this," he said at last, "then perhaps we might find some way to make it bearable. To be… companions, at the very least." He gave a small, rueful smile, one that barely reached his eyes. "And you needn’t call me 'Lord Howlett' anymore. It sounds as though we are forever strangers. You may call me Logan if you wish."

The use of his given name felt strange on your tongue, but not unpleasantly so. "Logan," you repeated, testing the feel of it. The intimacy of the gesture surprised you, and for the first time, you wondered if perhaps there was more to this man than the stern exterior he showed the world. "Very well. But only if you call me by my name as well. I would prefer not to feel like a stranger in my marriage."

"Agreed," he said, the faintest trace of warmth returning to his voice. "Then we shall start there, at least."

You nodded, a small, reluctant smile curling your lips. The path ahead was still fraught with uncertainty, but for the first time, the weight on your chest seemed to lift just a little, as though you had found a foothold on a steep climb. The night air no longer felt quite so cold, and the lights of the ballroom behind you seemed a world away, as though the two of you were the only people in existence.

"Perhaps…" you began hesitantly, your voice almost lost in the cool night air. "Perhaps you like to dance?" The suggestion came out more tentative than you intended, as though you were testing the ground beneath you for cracks. "I—I don't know if you are a dancer, but—"

"I am not," Logan interrupted, his tone blunt as ever. His gaze flicked to the ballroom beyond the terrace, where the strains of a lively waltz floated out through the open doors.

You nodded quickly, heat rising to your cheeks as awkwardness settled over you like a heavy cloak. "I see. Well, then," you said, already beginning to turn away, "I should probably—"

"Wait," he said, his voice softer now, almost as if he regretted his abruptness. "I may not be a dancer by nature, but…" He extended his hand, gloved and steady, toward you. "I suppose I could make an exception. For tonight."

You hesitated, glancing between his outstretched hand and his eyes, which held a flicker of something unexpected—perhaps even a hint of apology. It seemed as though he was offering more than just a dance; he was offering a moment of truce, a chance to find common ground, if only for the span of a waltz. 

Slowly, you placed your hand in his, the warmth of his touch seeping through the thin fabric of your glove.

He led you back through the terrace doors and onto the polished floor of the ballroom. The light was softer here, the shadows of the grand chandeliers dancing across the marble in tandem with the swirling couples. 

Logan's hand found its place at your waist, and you felt the light pressure of his fingers against your back as he drew you closer. His other hand held yours gently, as though he were wary of holding on too tightly.

"You may find I am somewhat clumsy," he said, his voice low and edged with a reluctant humor. "I am better suited to riding or fencing than to this… delicate footwork."

"Then I shall tread lightly," you replied, a small, teasing smile touching your lips as you met his gaze. "It wouldn't do to embarrass you in front of your guests."

A wry glint sparked in his eyes. "I'd wager you would enjoy that far more than you should," he murmured, his tone laced with dry amusement.

The music swelled around you, and as you began to move, you could feel the tension in Logan's posture. His steps were careful at first, almost hesitant, as though he were measuring each movement to ensure he did not misstep. Yet, as the dance went on, a certain ease began to creep in. There was a surprising steadiness in the way he guided you, his hold neither too firm nor too tentative, as though he were learning how to match your pace.

"You're not a terrible dancer, you know," you said after a moment, allowing yourself to relax into the rhythm. "I think you may have misled me."

He gave a soft chuckle, the sound rumbling low in his chest. "If you say so. Though I still feel like an imposter among these graceful sorts." His gaze swept briefly over the other dancers, his expression thoughtful. "I imagine this isn’t exactly the kind of evening you dreamt of when you thought of marriage."

You glanced up at him, surprised by the note of genuine curiosity in his voice. "No," you admitted, your tone candid. "But I’m not certain I ever dreamt of marriage at all. Not in the way young girls often do. I always thought… well, that I might have a choice in the matter. That I would marry someone of my choosing." The words slipped out before you could weigh them, and you immediately wondered if you had said too much.

Logan’s grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly. "And yet here you are," he said quietly, his gaze locking onto yours, "dancing with a man you did not choose."

"Here I am," you echoed, unable to disguise the faint edge of resignation in your voice. "But you should know, Logan—I have not resigned myself to being simply dutiful." There was a challenge in your eyes as you met his, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to blur, leaving just the two of you moving in time with the music. "I do not intend to be a wife in name only, nor a woman without her mind."

The corner of his mouth lifted, though the expression was not quite a smile. "Good," he said, the word a murmur. "I would not want a wife who could be so easily subdued." There was a pause, and then he added, as if it cost him something to say it, "You have a strength about you, a fire. It… suits you."

His words, spoken so plainly, sent a shiver down your spine from the strange thrill of being seen, even if only for a moment. "Logan?" you asked, your voice almost a whisper. "What do you want from this… arrangement?"

The dance slowed, and he guided you to a stop at the edge of the ballroom, where the light was softer and the music faded into the background. His gaze never wavered from yours, and for an instant, you could see the layers of guardedness in his eyes, the uncertainty mingled with something deeper.

"I suppose I want what anyone wants," he said at last, the honesty in his tone startlingly raw. "A life that is… bearable, at the very least. Perhaps, in time, something more than just duty." His hand lingered on your waist, as though he was reluctant to let you go. "But I will not force affection where it does not exist. I would rather we find some common ground, even if that is all we ever share."

The tension between you hung in the air like a breath unspent, and you found yourself nodding, your throat tight. "I suppose that is a start," you said, a hint of a smile pulling at your lips. "But I will warn you, Logan—I have little talent for settling for 'bearable.' If I am to find contentment, it will be on my terms."

"Then let it be on your terms," he replied, his voice soft but resolute. "As long as you allow me to learn them."

The music swelled once more, the moment passed, but something unspoken lingered between you, fragile and tentative. As you moved away from the dance floor, you could not help but feel that you had glimpsed the man behind the title—neither a brooding lord nor a reluctant suitor, but someone trying, just as you were, to make sense of the path that lay ahead.

────୨ৎ────

The days before the wedding passed in a blur of preparations, each one more elaborate than the last. Your mother seemed determined to outdo herself in every detail, from the arrangements of the flowers to the grandness of the banquet, as though an opulent ceremony could distract from the quiet desperation behind it. 

The Langleys were teetering on the brink of ruin, yet she had no qualms about spending lavishly, especially since it was Lord Howlett’s money footing the bill. It only pressed your nerves further, making you feel as though you were hurtling toward an unknown fate with no time to catch your breath.

Your sisters were surprisingly calm about it all, their usual youthful chatter subdued by a vague, uneasy acceptance. One of them, the youngest, had even confessed her concern as you helped her brush out her hair the night before. “Do you have to marry him?” she whispered, her wide eyes full of worry. “People say he’s… odd. They say his temper is frightful, and he spends too much time away from society.”

You forced a reassuring smile, though you could not quite summon the words to soothe her fears—when your own still lingered in the corners of your mind.

Yet, if there was any solace to be found in those frantic days, it was in the quiet hours you spent by your father's side. His health had declined steadily over the past year, leaving him confined to his bed more often than not, and you took every opportunity to care for him, fetching his tea, sitting with him in the evenings, and reading aloud from his favorite books. He was the one constant in your world, and though you tried to keep the worry from your voice, he seemed to sense the storm that raged beneath your calm facade.

One evening, you sat beside him in the dim glow of the bedside candlelight, the murmur of the household carrying faintly through the closed door. Your father’s eyes, though weary, still held a spark of the warmth that had always comforted you. He reached for your hand, his grip gentle but steady. "You seem troubled, my dear," he said softly. "I imagine it is not just the bustle of the preparations weighing on you."

You hesitated, but then sighed, letting some of your defenses fall. "I suppose I am… uncertain," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "There is so much talk—about Lord Howlett’s character, about his reputation. I hardly know him at all, and yet I am to marry him."

Your father’s expression softened, a faint smile touching his lips. "You’re right to have your doubts, but there is more to James than society sees," he said, his voice low and earnest. "He is a good man, despite what people may say. I have known him for some time."

You looked at him with surprise. "You have?"

He nodded, a faraway look in his eyes as if recalling something from long ago. "I once had the chance to see the measure of his character firsthand," he began. "It was a few years back before his father passed. There was an incident in the village—a fire broke out in one of the cottages. I had gone down to see if I could offer any assistance, and there was James, knee-deep in the smoke and chaos, helping to pull a family from the burning house. He didn’t wait for anyone else to act—he just did what had to be done." He paused, his gaze meeting yours with quiet intensity. "Afterwards, when the villagers tried to thank him, he brushed it off as though it were nothing."

You listened, the image of Logan emerging from the smoke—a man of action rather than words—forming in your mind. It didn’t fit the stories whispered about him at all, the rumors of a cold, temperamental lord who preferred his solitude to society. 

"He doesn’t wear his virtues for others to see," your father continued, his tone tender. "But they are there, and I would not have agreed to this marriage if I didn’t believe he was worthy of you." His voice dipped, softening. "In fact, it was I who insisted upon it."

The admission struck you like a sudden breeze, and you blinked in surprise. "You insisted?" 

A faint chuckle escaped him, though it was tinged with sadness. "Your mother had other plans," he confessed. "She wanted you to marry Viscount Ashcombe. But I knew that man for what he was—a charming rake with a smile that hid his vices. He would have squandered what little we had left and treated you as nothing more than a pretty ornament for his arm. I could not allow that."

A shudder of relief ran through you. Viscount Ashcombe had indeed been a frequent guest at Langley House, his charming demeanor masking a calculating gaze you had never quite trusted. That your father had shielded you from such a fate filled you with a new, deep gratitude, but also a touch of guilt. "And… Lord Howlett?" you asked, your voice hesitant. "You truly believe he is a better choice?"

"I do," your father said simply, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. "James may not be the gentleman of society’s dreams, but he is honorable, and he would not see you come to harm. I have seen how he looks at you, even if you have not noticed it yourself. There is a kindness there, though it is buried deep. I only ask that you give him a chance to prove himself to you."

You felt the sting of tears behind your eyes, not out of sadness, but from the overwhelming tenderness in your father’s words. He had always been a voice of reason and quiet strength, and if he believed Logan was a good man, perhaps there was something more to this arrangement than mere obligation. "I shall try, Papa," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "If you think it right, I shall try."

A soft smile curved his lips, and he reached up to tuck a stray curl behind your ear. "That is all I could ever ask of you, my dear," he said gently. "And remember, marriage is not defined by society's expectations or even by the beginnings it is built upon. It is shaped by the choices you make together, by how you face the world as one."

You stayed with him a while longer, resting your head on the pillow beside his as he spoke of simpler things—memories of your childhood, stories of when he and your mother first met. Yet, as his voice grew softer and the evening deepened, your thoughts drifted to Logan, and you wondered if this marriage could truly be more than just duty.

────୨ৎ────

"Stop squirming, dear. You'll ruin the lace," your mother chided, her tone sharp with impatience. The maid's fingers fumbled with the last of the tiny pearl buttons running down the back of your gown. You tried to stand still, though your nerves thrummed beneath your skin like the tension of a tightly wound string.

"But it's itchy," you complained, wincing as the delicate lace sleeves brushed against your arms again, the fine fabric more irritating than luxurious at that moment. The dress, an ivory satin creation with lace overlay, clung to your frame like a beautiful prison, its layers heavy and constricting. You stared at your reflection in the looking glass—the bride-to-be staring back at you was almost unrecognizable, her cheeks pale and eyes wide with the uncertainty she couldn’t quite mask. 

"Beauty is not meant to be comfortable," your mother said briskly, stepping forward to adjust your veil with quick, efficient movements. "Today of all days, you must endure a little discomfort." She pressed a kiss to your forehead, though there was no true tenderness in the gesture—only the determination of a woman who would see her daughter wed, no matter what doubts might linger in the air.

You glanced toward the window where the light spilled in, illuminating the fine dust motes that danced in the air. Beyond the glass, the sprawling grounds of Howlett Manor stretched out, perfectly manicured and bedecked with white roses for the occasion. Guests were beginning to arrive, their carriages forming a neat line along the drive, and you felt a fresh wave of apprehension as the realization settled in by the end of this day, you would be Lady Howlett. No longer just yourself, but part of something larger and more daunting than you had ever imagined.

"Come, dear. It is time," your mother said, her voice taking on a softened tone that still carried an edge of insistence. She took your hand and led you down the grand staircase, the train of your gown trailing like a whisper behind you. As you reached the bottom step, a footman opened the doors, and the warm summer air rushed in, carrying with it the faint strains of music and the murmurs of assembled guests.

The ceremony itself was to take place in the garden, beneath a canopy of white silk, with roses entwined in the trellis above. You took your place at the entrance of the aisle, your breath catching in your throat as the music swelled.

Ahead of you, the guests rose to their feet, their eyes upon you like a sea of expectations. You felt as though you were walking into a story already written, where every step was a line you could not change.

Then you saw him.

Logan stood at the end of the aisle, his back straight and his face composed, but there was a different look about him today—something more open in his expression as if the stern lines of his features had softened slightly in the golden light. He was dressed in a dark coat and waistcoat, his cravat a crisp white, and for the first time, you thought he looked less like the brooding lord and more like any other man, perhaps even a little… nervous. The thought was oddly comforting, to see that he too might be feeling the weight of this moment.

What truly caught your attention was the sight of him speaking with a young woman—his cousin, Marie, whom you had met briefly the night before. She stood close to him, her dark curls bouncing as she laughed softly at something he said. Logan’s face, usually so guarded, was uncharacteristically warm. He reached out to gently touch her arm, a small smile playing on his lips. There was an ease in his manner that you had not seen before. It was a different side of him—a side that seemed capable of tenderness.

As if sensing your gaze, Logan looked up and met your eyes. The warmth did not fade from his expression; if anything, it deepened, and he gave you a small, reassuring nod. It was a subtle gesture, but there was something in it that steadied your breath—a silent acknowledgment that whatever lay ahead, you did not have to face it alone.

The music began again, and you took a step forward, then another, your heartbeat loud in your ears as you moved down the aisle. Your gaze remained fixed on Logan, his presence grounding you as you drew nearer. When you finally reached him, he extended his hand, and you placed yours in it, the warmth of his touch radiating through your glove.

His fingers squeezed yours gently, a subtle comfort. “Breathe,” he whispered, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “You’re doing fine.”

You exhaled, a shaky breath escaping you, and for a moment, the knot in your chest loosened. “You seem remarkably calm,” you replied quietly, glancing up at him. “Are you not nervous at all?”

His lips curved into a faint smile, one that was almost playful. “Terrified, if you must know,” he admitted, his eyes holding yours. “But I’ve been told I hide it well.”

A surprised laugh slipped out before you could stop it, the sound quiet and breathless. You hadn’t expected him to share such a candid confession, and somehow, it made everything feel a little less daunting. 

The priest began to speak, the familiar words of the ceremony flowing around you, and though your mind still buzzed with nerves, you found yourself clinging to that moment of shared honesty, to the knowledge that beneath Logan’s composed exterior, a man was grappling with uncertainty, just as you were.

As the vows were exchanged, Logan’s voice was steady, but there was a sincerity in his tone that made you look up at him again, your pulse quickening. He held your gaze as he spoke, and at that moment, it felt as though the rest of the world had faded away—leaving only the two of you standing there, joined in a promise neither of you had fully chosen but both were willing to see through.

When it came time to place the ring on your finger, his hand lingered over yours, his touch careful, almost reverent. “You’re not alone in this,” he said softly, just for you to hear, his breath warm against your ear. “And you never will be.”

The words settled in your chest, bringing with them a quiet sense of resolve. As the priest declared you husband and wife, you felt a strange mix of relief and anticipation, as though you were standing at the edge of something new and uncertain, but not entirely unwelcome. 

You glanced at Logan once more, catching a glimpse of that same warmth in his eyes, and for the first time, you wondered if perhaps there might be room, however small, for something real to grow.

When he leaned in to kiss you, you hesitated for a moment. He was gentle, almost tentative as though he were offering you not just a gesture of the ceremony but a promise of something more. The guests cheered and the music swelled pulling you back. 

────୨ৎ────

The reception was in full swing by the time you made your way downstairs. The lively hum of conversation and clinking of glasses echoed through the grand hall, but the merriment seemed to blur at the edges of your awareness. Your mind was still reeling from the conversation you’d had with your mother moments before—her not-so-subtle suggestions about "wifely duties" and the inevitability of sharing a bed with your husband tonight. 

The thought made your stomach twist, and your cheeks were still warm with embarrassment. You had hoped to delay that particular aspect of marriage, at least for a while, but there was no denying the weight of expectation pressing down on you.

As you rounded a corner into one of the quieter wings of the manor, you slowed your steps, grateful for a moment of reprieve from the noise and the prying eyes. 

It was then that you caught sight of Lady Elizabeth, standing near the far end of the corridor with another woman you vaguely recognized—a guest, perhaps, or a distant relation whose name escaped you. They were somewhat obscured by the shadows, their heads bowed close together as they spoke in low, urgent voices.

You stopped short, instinctively stepping back to avoid being seen, but their conversation drifted toward you in hushed but distinct whispers.

"…it was the only way to ensure his claim to the manor," Lady Elizabeth said, her voice cold and matter-of-fact. "You understand, don’t you? A bastard child cannot inherit Howlett Manor unless certain… conditions are met."

The other woman gasped softly, her fan fluttering nervously at her throat. "Are you saying James is—"

"A bastard," Lady Elizabeth cut in, the word sharp and unyielding. "Yes. He is the son of a groundskeeper we had. I had an affair—brief, foolish—and yet, here we are. The late Lord Howlett agreed to raise him as his own, but only if Logan did what was necessary to preserve the family name and secure the estate. That meant marrying, producing an heir… appearing respectable." Her tone held a trace of bitterness, as though the situation was a distasteful chore she had no choice but to accept.

The truth struck you like a blow to the chest, knocking the breath from your lungs. You gripped the edge of the doorway, your fingers digging into the wood as the world seemed to tilt around you. Logan is not truly the heir to Howlett Manor? He is… illegitimate?

The whispers continued, their voices fading in and out. "��must keep it quiet, of course," Lady Elizabeth was saying. "If anyone found out the truth, it would cause a scandal. All the wealth, the manor—gone. That is why this marriage was so important. He needs a legitimate heir, and quickly."

You could hardly process what you were hearing. The weight of the revelation pressed down on you, filling your chest with a mixture of shock and betrayal. You had known there were expectations upon this marriage, pressures you had not fully understood, but this… this was an entirely different kind of entanglement. It wasn’t just a matter of appearances or duty—it was a lie. A lie that Logan had kept from you, that his mother had kept from society, a lie that now entangled you as well.

Forcing yourself to remain calm, you stepped back quietly, retreating before they could notice you. Your heart pounded in your ears as you made your way to one of the smaller parlors, where you sank into a chair, your mind spinning. 

The scandal this could cause—if the truth were to come out, it would ruin not just Logan, but your family as well. The very thing you had married to avoid—the loss of Langley House, the disgrace—would become inevitable. I cannot tell anyone, you thought, a tremor running through you. No one can know.

Later, you found yourself drifting through the reception, the laughter and music around you feeling like a distant, disjointed melody. You did your best to play your part—the smiling bride, the gracious hostess—but every time you caught sight of Logan across the room, a fresh wave of unease washed over you. 

You wondered how long he had known, how long he had kept this secret hidden from you. Had he intended to tell you eventually, or had he planned to let you live in ignorance, a pawn in his efforts to secure a future for himself?

As if summoned by your thoughts, Logan approached you near the edge of the ballroom, where you had retreated once more to catch your breath. His expression was softer than usual, and there was an unexpected warmth in his eyes as he came to stand beside you. "You look… radiant," he said quietly, his voice low and gentle. He reached out to brush a stray curl from your cheek, his fingers lingering near your temple. "I was looking for you earlier. I was hoping to steal a dance."

You stiffened at his touch, the tenderness in his tone feeling almost like a mockery in light of what you now knew. You forced a smile, though it felt brittle, and nodded. "A dance? Yes, of course. It is… our wedding day, after all."

His brow furrowed slightly, as though sensing that something was amiss. "Is everything all right?" he asked, his voice dipping with concern. "You seem… distant."

How could I possibly tell you? The question burned at the back of your throat, but you swallowed it down. "I'm just… overwhelmed," you replied, letting out a small, shaky breath. "It’s all been so… sudden." It wasn’t entirely a lie, and you hoped he would accept it.

His hand found yours, and he gave your fingers a reassuring squeeze. "I understand," he said softly. "It’s a great deal to take in. But you’re not alone in this." There was a genuine kindness in his eyes, a sincerity that should have comforted you, but instead only deepened your sense of betrayal. You knew that while he spoke these words of reassurance, there was a secret between you—one that threatened to unravel everything if it ever came to light.

You allowed him to lead you onto the dance floor, you couldn’t help but feel like you were playing a role, just as much as he was. The music swelled, and you fell into step with him, your hand resting lightly on his shoulder, his arm firm around your waist. He looked down at you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken, but instead of feeling warmth, you felt a chill.

"I’m glad you’re here," Logan murmured as you danced, his voice low enough for only you to hear. "I know we didn’t choose this, but… I’d like to think we could find some measure of happiness, even if it’s not the kind we once imagined."

You met his gaze, your heart twisting painfully at the sincerity in his expression. He looked at you as though you were the only person in the world, and yet… you could not forget the conversation you had overheard, the truth that hung like a shadow between you. "Yes," you replied, forcing the words out even as they tasted bitter. "I suppose we could try."

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. "We’ll figure it out," he whispered. "Together."

The word together stung, and as you looked up at him, you wondered if he was truly offering you a partnership—or simply playing a part in a carefully crafted lie.

────୨ৎ────

The wedding celebration had stretched late into the night, and when it was finally over, you felt an overwhelming sense of relief. The laughter, music, and endless well-wishers had been exhausting, and you had longed to retreat somewhere quiet and familiar. 

But Langley House was no longer your sanctuary; Howlett Manor was now your home, and the realization settled heavily on your shoulders as the last guests departed, and the manor returned to its usual stillness.

The early morning air was cool and damp, the dew clinging to your skin as you stood on the grand steps of Howlett Manor, watching your family prepare to leave. The sight of their carriage waiting at the end of the gravel drive stirred a longing in your chest, a longing to climb inside and return with them to the warmth and comfort of your childhood home, to the place where you still knew who you were.

Your father embraced you gently, his kiss a soft brush against your cheek. "You’ll be fine, my dear," he murmured, his voice both reassuring and tinged with sadness. "Remember, if ever you need anything, we are only a letter away."

You nodded, managing a small, tight smile. "I know, Papa." But as you pulled back, a knot formed in your throat, and you had to bite your lip to keep it from trembling.

Your sisters crowded around you, their eyes bright with mischief and concern. "Now you're a proper lady, a married woman!" one teased, nudging your arm. "We expect to see you behaving with all the decorum of a countess." Another giggled, adding, "Try not to be too miserable without us."

You forced a laugh, waving them off as they climbed into the carriage, and you watched it roll away, the wheels crunching over the gravel until the sound faded into the distance. As the carriage disappeared from view, the sense of loneliness settled in, a cold, creeping sensation that sank into your bones. 

Howlett Manor was vast, with its sprawling halls and echoing chambers, but it felt impossibly empty, like a hollow shell. The servants bustled about with quiet efficiency, their footsteps barely audible on the polished floors, but their presence did little to fill the silence. There was no life here, none of the warm chaos you were used to—just endless rooms and corridors that all seemed to lead nowhere.

You wandered, your slippers brushing over the ornate rugs, your fingers trailing along the smooth banisters. At Langley House, there had always been some comfort in the small, familiar things: the chipped vase on the mantelpiece, the faded armchair your father favored, the distant sound of your sisters' laughter drifting through the halls. 

But here, everything was pristine and grand, untouched by time or sentiment. It was as though the very walls resisted your presence, like an indifferent host merely tolerating a guest.

Eventually, you found yourself in a small library tucked away on the eastern side of the manor. It was far more modest than the grand, formal library you had glimpsed earlier—this room seemed a bit forgotten, its shelves crammed to the brim with books of every kind. The air smelled faintly of dust and leather, and a few stray beams of sunlight spilled through the narrow window, illuminating particles that danced lazily in the air.

You sank into a worn armchair by the window, its upholstery faded from years of sunlight. It wasn’t a particularly inviting chair, but it was the first place you had found that didn’t seem to insist upon its grandeur, that didn’t make you feel quite so out of place. 

Your fingers traced the spines of the books nearby—collections of poetry, histories, and old novels whose covers were cracked with age. You pulled a volume at random from the shelf and settled back, trying to lose yourself in the words, but the text seemed to blur before your eyes, and you couldn’t shake the emptiness that gnawed at the edges of your thoughts.

The loneliness here was different from what you had expected. It wasn’t the sharp sting of missing your family, nor was it the cold silence of being truly alone. 

Rather, it was a kind of isolation that seeped into you even when surrounded by people—people who knew their place here, who moved about the manor with the easy familiarity you lacked. Even Logan, who you’d scarcely seen since the wedding day, seemed a stranger to this place at times. You had caught glimpses of him in passing, his brow furrowed in thought or his expression distant, and you wondered if he too felt as though he did not entirely belong.

You had just begun to drift off into an uneasy doze when the sound of voices outside the library door roused you. You started, closing the book and setting it aside as the door opened and Logan stepped in, speaking quietly with his cousin, Marie. There was a lightness to his tone, a warmth you had rarely heard in his voice. He laughed at something she said, the sound deep and genuine, and there was a soft smile on his lips as he reached out to ruffle her hair in an affectionate, brotherly gesture.

You felt a pang of something you could not quite name—jealousy, perhaps, or simply longing. It was strange to see him this way, unguarded and almost joyful. 

As if sensing your gaze, Logan looked up and saw you seated there, half-hidden behind the armchair. His smile faded slightly, but a flicker of that warmth remained as he inclined his head toward you. "I didn’t realize anyone else was in here," he said, his voice carrying a faint note of surprise. "I hope we didn’t disturb you."

"Not at all," you replied, rising to your feet, though the sudden movement made you feel unsteady. "I was just… trying to pass the time."

Marie gave you a friendly nod before excusing herself, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet library. Logan's gaze followed her for a moment, then returned to you, and you felt the weight of his attention, his curiosity.

"Have you found everything to your liking?" he asked, his tone polite, though there was a hint of something else in it as if he was searching for reassurance himself. "I know it must be quite an adjustment…"

"Yes," you answered, forcing a smile that felt strained. "It is… different, certainly." The understatement felt almost laughable, but you could not bring yourself to confess the depth of your unease. Not to him. Not yet.

Logan’s expression softened, and he took a step closer, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "If there’s anything you need—anything at all—please let me know," he said. "I would not have you feel like a stranger here."

The kindness in his voice unsettled you, for you could not help but wonder if it was merely an act, part of the role he was expected to play as a new husband. After all, how could he speak of not wanting you to feel like a stranger when he had kept the most significant part of his life hidden from you? When the very foundation of this marriage was built on secrets and necessity?

"Thank you, my lord, but I fear I will always be a stranger here," you blurted before you could stop yourself. The moment they left your lips, a flicker of regret curled in your chest, but it was too late to take them back.

Logan's brows furrowed, a shadow of concern crossing his features. "I had hoped to make you comfortable," he said, his voice measured, as though he was choosing each word with care. "If there is something amiss… Is your chamber not to your liking, or—"

"It is not the chamber," you interrupted, shaking your head. "Everything here is grand. Perhaps that is the problem." You gestured vaguely around the room, where the dark wood paneling gleamed in the afternoon light, where the velvet drapes hung heavy and untouched. "Nothing feels… homey. It is as though I am trapped within these walls, surrounded by all this grandeur, but with nothing of substance to occupy me. There is an emptiness here and I…" Your voice trailed off, uncertain how to convey the rest without sounding ungrateful or childish.

He took a step back, the distance between you widening, though his gaze remained fixed on you, unwavering. "How can you be so unhappy when it has only been hours since our wedding?" There was a hint of frustration in his tone, barely concealed. "I know this is all new, but I thought—" He broke off, his jaw tightening. "I thought you were willing to give this a chance."

A dry laugh escaped you, tinged with a bitterness you hadn’t meant to reveal. "Willing, yes," you replied, a tremor in your voice. "But happiness? That is another matter entirely. I was not happy to begin with, and though I did promise I would try to make this marriage work, I don’t know if I can." You paused, your throat tightening around the words. "I am alone here, without my family, without my father. He has no one by his side."

Logan’s expression softened slightly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. "I know it is difficult," he said quietly. "But I would not have you feel this way. If there is anything I can—"

"I do not need reassurances, my lord," you snapped, the sharpness of your tone surprising you. You took a step toward him, the frustration and fear that had been simmering since the wedding rising to the surface. "I need honesty. I need to know that I am not merely here to serve as the solution to a problem that was never mine to begin with."

He blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. "What are you talking about?"

You opened your mouth to respond, the words balanced precariously on the tip of your tongue. I know the truth. I know what your mother said—that you are not truly the heir, that you are a— You swallowed, the weight of the secret pressing against your chest like a stone. But as you met his gaze, you saw a rawness there, a genuine concern that made you falter. The words died in your throat, and you looked away, unable to bring yourself to shatter whatever fragile understanding existed between you.

"Nothing," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "It is nothing."

"Is it?" he pressed, his tone gentling. He took a tentative step closer, his hand lifting as though to touch your arm, then falling back to his side. "I know this marriage did not begin as a love match, but that does not mean we cannot build something worthwhile from it. I am trying to give you a place here, but you must meet me halfway."

A bitter retort hovered on your lips, but you swallowed it back. "Halfway?" you echoed, a faint tremor in your voice. "And what would that look like? Me sitting in silence while you attend to your duties, while your mother watches over me like a hawk to ensure I fulfill my role as your wife and nothing more?"

Logan's jaw tightened, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes—anger, perhaps, or hurt, or some mixture of the two. "My mother does not dictate our marriage," he said, his tone firm. "Nor does she have a say in how I treat you."

"But does she have a say in why you married me?" The question slipped out before you could think better of it, and as soon as the words hung in the air between you, you wished you could take them back. You saw the way his expression changed, the guarded look that closed off whatever warmth had been there moments before.

"What are you trying to say?" His voice was low, his gaze piercing as though searching your face for answers you were unwilling to give.

You took a step back, wrapping your arms around yourself as though to ward off the sudden chill that seemed to fill the room. "Forget I said anything," you murmured, turning away from him. "I am simply tired. It has been a long day."

You walked away, the tension hung between you, a taut string threatening to snap at any moment. You could feel Logan's eyes on your back, his unspoken questions pressing against you like a weight. You had come so close to revealing what you knew, and now the secret lay thick and unspoken between you. Its presence impossible to ignore.

However, the damage was done. The words you hadn’t said had already begun to build a wall between you, one that grew higher with every passing silence.

────୨ৎ────

It was days later, in the quiet hours of the late afternoon, when Logan found you curled up in the worn armchair with a book in hand, nestled in the small, tucked-away library. It was far removed from the grand and imposing main library, which you had visited only once and found too vast, too cold for your liking.

This library felt different. It had a lived-in quality, as though it were a place where someone came to retreat from the weight of duty, a place where time seemed to slow. You had claimed it as a sanctuary of sorts, a space where you could be alone with your thoughts and the company of the old novels that lined the shelves.

You didn’t notice Logan’s presence at first, not until the faint creak of the door announced him, and you looked up, startled. Rising to your feet, you brushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear, your loose curls tumbling over your shoulders. 

"My lord, I did not notice you there," you said, your voice betraying a hint of the nerves that still stirred whenever you found yourself alone in his company.

Logan’s lips quirked in a faint smile, his gaze sweeping over the room before resting on you. "You don’t need to stand on ceremony here," he said, his tone softer than you had expected. "And you certainly don’t need to call me ‘my lord’—not in this place." He glanced around at the cluttered bookshelves as if reacquainting himself with the space. "I always thought of this library as a refuge, of sorts. It seems you have found it, too."

You relaxed slightly, though you still felt a touch self-conscious. "I did not realize this was… your library. It felt less formal than the others—more… welcoming," you admitted, a hint of a smile playing on your lips. "I hope I did not intrude."

"Not at all," he replied, stepping closer, his hands clasped casually behind his back. "In truth, I’m glad to see someone making use of it. I’ve always preferred this room over the larger one. There’s a kind of comfort here, wouldn’t you agree?"

You nodded, glancing back at the book you had set down—a collection of poetry. "I suppose I’ve always preferred smaller spaces. They feel less like… museums, more like places meant to be lived in."

Logan’s gaze drifted to the book resting on the armchair. "Byron," he noted, recognizing the gold lettering on the spine. "A man who made his life as dramatic as his verses. Are you fond of his work?"

"I am," you said, your eyes brightening at the familiar subject. "There is something about the way he captures longing and melancholy… It feels so human, so true."

Logan’s expression softened, a glimmer of shared understanding in his eyes. "Yes, there is a kind of honesty in his verses, even when they’re full of exaggeration. It’s as though he’s trying to make sense of his own heart."

He reached out, pulling a slim volume from the shelf beside him. "But I’ve always been more inclined toward Wordsworth," he confessed, turning the book over in his hands. "His love of nature, the way he finds solace in it… There’s a quietness to his poetry that I find calming."

You tilted your head, a touch of curiosity lighting your gaze. "That’s surprising. I didn’t take you for the type to seek out… calm."

Logan let out a chuckle, his thumb brushing over the book’s worn cover. "I suppose that’s why I do seek it. A man doesn’t have to look very far to find chaos, but peace… that’s something worth searching for." He glanced at you, and the lightness in his expression gave way to something more thoughtful. "You know, my father always called me James. I suppose it was the name he preferred—more dignified, I think, in his mind. But my mother… She always called me Logan, from the time I was a boy."

He hesitated, a shadow crossing his features. "I suppose I never stopped thinking of myself that way. James feels like… a stranger, a name for the person I am supposed to be, rather than the person I am."

The confession surprised you, and you found yourself searching his face, trying to understand the layers of the man standing before you. "Is that why you asked me to call you Logan?" you asked softly, as though the gesture could bridge the distance that still lay between you. 

He nodded revealing a small smile, and for a moment, the tension seemed to ease. 

“Then I shall call you Logan if that is who you truly are.” You said after a moment before sitting back down in the armchair, gesturing for him to take the one across from you, and after a moment’s hesitation, he did, setting the Wordsworth volume on his knee.

"You’ve made quite a collection here," you remarked, glancing around at the overflowing shelves. "I didn’t realize you read so much."

Logan’s expression warmed, and he shrugged slightly. "There was always more to learn, more to understand," he said. "I suppose books were the one constant when everything else seemed uncertain."

You understood that sentiment all too well, and it struck you how much you had underestimated him. He was not just the reserved and sometimes brooding man society saw, nor merely the heir struggling to uphold his family's expectations. There was a depth to him, a yearning for something beyond duty. You wondered if you had misjudged him—or at least, not truly seen him.

"You mentioned your father," Logan said gently, breaking the silence. "I know you miss him. I… I would not want to keep you from seeing him. Once I’ve attended to some business here, I shall take you to Langley House. You can stay as long as you like."

The offer came so unexpectedly that you stared at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. "You would do that?" you asked, a faint tremor in your tone.

"Of course," he replied, his gaze steady on yours. "It is your home, after all. I promised I would not have you feel like a stranger here." His lips curved in a small, earnest smile. "Besides, I would not wish to be the kind of husband who denies his wife the comfort of her family."

A warmth blossomed in your chest mingled with a pang of guilt at the secret you still kept from him. For now, you allowed yourself to accept his kindness, to believe that perhaps there was something to be built between you, some foundation upon which to steady the uncertain future that lay ahead.

You returned his smile, a tentative hope stirring within you. "Thank you, Logan," you said quietly, and as the light faded from the window, the two of you sat in the small library, the silence between you no longer quite so empty.

────୨ৎ────

The sun was sinking behind the trees, casting long shadows across the entryway of Howlett Manor, as you paced back and forth, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. The hours had dragged on, each one heavier than the last, filled with the monotonous duties of running the household—duties that had felt all the more tedious with your mind fixed elsewhere. 

Your father was ill, and the news had struck like a blow to the chest, leaving you restless and frantic.

You had received the message from your mother just after midday, her handwriting trembling across the page as she described your father’s sudden fever. The thought of him alone, struggling for breath while you remained stuck here, had been gnawing at you ever since. You had been prepared to leave immediately, but propriety demanded you wait for Logan’s return; a lady did not travel alone, no matter the urgency. Yet the minutes had crawled by, and still, he had not come.

Finally, as the last light of day began to fade, the front door swung open, and there he stood. Logan’s hair was damp with sweat, and his coat was dusted with the evidence of his travels, but he seemed unharmed—unlike your father, whose condition you had only grown more desperate to reach with each passing moment.

"There you are," you exclaimed, your voice sharp and edged with impatience. "I’ve been waiting all day for you to return. I need to leave for Langley House at once."

Logan blinked, taken aback by your tone. "I’m sorry, I—"

"My father is ill," you cut him off, your pacing quickening as you spoke. "He’s taken a sudden fever, and I will not wait here a moment longer. I must go to him." The words tumbled out in a frantic rush, your chest tightening with every breath.

Logan frowned, concern flashing in his eyes, but his tone remained calm. "It’s already late. The roads are dark, and it would be dangerous to travel now. We should wait until morning—"

"Morning?" You spun to face him, incredulous. "You promised, Logan. You said as soon as your business was done, you would take me to Langley House. But now you ask me to wait even longer? My father could be—" Your voice broke, and you swallowed hard, fighting the tears that threatened to spill over.

He stepped forward, his brow furrowing. "I know you're worried, but traveling in the dark—"

"I don’t care about the dark!" you shouted, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. "My father needs me, now, not when it’s convenient for you." The frustration and fear you had kept bottled up surged forward, and before you could think better of it, the words you had been holding back escaped in a rush. "I know why you married me, Logan," you said, your voice trembling with the force of your emotions. "I know the truth about you—about who you are. A bastard son, trying to secure his inheritance through this marriage."

His expression froze, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. "What… what are you talking about?" he asked, his voice low and uncertain, as if the ground beneath him had just shifted. "Who told you—"

"It doesn’t matter who told me," you snapped, your heart pounding as you took a step back. "What matters is that you only married me to secure your fortune, and now you would have me wait while my father suffers? You are no better than a liar, Logan." The name felt bitter on your tongue, as though it belonged to a stranger.

He reached for you, his voice urgent. "Please, just listen to me. I don’t—"

You shook your head, unwilling to hear whatever explanations he might have. "I’ve heard enough," you said coldly, turning on your heel and marching toward the door. "I’m going to Langley House, with or without you."

Without waiting for his response, you stormed out of the entryway and hurried to the stables, your pulse thundering in your ears. A stable hand gaped at you as you demanded a carriage be readied at once, and you hardly noticed the incredulous look the servants exchanged as you climbed inside, your hands trembling with anger and fear.

The carriage lurched forward, and you stole one last glance at the manor as it receded into the distance. You half expected Logan to follow, to call out and demand you stay, but there was nothing—only the growing darkness and the sound of the wheels on the gravel.

As the night swallowed the road ahead, the magnitude of what you had done began to sink in. You had left without hearing his side of the story, and though part of you felt justified, another part—a quieter, more uncertain part—wondered if you had made a terrible mistake.

────୨ৎ────

A few days had passed since you arrived at Langley House, and you had barely left your father's side. His fever had not yet broken, and though he sometimes seemed to drift into a peaceful sleep, there were moments when his breathing grew labored, his skin pale and damp. 

You clung to his bedside, your hand wrapped around his frail fingers, fighting the exhaustion that pressed against your eyelids. The hours blurred together, and you lost track of time; all that mattered was being there, willing him to recover with every silent plea.

"You should rest, dear," your mother had said, her brow creased with worry as she hovered by the door. But you waved her off with a weary shake of your head, and after a moment’s hesitation, she left you be. It was the first time in days she had not insisted on something, and you were grateful for the silence.

At last, when even your determination could not keep your eyes open, you retreated to your old room. It felt strange to be there again—the space was exactly as you had left it, a time capsule of your girlhood, yet you felt like an intruder. 

The familiar lace curtains, the faded wallpaper, the worn quilt at the foot of the bed… all reminders of a past life, one that seemed distant now that you were a wife with different burdens to bear. You lay down, but sleep remained elusive, your thoughts tangled and restless.

A soft knock interrupted the quiet, rousing you from your half-conscious state. You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes as a servant peeked hesitantly through the door. "My lady," she murmured, "there is a gentleman here to see you."

Your chest tightened, a familiar dread curling in your stomach. "If it is Lord Howlett, tell him I am busy," you said, your voice sharper than you intended. You had not spoken to Logan since you left Howlett Manor in a fit of anger and hurt, and you were not sure you were ready to face him yet.

The servant hesitated, her eyes shifting toward the hall. "He was quite insistent, my lady." Before you could respond, the door creaked open wider, and there stood Logan, looking unlike you had ever seen him.

He was pale, his hair unruly as if he had run his hands through it too many times, and there were dark circles under his eyes, as though he had not slept in days. For a moment, he seemed almost a stranger, stripped of the composed exterior you had grown used to. There was a rawness about him that made your heart twist despite the anger you still felt.

"May I come in?" he asked, his voice rough, and there was a vulnerability in his expression that gave you pause.

You hesitated, your grip tightening on the edge of the quilt. "If you’ve come to offer more excuses, Logan, I’m not interested," you said, but the words lacked the conviction they had held days ago. His appearance, so disheveled and hollow, had already chipped away at your resolve.

He stepped inside without waiting for permission, closing the door gently behind him. "I don’t have excuses," he said quietly, his gaze meeting yours with an intensity that left you breathless. "Only the truth."

You folded your arms across your chest, trying to steady yourself. "The truth?" you echoed bitterly. "And what truth would that be? That you married me only to secure your claim to Howlett Manor? That your mother’s schemes made a fool of me?"

A muscle tightened in his jaw, and he took a slow breath before answering. "I did not know," he said, the words almost a whisper, as though admitting them pained him. "I didn’t know… until you left." He took a step closer, his voice thick with raw honesty. "After you stormed off, I confronted my mother. She… she told me everything. That I am not the true heir, that my father was not my father, and that the marriage was her way of ensuring my claim remained undisputed."

You stared at him, the floor seeming to shift beneath you. "You didn’t know?" you repeated, scarcely able to believe it. "You expect me to believe that you were kept in the dark about something so… so consequential?"

"I swear to you," Logan said, his voice hoarse, "I had no idea. All my life, I believed what I was told—that I was the legitimate son of the late Lord Howlett. I never had reason to question it." His expression tightened, a shadow passing over his eyes. "But now… now I know the truth. And my mother—" He let out a bitter, broken laugh. "She’s furious with me for confronting her. She won’t speak to me. I’ve lost… I’ve lost the only family I thought I had."

The anger you had been holding onto slipped through your fingers, replaced by an ache you had not expected. You saw the hurt in his eyes, the way he struggled to keep his voice steady, and for the first time, you felt a flicker of sympathy, even guilt. Slowly, you let your arms fall to your sides. 

"Why did you come here?" you asked softly, your voice wavering. "Why now?"

"Because I needed you to know," he said, his gaze searching yours for something—understanding, forgiveness, perhaps even solace. "I needed you to know that I did not deceive you, not intentionally. And… because I hoped…" His voice trailed off, and he swallowed, his eyes dark with uncertainty. "I hoped you might still be willing to come back. If not for the marriage, then… at least to speak with me. To try to understand."

You hesitated, your heart tugging in two directions. You had been so sure of his betrayal, so certain that he had used you, and yet now, seeing him so undone, so lost… It stirred something within you, a reluctant compassion that you could not quite suppress. 

You slipped out of your bed and took a step toward him, your hand lifting slightly before you let it fall again. "Logan," you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. "I don’t know what to say."

He looked down, his shoulders slumping as though he had been carrying a weight too heavy to bear. "Then don’t say anything," he replied, his tone quiet and strained. "Just… let me stay. Just for a moment."

Before you knew what you were doing, you reached out, your fingers gently touching his arm. He looked up at you, surprise flickering in his eyes, and you saw how deeply this had wounded him—this revelation that had shattered the foundation of his life. Slowly, tentatively, you let your hand rest on his shoulder, feeling the tension beneath your touch.

"It’s not your fault," you murmured, the words coming unbidden but somehow feeling right. "You didn’t ask for any of this."

His breath hitched, and he took a step closer, as though drawn to your warmth, his hand coming up to cover yours where it rested on his shoulder. "I don’t know what I am now," he confessed, his voice raw. "I don’t know who I’m supposed to be."

"Well," you said softly, offering a small, tentative smile, "I suppose that's the one good thing about something so tragic. You now have the freedom to be whoever you want." Your voice carried a note of gentleness, an unspoken reassurance that you hoped might reach him.

Logan’s expression softened, though the lines of exhaustion remained etched in his face. He glanced away, as if considering your words, his hand still resting over yours. For a moment, you both stood in the quiet room, the only sound the distant ticking of a clock. The air was fragile, a sense that this moment was a truce, however brief.

You drew in a breath, your hand slipping away from his shoulder. "You look exhausted," you said, your voice just above a whisper. "You should rest."

His gaze met yours, and though he hesitated, he gave a slight nod. "If… if you don’t mind, I could stay," he murmured, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "Just for a while."

You didn’t know why you agreed so readily—perhaps it was the rawness in his voice or the way his shoulders sagged as though the weight of the world had settled there. "You can stay," you said, and then, after a beat, you added, "There is a chair by the window."

He took the offer quietly, walking over to the armchair and sinking into it as though his legs had finally given out. You climbed back into your bed, your movements slow and unsteady, and pulled the covers up to your chin, still half-aware of his presence. It was strange to think that just days ago, you had left him in a storm of anger and hurt, and now here he was—wounded, vulnerable, and seeking comfort under the same roof as you.

Your eyes grew heavy with exhaustion, the events of the past few days catching up with you all at once. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but the weariness seeped into your bones, and soon, you drifted off, the soft rustling of Logan shifting in the chair the last sound you heard before darkness claimed you.

────୨ৎ────

You awoke with a start some hours later, the room dimly lit by the pale glow of moonlight filtering through the lace curtains. You turned over, expecting to see Logan still sitting in the armchair, but the chair was empty, a faint indentation on the cushion the only sign he had been there at all. For a moment, confusion clouded your thoughts, and you sat up, rubbing your eyes. Where could he have gone?

Rising from the bed, you wrapped your robe around yourself and padded into the hallway. The house was silent, the kind of deep stillness that only comes in the middle of the night. 

You wandered from room to room, your footsteps echoing softly against the polished wooden floors. The familiar sights of Langley House brought a pang of nostalgia, and for a moment, you could almost imagine you were a young girl again, tiptoeing through the halls after bedtime. But the gravity of your situation quickly pulled you back to the present, and your thoughts turned to Logan.

At last, you reached your father's room and saw the door was slightly ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling into the hallway. You pushed it open gently and paused in the doorway, your breath catching at the sight before you.

Logan was seated by your father’s bedside, his head bowed and his hands clasped together as if in prayer. His voice was a low murmur, almost inaudible, and though you could not make out the words, you could hear the raw emotion in them. Your father lay still, his breaths steady but faint, and you noticed the way Logan reached out to touch the old man’s hand, his fingers brushing gently over the wrinkled skin as though offering a silent promise.

You took a step inside, the floorboard creaking beneath your weight. Logan’s head snapped up, his eyes meeting yours in the dim light. For a heartbeat, you both remained still, the air between you thick with unspoken words.

"I didn’t mean to intrude," he said quietly, his voice rough with fatigue. "I… I woke and found myself unable to sleep. I thought I might… check on him." There was a tenderness in his tone and it sent a strange warmth coursing through you.

You walked slowly to your father's bedside, your gaze shifting between the frail figure in the bed and the man sitting beside him. "You didn’t have to come here," you murmured, though there was no reproach in your voice, only a quiet gratitude you had not expected to feel. "But thank you."

Logan shook his head, a faint, tired smile pulling at his lips. "I wanted to," he replied, his hand still resting on your father's. "I thought… if I my father were like this, I would have wanted someone to be there with him. Even if it wasn’t me."

The words touched something deep within you, and you found yourself sitting down in the chair across from him. The silence settled over the room again, but it no longer felt oppressive. It was a silence of shared understanding, of finding comfort in the presence of another even when there was nothing more to be said.

"Why did you come here, Logan?" you asked softly, the question escaping before you could stop it. "Why did you follow me to Langley House after everything that happened? I know you said it was to tell me the truth but—" 

His gaze lifted to meet yours, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes. "Because I made a promise," he said, his voice steady but low. "And because… I didn’t want you to face this alone."

A lump formed in your throat, and you looked down at your father, his breathing steady and rhythmic, as if reminding you that time was still on your side. "You didn’t have to keep that promise," you whispered. "Not after—"

"But I wanted to," Logan interrupted, his tone firmer now. "I wanted to because… because I care." The last words came out in a hushed tone, as though they were fragile and needed to be handled with care. "And because, despite everything, I hoped that… maybe we could still find a way to make this work."

You inhaled slowly, your gaze still fixed on your father's frail form. The sincerity in Logan's voice stirred something in you that you had tried to bury beneath anger and hurt. You reached out, your hand finding Logan's where it rested on the edge of the bed. His skin was cool beneath your touch, and you felt him tense for a moment before his fingers curled gently around yours.

"I don’t know what will happen," you murmured, your voice barely audible in the hushed stillness of the room. Your gaze remained fixed on your father's frail form, his breaths slow and steady. "My feelings… they’re complicated. All I can think about right now is him—nothing else." The words came out in a strained whisper, the weight of them pressing heavily on your chest.

Logan's eyes never left you, his expression open yet laced with concern. "I’m not asking for anything more than for you to trust me," he said, his voice steady but soft, as though he knew this was fragile ground you stood upon. "That’s all, I promise."

The sincerity in his tone unsettled you more than any declaration of love or grand gesture might have. You stood, shaking your head, unable to shake the feeling that this conversation was too much for your father’s ears—even if he was too weak to hear a single word. "Not here," you said, your voice barely above a whisper as you walked toward the door. "This… it’s too much."

Logan followed you into the dimly lit hallway, pulling the door closed behind him with a quiet click. The air between you felt charged and tense, and as you turned to walk away, you felt his hand catch yours, his fingers curling around yours in a tentative hold.

"I can’t make promises," you said quickly, pulling your hand free with a frustrated shake. "You say things like that, and my mind begins to spin. What if it’s all just another lie? Another way to keep me obedient and… and compliant." The words tumbled out, each one weighted with the uncertainty and fear that had been building inside you. "You would lose everything if we fail to produce an heir. Did your mother tell you that? Did she tell you what’s at stake?"

Logan’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, there was a flash of something in his eyes—hurt, perhaps, or frustration. 

When he spoke, his tone was calm, edged with a quiet determination. "She told me… enough," he admitted, his voice low. "Enough to know what is expected of us." He took a step closer, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that made your heart quicken. "But I am not my mother, and I did not marry you to force you into anything. I won’t make promises I can’t keep, but the one thing I can swear to is this: I have no intention of deceiving you."

You swallowed hard, your breath catching in your throat. "You say that now, but… what happens when time passes and there is still no heir? Will you still be so understanding then?" The doubt laced through your voice, but beneath it was a flicker of hope that you desperately tried to suppress.

His eyes softened, a mixture of sadness and resolve glinting in the depths. "I don’t care about titles, or legacies, or any of the things my mother obsesses over," he said, his voice roughened by an emotion you could not name. "I care about you. I care about the truth between us, even if it’s a tangled mess right now." He reached for your hand again, his touch gentler this time, as if he were asking rather than taking. "I know I’m not perfect, and I know you don’t owe me anything. But I’m asking you to give me a chance to prove that I can be the man you deserve, and not just the husband you ended up with because of circumstance."

You stared at his hand over yours, the warmth of his touch seeping into your skin, and for a moment, you couldn’t speak. The walls you had built up since leaving Howlett Manor felt as though they were crumbling, brick by brick, under the weight of his words. There was still a voice inside you, one that whispered caution.

"I don’t know if I can trust that," you whispered, your voice breaking. "How do I know this isn’t just a way to secure what you need? How do I know you’re not saying what I want to hear just to keep me from running?"

Logan’s grip tightened slightly, his fingers lacing through yours as if to anchor you. "Because I’m not asking you to stay for obligation’s sake," he said, the rawness in his tone sending a shiver down your spine. "I’m asking because I want to try and build something real with you—something beyond what anyone else expects of us." His other hand rose to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. "If you walk away now, I won’t stop you. But if you give me a chance… we can start by just… finding a way to be ourselves again. Not lord and lady, not husband and wife, but just… us."

The tenderness in his touch, the way his eyes searched yours for any sign of hope, struck you deeply. You felt a swell of emotions rising within you—fear, longing, confusion—all tangled together and impossible to untangle.

Slowly, hesitantly, you let out a breath, your chest tightening as you took a step closer, feeling the warmth radiating from Logan’s skin. "All right," you said, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts to steady it. "We can try… but only if we’re honest with each other. Completely honest." The words felt like both a promise and a challenge, an unspoken plea for something real in a world that often felt like a tangle of duty and deceit.

Logan nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. There was an intensity there, a quiet determination that made your pulse quicken. His gaze flickered from your eyes down to your lips as they parted, and the faintest smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, as though he were allowing himself, for the first time, to believe that there could be more between you than obligation. 

"That’s all I’m asking for," he murmured, his voice low and rough. His hand fell away from your cheek, lingering in the space between you as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go entirely.

The silence seemed to thrum with possibilities, the air thick with an unspoken question that neither of you dared to voice. You were close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, to see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—the same uncertainty that you felt rising within you. 

The memory of your first kiss drifted to the forefront of your mind: a soft, quick exchange during the wedding ceremony, one that had felt more like a formality than a true connection. This time, though, would it feel different? Would it feel real, tangible? The air itself was urging you to close the gap, to explore what lay beyond the roles you had both been playing.

Just as you took a breath as if to bridge the final inches, a soft voice interrupted the charged stillness. "Am I interrupting something?"

You and Logan sprang apart, the moment shattering like glass. Your head snapped toward the doorway where your father stood, his frame leaning slightly against the doorframe for support. His color was better, his cheeks no longer pale and hollow, and there was a hint of mischief in his eyes as they flicked between you and Logan. It was the most life you had seen in him since your arrival, and despite the awkwardness of the moment, a wave of relief washed over you.

"Papa," you said, your voice coming out higher than intended as you quickly brushed a hand over your hair, as if smoothing away any trace of what had almost happened. "I didn’t realize you were awake."

"I woke a short while ago," he replied, a slight grin tugging at his lips. "Though I can see I’ve walked in at a… delicate moment." He shifted his gaze to Logan, giving him a nod that was both acknowledging and appraising. "I suppose I should thank you, Lord Howlett, for keeping my daughter company while I recovered. I understand it must be rather difficult, managing a wife as stubborn as she is." His tone was light, teasing, but there was a glint of approval in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Logan dipped his head in a slight bow. "It is an honor, sir," he replied, his voice soft. "And I would say it’s rather a privilege to have a wife with such spirit. It keeps a man on his toes."

Your father chuckled softly, his laughter a welcome sound in the room. "Well spoken, my boy. Well-spoken." He glanced at you, his gaze warm with affection. "And you, my dear—you look as though you haven’t slept in days. You mustn’t worry so much over an old man like me. I’m feeling quite a bit better now, thanks to your constant vigilance." His voice softened. "I could hear you, you know… sitting by my bed, speaking to me even when I couldn’t respond."

A knot formed in your throat, and you quickly turned your head away, blinking back the sudden prick of tears. "I only did what any daughter would do," you murmured, the words catching slightly as you tried to compose yourself. "I’m just relieved you’re on the mend."

"Indeed I am," he said with a faint smile. "And I will continue to be, especially if I can trust that you’ll both refrain from causing a scandal in the middle of my convalescence." His gaze drifted pointedly back to Logan, a hint of fatherly protectiveness in his tone.

Logan met his eyes with a quiet assurance. "You needn’t worry, sir. I intend to take care of her," he said, his voice steady, but then he glanced toward you, the corner of his mouth curling up. "If she’ll allow me to."

There was something in his expression, something earnest and unguarded that sent a flutter through your chest. You felt a blush creep up your cheeks and quickly turned back to your father. "You should rest more," you said, avoiding Logan’s gaze as you walked into the room, busying yourself with adjusting your father’s pillows. "You’re still recovering, and I don’t want you overexerting yourself."

Your father gave you a knowing smile, then settled back into the bed with a sigh. "I suppose you’re right, my dear. But I expect to be up and about soon. And perhaps…" he glanced meaningfully between you and Logan, "if all goes well, I shall see some progress between the two of you by then."

"Father," you chided, though the blush on your cheeks deepened.

Logan only smiled, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet promise. "I think that’s a fair expectation, sir," he said, his voice softening as he held your gaze a moment longer than necessary.

You turned to leave the room and the feeling of his eyes on you lingered like a gentle warmth, as though the moment you had shared wasn’t entirely lost—just postponed, waiting to be resumed in the stillness of a future yet to be written.

────୨ৎ────

It felt oddly intimate, sitting outside for afternoon tea with the whole family, including Logan. The air was warm, softened by a gentle breeze that stirred the leaves of the nearby oak tree and rustled the delicate lace on your sleeves. You were seated at the white metal table beneath the shade of a parasol, idly fanning yourself as you watched the scene unfolding on the lawn.

Your father, who had recovered remarkably well, stood with his cane in hand, his posture straighter than it had been in weeks. Beside him was Logan, who looked unusually relaxed in his shirtsleeves, his coat draped over the back of a nearby chair. They were both attempting to teach your youngest sister the finer points of pallmall, though judging by her shrieks of laughter and exaggerated swings, it was clear she was more interested in chaos than in any true mastery of the game.

Your father pointed toward the wooden ball with his cane, giving some encouragement, while Logan crouched down to demonstrate the correct stance, his deep voice carrying across the garden. 

You could see the way your sister's eyes sparkled as she looked at him, her cheeks flushed with excitement. There was a natural ease to Logan’s movements, a gentleness in his manner that you had not always seen. It stirred something unfamiliar and unsettling in you.

"He is rather easy on the eyes, isn’t he?"

You blinked and turned sharply toward your mother, who sat beside you, a faint smile curling at the corners of her lips.

"Oh, please, do not speak about Father that way," you quipped, rolling your eyes. But when you saw the mischievous arch of your mother’s brow, you realized with a jolt that she had not been referring to your father at all. "Mama!" you hissed, heat rising to your cheeks.

"What?" She gave an innocent shrug, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her amusement. "I may be an old woman, but I am not blind. And you’d do well to notice the way he looks at you." She glanced pointedly in Logan’s direction, and when you followed her gaze, you caught him watching you, his expression softening as your eyes met.

Quickly, you turned your attention back to your teacup, lifting it to your lips to hide the sudden flutter in your chest. "You’re imagining things, Mama," you murmured, keeping your tone dismissive, but there was no mistaking the warmth that crept into your voice.

"Am I?" your mother replied with a knowing smile. "Well, if I am, then perhaps I should get my eyes checked." She sipped her tea, her gaze lingering on Logan for a moment longer before turning to engage one of your sisters in conversation.

You chanced another glance across the lawn. Logan had returned to coaching your sister, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder as he corrected her stance. His hair fell untidily over his forehead, the sunlight catching in the strands, and there was an easy grace to him that seemed to draw you in against your will. It was as if you were seeing him anew. Someone who had begun to carve out a space in your thoughts, even when you hadn’t wanted him to.

As the game concluded and your sister raced off in pursuit of a butterfly, Logan strolled back toward the table, his gaze finding yours as if pulled there by some unseen force. He stopped beside your chair, a playful glint in his eye. "Would you care to join the game?" he asked, his tone light. "Your sister claims she is now the undisputed champion and says you would be no match for her."

You couldn’t help but smile at that. "Is that so?" you replied, arching a brow. "And did you encourage this confidence of hers, my lord?"

"Only a little," he admitted, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a faint smile. "But I believe it’s warranted. She has quite the swing."

"Then perhaps I ought to prove her wrong," you said, setting your teacup aside and rising from your chair. There was a flutter of anticipation in your chest as you stepped onto the lawn, and Logan offered you his arm, which you accepted, feeling a jolt of warmth spread from the point of contact. It was a small, ordinary gesture, yet it seemed to speak volumes—an unspoken acknowledgment that something was shifting between you.

He guided you to where the mallet lay on the grass, his hand lingering at the small of your back for just a moment. "Shall I show you the proper stance, or do you already consider yourself an expert?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful challenge.

You couldn’t resist the faint smile that tugged at your lips. "I think I can manage," you said, taking up the mallet and positioning yourself with as much grace as you could muster. But as you prepared to take the swing, you felt Logan step closer, his presence a comforting heat at your back.

"Here," he murmured, reaching around you to adjust your grip. His hand closed over yours, his touch firm but gentle, and you could feel the warmth of his breath against your temple. "You’ll get a better aim if you angle the mallet just slightly…" His voice trailed off as his gaze met yours, his eyes dark and intent, as though he had forgotten entirely about pallmall.

You held your breath, aware of the inches that separated you—of how easy it would be to turn, to close that distance, to see if his lips were as warm and steady as his hands. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, you wondered if he felt it too. If he, too, was resisting the pull.

Just as you were about to speak, to say something—anything—your sister called out from across the lawn, breaking the spell. The moment shattered, and you quickly stepped forward, your cheeks warm with something that felt dangerously close to longing.

"Thank you," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "For the… instruction."

Logan’s lips curved in a faint smile, though there was a hint of something unspoken in his eyes as he stepped back. "Anytime," he replied, his tone gentle. "Though I think you hardly needed my help."

You turned away as your pulse quickened. You looked back toward the table where your mother sat, her expression unreadable, and you couldn’t help but feel as though something definitely between you and Logan had shifted, even if you weren’t quite sure what it was.

────୨ৎ────

The journey back to Howlett Manor was marked by a heavy, simmering silence. The wheels of the carriage rumbled over the uneven road, but it did little to distract you from the charged tension that hung between you and Logan. 

He had spoken only a few words since leaving Langley House, his voice low and hesitant, while you had responded with polite nods, unwilling to break the quiet. It was as if something taut and brittle was between you, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

When the carriage finally rolled to a halt, you glanced out the window and saw Lady Elizabeth waiting on the manor steps, her expression as sharp as a blade. She stood rigidly, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes narrowing as she spotted the carriage. The sight of her sent a chill through you, and even before she spoke, you could sense the confrontation that awaited.

Logan let out a weary sigh, his hand already on the door handle. "Stay here," he murmured, his tone edged with frustration. "I’ll deal with her."

But you were already reaching for the door, refusing to remain hidden like some guilty secret. "I will not," you said, your voice firm as you stepped out into the cool evening air. 

The weight of his gaze was palpable as you moved past him, and you heard him mutter under his breath, a resigned, "Of course, you wouldn’t."

Lady Elizabeth descended the steps as you approached, her dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. There was no warmth in her expression—only a cold, calculated disdain that spoke volumes before she even opened her mouth. 

"So," she said, her voice cutting through the air like a blade, "you’ve come back. And after the disgraceful way you left, no less." Her gaze flicked to Logan, as though seeking confirmation of your audacity. "I expect an apology, from both of you."

Logan's jaw tightened as he stepped beside you, his voice low and steady. "An apology?" he echoed, his brow furrowing. "For what, exactly?"

"For trying to bring scandal upon this family," Lady Elizabeth snapped, her eyes flashing as she turned her glare fully on you. "Leaving without a word, abandoning your duties as my son's wife. It was irresponsible, childish—"

"Enough," Logan interrupted, his tone sharp and edged with something you hadn’t heard before—a warning. He took a step forward, positioning himself slightly in front of you, as though shielding you from his mother’s words. "This is not her fault."

Lady Elizabeth’s mouth tightened into a thin line. "She left this manor in a fit of temper, and I will not stand by and have my family's reputation dragged through the mud by some—"

"She left because of the lies," Logan cut in, his voice rising. "Because of your lies." His eyes darkened, and he held his mother’s gaze without flinching. "She knows, Mother. About me. About the truth of my birth."

The silence that followed was like the calm before a storm, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something—fear, perhaps, or anger—in Lady Elizabeth's eyes. But it vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by a cold, imperious stare. "And did you think it was wise to reveal such a thing?" she spat, her tone laced with venom. "To her?" Her gaze darted to you, filled with contempt. "What does she know of the sacrifices that were made to keep this family’s legacy intact?"

Your heart pounded in your chest, a surge of indignation rising in you. "I know that whatever sacrifices were made, they were not mine to make," you said, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and defiance. "I was used as a pawn in a game I didn’t even know I was playing."

Lady Elizabeth’s lips curled into a sneer. "A pawn, indeed. It is you who stands to gain from this marriage, my dear. Or did you think your family's situation was not known to us?"

Logan took another step forward, his hand clenching at his side. "That’s enough," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I won’t let you speak to her like that."

His mother’s eyes widened, a flicker of shock breaking through her composure. "You would take her side over mine?" she asked, incredulity dripping from each word. "I did what was necessary to secure your future, to ensure that you would not be cast aside. Now you turn on me for the sake of—"

"Leave," Logan said abruptly, his voice hardening to steel. "Leave now, before you say something you cannot take back."

For a moment, it seemed as though she might argue, but then she straightened, drawing herself up with all the dignity she could muster. "Very well," she said icily, her gaze flicking to you one last time, as though etching you into her memory with distaste. "But do not think this matter is settled." She turned sharply on her heel and strode back up the steps, disappearing into the manor with a swish of her skirts, leaving a chill in her wake.

The silence descended once more, you let out a breath. The encounter had left you shaken, and yet… there was a strange sense of relief, too. You glanced at Logan, who was still standing rigidly, his eyes fixed on the place where his mother had just vanished. There was a tightness in his jaw, an unspoken conflict that lingered in the lines of his face.

"You didn’t have to do that," you said quietly, your voice softening. "She’s your mother."

He shook his head slowly, his expression unreadable. "That doesn’t give her the right to speak to you that way," he murmured, his gaze finally shifting to meet yours. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—like longing, or perhaps relief, as though in defending you, he had also taken a step toward freeing himself from his mother’s expectations. "I promised to be honest with you," he continued. "And I meant it. Whatever else happens, I will not let her dictate our lives."

You felt a rush of warmth, not just from his words but from the quiet intensity with which he spoke them. It wasn’t just a defense; it was a declaration—a small but significant act of loyalty that stirred something deep within you. You took a step closer, your fingers brushing against his hand in a tentative gesture of gratitude, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

The silence stretched between you, almost as a shared understanding—a bond that had begun to form amid secrets and betrayals, and was slowly becoming something more solid. Logan’s fingers curled around yours, and the touch felt like a promise in itself.

"Come," he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. "Let’s go inside.”

You nodded, allowing him to lead you back into the manor, your hand still clasped in his. As you crossed the threshold together, you couldn’t help but feel that, despite everything, there was a glimmer of hope despite the uncertainty of the future.

Later that night, you found yourself pacing the length of your chamber, your footsteps muffled by the thick rug beneath your bare feet. 

Sleep had become a rare visitor since the wedding; Howlett Manor held a kind of darkness that seemed to linger in the very walls, keeping you on edge. The vast, silent corridors, the draughts that whispered through the halls, the way the night settled heavily over the estate. It was as though the manor itself was unsettled, restless, and it had passed that restlessness on to you.

Then there were the sounds. Soft, distant groaning that seemed to rise and fall on the air. You had dismissed it before, convincing yourself it was nothing more than the old bones of the house shifting or the wind rattling the shutters. But tonight, as you stood in the shadows of your room, the sound came again, louder this time, and unmistakably human. It clawed at your nerves, tugging at your curiosity and, despite the unease prickling along your spine, you felt compelled to find out what—or who—was behind it.

Drawing in a breath to steady yourself, you reached for the door handle and slipped out into the dimly lit corridor. The candles along the walls flickered as you passed, casting long, wavering shadows that danced on the stone. You followed the noise, the low groaning growing clearer, guiding you down the hallway and toward one of the rooms.

As you drew closer, the sound sharpened into muffled cries, pained and desperate. You hesitated at the door, your hand hovering over the handle. It was Logan’s voice, unmistakable even in its anguish. A shudder ran through you as you pressed your ear to the wood, your pulse quickening. Was he hurt? Was someone in there with him?

You turned the handle and pushed the door open gently, peering into the darkness of the room. Logan lay sprawled on the bed, the sheets twisted around his limbs, his chest rising and falling rapidly as though he were struggling for breath. His face was contorted in agony, beads of sweat glistening on his brow. The groans came again, low and tortured, escaping his lips as he writhed in the grip of some unseen terror.

Without thinking, you hurried to his side, your heart pounding. "Logan," you whispered, reaching out to touch his shoulder. "Logan, wake up. It’s just a dream—"

The moment your fingers brushed against his skin, his eyes flew open, wide and unfocused. Before you could react, his hand shot out, grasping your wrist in a vice-like grip and yanking you closer. The suddenness of the movement sent you stumbling forward, and you cried out as his other arm came around, knocking you off balance. You fell against the bed, your wrist pinned painfully beneath his hand.

"Logan, stop!" you gasped, your voice high and trembling. "It’s me—"

His eyes were wild, unseeing, and for a terrifying moment, you weren’t sure he recognized you at all. His grip tightened, and you winced, a sharp pain shooting through your wrist. But then his gaze seemed to clear, the dark confusion lifting as he blinked and released you as though burned.

The room fell into a tense silence as you pulled your arm back, rubbing your sore wrist and staring at him, your breath coming fast. Logan's eyes widened with horror as he took in the scene, his chest still heaving with the remnants of his nightmare. 

"I—I didn’t mean to—" His voice cracked, and he sat up abruptly, his hand trembling as he reached toward you. "Are you all right?"

You nodded shakily, though your heart still raced. "I’m fine," you said, though your voice came out quieter than you intended. "It’s just… you were having a nightmare. I tried to wake you, but you…" You swallowed, the words trailing off as you looked down at your wrist, where faint red marks were already starting to form.

His gaze followed yours, and his expression crumpled with guilt. "God, I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice rough with shame. "I—I've never meant to hurt you. I didn’t even know it was you. I thought—" He broke off, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his fingers tangling in the damp strands. "I thought I was still… there."

You hesitated, the pain in your wrist already ebbing, replaced by a different kind of ache—one that came from seeing the despair in his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped as though he carried the weight of a lifetime’s worth of regrets. "Still where?" you asked softly, your gaze searching his face. "Logan, what did you dream about?"

He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he stared down at his hands, which lay open in his lap as though he were afraid of what they might do. "I have the same nightmare every night," he admitted, his voice low and unsteady. "It’s always the same. I see my father… the man who raised me. He’s lying there, lifeless, and it’s my fault. I’m the one who…" His voice broke, and he looked away, his breath shuddering. "I’m the one who killed him."

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. You stared at him, your pulse thrumming in your ears as the full weight of his confession settled over you. "Logan…" you breathed, not knowing what else to say. There was a rawness in his voice that tore at you, a grief and self-loathing that seemed to spill out in waves. You found yourself reaching for him, hesitantly resting your hand on his arm, your touch light and tentative.

"He died years ago," Logan continued his voice barely above a whisper. "It was an accident, but… I was there. I could have stopped it. I should have stopped it." He let out a harsh, bitter laugh that made your heart clench. "I suppose that’s why the nightmares won’t leave. They remind me of what I could never make right."

You tightened your grip on his arm, drawing his gaze back to yours. "It wasn’t your fault," you said gently, the words spilling out even though you knew they might not bring him any comfort. "You can’t blame yourself for something you couldn’t control."

His eyes searched yours, a flicker of something glinting in the depths. "You shouldn’t be here," he said quietly, though he made no move to pull away from you. "You should have left me to my demons. It’s safer that way."

"Perhaps," you replied, your voice barely more than a breath as you looked down at where your hand rested on his arm. "But if I left, who would keep you from them?"

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, without fully understanding why, you leaned in closer, your touch sliding from his arm to his hand, your fingers threading through his. The silence between you was heavy. It was as though you were sharing the same breath, the same pain. Somehow, that made it a little more bearable for him.

Logan’s hand tightened around yours, and when he exhaled, it was as though some of the weight had lifted from his chest. "Stay," he murmured, his voice roughened by exhaustion. "Just for tonight."

You nodded, not trusting your voice to speak. As you settled back against the pillows, Logan lay down beside you, his body still tense but his grip on your hand unwavering. The darkness seemed to close in around you both, but this time, it felt less like a threat and more like a shared refuge.

Eventually, the rhythm of his breathing steadied, and you felt yourself slipping into sleep, lulled by the quiet comfort of his presence.

When the early morning light peeked through the curtains, its soft glow casting pale golden streaks across the bed, you were certain you were alone. The events of last night already seemed like a distant dream—the nightmare, Logan’s confession, the way you had fallen asleep side by side. The sheets felt cool where you lay, and for a moment, you wondered if he had left before dawn, quietly slipping away to avoid the awkwardness of the morning after.

You let out a small sigh and reached out tentatively, your hand roaming across the mattress, half-expecting to find only the emptiness where he had been. But then, your fingertips brushed against something warm. Your eyelids fluttered open, and you turned your head to see Logan lying there, his back to you, balanced precariously near the edge of the bed as if he had tried to keep as much distance between you as possible. It was almost comical—this broad-shouldered man, practically dangling off the side, as though the mere thought of sharing space with you was a dangerous line he dared not cross.

A small, unbidden smile tugged at your lips as you took in the sight. It was… endearing, in a way, how he seemed so out of place there, awkwardly trying to respect a boundary that neither of you had defined. The tension of the night had faded into something softer and sweet. You hadn’t meant to wake him, but you couldn’t help it—the sight of him like this, so different from his usual composed self, made you want to tease him, just a little.

"Are you planning on falling out of the bed, or are you just trying to escape?" you whispered, your voice still husky with sleep.

Logan stirred, a faint groan escaping him as he rolled over slowly, blinking against the morning light. His hair was tousled, falling into his eyes, and there was a faint crease on his cheek where it had pressed against the pillow. He looked at you, still half-asleep, and it took a moment for your words to register. Then a sheepish smile curved his lips, and he rubbed a hand over his face.

"I didn’t want to crowd you," he murmured, his voice rough and low. "You were asleep, and I… wasn’t sure if you’d…" He trailed off, his cheeks coloring slightly as if realizing how ridiculous he must have looked, hanging onto the edge for dear life.

A small laugh bubbled out of you, the sound light and unexpected. "I think the bed is big enough for the both of us," you teased gently, unable to hide the warmth in your tone. "You didn’t have to keep such a dramatic distance."

Logan’s smile grew, a flicker of amusement in his eyes now. "Well, I didn’t want you to wake up and think I’d taken advantage of your kindness," he said, his tone softening. "I didn’t want to… presume."

The sincerity in his voice made your heart squeeze, and for a moment, the awkwardness settled into something that made your pulse quicken. You hadn’t even realized until now just how much his presence comforted you, how safe you had felt lying beside him last night. The realization came with a rush of something warm and unfamiliar, and it took you by surprise.

"Well," you said, your gaze drifting to where his hand rested on the sheets between you, "if you’re so worried about my comfort, perhaps next time you can stay closer… so you don’t fall off the bed." The words left your lips before you could fully think them through, and as they hung in the air, you felt a blush creep up your neck, your cheeks warming with the boldness of your suggestion.

Logan’s eyes widened slightly, a mixture of surprise and something like hope shimmering in their depths. He glanced down at your hand, which had somehow drifted closer to his, and a crooked, endearing smile touched his lips. "Next time?" he repeated, his voice laced with a hint of playful curiosity. "So you’re already planning on sharing a bed with me again?"

You bit your lip, a nervous laugh escaping as you quickly shook your head. "That’s not what I meant," you stammered, though the smile pulling at your mouth betrayed you. "I just—well, I meant if… circumstances were to, you know… happen again." The words felt clumsy and inadequate, but there was no taking them back now.

Logan chuckled softly, his gaze warm and lingering on your face. "I see," he said, his voice dropping to a tender murmur. "If circumstances… happen."

You nodded, feeling a sudden wave of self-consciousness wash over you. The room seemed too bright, too intimate in the morning light, and you reached for the edge of the blanket, pulling it higher as if it could shield you from the vulnerability of the moment. Logan cleared his throat, the sound breaking the silence in a way that felt almost painfully loud.

"I should… I have matters to attend to with my mother," he said, his voice sounding rougher than usual. "I’m positive she’s still fuming." There was a faint hint of a wry smile on his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You nodded again, quickly, unsure if you could trust your voice not to betray the odd mixture of emotions swirling inside you. Relief, embarrassment, something like disappointment—it all tangled together, making it hard to breathe. Logan took your silence as agreement and turned away, slipping out of the bed with a fluid, quiet movement.

You found yourself glancing over at him before you could stop yourself, and then quickly averted your gaze when you noticed the way his nightshirt clung to his back, the fabric outlining the curve of his shoulders and the lean muscles beneath. You swallowed hard, focusing intently on a spot on the floor, as though it were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

Logan’s bare feet padded softly on the rug as he gathered his clothes, his movements quick but not hurried, as if he too was acutely aware of the lingering awkwardness in the air. "I… I’ll see you later," he said, his voice low and hesitant, as though he were testing the words before letting them go.

"Yes," you managed to reply, though your voice came out softer than you intended. "Later."

For a brief moment, he hesitated at the door, his hand resting on the frame as if considering saying something more. But then, with a small nod, he slipped out, the door clicking shut behind him.

You exhaled slowly, sinking back into the pillows, the blanket still pulled up close. The room seemed larger now, emptier, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he had felt the same pull that you had—the subtle, magnetic pull that had lingered in the space between you. You pushed the thought away, telling yourself that it was foolish to read too much into a moment shared in the quiet hours of dawn.

────୨ৎ────

The better part of the day had passed in the garden, where the air was thick with the scent of blooming roses and the gentle hum of bees. You had retreated there after hearing the heated voices echoing up from downstairs. Lady Elizabeth’s clipped tones and Logan’s frustrated replies had risen in a crescendo that spilled into the halls, making it clear that whatever rift lay between them was far from being mended. 

It seemed wise to keep your distance, and so you had found a book, tucked yourself into a quiet corner at the far edge of the garden, and tried to lose yourself in the pages while the murmur of nature surrounded you.

The stone bench beneath you was warmed by the sun, and though you kept your eyes trained on the book in your lap, the words seemed to blur together. You had long since given up on following the plot, your thoughts drifting back to the night before—Logan’s haunted confession, the way he had looked at you as if you were the only thing grounding him in the present. The memory of it lingered, unbidden, in the back of your mind, filling you with a confusing mix of tenderness and doubt.

The crunch of footsteps on the gravel path drew your attention, and you glanced up to see Logan approaching. His expression, which had been set in a firm line, softened as his gaze met yours. He looked weary, as though whatever argument he had just endured had drained him of energy, yet there was also a quiet determination in the way he carried himself, his shoulders squared despite the tension in his jaw.

"May I join you?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of hesitation, as though he were uncertain of his welcome.

You closed the book gently, offering a small nod. "Of course," you said, shifting slightly to make room for him on the bench. "How… how did it go with your mother?"

He sank beside you, his sigh barely audible but weighted with frustration. "As well as can be expected," he replied, running a hand through his hair. "Which is to say, not well at all." He paused, glancing at the neatly trimmed hedges and the flowers that swayed in the breeze. "But I've made a decision." His tone softened, and he turned to look at you. "My mother will be moving out of Howlett Manor."

The statement took you by surprise, and you blinked, unsure if you had heard him correctly. "She’s leaving?"

Logan nodded, his gaze steady. "Yes. I think… it’s for the best. It’s become clear that we cannot live under the same roof without tearing each other apart." He hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly on his knee as though he were working up the nerve to say something more. "With her gone, there will be… a lot of space in the manor. I was thinking… if you’d like, your family could move in. The Langleys could make this place their home too."

The offer hung in the air between you, carrying with it the weight of an unspoken promise. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say, your thoughts tangling in your mind. "That’s… kind of you to suggest," you began slowly, your gaze falling to your hands. "But our marriage… things are still so uncertain." You swallowed your throat tight with the admission. "I don’t know if we should be making decisions like this when we don’t even know what the future holds for us."

Logan's hand reached for yours, his touch gentle yet firm. "I know things are uncertain," he said quietly, his voice raw with sincerity. "But I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make this marriage real—to make us real." His thumb brushed over your knuckles, sending a shiver through you. "I like you. I like the way you challenge me, the way you look at me as though I’m worth trying for. I want this to work, not because we have to, but because I choose to."

His words seemed to reach inside you, stirring something that had been long dormant—something warm and fragile that blossomed with each passing second. You looked up at him, your heart racing, your breath caught somewhere between hope and fear. "You… you mean that?" you whispered, your voice barely audible. "You’d choose this, even if—"

"I would," he interrupted softly, his other hand reaching to cup your cheek, his touch feather-light, as though he were afraid to break whatever spell lay between you. "If you’ll let me."

The moment stretched out, the world around you fading into the background until there was only him, his gaze locked on yours, his breath mingling with the warm air. You leaned in, almost without thinking, your eyes fluttering shut as your lips met his, tentative and searching. The kiss was soft at first, a gentle brush that sent a tremor through you, but as he deepened it, a quiet urgency arose, his hand slipping to the nape of your neck to pull you closer.

The world seemed to tilt, and when you finally pulled back, breathless, you saw a light in Logan’s eyes that you had never seen before—a mixture of relief, hope, and tenderness. That set your heart racing all over again.

"You kissed me back," he murmured, a hint of wonder in his voice as his thumb traced your cheek.

"I suppose I did," you replied, a shy smile tugging at your lips as you felt the warmth of his hand still against your skin. "It seems I’ve made my choice too."

He leaned his forehead against yours, his breath still slightly uneven. "Then let’s make this work," he whispered, the words like a promise carried on the breeze. "Together."

────୨ৎ────

The morning sun spilled through the tall windows of the nursery, casting a golden light over the pale blue walls and the delicate lace curtains that swayed ever so slightly with the summer breeze. The room was filled with the soft sounds of cooing and gentle rocking, and you sat in the cushioned chair near the window, cradling your newborn daughter in your arms. Her tiny fingers curled around your thumb, and you marveled at how something so small could hold your entire heart within her grasp.

The past year had swept by like a dream, and Howlett Manor had become a place of life and laughter in ways you hadn’t imagined when you first arrived. The once lonely halls were now filled with warmth, with family, and with a love that had grown slowly, steadily, and then all at once.

Logan appeared in the doorway, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a streak of dirt smudged on his cheek, evidence of whatever task had drawn him outside earlier. His eyes softened when he saw you, his gaze drifting down to the baby nestled in your arms. "She’s awake," he murmured, his voice low and filled with a quiet wonder that had not diminished since the day she was born.

You looked up at him, your heart swelling with affection as you noticed the way he lingered in the doorway, as though hesitant to disturb the peacefulness of the moment. "Come here," you whispered, tilting your head in invitation. "She’ll be glad to see her father."

He crossed the room in a few strides, his movements careful as though he were still getting used to the idea of this tiny new life you had brought into the world together. As he reached out to take her from you, his fingers brushed against yours, and you shared a quiet smile. The love between you had become something tangible, something that seemed to shimmer in the air every time your eyes met.

Logan cradled his daughter with a tenderness that belied his strong, rugged exterior. She blinked up at him, her wide eyes reflecting the light as she reached for his nose, her tiny hand waving in the air. "There you are, little one," he murmured, his voice dropping to a gentle murmur that was only for her. "You’re going to be causing all sorts of trouble before we know it, aren’t you?"

You laughed softly, leaning your head back against the chair as you watched them together. "If she’s anything like her father, she’ll be climbing out of windows and sneaking into the stables before she can even walk," you teased.

He glanced at you, his mouth curving into a playful smile. "And if she’s anything like her mother," he countered, "she’ll have a stubborn streak a mile wide and won’t take no for an answer."

The joy in his eyes was undeniable, and it was a joy that had become commonplace at Howlett Manor. The changes were everywhere—in the lively dinners shared around the long oak table, where your father told stories that made your mother laugh like a young girl again; in the afternoons when your sisters played with the dogs in the garden, their laughter carrying on the wind. The Langleys had made the manor their home, and though the arrangement had been born out of necessity, it had grown into something far richer—a tapestry of shared lives and everyday happiness.

The sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway, and your mother appeared at the door, a fond smile on her face as she saw the three of you together. "There you are," she said warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "We were wondering if you planned to join us for the midday meal, or if we should come to you."

"We’ll be down shortly," you replied, glancing at Logan as he swayed gently, his daughter’s eyelids beginning to droop once more. "It seems someone is already ready for her nap, though."

Your mother’s gaze softened as she watched Logan rock the baby in his arms, a look of deep contentment on her face. "She’ll be a strong one," she said quietly, her voice laced with pride. "Just like her parents."

Logan met your eyes, a shared understanding passing between you as your mother slipped back out of the room. You rose from the chair, moving to stand beside him, and as you laid a hand on his arm, he turned slightly to press a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there as though he couldn’t quite pull away.

"I think life has turned out better than either of us could have imagined," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.

You tilted your head up, your gaze finding his. "I think we made it that way," you said, a quiet pride in your voice. "Together."

The words hung in the air for a moment, a reminder of the path you had walked to get here—of the uncertainty, the struggles, and the slow, steady growth of love that had bloomed between you. You leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a tender kiss that spoke of more than just affection; it was a promise, a celebration, and an unspoken agreement that this—all of this—was just the beginning.

As you drew back, the baby stirred in Logan’s arms, letting out a tiny whimper that brought a smile to both of your faces. "Come on," he said, his voice soft and full of love. "Let’s go downstairs. Your family is waiting."

Together, you walked down the grand staircase, the sunlight streaming in through the windows, bathing the manor in a warm, golden light. The sound of familiar voices drifted up from the dining room, filling the air with the cheerful bustle of family life.

As you reached the bottom of the stairs, your daughter nestled safely in her father’s arms, you couldn’t help but feel that this life—so full of love, laughter, and even its small imperfections—was exactly where you were meant to be.

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

The Spotlight She Never Noticed

Word Count: 878

Pairing: Toto Wolff x reader

Summary: Y/n, unaware of her beauty, finds herself attracting newfound attention after being with Toto Wolff, leading her to slowly see herself through his adoring eyes.

________________________________________________________

Y/n L/n always considered herself an average woman. Sure, she had her moments when she caught a glance in the mirror and thought, Not bad, but she never considered herself striking. She grew up surrounded by friends and family who treated her with love and warmth but weren’t the type to dwell on physical appearances. Compliments on her looks were rare, and when they did come, she brushed them off as politeness rather than genuine admiration.

Life took an unexpected turn when she fell for Toto Wolff, the towering, charismatic team principal of the Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula 1 team. Toto, with his Austrian charm, sharp intellect, and undeniable presence, was a man who could command attention in any room he entered. Yet, he only had eyes for Y/n.

Their relationship was a whirlwind. She’d met him during a charity gala in Monaco, where she had been invited as a plus-one by a friend. Y/n spent most of the evening blending into the background, nursing a glass of champagne, and admiring the glamour from afar. When Toto approached her, she’d thought at first he must have mistaken her for someone else. Why would he want to talk to her?

But Toto saw something in Y/n that she couldn’t see herself. Her natural beauty, wit, and kindness captivated him. He was persistent, charming her with his quick humor and genuine interest in her life. Slowly, Y/n let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she was special in his eyes.

Months into their relationship, Toto began introducing Y/n to his world. The glamorous paddocks, VIP events, and high-profile parties became a part of her life. She felt out of place at first, standing next to models, celebrities, and executives who radiated confidence. But Toto’s unwavering support helped her adjust.

What Y/n didn’t notice—at least at first—was how other men began to look at her differently.

The Shift

At a private dinner in London, Y/n was chatting with one of Toto’s colleagues when she felt an unfamiliar gaze lingering on her. She glanced up to find a young marketing executive staring at her with an intensity that made her cheeks flush.

“Sorry, I—uh—didn’t catch what you said,” he stammered, clearly caught off guard.

Y/n blinked. Was he… flustered? She laughed it off and repeated herself, but the encounter left her puzzled.

Over the next few weeks, similar incidents began to pile up. At a race weekend, a journalist held her hand a little too long while introducing himself. A barista at her favorite café gave her a drink on the house, insisting it was “on him.” Even a waiter at a restaurant Toto had taken her to seemed to pay her more attention than necessary, addressing her with compliments and a lingering smile.

Y/n brushed it off, assuming people were simply being polite or trying to impress Toto through her. But then she noticed something else: the compliments were directed at her, not Toto.

“You look stunning tonight,” the waiter had said.

“Absolutely breathtaking,” murmured the journalist.

At first, she mentioned it to Toto with a laugh. “I think people are just nice because I’m with you.”

Toto frowned slightly, his protective side surfacing. “That’s not it, Y/n. You’re beautiful. They’re noticing what I’ve always seen.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re biased.”

“I’m not,” Toto insisted, taking her hand. “But I’m starting to think I need to keep an eye on you. These men clearly have no shame.”

Y/n laughed, dismissing his concern. But deep down, she began to wonder.

The Realization

It wasn’t until a sponsor’s gala in Monaco that everything clicked for her. She wore a sleek, emerald-green gown that Toto had picked out for her, claiming it matched her eyes perfectly. When she walked into the ballroom on his arm, heads turned.

Throughout the evening, men approached her with compliments and subtle flirtations, even when Toto was only a few feet away. One particularly bold individual—a young driver from a rival team—brazenly asked her to dance.

Before Y/n could respond, Toto stepped in, his arm tightening around her waist. “She’s taken,” he said firmly, his voice low and commanding. The driver quickly retreated, but Toto’s jaw remained tense for the rest of the evening.

On the drive home, Y/n finally voiced her confusion. “Why is this happening? None of this ever happened before you.”

Toto glanced at her, his expression softening. “Because you didn’t see yourself the way others see you. And now, they’ve finally noticed what I knew all along.”

“But why now?”

“Confidence, Schatz.” He smiled, taking her hand. “You carry yourself differently now. You’re with me, yes, but it’s not about my status. You’ve always been beautiful, but now you believe in yourself a little more, and people can see it.”

Y/n frowned, trying to process his words. “I don’t know… I still feel like the same person.”

“You are,” Toto reassured her. “But you’re starting to see yourself through my eyes. And that’s a good thing. Just don’t let it go to your head,” he teased, leaning over to kiss her temple.

Y/n laughed, her heart swelling with love. She still wasn’t sure if she believed him, but maybe, just maybe, she was starting to see herself a little differently.

[pucksandpower]

Meet Me at the Met

Lewis Hamilton x up-and-coming singer!Reader

Summary: in which you go head over heels (quite literally) during the most important event of the year and end up right at the feet of none other than Sir Lewis Hamilton himself

Warnings: minor injury

The roar of the crowd hits you like a tidal wave as you step onto the iconic themed carpet of the Met Gala. Flashing bulbs from countless cameras nearly blind you as you blink rapidly, trying to adjust. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it thrumming in your throat.

“Over here, honey!” A photographer calls out, gesturing for you to turn towards him. You pivot gracefully, the layers of shimmering tulle from your Maison Margiela gown swirling around you.

“Work it! Look this way, sweetheart!” Another shouts, snapping shot after shot.

You take a steadying breath, channeling every ounce of confidence you can muster. This is your first Met Gala, the biggest night of your fledgling music career so far. One misstep could be disastrous.

Your publicist Samantha appears at your side, perfectly put together as always in a sleek sheath dress. “You’re doing great,” she murmurs with an encouraging smile. “Just keep smiling and be yourself.”

Nodding, you continue gliding down the iconic path, pausing at the designated spots to pose for the ravenous paparazzi. An elegant string of Bulgari emeralds adorns your neck, glittering mesmerizingly under the bright lights.

“Miss! To your left please!”

You turn obediently, the intricate beadwork on your deep blue-green gown catching the flashes. Despite the oppressive late spring humidity, you refuse to let a single drop of sweat show. This night is too important.

After what feels like an eternity, a security guard appears to usher you up the final flight of stairs and into the main event. With a brilliant smile plastered on your face, you make your way carefully up the steps, lifting the delicate train of your dress to keep from tripping.

Suddenly, one sparkly heel catches on the fabric and you’re thrown off balance. Unable to catch yourself, you tumble head over heels back down the stairs, gasping in shock and pain as you land hard on the ground.

There’s a collective intake of breath from the crowd as you blink up at the bright lights, thoroughly stunned. Your vision is blurred and there’s a sharp throbbing in your head. When you try to push yourself up, bolts of agony shoot through your right wrist.

“Oh my god, are you alright?” A deep, accented voice sounds from beside you.

You turn your head and your breath catches in your throat. Crouched beside you in an exquisitely tailored double breasted suit and wool coat is arguably the most handsome man on the planet. His beautiful coffee-colored eyes are filled with concern as he reaches out to gently brush a loose strand of hair from your face.

“I … I think so,” you manage to stammer out, though your pounding head begs to differ. “Just clumsy, I guess.”

Despite the sheepish grin you attempt, a wince of pain crosses your features as you shift positions. Lewis’ brow furrows and he places one large hand on your bare shoulder to keep you still.

“Easy there, love. Don’t try to move just yet,” he soothes in that rich baritone that has melted millions of hearts. “You took quite a nasty fall.”

You nod mutely, unable to tear your widened eyes away from his handsome face. This couldn’t be happening … could it? Did you really just faceplant in front of the entire world and, perhaps more importantly, your celebrity crush?

“S-Sorry,” you whisper, utterly mortified. “I’m usually much more graceful than this, I swear.”

Lewis chuckles warmly and you feel your cheeks flush. “No need to apologize, darling. These things happen to the best of us.”

Nearby, Samantha is frantically trying to wave over security and a medic, her expression pinched with worry. You groan quietly as another stab of pain lances through your skull. Definitely a concussion, if your swimming vision is any indication.

“Let’s get you looked at, yeah?” Lewis murmurs, rising fluidly to his feet.

Before you can protest, he slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees, cradling you gently against his firm chest. You suck in a shocked breath at the sudden movement, instinctively reaching up to grab onto his shoulders for stability. His Burberry suit is buttery soft under your fingers.

“Whoa … y-you really don’t have to carry me,” you stammer out as he easily lifts your frame.

Those rich brown eyes meet yours with an amused glint. “I insist. Can’t have one of the brightest new voices in music getting any more hurt, can we?”

You bite your lip shyly, unable to hold back a small smile of wonderment. Is this really happening right now?

“I’ll be fine, honestly,” you try again as Lewis maneuvers around the gathered crowd, heading for a discreet exit with Samantha close behind. “Just a little banged up.”

“Your wrist is already swelling, love,” he points out with a frown. “Best to get it checked properly, yes?”

“I … yeah, okay,” you acquiesce quietly, not having the energy or brainpower to argue with him further.

The two of you disappear through a door and down a mercifully empty hallway, leaving the stunned crowd and flashing cameras behind. Samantha is rapidly conversing with security to locate the nearest medic station.

“Thank you,” you murmur, letting your head rest wearily against Lewis’ shoulder. Up close, he smells incredible — like crisp bergamot and just a hint of expensive cologne. “For helping me, I mean. I’m sure you had better things to do tonight than playing knight in shining armor.”

Lewis smiles down at you, eyes crinkling in a way that makes your heart flutter unexpectedly. “What a coincidence, I just so happen to be a knight.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, suddenly feeling shy under his warm gaze. “Lucky for me then, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” he agrees with a wink. “Though I can’t take all the credit. That dress is clearly too stunning for us mere mortals to handle.”

A watery giggle slips past your lips before you can stop it. Even slightly concussed and in quite a bit of pain, you can’t deny that foreign flutters are dancing in your stomach just from being in Lewis’ presence. He’s even more charming in person than you ever could have dreamed.

“You’re too kind, Sir Hamilton,” you tease lightly. “But I’ll be sure to leave the couture gowns at home next time.”

Lewis opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by Samantha hurrying over with a young medic in tow, his kit already open. The worried expression on her face deepens when she sees your obviously injured wrist cradled against your chest.

“Thank god you have her,” she exhales in relief, nodding towards Lewis. “What do we know so far?”

“Took a pretty hard fall down those stairs,” Lewis explains calmly as the medic kneels down to begin his assessment. “She was unconscious for a moment and seems to have injured her wrist as well.”

You wince as the medic gently prods along your forearm. “Definitely a sprain at the very least,” he confirms. “And with the way her pupils are reacting ...”

He shines a small light into both your eyes, brow furrowed in concentration. “I’d say mild concussion too. We should get her to the infirmary for further evaluation, just in case.”

Hearing his words, a small wave of panic crashes over you. Missing any part of tonight because of this would be devastating. You force yourself to sit up straighter, ignoring the way the room spins sickeningly.

“No, no I’ll be fi-”

“You’re not going anywhere but to get checked out properly,” Lewis cuts you off firmly, placing a staying hand on your shoulder. His expression brooks no argument. “Head injuries are nothing to mess around with, love.”

You open your mouth to protest again, but Samantha quickly interjects. “He’s absolutely right. We’re not taking any chances with your health.”

As much as you hate to admit it, they do have a point. If your condition really is as serious as the medic suggests, it could be dangerous to simply brush it off. You let out a resigned sigh, wilting back against Lewis’ sturdy chest.

“I suppose you’re ri-”

Before you can finish your sentence, a sudden dizzy spell washes over you. Bile rises in your throat as the room tilts crazily. Your voice trails off into an anguished groan as you squeeze your eyes shut, fighting off waves of nausea.

“Alright, that’s it. We’re getting you looked at immediately,” Lewis declares. He shifts you effortlessly in his arms and strides down the hallway, the medic and Samantha hurrying to keep up.

The rest of the journey to the infirmary is a blur. You’re vaguely aware of being transferred to a gurney and giving the doctor on staff your information. Lewis’ worried face keeps appearing in your line of vision, his voice a soothing balm against the incessant pounding in your skull.

Finally, the doctor confirms that while your concussion isn’t serious, you definitely need to be monitored overnight. A brace is fitted around your sprained wrist and you’re given strict instructions on managing the symptoms over the next few days. Throughout it all, Lewis remains stubbornly by your side, declining offer after offer to return to the main event.

Thoroughly drugged and exhausted by this point, you can barely keep your eyes open as a wheelchair is brought over to transport you out to the car waiting area. Lewis helps you into it carefully, crouching down in front of you with a tender expression.

“I’m so sorry,” you mumble miserably, gesturing vaguely to your bandaged wrist and slightly dazed state. “I’ve completely ruined your whole night … your entrance, your photo ops … everything.”

He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head adamantly. “Don’t be ridiculous, love. I’d take meeting someone as wonderful as you over all of that any day.”

You blink up at him in surprise, an embarrassed blush staining your cheeks. Did he really just say that? Lewis Hamilton, world famous athlete and heartthrob, thinks you’re wonderful?

“Still,” you protest weakly. “This is supposed to be your night to shine. And now you’re stuck playing nurse for a clumsy fool.”

Lewis arches an eyebrow sternly. “I think you’ve bumped your head around a bit too much, darling. That’s no way to speak about yourself.”

He reaches out to tuck an errant strand of hair behind your ear, his calloused fingertips grazing your flushed cheek with unexpected tenderness. Your breath catches in your throat at the gentle gesture.

“Missing out on some silly party is more than worth it to me if I got to meet someone as lovely as you,” Lewis continues honestly. His eyes are filled with sincerity. “The only thing I’m upset about is that you were the one who got hurt.”

You’re rendered speechless for a long moment, completely disarmed by his words. Never in a million years could you have imagined this kind of scenario playing out tonight. Is this all really happening?

Finally, you manage a weak smile, blushing furiously under his warm regard. “You’re too kind, Sir Hamilton.”

“Please, call me Lewis,” he insists with a wink. “And let me know where you’re staying, yeah? I’ll come by tomorrow to check on how you’re doing myself.”

Your eyes widen in surprise and you quickly scramble to recall the name of your hotel. “U-Um, the Lotte New York Palace,” you stammer out shyly. “But you really don’t have to do that ...”

Lewis waves off your protest easily, rising to his feet with a soothing grin. “Nonsense, it’s no trouble at all. I’ll be by with some breakfast to make sure my favorite new artist is being properly taken care of.”

With a final wink and dazzling smile, he steps aside to allow an assistant to wheel you towards the exit. Your head is still swimming, though you can’t blame it entirely on the concussion this time.

Did Lewis Hamilton, actual living legend, really just say he was coming to check on you tomorrow?

You allow yourself a tiny, bewildered smile as the night breeze washes over your heated cheeks. Somehow, despite all the mishaps, this crazy night had turned into something straight out of the kind of romantic comedy you secretly loved.

Perhaps falling on your face in front of the entire world wasn’t so disastrous after all.

[aisiedaisie]

hiiii ʚ₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ɞ i just found your page this morning and read through your entire masterlist and i loveeee your writing! is it possible to get royal poly!marauders at a ball or something and they catch sight of the reader (can be whatever role you wanna give them) and they are like 'damn'

Hello hello~!!!

First of all, thank you so much for patiently waiting for me to get to your request. Life has been pretty hectic on my end, so writing had to take a back seat for a little while. But today, I finally had some time to sit down and write!

Now, let me just say— this idea is absolutely amazing! I’m completely in love with royal and historical AUs, so there’s a good chance I’ll revisit this concept and or turn it into a series of drabbles. (Not that I’m particularly skilled at keeping things short!!!)

I really hope you enjoy my take on your idea 💖

edit: I got a bit carried away-

Royal Flush

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

Pairing: Poly!Marauders x Fem!Reader WC: 3.7k

The night after the neighboring kingdom’s delegation arrives, the Griffyn Kingdom buzzes with anticipation. To honor their esteemed guests— especially the visiting princess —the King and Queen have announced a grand ball. This celebration is more than an act of hospitality; it is a shining declaration of unity, a glittering prelude to alliances and promises that will shape their shared future.

You find yourself standing in Princess Lily’s chambers, the soft glow of candlelight casting flickering shadows against the ornate walls.

 Before you, Lily examines herself in a floor-length mirror, her emerald-green gown a masterpiece of silk and embroidery. You and Mary fuss over the gathered fabric at her hips, smoothing it into place with careful precision.

“I can manage the rest,” Lily murmurs, her voice gentle but decisive. She steps away, gliding toward the gilded jewelry box on her dressing table. Its lid is open, revealing an array of jewels she brought for the journey— diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires glittering alongside an assortment of tiaras.

“You two should get ready as well,” she adds, her tone as light as the shimmering necklace she picks up, its facets catching the firelight.

You pause, caught off guard. “What?” The word escapes before you can stop yourself.

Normally, Marlene would stand guard in her knightly uniform, Mary would accompany Lily throughout the event, and you would remain behind— content to watch the festivities from a quiet corner of the castle, keeping a vigilant eye on the princess’s chambers.

“There’s no need for that tonight,” Mary says, her voice warm with reassurance. She steps forward, deftly fastening the diamond necklace around Lily’s neck. The glittering stones resting perfectly against the princess’s pale freckled skin. “We’re on excellent terms with the Potters. No one here will mean us harm.”

The words hang in the air, both an assurance and an invitation. Tonight is different, you realize. 

A diamond tiara rests atop Lily’s head, its intricate design sparkling like a constellation of stars nestled in her fiery red locks. She adjusts it briefly, her reflection regal and resplendent. “You rarely get a chance to enjoy yourself during visits like this,” she says softly, her tone kind but firm. “Go on, get ready.”

You nod, a small smile playing on your lips, touched by Lily’s thoughtfulness. Her generosity warms you in a way words could never fully express.

With her gentle urging, you retreat to your own room to prepare. A quick bath washes away the lingering weariness of the day, and you do your best to ready yourself for the night ahead.

Despite your efforts, a sense of inadequacy lingers. 

For such grand occasions, it’s expected that the lady's maids and companions are impeccably dressed, each carrying at least one formal gown for travels like these. 

You do have such a dress— a blush colored piece gifted to you by your mother when you first joined the palace as Lily’s lady’s maid.

The fabric clings just a little too tightly at the waist, its once flawless seams now strained from years of careful reuse. The soft blush color, though elegant, has faded slightly with time, its original vibrancy dulled by repeated wear. The bodice is adorned with modest embroidery— delicate vines and blossoms stitched in pale gold thread that catches the light just enough to hint at refinement. The skirt, while gracefully cut, feels heavier than you remember, its weight pulling at your movements as if to remind you of the weight of high society.

It was the best your family could afford when you first came to the palace— a gift from your mother, its fabric chosen to honor both simplicity and a touch of nobility. Back then, it had been a symbol of hope, a token of pride for a baroness’s daughter stepping into the royal household. 

Now, however, standing before the mirror, you can’t help but feel its inadequacy in the face of tonight’s grandeur.

Even so, you smooth the skirt with steady hands, letting your fingers trace the faint ridges of the embroidery. This night, you remind yourself, is not about the richness of your gown, but the confidence you bring and the memories you make. 

Perfection may elude you, but presence—your presence—is more than enough.

When you step back into Lily’s chambers, it’s clear everyone is ready to go. Lily, as expected, looks effortlessly regal in her emerald green dress, the rich color complementing her fiery red hair that cascades down her back in elegant waves. Mary, ever composed, is radiant in a soft yellow gown that perfectly flatters her figure, her dark hair neatly arranged in a low bun at the nape of her neck.

“You look darling,” Lily murmurs, stepping forward to gently brush a stray lock of hair from your forehead. Her touch is as light as her tone, her emerald eyes warm with affection.

You roll your eyes playfully, unable to suppress a grin. “Says the actual goddess standing before me.”

“Truly,” Mary chimes in, her voice sweet as she adjusts the clasp of your necklace, ensuring it sits perfectly centered. “You’ll be the belle of the ball.”

Before you can protest their kind words, a knock at the door interrupts the moment. Marlene peeks her head in, her light blonde hair swept back into a tidy low ponytail. “Ladies,” she announces with a bright grin, “it’s time to head down.”

Excitement ripples through the room as the evening’s promise beckons.

_____

You weren’t quite sure what to do once you stepped onto the crowded ballroom floor. Back home, state balls were familiar territory, their routines and customs etched into your memory. But here, in a foreign kingdom, uncertainty clouded your thoughts. 

Was the etiquette the same? 

Would it be seen as rude to linger by the walls, content to watch the swirl of color and movement before you?

Must you be drawn into the heart of the celebration?

Apparently so.

You stand near one of the grand marble pillars circling the ballroom, the cool stone a comforting anchor amidst the overwhelming splendor. A glass of white wine rests in your hand, a half-hearted shield against your unease. From the corner of your eye, you notice movement—a man approaching with easy confidence. His dark hair is tied into a loose, messy bun, strands slipping free to frame his sharp features. His attire marks him as a knight of the Griffyn Kingdom, though the smirk curling at his lips carries a roguish charm and confidence uncommon in most knights you’ve met.

“You must be part of the delegation,” he says, his voice smooth, his smirk deepening as his gray eyes fix on yours.

You hesitate, biting back the urge to fidget. He’s handsome, undeniably so, but you can’t quite place why he’s chosen to speak to you. With a soft sigh, you nod. “I am.”

“I thought so,” he replies, a playful lilt to his tone. “I remember seeing you earlier, standing just behind the little princess. So, why aren’t you out there, dancing?” He gestures toward the center of the room, where couples spin and sway beneath glittering chandeliers.

“I’m not particularly fond of dancing,” you say, your voice quieter than intended. It’s not entirely true, but you hope the excuse is convincing enough to deter him.

“Nonsense,” he says with a laugh, his hand extending toward you. “Anyone can see you want to. Prove me wrong, if you’d like.”

The invitation lingers between you, daring yet strangely kind.

You hesitate for just a moment, glancing at the glass in your hand before setting it down on the corner of the nearest table. Then, with a small breath of resolve, you place your hand in his. “Don’t get mad if my heels end up on your toes,” you quip, a touch of nervousness slipping into your tone.

“Trust me, I’m quite nimble. Dodging danger is part of the job,” he replies with an easy smirk, already guiding you toward the dance floor with a confidence that leaves little room for argument.

Normally, you might have countered with a quick remark of your own, but your mind is too distracted. The pounding of your heart fills your ears, drowning out coherent thought.

The lull in the music amplifies every other sound—the clack of your heels against the polished marble, the low hum of whispered voices as heads turn to watch you pass. The weight of their gazes burns into your skin, and your hands tremble slightly as the knight clears a path through the crowd, his presence commanding in a way that both unsettles and reassures you.

Other couples filter onto the dance floor as the musicians shuffle their sheet music, preparing for the next song. The murmurs of the room settle, anticipation hanging in the air.

“Well,” you manage, your voice soft as you cling to anything that might distract you from the dozens of eyes still following your every move, “it seems you’re rather popular.”

“What can I say?” he responds, a teasing lilt in his voice. “I am rather handsome.” The smirk that accompanies his words is maddeningly self-assured.

Before you can respond, his hand presses gently against the middle of your back, drawing you closer. His other hand takes yours in a firm yet careful clasp, guiding you into the proper frame with a natural grace that makes it seem effortless. You barely notice the band striking the first notes of the song, your attention fixed on the storm gray eyes studying you with something close to intrigue.

You set your hand clumsily on his shoulder, your fingers brushing the smooth fabric of his maroon jacket. He doesn’t seem to mind your hesitation, his movements assured and steady as he begins to lead you through a simple waltz.

To your relief, the steps come naturally, your body quickly attuning to the rhythm of the music and the gentle guidance of his lead.

“What’s your name?” he asks, his voice soft, nearly lost beneath the rising swell of the orchestra.

You glance up at him, your voice barely above a whisper as you give your name.

“A beautiful name for a beautiful lady,” he replies smoothly, his lips curving into a charming smile paired with a wink that, despite yourself, pulls a smile to your face.

“And you?” you counter, a touch of playfulness creeping into your tone. “Who might this oh-so-charming knight be standing before me?”

His eyes glint with amusement, their gray depths catching the light like polished steel. “Sirius,” he says simply, the name rolling off his tongue with a quiet confidence.

You nod thoughtfully, letting the music and his lead guide you effortlessly across the floor. “An attention grabbing star for an attention grabbing knight,” you muse aloud, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Seems fitting, I suppose.”

His laugh is low and warm, the sound wrapping around you like the melody. “Well, I do strive to live up to my name.”

“I doubt you have any trouble with that,” you say, a soft smile playing on your lips as you hold his gaze.

The music begins to fade, the elegant notes giving way to the quiet hum of conversations around you. As the dance slows to a stop, you take a small step back, though his presence still lingers like the warmth of the ballroom’s golden glow.

“So much for not being a dancer,” he teases, his smirk as effortless as the steps he led you through.

You turn to him, unable to suppress your grin. “Maybe you were just that good of a lead,” you say sweetly, your voice light with sincerity. But before he can respond, you catch sight of Mary and Lily across the room.

“I ought to check in on my lady,” you add, inclining your head slightly. “Thank you for the dance, Sir Sirius—”

“Sirius,” he interrupts gently, his tone almost playful. “Just Sirius is fine.”

You nod, your smile softening as you take a small step back. “Fine, then. Thank you for the dance, Sirius. It was... unexpected, but I truly enjoyed it.”

With a final glance, you turn and make your way toward Mary and Lily, weaving through the gathered crowd. The warmth of his hand on yours still lingers faintly, and his name echoes in your thoughts like the fading strains of the music— a memory you suspect will stay with you far longer than the evening itself.

_____

James and Remus stepped out of the nearest sitting room, the faint hum of ballroom music echoing down the corridor. Remus, ever meticulous, adjusted James’s slightly askew collar, his fingers deftly hiding the newly formed love bites that marked the prince’s neck��evidence of their brief but heated absence.

“We need to get back before anyone notices,” James murmured, his voice low but tinged with amusement as he fixed his tousled hair.

Remus smirked. “We’re already late. Let’s hope Sirius hasn’t set the place on fire in our absence.”

But as they approached the ballroom’s grand entrance, what they saw made both men falter. There, on the dancefloor, Sirius Black was leading a woman in a waltz.

The sight itself was striking. Her blush colored dress stood out in gentle contrast against the bold, jewel toned gowns of the others swirling around her. The simplicity of her attire only seemed to magnify her elegance, and for once, Sirius appeared utterly focused, his usual roguishness tempered by something softer.

“Sirius never asks a woman to dance,” a sharp voice cut through the hum of the crowd. James and Remus glanced toward a cluster of women, their faces half hidden behind delicate feathered fans. The speaker, a haughty looking noblewoman, tilted her head knowingly, her words drawing murmurs of agreement from those around her.

Remus’s brows knit together. Sirius was notorious for politely but firmly declining the endless stream of invitations to dance he received at events like these. Yet, watching him now, Remus found he could understand why Sirius had sought out this particular partner.

She was... radiant.

“Well, isn’t she a sight to see,” James murmured, his voice just low enough for Remus to hear.

Remus nodded, his hazel eyes tracking the woman’s graceful movements. “If I’m not mistaken, she’s one of Princess Lily’s lady’s maids,” he said, his tone thoughtful.

James’s eyes widened slightly in recognition, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Is that so?” he drawled, the spark of an idea lighting his gaze.

Remus sighed, already sensing trouble. “What are you thinking, James?”

The prince’s grin only grew. “I think,” he said, “we should pay a visit to the princess. Seems like her lady’s maid could use some... royal introductions.”

_____

After reuniting with a gushing Mary and Lily, a server approaches, bowing their head politely before handing you a fresh glass of wine. You thank them quietly, though you can’t help but find their deference a little peculiar. Still, you accept the drink, shifting your attention back to the princess as she launches into a spirited account of your performance on the dance floor.

“You looked absolutely stunning out there,” Lily exclaims, her cheeks slightly flushed from the excitement of the evening—or perhaps the wine.

“She’s right,” Mary agrees with a hum, a bright smile lighting her face. “Everyone was watching. You two were the talk of the room.”

Both women had taken their turns dancing with high-ranking gentlemen throughout the night. Suitors vying for the honor of even a single waltz. Yet, they seemed convinced that your dance was the highlight.

“He’s quite a talented dancer for a knight,” Mary observes, taking a sip from her own glass.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I figured he’d be good, considering how confident he seemed. But he led me effortlessly. I barely had to think about the steps.”

“Well,” Lily interjects with a soft laugh, her hand fluttering to her lips as though trying to stifle her amusement, “that’s hardly surprising. He’s a noble, after all.”

“What?” Both you and Mary turn to her in confusion, the notion catching you both off guard. Nobles rarely became knights, considering the station beneath them. Sirius hardly seemed the exception, yet here you were.

“He’s the son of Duchess Black,” Lily explains with a slight grimace, lowering her voice. “Her sons are far more tolerable than she ever will be.”

“Lily!” Mary scolds, her eyes darting around to ensure no one overheard the princess’s blunt critique. Fortunately, the surrounding hum of conversation seemed to swallow the comment whole.

“But...” you trail off, your brows furrowing as you ask. “Did you not just dance with the heir to the duchy?”

“That would be my younger brother,” a smooth, familiar voice cuts into the conversation, making you turn sharply.

Sirius stands behind you, his easy smirk firmly in place, though there’s a glimmer of amusement in his gray eyes. Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you instinctively dip your head in greeting, murmuring, “Sir Sirius.”

“Sirius,” he corrects lightly, his gaze softening as it lingers on you.

“Sirius,” you murmur, correcting yourself softly.

His smirk softens into something warmer. “You danced with Regulus, Your Highness?”

“Lily,” the princess corrects, her tone mirroring his own.

Sirius chuckles, his attention shifting to her. “Of course, Lily. So, you danced with Reg?”

“As I always do, Sirius,” she replies with a sigh, clearly anticipating where the conversation might lead. Her expression brightens, however, as her gaze lands beyond him. “Oh, James, Remus! A pleasure to see you.”

Both Mary and you instinctively bow your heads, mirroring Lily’s graceful greeting as two men approach.

“Leave the formalities for the elders,” James teases, waving his hand dismissively. “Raise your heads, ladies.”

James Potter is every bit the image of royalty, dressed in a pristine white suit adorned with a red sash. The high collar adds to his regal air, but it’s his confident posture and easy smile —so warm and almost boyish—that truly captivate.

Beside him stands a tall, broad shouldered man with tousled brown hair. The scars that trace his skin catch your eye briefly before you hastily return your attention to the prince, unwilling to appear rude. Yet, the man’s hazel gaze, calm and piercing, seems to notice everything.

“Are you all enjoying the ball?” James asks, his voice warm and smooth as his signature smile graces his lips.

Lily answers first, her response polite and poised as ever. Her agreement prompts Mary and you to nod along.

“Glad to hear it,” James replies, his smile widening. “I know Sirius was enjoying himself not too long ago,” he adds with a teasing lilt, his hand clapping Sirius on the shoulder and lingering there in a way that seems deliberate.

“It was one dance,” Sirius groans, tilting his head toward the prince in exasperation.

“One dance more than usual,” Remus chimes in, his deep, steady voice carrying a hint of humor. His hazel eyes flicker to Sirius, glinting with quiet amusement as he observes his discomfort.

James turns his gaze to you, his teasing grin softening into something gentler. “He didn’t step on your toes, did he, my lady?” he asks, the mock solemnity of his tone bringing a smile to your lips.

You shake your head, your amusement showing clearly. “Of course not.”

James bursts into laughter, the sound rich and full, drawing a few curious glances from those nearby.

“Having women cover for your clumsy footwork now— what a shame,” Remus adds, his tone dripping with mock disappointment as he shakes his head.

Sirius turns to you, lips curling into an exaggerated pout. “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve egged them on.”

You shrug, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Now, why would I do that, Sirius?”

“You’re killing me, doll,” he groans dramatically, prompting laughter to ripple through the small group.

The conversation shifts back to something closer to polite, though the teasing undercurrent remains. Mary moves subtly closer to you, her hand brushing comfortingly over your back. It’s then you notice the weight of the many gazes lingering on your group, a pressure you hadn’t fully realized until now.

Your eyes lower to the polished marble floor as you focus on listening to James and Lily’s easy banter, their words melding with the hum of the ballroom.

“You alright?” Remus’s voice pulls your attention. He steps closer, his question soft, laced with genuine concern.

You nod lightly. “It seems all of a sudden I’ve run out of energy,” you say, a polite fib. The truth is, this entire night has been draining, though you don’t want him to think he’s dull company. “I’m not used to parties like this,” you add quickly to clarify.

Remus’s lips curve into a smile, his expression warm and understanding. “We have lounges on the top floor for guests who need a break. You’d be welcome to rest there if you’d like.”

You shake your head gently. “I really shouldn’t, but thank you for the suggestion–”

“That’s a great idea,” Lily interjects with an encouraging smile. “Let’s rest our feet for a while.”

“I’ll let Marlene know we’re heading upstairs,” Mary offers before slipping away, likely toward one of the food tables where Marlene is undoubtedly stationed.

“We’ll escort you,” Sirius says smoothly, but Lily raises a hand, declining the offer with a polite smile.

“We’ll be fine on our own, but thank you,” she assures him.

“Of course,” James replies, bowing his head slightly.

Mary returns soon after, accompanied by Marlene, who carries a golden plate piled high with delicate finger foods.

“Enjoy your rest,” James says with a gracious nod, his tone sincere though his smile holds a trace of teasing warmth.

The women dip their heads in thanks before retreating upstairs to find a quiet lounge.

_____

As soon as they’re out of earshot, James turns to Sirius with a mischievous smirk. “Well, wasn’t she a sweetheart?” he asks, his teasing tone unmistakable.

“She’s polite but knows how to hold her own. I’d say you’ve chosen well, Sirius,” Remus adds with an approving nod.

“If you two hadn’t left me—” Sirius starts, a hint of irritation coloring his words.

“We did say you could join us,” James cuts in, raising his hand as if to defend himself.

“And you know damn well if all three of us disappeared, people would notice,” Sirius counters, arching an eyebrow.

James shrugs, entirely unbothered. “Your loss.”

“Not entirely,” Sirius says with a wolfish grin. “It just means we can take our time later.”

“No visible marks,” Remus warns, his voice carrying the weight of experience. “We’ll have guests for a while.”

Sirius rolls his eyes, his grin unwavering. “It’ll be fine—it’s never stopped us before.”

Remus sighs, his lips twitching upward despite himself. “Fair enough.”

[amethystarachnid]

Hi I've just come across your Valentines challenge and I love it! My request is Fake Dating and Loki. Please!

PRETENDING

⤷ LOKY LAUFEYSON

ᯓ★ Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, some angst and some fluff

ᯓ★ Requests status: open (only by asks)

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 10k

ᯓ★ Summary: when your father tells you about the marriage he has arranged for you you are already coming up with a plan to escape it, and you might need the help of your dear friend, the God of Mischief.

ᯓ★ TW(s): someone stabs someone else with a poisoned knife and the injuried one goes into a coma (I wrote it like this to not spoiler anything lol)

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The golden spires of Asgard stretch into the endless sky, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. You stand on one of the many ornate balconies of your father’s estate, the heavy folds of your gown brushing the marble beneath your feet. From here, you can see the Bifrost bridge shimmering in the distance, but the breathtaking view offers no comfort. Not when the weight of your father's latest decision hangs over you like a storm cloud.

“Y/n,” he had said only this morning, his voice firm with the kind of authority that leaves little room for argument, “Lord Eirik is a wise and wealthy man. The union would benefit our house greatly.”

Lord Eirik. The name alone makes your skin crawl. You’d met him once, years ago—a man older than your father, with cold eyes that roamed far too freely. And now, your father expects you to marry him, all for the sake of strengthening alliances and preserving the honor of your house.

You grip the balcony railing tighter, your knuckles turning white. There has to be another way.

The soft sound of footsteps pulls you from your thoughts, light and calculated, as if the person approaching enjoys the art of making an entrance without announcing it. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“Pouting over arranged marriages? How very traditional of you,” Loki’s voice is smooth, laced with amusement, but there’s an undercurrent of curiosity.

You sigh but can’t help the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. “I’m not pouting.”

Loki steps closer, leaning against the railing beside you. His emerald-green robes flutter gently in the evening breeze, and his raven-black hair, perfectly styled as always, catches the last rays of sunlight. Mischief dances in his eyes, but there’s something softer there too—something he hides well.

“Then what would you call this brooding display?” he asks, gesturing vaguely at your stiff posture.

“Desperation,” you mutter, before you even think to stop yourself.

Loki arches a dark brow, his curiosity piqued. “That bad?”

You finally turn to him, your chest tightening. Of all the people in Asgard, Loki is the one you can trust, even if trusting him sometimes means falling victim to elaborate pranks or being roped into schemes you didn’t sign up for. But he’s been your friend for years, since you were both barely more than children running through the palace halls, and now he’s the only one you can think to turn to.

“I need your help,” you say, the words tasting heavier than you expected.

Loki straightens, his playful smirk faltering just slightly. He crosses his arms, studying you. “Now this is interesting. Usually, people only seek my help when they’ve truly run out of options.”

“I have run out of options.” You let the frustration bleed into your voice, feeling the weight of it. “My father is going to marry me off to Lord Eirik. I can’t—” You stop, the bile rising in your throat. “I won’t do it.”

Loki’s expression shifts, the humor fading. There’s a flicker of something deeper—concern? Anger? It’s hard to tell with him. “I assume your father isn’t one for simple persuasion?”

You scoff. “Not when it comes to alliances. He’s set on this, Loki. The only way he’ll back down is if he believes I’m already… involved.” You hesitate before forcing the rest of the words out. “With someone more powerful. Someone he wouldn’t dare cross.”

Loki’s sharp mind picks up on your meaning instantly. His smile returns, slow and deliberate. “And who better than the God of Mischief himself?”

You meet his gaze, your heart pounding. “Will you do it? Pretend, I mean? Just until my father calls off the arrangement.”

He leans in, closer than necessary, his breath brushing against your cheek. “Darling, you wound me. Of course, I’ll help.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, a wave of relief washing over you. But before you can thank him, he adds with a wicked grin, “Though I must warn you, I’m an exceptional actor. You might fall in love with me for real.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the warmth that blooms in your chest. “In your dreams, Loki.”

He chuckles, but there’s something else beneath his laughter—something softer, hidden deep. If only you knew how close to the truth his teasing really is.

The next morning, it begins.

Loki arrives at your family’s estate in a flourish of green and gold, his entrance nothing short of theatrical. His presence alone commands attention, but today, there’s an extra layer to his performance. His smile is softer when he sees you, his touches more lingering, every gesture calculated to sell the lie.

Your father watches from the grand hall, seated on his ornate throne-like chair. His expression is unreadable as Loki approaches him, your hand securely tucked in the crook of his arm.

“Lord Y/f/n,” Loki begins, his voice carrying a practiced charm, “I believe you and I have much to discuss.”

Your father’s gaze flickers between the two of you, his jaw tightening. “Does this have something to do with my daughter?”

Loki’s smile widens, and he draws you subtly closer. “Indeed. You see, we’ve been… involved for quite some time now. And I thought it best to make our intentions clear before any unfortunate misunderstandings arose.”

There’s a heavy pause, the kind that seems to stretch across the entire hall. Your father’s eyes narrow, and for a moment, you think he might call the bluff.

But then, he speaks. “I see.”

It’s hard to tell if he believes it, or if he simply recognizes the delicate politics at play. After all, Loki is the prince of Asgard, brother to Thor, son of Odin—if your father openly challenges him, it could mean far more than just a personal insult.

He exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. “I assume you intend to treat her with the respect she deserves?”

Loki dips his head in a mock bow, though his voice is sincere when he says, “Of course. Y/n is… precious to me.”

Your heart stutters at the way he says it, but you quickly remind yourself that this is all part of the act.

Later, as you walk through the palace gardens, away from the prying eyes and heavy expectations, you turn to him. “That was… convincing.”

He offers a playful grin. “Did you doubt me?”

“Not for a second.”

You both fall into an easy silence, the kind that only comes with years of friendship. Yet now, there’s something unspoken between you—a tension you can’t quite name.

“Thank you,” you say softly, breaking the quiet.

Loki stops walking, turning to face you fully. There’s something in his eyes, something deeper than mischief. “Anything for you, Y/n.”

You feel your breath catch, and for a fleeting second, you wonder if this is still just part of the act.

But before you can dwell on it, he smirks again, the moment slipping away. “Now, shall we make this charade more convincing? I believe a few stolen glances and lingering touches are expected.”

You laugh, swatting at his arm. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are, fake betrothed to me.”

What neither of you says is how easily this charade could slip into something real.

For Loki, it already has.

And for you? Well, only time will tell.

The next few days in Asgard unfold like scenes from a grand play, each one more elaborate than the last. It doesn’t take long before whispers ripple through the golden halls, carried on the breeze like wildfire.

You hear them everywhere—soft-spoken words trailing behind you as you walk through the palace gardens with Loki, your arm laced in his, your smile painted carefully onto your face. The stories grow with every passing day, stretching the truth in ways only Asgardians could manage.

“Did you hear? Prince Loki and Lady Y/n have been secretly involved for years.”

“I always suspected something. Did you see the way he looked at her during the last feast? Like she was the only one in the room.”

“I heard he challenged Lord Eirik himself, told him to stay away from her.”

“That’s not all. Someone said he plans to propose soon. Imagine that—a royal wedding!”

You try not to let the gossip get under your skin, but it’s impossible not to hear it, impossible not to feel the stares following you everywhere you go. Loki, on the other hand, thrives in it. He walks beside you with the ease of someone who has spent a lifetime performing for an audience. He basks in the attention, offering charming smiles and knowing glances to anyone bold enough to meet his eyes.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” you murmur one afternoon as you pass a group of noblewomen who pretend to be absorbed in a conversation but clearly hang onto every word between you and Loki.

“Immensely,” Loki replies without missing a beat. He leans in closer, his lips brushing your ear. “Though, I think I could convince you to enjoy it more if you’d play along a little better.”

You pull back to glare at him, but the twinkle in his green eyes disarms you. “I am playing along.”

“Hardly. You still stiffen every time I touch you.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

You huff in annoyance, but the truth of his words gnaws at you. Despite the charade, despite the time you’ve spent with Loki over the years, something about the closeness now—about what it means—makes it harder to pretend. Because pretending means noticing things you’ve tried not to notice before. Like the way his fingers linger at the small of your back, or how his gaze softens when he thinks you aren’t looking.

Still, you manage a smile for the sake of your audience and link your fingers more tightly with his. “I’ll try harder.”

“Good.” He grins, triumphant.

But the real test comes sooner than you expect.

Loki approaches you late one evening in the palace library, where you’ve sought refuge from the endless gossip and prying eyes. The tall shelves lined with ancient tomes offer some comfort, but not nearly enough.

He strides in, his dark green cloak billowing behind him, and you know immediately that something is different.

“What?” you ask, setting the book aside.

He leans against the table, his fingers drumming against the polished wood. “We’ve been summoned.”

Your stomach twists. “Summoned?”

“To see my parents.”

The words hang heavy in the air. Odin. Frigga. Meeting the All-Father and the Queen wasn’t something you’d fully thought through when you first begged Loki for help. But of course, it was inevitable. If the story was going to hold, you’d have to convince them as well.

You try to steady your breathing. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

You swallow hard. “And… what do we do?”

Loki’s usual confidence falters for a moment, so brief you almost miss it. But then he straightens, slipping back into the role as easily as breathing. “We do what we’ve been doing. Pretend.”

You stand, nerves knotting in your chest. “It’s Odin. And Frigga. They’ll see right through us.”

He steps closer, his expression softening. “Frigga might. But Odin… well, he’s been fooled before.”

There’s a flicker of bitterness in his voice, quickly masked, but you choose not to push. Instead, you take a deep breath and meet his gaze. “Then let’s make it believable.”

The next morning arrives far too quickly.

You wear a flowing gown of deep emerald silk, chosen carefully to match Loki’s signature color. Your hair is braided elegantly, delicate gold threads woven through it—Frigga’s tastes are well-known, and you hope to make a good impression.

Loki meets you outside the grand hall, looking every bit the prince in his regal Asgardian attire. He offers you his arm, and when you hesitate for just a moment too long, he smiles softly. “It’ll be fine.”

You place your hand on his arm, feeling the tension beneath his cool exterior. “You’re nervous too.”

“Of course. I’m about to introduce my supposed beloved to the All-Father and the Queen. They’ll dissect everything you say.” He pauses, then adds more quietly, “But you’ll do fine.”

The heavy doors of the hall creak open, and together you step inside.

Odin sits on his throne, his golden armor gleaming beneath the grand beams of the hall, Gungnir resting at his side. His one good eye fixes on you and Loki as you approach, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Frigga sits with her usual calm grace, her blue robes flowing around her like water, though her eyes are sharp and knowing.

You bow low, as does Loki, though his is more casual, a prince bowing to his own parents but still observing the formality.

“Mother, Father,” Loki begins, his voice smooth but carefully measured, “I bring Lady Y/n before you.”

Odin’s gaze lingers on you, heavy and powerful, and you feel the weight of his scrutiny. “We have heard whispers,” he says finally, his deep voice reverberating through the hall. “Of your… intentions.”

Loki nods, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. “Indeed. Y/n and I have been… close for some time now. I thought it best you meet her.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Frigga speaks next, her voice gentle but firm. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Y/n. I’ve long heard of your family’s standing.”

You straighten, trying to hide the nervous flutter in your chest. “The pleasure is mine, Your Majesty.”

Her smile is kind, but her eyes are sharp. She sees more than she lets on.

Odin leans forward, his knuckles tightening around Gungnir. “And tell me, Lady Y/n, what is it about my son that draws your affections?”

Your heart pounds. This is it—the moment that could unravel everything if you don’t answer carefully.

You glance at Loki, who watches you intently, his usual smirk absent, his jaw tense. And in that moment, something shifts. You think of all the times he’s been there—the years of friendship, the whispered secrets, the laughter, the mischief, and now this.

You meet Odin’s gaze. “Loki has been my friend for many years. He is… brilliant, clever, and fiercely loyal to those he cares for. Beneath his mischief, there is kindness—more than most people see.” You pause, swallowing. “And he makes me feel… seen.”

The hall is silent. Odin watches you carefully, but Frigga’s expression softens.

Loki clears his throat, breaking the tension. “As you can see, Father, I chose wisely.”

Frigga’s smile returns, more genuine now. “It seems you have.”

Odin leans back, still unreadable. “We shall see.”

The meeting ends shortly after, but the tension lingers as you and Loki leave the hall.

You exhale deeply once the heavy doors close behind you. “Well. That was… terrifying.”

Loki chuckles, though it’s quieter than usual. “You did well. Even I almost believed you.”

You arch a brow at him. “Almost?”

He smirks, but there’s something softer in his eyes. “You were… convincing.”

As you walk through the palace, you notice more than ever how the whispers have grown. You catch snippets—your name, Loki’s, theories about how long the two of you have been secretly involved, about whether wedding bells are on the horizon.

It should feel overwhelming, but strangely, it doesn’t. Not with Loki walking beside you, his arm brushing against yours, his warmth grounding you.

But what lingers most is the look on Frigga’s face when you spoke—the knowing softness in her eyes, as if she could see right through the lies to something else, something truer.

You wonder if she saw the same thing you’re beginning to feel. Something deepening between you and Loki, something you didn’t expect.

And as Loki glances at you, his smile softer now, less forced, you can’t help but wonder if he feels it too.

The calm that settles over Asgard after your meeting with Odin and Frigga is short-lived. For a few brief days, you feel the weight lifting, as if the worst of it is behind you. The whispers in the palace grow louder, but now they carry a different tone—gossip laced with excitement rather than judgment. People speak of your so-called love affair with Loki as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

But the feeling of safety is fragile, thin as glass, and it shatters the moment Lord Eirik returns to the city.

You first hear of his arrival from one of the palace maids, who finds you in the gardens where you and Loki had spent countless hours perfecting your act. She approaches nervously, her hands clasped in front of her, eyes wide.

“My lady,” she whispers, glancing around to ensure no one overhears. “Lord Eirik has returned. He rode through the gates this morning.”

The news strikes like a physical blow, the breath catching in your throat.

“Already?” you manage to ask, your fingers tightening around the edge of the marble bench you sit on.

She nods quickly. “I heard he was… furious.”

The words hang in the air long after she departs, leaving you alone in the garden’s silence. You stare at the carefully trimmed hedges, your heart racing. Of course, Eirik wouldn’t take this lightly. His pride, his status—it was all tied to the alliance your father had promised him. And now, with you publicly attached to Loki, that promise had crumbled before his eyes.

A shadow looms over you before you even hear the approaching footsteps.

“I heard,” Loki says smoothly as he sits beside you, though there’s an edge to his voice, something darker than his usual playful tone.

“Of course you did.” You sigh, your shoulders sagging. “What do we do now?”

He leans back on the bench, looking up at the blue Asgardian sky, but there’s tension in the set of his jaw. “We keep pretending. And we let him come to us. I’m sure he will.”

You glance at him, worry swirling in your chest. “Loki, Eirik isn’t like the nobles who whisper behind fans and silk curtains. He won’t just let this go.”

A sharp smile curls at Loki’s lips, but there’s no warmth in it. “Then let him try something.”

You know that tone. It’s the same one he uses when he’s plotting something dangerous, something reckless.

“Loki…” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I won’t let him lay a hand on you, Y/n.”

It should comfort you, but all it does is make the knot in your chest tighten.

You don’t have to wait long before Eirik makes his move.

That evening, as you walk the palace corridors alone—something you now regret—his voice cuts through the stillness.

“My lady.”

You freeze before turning around.

Lord Eirik stands at the end of the corridor, dressed in deep burgundy robes lined with fur, his gray-streaked beard groomed perfectly, though his sharp eyes burn with fury.

You swallow, trying to summon the courage you’d had when speaking to Odin. “Lord Eirik,” you say as calmly as you can, though your heart pounds in your chest.

He strides toward you, each heavy step echoing off the marble walls. “I had expected a different welcome upon my return. Perhaps one from my betrothed.”

You straighten your shoulders, meeting his gaze. “I am not your betrothed.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “That was not your decision to make.”

The air between you thickens with tension, heavy and suffocating.

“My father agreed to the arrangement, yes,” you say carefully, “but I never did.”

His eyes narrow, and for a moment, you see the true depth of his anger, barely restrained beneath the surface. “And yet, now you belong to Loki? Do you think I don’t see this for what it is? A ruse. A desperate attempt to escape a future you did not want.”

You flinch, but refuse to look away. “If you see it so clearly, then why bother?”

“Because,” he hisses, stepping closer, his voice dropping into something low and dangerous, “I do not take well to being made a fool of.”

Your heart races, but you stand your ground. “I made my choice.”

Eirik’s hand twitches at his side, like he’s considering reaching for you, but before he can make another move, a familiar voice slices through the corridor, smooth and laced with venom.

“I suggest you step away from her, Eirik.”

You turn just as Loki appears from the shadows, his tall figure tense with restrained fury. His usual playful demeanor is gone, replaced with something far more dangerous. His green eyes burn as he closes the distance between the three of you, his steps slow and deliberate.

Eirik sneers. “So, the prince emerges. Tell me, Loki, how long do you expect this little performance to last?”

Loki stops at your side, his presence a solid wall between you and Eirik now. “Long enough for you to realize that she is no longer available to be traded like livestock.”

Eirik’s face reddens, his fury bubbling beneath his carefully constructed facade. “You think you can embarrass me like this? Ruin what was promised to me?”

Loki steps forward, the air around him crackling with restrained magic. “I think I just did.”

For a tense moment, you think Eirik might draw his weapon, might be foolish enough to challenge a prince of Asgard right here in the palace. But he doesn’t. Instead, he sneers, spitting his next words.

“This isn’t over.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and storms down the corridor, his heavy footsteps echoing until they vanish into silence.

You exhale sharply, your knees feeling weak beneath you.

Loki turns to you immediately, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. “Are you alright?”

You nod, though the adrenaline still courses through you. “I’m fine. I didn’t expect him to… I thought he’d just walk away.”

Loki’s jaw tightens. “Men like him never walk away quietly.”

You meet his gaze, seeing the worry beneath his sharp features. “Thank you. For stepping in.”

His fingers brush against your cheek, softer now, his anger replaced with something gentler. “I told you I wouldn’t let him touch you.”

Your heart stutters in your chest at the closeness between you. You’ve spent so much time pretending, weaving this elaborate lie, but this moment doesn’t feel like an act at all.

“Loki…” you start, unsure what you even want to say, but he shakes his head slightly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“We need to be careful. Eirik won’t take this humiliation lightly.”

You know he’s right, but part of you still lingers on the way his fingers brushed your cheek, on how his anger burned so fiercely on your behalf.

Over the next few days, the tension in Asgard thickens. The gossip shifts once more, no longer idle talk of romance and secret affections. Now it’s filled with sharp edges—talk of Eirik’s fury, of how the nobleman had been made a fool, of the confrontation in the palace corridors.

“He’ll retaliate,” you hear one nobleman whisper at a feast, his voice low but urgent. “Men like Eirik don’t take humiliation lightly.”

“He won’t dare cross Loki,” another responds, though even he sounds unsure.

You sit beside Loki at the long table, his hand resting casually on yours, playing the part still, though now there’s an undeniable tension beneath his touch.

“Everyone’s waiting for him to strike,” you murmur, sipping your wine.

Loki’s jaw tenses, but he keeps his smile in place for the crowd. “Let him. I’m ready.”

You glance at him, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across his sharp features. There’s something more beneath his calm exterior, something darker brewing.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” you say softly, but he only offers that same infuriating, knowing smile.

“For you, I’d do anything.”

The words are playful, but there’s truth laced in them—a truth you’re not sure you’re ready to face yet.

But in the pit of your stomach, you know Eirik’s next move is coming. And when it does, it will shatter the fragile facade you and Loki have built, forcing both of you to face the deeper truths you’ve been hiding behind the mask of your lie.

The days following Eirik’s return pass in a haze of tension and whispers, every corner of the palace echoing with fragments of your story. What started as a desperate act to avoid a loveless marriage has spiraled into something far more elaborate—something neither you nor Loki fully anticipated.

You thought the hardest part was convincing Odin and Frigga, but now you see how naïve that was. The entire realm buzzes with the news of your supposed love. And there’s no way to retreat from it now.

The decision comes swiftly, a conversation you’re not even a part of.

One morning, you’re summoned to the royal chambers, your heart hammering in your chest. You half-expect it to be Odin demanding the truth, but when you step into the vast room, it’s Frigga who greets you, her gentle smile doing little to soothe your nerves. Loki stands near the window, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture stiff. He avoids your gaze.

“Lady Y/n,” Frigga says, her voice kind but measured, “we’ve been discussing the future.”

Your throat tightens. “The future?”

She nods, her hands folded elegantly in front of her. “Yours and Loki’s.”

You glance at Loki, but he still won’t meet your eyes.

Frigga continues, “Asgardian tradition holds that public declarations of love, especially from royalty, carry a certain… expectation. The people are watching. Your families are watching. There will be pressure.”

The word hits you hard. Pressure. That’s all this has been—a tight, suffocating cage you’ve been trying to escape, only to find yourself deeper inside it.

“I… I understand,” you manage to say.

Frigga’s smile is patient, but you see the knowing glint in her eyes. “Odin believes the most honorable course now is marriage. It will solidify the alliance between your family and the royal house. It will… legitimize what has been said.”

The room seems to tilt beneath you.

Marriage.

You’d known it was a possibility—this was the path you chose the moment you begged Loki to fake this relationship—but hearing it spoken aloud makes it real.

You finally look at Loki, and this time he meets your gaze. His green eyes, usually so full of mischief and confidence, are unreadable now, guarded.

“This is what needs to happen,” he says quietly.

The words sting more than they should. You know he’s playing the part still, but a small, fragile part of you had hoped… for something else in his tone. Something warmer.

Frigga, ever observant, watches the silent exchange between you. “There will be time to prepare, of course. But the arrangements will begin immediately. The people will want a grand wedding.”

You can only nod, your heart beating too loud in your ears.

As you leave the chamber, Loki falls into step beside you. Neither of you speaks for a long moment, the weight of what just happened hanging between you like a storm cloud.

Finally, you break the silence. “So. We’re getting married.”

He exhales through his nose, the faintest trace of a smile curling at his lips. “Seems so.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “I thought the whole point was to avoid being married off.”

His smirk deepens, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “At least this time it’s your choice.”

Is it? You want to say, but the words catch in your throat.

Instead, you glance at him, searching his face. “You don’t mind?”

Loki slows his steps, considering. “I’ve had worse fates.” He glances sideways at you, his green eyes softer now. “And it’s not as though I find the idea unbearable.”

Your stomach twists at his words, at the quiet honesty behind them.

He clears his throat, brushing past the moment. “We should… prepare. I’m sure the palace will be overrun with wedding plans soon.”

And it is.

Within days, Asgard buzzes with preparations. Nobles flock to the palace, eager to be part of the grand event. Silk merchants arrive with bolts of fabric shimmering in the sunlight. Jewels from realms beyond Asgard are presented as offerings for the bride-to-be—each more ornate than the last.

You’re swept into it all, barely able to catch your breath. Tailors drape you in rich fabrics, court advisors debate over seating charts, and Frigga herself insists on helping you select flowers from the royal gardens.

At first, it all feels like a dream—distant, surreal. You go through the motions because you have to, because this is what the story demands. But somewhere, amid the chaos, things begin to shift.

It starts when you see the temple where the ceremony will take place—its high arches carved with ancient runes, golden light pouring through the stained glass. You picture yourself standing there, before the entire realm, with Loki at your side.

You imagine the moment Odin will declare you husband and wife, the vows you will speak, the ring that will slide onto your finger.

And, unexpectedly, your heart flutters.

You try to brush it off at first. It’s just nerves, you tell yourself. The weight of everything happening so fast.

But it becomes harder to ignore when you catch glimpses of Loki in the quiet moments—when he thinks no one’s watching.

Like when you find him in the palace library, flipping through old texts on Asgardian wedding customs. You approach silently, watching as his brow furrows in concentration, his long fingers tracing the pages.

“Studying?” you tease, breaking the silence.

He startles, then chuckles softly. “I suppose I should know what I’m getting myself into.”

You smile, but the warmth in your chest lingers longer than it should.

And then there are the times you catch him staring at you during fittings or dinners—when he isn’t wearing his usual smirk but something softer, more vulnerable.

It’s in those moments that you begin to realize the truth you’ve been avoiding.

You care for him.

No—more than that.

You love him.

The realization hits you one evening as you stand on the palace balcony, watching the stars blink into existence above Asgard. The city glows beneath you, but all you can think of is Loki—the way he’s been by your side through all of this, protecting you, helping you.

He didn’t have to say yes when you begged him for help. He didn’t have to throw himself into this charade so completely.

But he did.

And somewhere along the way, pretending stopped feeling like pretending.

You press your hands to the balcony railing, your heart racing.

You love him.

But before you can even begin to unravel what that means, a new threat looms—darker and more dangerous than the whispers of nobles or the expectations of the court.

Eirik.

Though he has remained out of sight since his confrontation in the palace corridors, you know better than to believe he’s simply accepted his defeat.

And you’re right.

In the shadowed halls beneath Asgard, Eirik plots.

The slight against him, the humiliation he endured—it festers like a wound, growing deeper with each passing day. He cannot stand the thought of you standing at Loki’s side, wearing a crown that should have elevated his own status.

And so, he makes a decision.

If he cannot have you, if he cannot claim the future that was promised to him, then no one will.

Whispers reach his ears—servants who are easily bribed, guards who turn a blind eye. He learns of the wedding plans, the route you will take to the temple, the secluded chambers where you rest.

He plans his revenge carefully, methodically.

A poisoned blade. Swift, silent.

He imagines it easily—how the chaos would erupt if the bride-to-be were found dead on the eve of her wedding. The scandal, the shame, the grief. It would tear through the palace like wildfire.

Loki would suffer.

And that, more than anything, is what Eirik desires.

But what he doesn’t anticipate is how fiercely Loki watches over you.

Late one evening, as you sit in your chambers, going over the endless lists of preparations, Loki slips inside silently.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, noting the candle still flickering beside you.

You smile tiredly. “Too much to think about.”

He crosses the room, sitting beside you. There’s something different in his demeanor tonight—tense, alert.

“You should rest,” he says gently. “The days ahead will be… intense.”

You glance at him, your heart aching with the weight of your unspoken feelings. You want to tell him—about the realization on the balcony, about how this no longer feels like an act to you.

But before you can speak, Loki’s expression shifts, his eyes darkening as he glances toward the window.

In an instant, he’s on his feet, his dagger appearing in his hand as though conjured from thin air.

“Stay here,” he orders, his voice low and sharp.

You barely have time to react before he vanishes into the shadows, leaving you breathless, fear curling in your chest.

Something is coming.

And this time, it’s not just your heart that’s at risk.

The tension that had filled the room moments ago lingers like a fog, even as Loki returns from the window, dagger still gripped tightly in his hand. His sharp eyes scan the corners of your chamber one last time, but there’s nothing—no shadowy figure lurking in the darkness, no threat waiting to strike. It had only been a flicker, perhaps a trick of the moonlight or the frantic pounding of both your hearts playing tricks on you.

Still, Loki doesn’t lower his weapon.

“It was nothing,” you whisper, though your voice shakes.

“Perhaps,” he replies, but the edge in his voice remains. “But I won’t take chances with your life.”

Your chest tightens at the words, at the sheer intensity of the way he looks at you, as though the thought of something happening to you is unbearable. You realize then how deeply this act—the lie you both started together—has woven itself into something neither of you can ignore.

“Loki,” you begin, but the words falter on your tongue. There’s so much you want to say, but the lump in your throat threatens to choke you.

He steps closer, lowering the dagger and reaching out, his hand brushing lightly against your cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he repeats, softer this time, but the weight of his promise feels heavier now.

The moment lingers between you, thick with unspoken confessions, but before either of you can cross that fragile line, he pulls back.

“You should rest,” he says, though his voice sounds strained, as if he’s fighting against something inside himself. “We both should.”

And with that, he slips out of the room, leaving you alone with the racing of your heart and the realization that the feelings you’ve buried for so long can’t be hidden much longer.

The following day—the day before the wedding—passes in a blur. The palace buzzes with preparations, the air filled with the scent of fresh flowers and the soft hum of music as musicians rehearse for the grand ceremony. Nobles flit about like jeweled birds, discussing everything from the seating arrangements to the color of the tapestries.

But none of it feels real.

Not to you.

Your mind is elsewhere, trapped in the heavy weight of what you need to say. The feeling that’s been growing inside you—quiet at first, then louder, unstoppable—can’t be ignored any longer. The thought of standing before all of Asgard tomorrow and binding yourself to Loki in a marriage that had begun as a lie is unbearable if he doesn’t know the truth: that it’s no longer pretend for you.

You find him that afternoon in the palace gardens, beneath the towering silverleaf trees where the two of you had so often sought refuge from court life. He stands with his back to you, hands clasped behind him, staring out over the shimmering pools that reflect the afternoon light.

You take a deep breath, summoning every ounce of courage, before stepping forward.

“Loki.”

He turns, the faintest smile touching his lips. “Y/n.”

But his usual mask of mischief and ease falters when he sees the seriousness in your expression.

“I need to talk to you,” you say, your hands twisting nervously in front of you.

His brow furrows, and he gestures for you to sit on the bench beneath the trees. “Of course. Is something wrong?”

You sit, the cool stone beneath you grounding, though your heart still races. “No. Well, yes. I—Loki, I can’t keep pretending.”

His entire body stiffens. “You want to call it off?” he asks, but there’s something vulnerable in his voice, hidden beneath the careful nonchalance.

You shake your head quickly. “No. That’s not—” You exhale, frustrated with yourself. “This started as a lie, yes. A way to avoid being forced into a marriage I didn’t want. But somewhere along the way…” Your throat tightens. “I stopped pretending.”

His eyes widen, the green depths shimmering with something fragile and raw.

“I love you, Loki,” you say, the words finally spilling out, freeing you from the cage they’ve built inside your chest. “I don’t want tomorrow to be a lie. I want it to be real.”

For a moment, there’s only silence. The soft rustle of leaves, the trickle of water, and the loud thundering of your own heartbeat.

And then Loki moves, swiftly, closing the space between you and pulling you into his arms. His hands cradle your face as he searches your eyes, as if trying to determine if you’re telling the truth.

“You love me?” he whispers, his voice filled with disbelief, hope, and something else—something deeper.

You nod, tears pricking your eyes. “I do.”

A smile breaks across his face then, the most genuine one you’ve ever seen. “I’ve loved you for so long,” he confesses, his voice cracking slightly. “Since before all of this. I never thought—”

You don’t let him finish. Instead, you press your lips to his, soft at first, tentative, before he deepens the kiss, pouring all the emotions you’ve both kept hidden into that moment. It’s everything you hoped for and more—electric, grounding, and undeniably real.

When you finally pull back, both of you breathless, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “will be real. I swear it.”

You nod, your heart full in a way it’s never been before. “Tomorrow.”

But happiness, it seems, is always fleeting.

That night, after the palace has quieted, after you’ve retreated to your chambers to rest before the wedding, a darkness lingers—one that neither you nor Loki can sense.

Eirik.

He’s been watching, waiting, hidden in the shadows of the palace where no one dares to look. His fury has only grown, twisted into something vile and dangerous. And now, with the wedding hours away, his plan is set into motion.

You lie in your bed, staring up at the ornate ceiling, unable to sleep. The events of the day replay in your mind—your confession to Loki, his to you—the way your heart had soared with hope for the first time in so long.

But that hope shatters the moment your chamber door creaks open.

You sit up, expecting it to be Loki, but the figure that steps into the moonlight is not him.

It’s Eirik.

Before you can scream, he’s on you, pressing a hand over your mouth, his blade gleaming in the moonlight.

“I warned you,” he hisses, his face twisted with rage. “I told you this wasn’t over.”

You struggle beneath him, panic clawing at your chest, but he’s too strong. His blade plunges forward, piercing your side. A sharp, searing pain rips through you, followed by a coldness that spreads quickly.

The blade is poisoned.

But then—another voice, fierce and filled with rage.

“Get away from her!”

Loki bursts into the room, his magic already crackling around him. A blast of green energy slams into Eirik, sending him flying across the chamber. Loki is on him in an instant, his dagger pressed to Eirik’s throat, but his eyes flick to you, wide with horror.

“Y/n!”

You clutch your side, blood seeping through your fingers, your vision already blurring.

Loki knocks Eirik unconscious with a swift blow, then rushes to you, cradling you gently in his arms.

“No, no, no,” he whispers, his hands trembling as they press against your wound, trying to stop the bleeding. “You’re going to be fine. Do you hear me? You’re going to be fine.”

But the poison is already coursing through your veins. You can feel it—cold and heavy—pulling you under.

“L-Loki…” you whisper, reaching for his face, your fingers barely able to brush against his cheek.

“Stay with me,” he begs, tears slipping down his face. “Please, Y/n. I can’t lose you.”

You try to smile, but it’s weak, your strength fading fast. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he chokes out, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “More than anything.”

Your vision darkens, your body growing heavier. The last thing you see is Loki’s tear-streaked face before the world slips away.

But you don’t die.

Not yet.

Loki lifts you in his arms, his magic flaring wildly as he races through the palace toward the healers, his mind filled with one thought: he will save you.

No matter what it takes.

The palace, once alive with wedding preparations and buzzing excitement, now stands in eerie silence. The vibrant flowers meant to line the temple aisle wilt in the morning sun, untouched. The music that had echoed through the golden halls has fallen quiet, replaced by whispers and hurried footsteps. Word spread quickly—faster than anyone could have expected. By dawn, all of Asgard knows what happened.

You lie motionless on the grand bed in the royal healing chambers, your skin pale against the deep emerald sheets. The faint rise and fall of your chest is the only sign of life, but even that seems fragile, as if it could slip away at any moment. The wound at your side has been cleaned, the poison drawn out as much as possible by the royal healers, but the damage is done. You’re trapped in a deep, unnatural sleep—a coma—your body caught between life and death.

Loki sits by your bedside, his hand tightly wrapped around yours, refusing to let go even for a moment. His knuckles are white, his jaw clenched so hard it aches, but he doesn't care. All that matters is you.

It’s been hours since the attack. Hours since he carried your limp, bloodied body through the palace halls, screaming for help, his voice raw with panic. The healers had done all they could, but the poison had been crafted with dark intent—designed to kill slowly, to make sure the victim suffered. And now, you lie here, untouched by time, your face serene, while the people who love you crumble around you.

Frigga stands in the corner of the room, her hands folded tightly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She’d tried to offer comfort to Loki, but he had brushed her off, his grief too raw, too consuming. Odin had been there too, though he had left after ensuring the healers were doing everything in their power. His anger at Eirik had been palpable—a rare sight, even for Odin.

But it’s your father who breaks the tense stillness. He storms into the healing chamber, his ornate cloak billowing behind him, eyes wild with rage and grief. Seeing you there, pale and still, strips him of all the formality he’s known for. The weight of his noble status means nothing now.

“My daughter…” he chokes, rushing to your side, but stopping just short of the bed as if afraid that touching you will break what fragile life remains.

Loki stands abruptly, his protective instincts flaring. “This happened because of him,” he spits, his voice low and venomous. “Eirik did this.”

Your father’s face hardens, his grief shifting into something darker. “I will see him executed for this.” His voice trembles with fury.

“Good,” Loki snaps. “Because if you don’t, I will.”

Frigga steps forward, placing a gentle hand on Loki’s arm, but even her touch doesn’t soothe the rage coursing through him. His magic swirls just beneath the surface, green tendrils flickering around his fingers.

“We will ensure justice is done,” Frigga says softly, her voice filled with grief but calm. “But right now, Y/n needs us. She needs you.”

Loki swallows hard and looks down at you again. Your hand remains limp in his, your skin far too cold. He sinks back into the chair beside your bed, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

“I should have been faster,” he whispers, guilt lacing every word. “I should have stopped him before he touched you.”

Frigga shakes her head, her voice gentle but firm. “You saved her life, Loki. Without you, she would be gone.”

But her words feel hollow to him. Because you’re still not awake.

In the depths of the palace dungeons, Eirik sits shackled, his once-pristine robes torn and bloodied from his scuffle with Loki. His face is bruised, his lip split, but his expression is one of seething hatred—not regret. He glares at the guards stationed outside his cell, their spears crossed tightly over the iron bars.

He knows what fate awaits him. Attempting to assassinate the future princess—on the eve of her wedding, no less—is a crime punishable by death. There is no path out of this, no clever words or noble connections to save him now.

But that doesn’t stop him from holding onto his bitterness.

“They’ll kill me for her,” he mutters under his breath, his hands tugging at the heavy iron chains around his wrists. “All for that witch and her liar of a prince.”

The guards ignore him, standing stiff and silent, but their disgust is evident in the way their grips tighten on their spears.

Above, the court gathers in the throne room. The news of the attack has stirred Asgard into chaos, and the nobles demand justice. Odin sits on his throne, Gungnir in hand, his face a mask of fury barely held in check. Frigga sits beside him, her usual calm replaced by cold, regal anger. Your father stands at the base of the dais, his voice thundering as he calls for Eirik’s execution.

“This man,” your father spits, “attempted to murder my daughter—the future princess of Asgard. There is no trial needed for such treachery. His fate should already be sealed.”

Murmurs ripple through the assembled nobles. Some nod in agreement, while others exchange uneasy glances. Eirik’s family—once powerful and influential—stand to the side, their faces pale with shame and horror. Their name will be tarnished forever.

Odin raises a hand, silencing the whispers. “There will be justice. But we are not barbarians. Eirik will face trial tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Loki’s voice cuts through the hall like a blade. He storms into the throne room, his cloak billowing behind him, his face twisted in fury. “Y/n lies in a coma. She may never wake, and you speak of trials?”

Frigga stands, reaching for her son, but Loki brushes past her, his eyes locked on Odin. “He deserves nothing but death.”

Odin’s jaw tightens, but his voice remains calm. “We will uphold Asgardian law. Even now.”

But Loki shakes his head. “This isn’t about law. It’s about her. About the woman I love lying on her deathbed while her attacker sits comfortably in the dungeons.”

A hush falls over the court at Loki’s words. Love. There had been whispers, of course—rumors that the engagement was more than a political arrangement—but to hear him say it aloud sends a ripple through the room.

Frigga moves to her son’s side, her hand resting on his arm. “Y/n would not want you to lose yourself to this rage.”

But Loki can’t stop. Not now. “She trusted me to protect her, and I failed.” His voice cracks then, the weight of his guilt finally breaking through. “If she dies…”

“She won’t,” Frigga says gently but firmly. “The healers are doing everything they can.”

But the uncertainty remains. Because no one knows if you will wake.

In the healing chambers, your father sits beside you now, his large hands dwarfed by your delicate ones. He’s silent, tears glistening in his eyes. For all his strength, for all his power as a nobleman, he is just a father now, grieving for his daughter who may be lost to him forever.

“I promised your mother I would keep you safe,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I failed her. I failed you.”

He presses a kiss to your knuckles, his tears falling onto your cold skin.

Loki returns a short while later, his steps heavy as if the weight of the entire realm rests on his shoulders. Seeing your father there, he hesitates at the door, unsure if he’s welcome. But your father lifts his head and meets Loki’s eyes, something raw and real passing between them.

“She loves you,” your father says, his voice hoarse.

Loki swallows hard, his throat tight. “I know.”

“I didn’t want this for her—the court, the power plays, the danger. I wanted her to be happy.” He looks down at you, his voice cracking. “I never thought… this would be the price.”

“I’ll fix this,” Loki says, stepping forward. “I swear to you, I will.”

Your father doesn’t argue. He sees the grief in Loki’s eyes—the guilt—and knows it mirrors his own.

“Then bring her back.”

That night, Loki doesn’t leave your side. He sits by your bed, your hand still wrapped tightly in his, his magic thrumming just beneath the surface. He knows Asgardian law, knows that Eirik will be brought to trial and likely sentenced to death, but it doesn’t bring him peace. Because none of it matters if you don’t wake.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingers trembling. “You promised me tomorrow,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “You said we’d make it real.”

He swallows hard, tears burning his eyes. “So don’t leave me. Please, Y/n.”

For a moment, there’s nothing—just the soft sound of your breathing.

But then… the faintest twitch of your fingers in his hand.

Loki’s heart leaps, his eyes snapping to your face, but your eyelids remain closed.

Still, it’s hope. And it’s enough.

“I’m not letting you go,” he vows, his magic flaring around him, filling the room with soft green light. “No matter what.”

The days following the attack pass in a haze of tension, fear, and fragile hope. The palace remains silent, weighed down by the uncertainty that lingers in the air, but within the healing chambers, where you lay trapped in your poisoned sleep, life begins to stir.

Loki hasn’t left your side since that night. He’s there when the healers come and go, carefully checking your pulse, your breathing, the wound on your side that has started to heal. He sits by your bed, your hand cradled in his, whispering words meant for you alone—confessions, promises, and prayers, though he’d never admit to praying. Sleep comes to him only in short, restless intervals, his head often resting on the edge of your bed, his fingers still intertwined with yours, unwilling to let go even in his exhaustion.

It’s in one of those moments, when he’s dozed off, that it happens.

Your fingers twitch—small, faint, but undeniably real.

Loki jerks awake, his heart pounding as he lifts his head, eyes wide. For a moment, he thinks he imagined it, that his mind has finally broken beneath the weight of waiting. But then, your hand twitches again, this time more deliberately, your fingers curling slightly against his.

“Y/n,” he breathes, his voice trembling as he leans closer. “Y/n, can you hear me?”

Your brow furrows, your eyelashes fluttering against your pale cheeks. It’s as if your body is fighting its way back to him, clawing through the darkness that held you prisoner. Then, slowly, your eyes open, hazy and unfocused at first, but unmistakably alive.

Loki’s breath catches in his throat.

You blink, struggling to focus, your body feeling impossibly heavy. The room is blurry, but the first thing you truly see is him—his tear-streaked face hovering above yours, his eyes filled with so much emotion it makes your heart ache.

“L-Loki?” you whisper, your voice hoarse, barely more than a breath.

A choked laugh escapes him, mingled with a sob he doesn’t have the strength to hold back. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

His hand cups your cheek so gently, as though you might shatter if he touches you too firmly.

You try to speak again, but the effort drains you, your eyes threatening to close.

“Don’t push yourself,” Loki says, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “You’re safe now. You’re going to be okay.”

You feel the warmth of his hand, the tremble in his voice, and despite the pain and weakness coursing through your body, you find a fragile comfort in his presence.

“W-what happened?” you manage.

His jaw tightens, the memory of that night flashing in his mind. “Eirik. He… he tried to kill you.” His voice is bitter, filled with venom, but when his eyes meet yours again, they soften. “But I stopped him. You’re safe now.”

You swallow hard, the fog in your mind slowly clearing as you recall the moment—the cold blade, the burning pain, his voice calling your name as you slipped away.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your fingers weakly squeezing his hand.

His lips curl into the faintest smile. “You scared me, Y/n. I thought I’d lost you.”

“I came back,” you murmur, the corners of your mouth lifting, despite the pain. “For you.”

Tears fill his eyes again, but he lets them fall, not caring who sees. “And I will never let anything happen to you again.”

Your recovery is slow, but each passing day brings more strength. The healers, though amazed you survived the poisoned blade, constantly warn you to rest, but it’s difficult with Loki hovering by your side like a watchful hawk.

He refuses to leave the room for more than a few moments at a time, often bringing books, flowers, or enchanted lights to keep you entertained. You tease him for it, your humor slowly returning, but there’s a comfort in having him so close.

Your father visits daily, often staying silent, simply holding your hand and whispering soft apologies. He blames himself for what happened—for nearly forcing you into a marriage with Eirik, for not protecting you. But you forgive him. In truth, there’s nothing but relief in his eyes now when he sees you alive.

The trial for Eirik had been postponed multiple times, each delay issued by Odin himself. No one had wanted to move forward with it until you were awake, until you were strong enough to face what had nearly destroyed you. And now, weeks later, you finally are.

“I want to be there,” you tell Loki one morning, sitting up in your bed, your strength finally returning enough to hold yourself upright without his assistance.

He frowns deeply, his arms crossed. “Y/n, you’re still recovering. You shouldn’t push yourself.”

“I need to see it through,” you insist, your eyes filled with determination. “I need to see him pay for what he did.”

Loki’s jaw tightens, but he knows he can’t deny you this. “Then I’ll be at your side the entire time.”

“Always,” you say, smiling softly.

“Always.”

The grand hall is filled with nobles and soldiers, all gathered for Eirik’s long-delayed trial. The tension is palpable, whispers flowing like water as you make your entrance, draped in flowing Asgardian silks, your posture regal despite the lingering ache in your side.

Loki is at your side, his hand on your arm, guiding you gently but firmly through the sea of eyes. The crowd parts for you, many bowing their heads in respect—though some, you notice, can’t help but stare. You are a living ghost to them; no one had expected you to survive.

On the dais, Odin sits with Frigga, her eyes soft but fierce as they settle on you. Your father stands near them, his face hardened with the weight of what’s to come.

Eirik is brought forward, shackled and bruised, though his expression holds no remorse. He glares at you, his lips curled in disdain, but Loki steps forward, his presence towering, his magic subtly crackling in the air. One wrong move, and Eirik wouldn’t leave the hall alive.

The trial is swift. The evidence is undeniable—Eirik’s confession to guards, Loki’s eyewitness account, and the poisoned blade recovered from your chambers.

But the moment that stills the hall is when you stand, your body trembling from exertion but your voice clear.

“I stand here today,” you begin, your eyes fixed on Eirik, “alive despite your cowardice. You took from me my safety, my peace, and nearly my life. But you didn’t take my strength.”

Eirik sneers but says nothing.

“I will not let you break me,” you continue, your gaze never wavering. “Nor will I let your hatred poison what I have with Loki.”

Loki steps closer, his hand slipping into yours, anchoring you as Odin rises from his throne.

“Eirik,” Odin’s voice booms, “for your crimes against the crown, against Y/n, and against Asgard itself, you are sentenced to exile from this realm. You will be banished, stripped of your titles, your magic bound, and never permitted to return.”

A mix of gasps and murmurs ripple through the crowd. It’s a merciful punishment—perhaps too merciful—but Odin’s decision is final.

Eirik’s face twists with rage as guards drag him away, but you feel no satisfaction watching him go. Only relief that it’s over.

Weeks later, as the palace slowly returns to its usual rhythm, you and Loki begin to speak of the future. This time, without lies or politics or necessity.

The marriage that had once been a facade is now something else entirely—something real.

Loki brings it up first, in the gardens beneath the silverleaf trees where you had first confessed your feelings.

“We never did have a proper proposal,” he says, his voice soft, his eyes filled with warmth.

You smile, brushing your fingers over his. “No, we didn’t.”

He steps closer, reaching into his pocket to pull out a delicate ring—an emerald stone set in gold, shaped like twisting vines. “Then let me do this properly.”

Your breath catches as he lowers himself to one knee, his expression both nervous and overjoyed.

“Y/n,” he says, “will you marry me? Not because of duty, not because of lies—but because I love you, more than I ever thought I could love anyone?”

Tears fill your eyes, but your voice is steady. “Yes, Loki. A thousand times yes.”

When he slips the ring onto your finger and pulls you into his arms, the world seems to fall away, leaving only the two of you.

This time, the wedding is planned with care—not rushed, not clouded by politics. The palace buzzes again, but this time it feels right. Frigga oversees the arrangements, often pulling you aside to discuss flowers or gowns, her joy clear in every smile. Odin, though still stoic, offers his blessing, and your father—though still protective—gives his approval, seeing the happiness that radiates from you.

The day of the wedding dawns bright and golden, the skies clear, the air sweet with blooming flowers. You stand before Loki in the temple, draped in flowing silks, your heart full in a way you never imagined possible.

Loki looks at you as though you are the only thing in the universe, his smile soft, his hands trembling as he takes yours.

When you speak your vows—real vows, honest and pure—there is no trace of the fear or pain that once loomed over you both. There is only love.

And when he kisses you, sealing your bond, the palace erupts in cheers, and you know��truly know—that this was always meant to be.

[novaursa]

Where Dragons Dare (2/3)

- Summary: After your declaration to marry Alicent in the small council meeting, the day of the wedding finally comes. And so does your first wedding night.

- Pairing: male!targ reader/Alicent Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin brother of Rhaenyra and is bonded with a dragon. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @literaturedog

- A/N: This was requested by @witch-of-letters. Enjoy! ❤️ Battle of the Stepstones is add as a bonus, because I love writing dragon battles. The last part will be posted later tomorrow once it is done.

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: 3

The grand hall of the Red Keep is awash with the glow of thousands of candles. The flames dance across golden tapestries depicting the histories of Old Valyria, but today the storied past pales in comparison to the momentous occasion unfolding before all in attendance. The wedding is one spoken of in whispers and rumors, but now it blooms before the gathered lords and ladies with all the splendor and gravitas worthy of House Targaryen. 

You stand at the altar draped in black and red, the rich silk of your doublet catching the light in subtle ways. The fine Valyrian embroidery at the hems speaks of dragons in flight, each thread imbued with dark crimson that shimmers like fresh blood. A black cloak, edged in deep scarlet, flows from your shoulders, fastened at your throat with a clasp shaped like a coiled dragon. Your hair, the silvery-white of pure Valyrian descent, is tied back, letting your angular features and sharp violet eyes take in every gaze, every emotion displayed openly or hidden away. At your side hangs Blackfyre—your birthright as Prince of Dragonstone—its pommel set with a ruby that gleams like a beating heart.

Before you, Alicent Hightower stands radiant in a gown of deep emerald green. The dress, fitted perfectly to her frame, billows out in layers of silk and fine lace, each shimmering with golden accents as she moves. A delicate crown of silver leaves and pearls rests atop her auburn hair, carefully arranged in elegant curls. Her eyes, a brilliant shade of brown, reflect a mixture of pride, joy, and the quiet steel she’s honed under the pressures of courtly life. There is a softness in her gaze, however, reserved only for you as her eyes meet yours—a silent understanding, a shared relief, and a promise of what is to come.

The Septon's voice rings out, leading the words of the traditional vows. Beside you, Rhaenyra is practically glowing with excitement. Her smile is unrestrained, her eyes darting between you and Alicent with genuine happiness, a sister’s joy at seeing her twin brother embrace his own fate. She wears a gown of pale red, adorned with the colors of House Targaryen and a crown of silver atop her flowing locks, her presence radiating confidence as the heir’s sister and a firm ally to your cause. 

King Viserys is seated in a place of honor, his face full of warmth and pride. His smile is wide as he watches his only son wed the woman who has become a daughter to him over the years. He has the contented look of a father who finally sees his children happy, a rare expression in a court filled with ambition and schemes. He lifts his cup in a subtle toast to you and Alicent, his eyes misting over slightly with emotion.

Daemon Targaryen, your uncle, stands near the rear of the gathered nobles, his silver hair catching the light as he observes the ceremony. His expression is inscrutable, but those who know him well enough can see the slight curve at the edge of his lips, the way his gaze sharpens whenever it falls upon you. For all his unpredictability, there is a flicker of pride there—a satisfaction, perhaps, that you finally asserted yourself against the forces that sought to control you. Daemon has always favored those who carve their own path, and today you have done just that.

As the ceremony draws to a close, you step forward to place a cloak upon Alicent’s shoulders, the symbol of House Targaryen enveloping her as you claim her as your own. The green of House Hightower blends now with the red and black of the dragon, a union that cements alliances but more importantly binds two hearts that have long yearned for this day. When you lean in to kiss her, there is a softness, a tenderness in the way her lips meet yours, and the hall erupts in applause, though the world shrinks to just the two of you in that fleeting moment.

As the applause dies down, Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, watches with a carefully controlled expression. His eyes flicker between you and Alicent, a mixture of satisfaction and unease buried beneath his calm demeanor. Though this is a victory for him in securing his daughter’s position, there’s a tension in his jaw—he had hoped to control this outcome more closely, but you’ve slipped from his grasp, a dragon untamed. He studies you with the gaze of a man who sees both a rival and a dangerous ally.

At the feast, Rhaenyra approaches you first, practically throwing herself into your arms. "You did it, Y/N! I knew you would," she beams, her joy infectious. "Alicent looks so beautiful, and you—you were magnificent. I’ve never seen the council so speechless!" Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "And Uncle Daemon, I think he’s actually proud of you for once."

You chuckle, wrapping an arm around your sister. “He probably is. But I didn’t do this for him or the council. This was always for her.” Your gaze drifts back to Alicent, who’s engaged in conversation with a group of highborn ladies, her laughter soft and genuine.

Viserys claps a hand on your shoulder. "You’ve brought honor to our house, Y/N. I couldn’t be prouder of the man you’ve become. Your mother would be so proud, too." His voice carries a slight tremor as he mentions Queen Aemma, but it is quickly overshadowed by his joy.

You offer him a warm smile. "Thank you, father. I’ll do everything I can to ensure that this union strengthens our house."

Daemon is the next to approach, a goblet in hand and that familiar smirk playing on his lips. "I didn’t think you had it in you, nephew," he says, voice laced with amusement. "I was beginning to think you’d let others chart your course forever. But you’ve surprised us all, haven’t you?"

You meet his gaze squarely, your own smile more restrained but no less confident. "Some paths are worth fighting for, uncle. Even if they’re not what others expect."

Daemon raises his cup in a mock salute. “Spoken like a true Targaryen. Perhaps there’s more fire in you than I thought.”

The feast carries on with music, laughter, and the clinking of cups. You and Alicent share dances with the lords and ladies of the realm, but every now and then, your eyes find each other’s, and the world falls away again, leaving just the two of you in this sea of people.

When you finally manage to steal a private moment with her in a quiet corner of the hall, she takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “I was so afraid,” she admits in a hushed voice, her eyes reflecting the firelight. “Afraid that we’d never be able to reach this moment. But here we are.”

You brush a strand of hair from her face, letting your hand linger against her cheek. “You’re mine now, Alicent. I’ll fight for you, for us, against anyone who tries to tear us apart.”

A flicker of relief passes through her expression, followed by a warmth that softens her usually reserved emotions. “And I’ll stand by you, no matter the storm we face.”

The words hang between you like an unspoken vow—one more binding than anything recited before the Septon. 

The night deepens as the feast continues, a blur of music and the warm glow of candlelight reflecting off the ornate dishes piled with food. Laughter and the sound of clinking goblets fill the Great Hall. You and Alicent sit side by side at the high table, your hands occasionally brushing against each other beneath the table. The touch is small, but each time it happens, there’s a comforting warmth, a silent reassurance between the two of you. Alicent’s soft smile, reserved just for you, never quite fades from her lips.

As you’re enjoying a brief moment of quiet conversation, the sound of footsteps approaches. Gwayne Hightower, Alicent’s brother, strides up, his eyes bright with joy. "Sister! Y/N!" he greets, his voice tinged with the exuberance of youth. His resemblance to Alicent is striking, though his features are more angular, his posture that of a man eager to prove himself. "I couldn’t let the night end without offering my congratulations." He gives you a hearty clap on the shoulder, his grin broad. "It’s about time someone put a spark in this old court! You’ve done well, my friend. I’ve known you since we were boys, and I’ve always believed you’d find your way."

You return his grin, reaching out to clasp his forearm in the familiar gesture of comrades. "Gwayne, your support has never gone unnoticed. I’ve always valued your friendship, even when we got ourselves into trouble as children. But I think this time, we’ve both stepped into something greater than mischief.”

Gwayne chuckles. “You certainly have, Y/N. And Alicent—” He turns to his sister, his tone softening with genuine affection. “I’ve never seen you look happier. I’m glad you’ve found this happiness, even if I’ll be the one who has to keep a closer eye on courtly matters with you from now on.”

Alicent smiles warmly at her brother, her hand gently resting over yours atop the table. “Thank you, Gwayne. Your words mean more to me than you know. And don’t worry, we’ll both make sure to keep you busy in your duties, though perhaps with fewer pranks than when we were children.”

The three of you share a laugh, the ease of old friendships and sibling bonds lightening the mood.

Soon after, the familiar figures of Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys approach. The Sea Snake is every bit the powerful figure one expects, his deep blue doublet adorned with intricate silver embroidery resembling the waves of the sea. Rhaenys is resplendent in crimson and gold, her presence commanding yet warm. There’s a certain wisdom in her gaze as she looks between you and Alicent, as if she sees beyond what most do.

“Prince Y/N, Lady Alicent,” Corlys begins, his voice deep and steady. “Congratulations are in order. The union of Targaryen and Hightower is a strategic move, and one I hope will bring stability to the realm. But more than that, it’s clear to see the bond you share.” His eyes linger on you, a hint of approval in his expression. “And perhaps this is the start of a new chapter where the young find their own path amidst the expectations of the old.”

Princess Rhaenys nods, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “It is good to see love and strength walk hand in hand. The history of our houses has often been marked by conflict, but this—” she gestures subtly between you and Alicent, “—this has the potential to change much. You both carry the future on your shoulders now.”

You bow your head slightly in respect. “Thank you, Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys. Your wisdom is always welcome. I hope to earn that respect in time and prove that this union is more than just a political move.”

Rhaenys’ eyes glint with something sharp and approving. “Oh, I believe you will, Y/N. The blood of Old Valyria runs deep, and you’ve shown you’re willing to chart your own course. I, for one, look forward to seeing what comes next.”

As they step away, Lord Tyland Lannister, clad in rich reds and golds, approaches next. His sharp features and keen eyes give away his nature as a man ever mindful of the shifting tides of power. “Prince Y/N, Lady Alicent, it is a joyous day indeed.” His voice is smooth, practiced, yet there’s an undercurrent of genuine intent behind his words. “House Lannister is ever eager to lend its support to the Targaryen line. May your union be fruitful and prosperous. It seems the dragons have found a way to blend strength with the grace of the Reach.”

You nod, ever cautious with Tyland’s honeyed words. “Thank you, Lord Tyland. Your support will be remembered, and I hope our alliance will benefit all corners of the realm.”

He offers a slight bow before moving off, ever mindful of where the winds blow.

The feast begins to wind down, and as tradition demands, there is the looming expectation of the bedding ceremony. The air in the hall thickens with the anticipation of it. Some lords and ladies begin to gather, murmuring and glancing toward you and Alicent with barely hidden excitement. The tension, the ribald jokes, the whispers—it all threatens to reduce the sanctity of this moment to a spectacle.

Before anyone can make a move to initiate it, you rise to your feet, the air of command in your posture silencing the crowd before the teasing can begin. “There will be no bedding ceremony tonight,” you declare, your voice clear and firm, leaving no room for argument. The hall quiets instantly, the murmur of protests caught in the throats of those who thought to see the night end in such a manner.

Daemon, standing with arms crossed at the edge of the hall, lets out a low chuckle, his approval evident in the sharp nod he gives you. “Let the young prince make his own choices,” he says, his voice carrying across the room. “There’s enough spectacle in these halls without turning the most sacred of nights into another charade.”

The crowd hesitates, unsure whether to push the matter. But when you meet your father’s gaze, Viserys nods slowly, an expression of both surprise and respect on his face. Otto Hightower, who had been watching with tension in his eyes, finally relaxes, a subtle sigh escaping him. His face settles into an expression that resembles something close to approval, a rare look from a man who values tradition and order above all.

Alicent looks at you with deep gratitude and admiration, her fingers squeezing yours as she stands. You turn to her, your expression softening as you offer her your arm. “Shall we retire, my lady?” you ask, your voice laced with tenderness.

She dips her head slightly, eyes shimmering with emotion. “Let’s,” she replies, her voice barely more than a whisper as she takes your arm.

Together, you walk down the long aisle toward the doors leading out of the Great Hall, every eye on you both as you leave. There is a certain weight lifted from your shoulders as the doors close behind you, the noise of the hall fading as you enter the quieter, more intimate corridors of the Keep.

As you walk side by side toward your chambers, the echoes of your footsteps and the distant flicker of torchlight create an almost dreamlike atmosphere. Neither of you speaks, the silence between you comfortable, filled with the knowledge that this is just the beginning. When you reach the doors to your shared chambers, you pause, turning to face her fully. You lift her hand to your lips and press a soft kiss to her knuckles, your eyes never leaving hers.

“No more performances,” you murmur. “This is just us now.”

Alicent’s eyes shine as she steps closer, her other hand rising to rest against your cheek. “I’ve never wanted anything more than to be with you, like this, away from prying eyes.”

With that, you open the door and guide her inside, the world outside forgotten as the heavy oak doors close behind you both, sealing away the courtly intrigue and the expectations of the realm. In this moment, it’s just you and her, bound together by choice, love, and a shared determination to forge your own destiny.

The chamber is bathed in the soft light of the fire, shadows flickering across the stone walls as the door closes behind you both. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable but full with the awareness of what comes next. For all the warmth you share, the affection that’s blossomed over years of quiet moments and unspoken glances, this is new for both of you. The air is tinged with the sweet fragrance of candles, the soft rustle of fabric as you both stand there, suddenly unsure how to proceed.

You turn to face her, meeting Alicent’s gaze. There’s a nervousness in her eyes, a slight quiver in her breath, but beneath it lies trust, and something more—desire, hesitant but real. You step closer, reaching out to take her hands in yours, your thumb brushing over her knuckles in a gentle, soothing motion. “Alicent,” you murmur, your voice softer than usual, tinged with both affection and concern. “Are you sure? If you’re not ready—”

“I am,” she interrupts softly, her voice a tender whisper in the quiet of the room. Her cheeks flush pink, but her eyes never leave yours. “I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

You nod, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Slowly, you lean down, capturing her lips in a kiss, tender and delicate. Her lips are warm against yours, the kiss a gentle exploration rather than a fervent rush. You both linger in the simplicity of it, letting it ease the tension from your bodies. When you pull back, you see her chest rise and fall as she steadies her breath, her eyes searching yours for reassurance.

Your hand moves to the clasp of her dress, fingers hesitating for a moment before you look at her once more. “May I?” you ask softly.

She nods, her voice catching slightly. “Yes… I want you to.”

With careful fingers, you undo the clasp and let the fabric slip from her shoulders, revealing the pale skin beneath. The dress pools at her feet, and she stands before you in just her shift, delicate and vulnerable. Her eyes flicker down, shyly avoiding your gaze as you take her in. In turn, she reaches out, her hands trembling slightly as she begins to unlace your doublet. There’s an unspoken agreement between you—a mutual understanding that this moment is as much about trust as it is about desire. You help her with the laces, guiding her hands until your clothing is cast aside, leaving you both bare in the warm glow of the fire.

For a long moment, you simply stand there, your breaths mingling, your eyes tracing the curves and lines of each other’s bodies. There’s a sense of curiosity mixed with reverence, your gazes shyly meeting before drifting again, both of you learning and memorizing the sight of each other.

“Beautiful,” you whisper, your voice filled with sincerity. Alicent’s breath hitches at the word, her eyes shining as she looks up at you, her lips parting as if to say something, but words fail her. Instead, she just reaches out, fingers brushing over your chest, her touch sending a shiver through you.

You gently take her hand and guide her toward the bed, the furs soft beneath your feet as you lead her down onto the mattress. You lay her down with the utmost care, your eyes never leaving hers, searching for any sign of discomfort. Her lips part as she draws in a shaky breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly, but her gaze is steady, trusting.

You lower yourself beside her, your hand caressing her cheek as you lean in to kiss her again. This time, the kiss is deeper, a gradual melding of lips as you both begin to relax into each other. Your hand trails down, brushing against her collarbone, then lower, until it rests just above her breast. You pause, your eyes flicking to hers for permission, and when she nods slightly, you continue, cupping her breast gently, your thumb brushing over the soft skin. A soft gasp escapes her lips, her back arching slightly as you explore her.

“You’re so beautiful, Alicent,” you murmur against her lips, and she responds with a soft sigh, her hand sliding up your back, pulling you closer.

Your kisses begin to wander, trailing down her jawline, to the tender skin of her neck. You feel her pulse quicken under your lips, her breath growing more uneven as you move lower. When your mouth finds her breast, she gasps, her fingers threading through your hair. You take your time, savoring each reaction, each soft sound she makes as your lips and tongue explore her.

As you move lower, her breath catches, her fingers tightening in your hair when you kiss the curve of her hip. You glance up at her, seeing the mixture of nerves and anticipation in her eyes. She’s never experienced anything like this, and neither have you—not truly. But you remember the lessons Daemon half-teased, half-instructed you on during that one visit to the brothel, showing you the ways of pleasure in a more practical, if unconventional, manner. While you hadn’t partaken that night, you watched, curious, and the knowledge lingers now, guiding your movements.

You press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, and she lets out a soft whimper, her fingers clutching at the furs beneath her. You murmur a line from an old Valyrian poem, the words ancient and filled with meaning, letting the sounds roll off your tongue as your kisses grow more intimate. “Gevives isse tolvie jelevre—beauty in every breath,” you whisper, your breath warm against her skin.

When your mouth finally finds her core, she gasps, her body tensing for a moment before she melts into the sensation, her hips shifting instinctively toward you. Her breath comes in shallow bursts, her hand gripping your shoulder as you apply what you’ve learned, taking your time, listening to the way her body responds. When she lets out a soft moan, her voice trembling with pleasure, you smile against her, murmuring another line from the poem—words of love and devotion that have been passed down through generations.

Slowly, you trail your kisses back up her body, feeling her trembling beneath you. Her hands reach for you, pulling you close, and when your lips find hers again, the kiss is hungry, filled with the taste of her desire and the passion that’s been building between you both.

You position yourself above her, your eyes locked on hers as you ask one last time, “Are you sure, Alicent?”

Her response is a breathless nod, her hand cupping your cheek as she whispers, “I want this. I want you.”

You enter her gently, inch by inch, mindful of her innocence, watching her every expression for any sign of pain. She winces slightly at first, her brow furrowing, but her fingers dig into your back, holding you close as she adjusts. When she finally opens her eyes again, there’s no hesitation, only trust. “Move,” she breathes, her voice barely audible, but full of need.

You start slowly, each movement careful, deliberate, letting her body adjust, her warmth enveloping you. Her breaths come out in soft, quick bursts, her nails dragging lightly across your skin as she holds on to you. The tension in her body gradually gives way to something else, her hips meeting yours in a rhythm that’s both instinctive and hesitant.

As the moments pass, the awkwardness gives way to a deeper connection. The tenderness remains, but passion begins to take root. Alicent’s breath hitches when she wraps her legs around your waist, her hands pulling you closer. You respond to her need, moving with more urgency as she finds her own rhythm, her body moving against yours in a dance that’s both new and timeless.

When she pushes herself up, shifting into your lap, there’s a sudden surge of boldness in her gaze, something wild and free. You guide her movements, your hands steadying her as she takes control, her breathless gasps mingling with your own. The intimacy between you grows not just in the physical connection but in the way you respond to each other’s needs, desires, and unspoken fears. It’s a union forged in trust, love, and the desire to explore the depths of what you share.

Eventually, when the night reaches its quiet peak, you collapse together into the furs, breathless and spent, your limbs entangled as you hold her close. Here, in this moment, there’s only the warmth of her skin against yours, the sound of her steadying breaths, and the knowledge that this is only the beginning of your shared life together.

As sleep slowly claims you both, you press a final kiss to her forehead, murmuring words of love in Valyrian, promising her with every breath that this night is just the start of what you’ll build together.

The sky is a bruised shade of twilight, thick with smoke and ash. The stench of blood, sweat, and salt fills the air as the waves crash against the jagged rocks of the Stepstones. This place is a wasteland—a battlefield stained with the bodies of the dead and dying. For over two years, the Crabfeeder’s men have held these islands, turning them into a butcher’s yard. But today, you intend to end it. Today, the dragons return in fire and fury.

You sit atop Dallax, your black-scaled beast, perched on a ridge overlooking the main encampment of the Triarchy’s forces. His green eyes gleam in the dim light, and his body shifts restlessly beneath you, eager to unleash his wrath. His teeth, hidden within the dark flesh of his jaws, retract only when his rage is stoked—a menace lying in wait. You run a gloved hand along his neck, feeling the raw power coiled within him. “Soon,” you whisper, your voice firm yet laced with anticipation. “We will end this.”

Below, Daemon Targaryen plays his part to perfection. Clad in soot-streaked armor, a white banner clutched in one hand, he approaches the enemy lines. The Crabfeeder’s forces, a mix of hardened sellswords and conscripts, watch from behind their sharpened stakes and crude fortifications, unsure whether this is truly surrender or another of Daemon’s ruses. The Prince of the City moves with a calculated slowness, his steps deliberate, his head lowered just enough to give the impression of defeat. But you know him better. There’s a fire in his eyes—a fury barely contained behind that facade of submission. The plan hinges on this moment, on the Crabfeeder’s arrogance and greed.

From your vantage point, you spot Lord Corlys Velaryon’s forces hidden in the shallows, ready to pounce the moment the trap is sprung. The Sea Snake commands his men with a veteran’s precision, their silence a stark contrast to the braying jeers coming from the Crabfeeder’s ranks.

Daemon finally stops, mere feet from the Crabfeeder’s line, where a grotesque figure emerges from the shadows. Drahar, the Crabfeeder, is a ghastly sight, his face hidden behind a cracked and twisted mask, his skin mottled from disease. He raises a hand, halting the jeers, and for a moment, silence reigns.

Then, chaos erupts.

Daemon’s false surrender is cast aside as he draws Dark Sister in a blur of Valyrian steel, cutting through the nearest soldier in one swift, practiced motion. Blood sprays into the air, catching the dim light as the battlefield roars back to life. The Triarchy’s soldiers charge forward, desperate to claim the prize they believe within reach, but they are rushing headlong into a trap.

It’s your moment.

With a word in Valyrian, you urge Dallax into a dive. His wings unfurl, dark as midnight, blotting out the dying light. The air screams past you as you plummet toward the battlefield, the ground rushing up to meet you. “Dracarys!” you roar, the command slicing through the din of battle.

Dallax responds with a torrent of flame that incinerates everything in its path. The first line of the Crabfeeder’s men is engulfed in a roaring inferno, their screams swallowed by the relentless fire. Armor melts, flesh sizzles, and bone turns to ash in mere moments. You bank sharply, pulling Dallax into another dive, this time focusing on the siege engines positioned along the ridge. The ballistae, meant to keep the dragons at bay, are shattered under the crushing weight of dragonfire and claws. Timber explodes, splinters raining down on the screaming soldiers below as you rip through their defenses with ruthless efficiency.

You catch a glimpse of Daemon, now fully engaged in the melee, his sword a blur of lethal grace as he carves a bloody path through the Triarchy’s forces. He fights with a savage joy, laughing as he dodges and counters, the battlefield his stage. Corlys and his men surge from the shallows, catching the enemy in a brutal pincer. The once-confident soldiers of the Crabfeeder are thrown into disarray, their lines crumbling under the combined might of dragon and steel.

You circle back, eyes locked on Drahar, who attempts to retreat deeper into the labyrinth of stakes and pits his men have constructed. But there’s no escape. You guide Dallax lower, skimming the ground, his claws gouging the earth as you close in on your prey. The Crabfeeder looks up in desperation, his eyes wide behind his mask as he realizes his end is near.

“End him!” Daemon’s voice echoes in your mind like a phantom’s dare, though the words are drowned out by the roar of battle.

Dallax’s jaws snap open, his teeth glinting as they slide out from their hidden sheaths. With a snarl, he lunges, clamping down on Drahar with a sickening crunch. The Crabfeeder’s mask falls away, revealing a twisted visage frozen in terror before his body is torn apart in a spray of blood and gore. Dallax shakes his head, flinging what remains of Drahar’s corpse into the dirt before incinerating it with a final jet of flame.

Around you, the battlefield is a scene of utter carnage. The ground is slick with blood, littered with the hacked remains of soldiers. Men scream, their limbs severed, or burn as they try to flee, only to be cut down by Corlys’s disciplined troops. The cries of the dying are a symphony of suffering, underscored by the relentless roar of flames. Dallax moves among the survivors like a shadow, crushing and burning any who dare to resist.

As the last pockets of resistance are snuffed out, you land amidst the ruins, stepping down from Dallax’s back. You scan the battlefield, taking in the broken fortifications, the piles of charred corpses, and the men who now kneel in surrender. Victory is yours. The Stepstones are won.

Daemon approaches, blood splattered across his armor, a wild grin on his face. “Well done, nephew,” he says, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. “I thought I might have all the fun, but you’ve stolen quite the show.” His eyes gleam with shared triumph, the bond between you strengthened through battle and bloodshed. “The Crabfeeder will feast no more.”

You smirk, wiping sweat and grime from your brow. “Someone had to keep you from getting killed. I couldn’t let you take all the glory.”

He laughs, the sound cutting through the dying echoes of the battle. “You’re learning. Perhaps there’s more of me in you than anyone cares to admit.”

As Daemon moves to rally the remaining men, your thoughts drift, carried away on the winds of victory. The image of Alicent appears in your mind—her gentle smile, the way her hand rests on the curve of her belly, swollen with the child she carries. You think of your son, Aegon, barely more than a year old, his bright eyes so full of curiosity. It is for them that you fight, for the future you intend to build, for the family you have claimed as your own.

The taste of blood and ash lingers on your tongue, but underneath it all is the yearning to return to them, to hold Alicent in your arms and feel the soft weight of your son as he rests against your chest. You think of how you will recount this victory to them—how Aegon will listen in awe, his little hands reaching out as if to grasp the tales of dragons and battles. You smile to yourself, imagining the way Alicent will scold you softly for the bloodshed, though you know she will be proud all the same.

“Soon,” you murmur to yourself, the words almost lost in the wind. “Soon I’ll be home.”

But for now, the battle is done, and the Stepstones are yours. The fires burn low as you gaze out over the broken landscape, your thoughts with your family, even as your dragon’s shadow stretches long over the conquered land, a reminder of the price of victory.

[vhagarys]

Issa Ānogar {My Blood}

pt. 1

targaryen!siblings x reader, brother!aemond x reader, brother!aegon x reader, sister!helaena x reader

summary: drunken words are sober thoughts. you confess your desire for your siblings and come to find such affections are more than reciprocated.

warnings: canon-typical incest, brother x sister, slight voyeurism, eventual smut, groping, horny reader!, sexual harassment, possessive!targ!siblings

MDNI

The queen dowager requested her children along with some of the Hightower’s closest allies to join in a banquet to celebrate their victory over team black.

Rows and rows of the finest meats and cheese, as well as decadent cakes and pastries were prepared. Servants floated around the room with goblets of wine and small delicacies.

Much to their displeasure, Aegon, Aemond, and Helaena arrived and greeted their mother.

Their mother excused herself from the small group of riverlords and kissed each of her children.

“You all are dressed nicely, where may i ask is your sister?” Alicent questioned.

Immediately, they turned to scan the room in search of you, their little sister usually always punctual with such events.

“Perhaps she’s still in her chambers dressing? she did ride on dragonback this morning,” Helaena offered.

Aegon scoffed, “I believe sister had the right idea in not attending such a mundane affair. I’ve no desire to sip wine with these leeches of the crown”.

Alicent gave her son a disapproving look. “Your presence is required at this ‘mundane affair” my king. I’m sure helping yourself to the refreshments won’t prove too burdensome.” With that, she began to venture back into the crowd to greet their guests.

Meanwhile, you had just returned from a visit with some friends of yours.

What started off as a quaint lunch in the garden, soon turned south as the wine began to flow. It was as if your glass would magically refill itself as soon as you emptied it.

Now, you were positively intoxicated. You were escorted back to your chambers, although proved quite the challenge as you made a point to run and hide from the guards.

Everyone in this blessed castle have sticks up their arse, you rolled your eyes.

After arriving to your chambers, your servants immediately approached you. “Princess Y/N, you’re supposed to be at the banquet your mother is hosting,” one of them clicked their tongue disapprovingly.

You turned to her and pulled her into an embrace and pulled away to gaze upon her face.

“You have the most lovely eyes i’ve ever seen,” you lightly squeezed her cheek.

“W-why thank you my lady. now which dress do you wish to wear tonight?” She went to grab a modest green gown. dull, drab, with its neckline reaching up over your collarbones.

“The queen dowager requests you wear this tonight princess, I believe you’ll look positively beautiful.”

Scanning over the dress, you shook your head in disapproval, marching towards your dresser.

“That will just not do. i am a woman grown and should be dressed as such,” your hazy mind drifted, and an idea soon popped into your head.

You always envied the dresses made for your older sister Helaena, crafted to show off her womanly figure and all her newly presented curves.

Stumbling towards the door, you offered no more than a quick, “one moment!” and dashed down the hall to your sisters chambers.

Rummaging through her closet, your eyes met the perfect dress for tonights affairs.

A rich, emerald gown with a plunging neckline, adorned with a thin belt around the waist area made of small golden coins. There were specks of gold on the sleeves and the back of the dress dipped down to your hips.

Clutching the dress in hand, you all but threw the dress in the air toward your servants.

“This will suffice”, you were giddy with the notion you’d finally a how off your womanly figure.

It was tiresome upkeeping the virtuous position of the youngest targaryen daughter. You’d grown tired of people treating you as if you were a fragile doll on the verge of cracking.

As a women of ten and 9, you wished for people to look at you with the desire and lust they did for other ladies of court.

Before your servants had time to properly fix your hair, you ducked under their busying hands and and out the door.

The copious amount of wine buzzed through your veins. Any thoughts of prudishness or doubt drowned with each sip.

With a small nod, the guards at the door opened the doors to the banquet, you could barely hide the satisfied grin etched on your face.

As you made your way into the hall, voices seized and heads swiveled to gaze at the culprit to arrive at such tardy hour.

Your newfound confidence allowed you to meet their gazes and grin at their stunned faces as you walk threw the crowds of lords and ladies.

At the sound of the door opening, your siblings turned to see you waltzing in, a bit clumsily to say the least.

The three of them were fixated on their dear sister, noting the stark contrast in her usual attire. They scanned over your exposed breasts and back, the dress leaving little to their imagination as it clung to every crevice of your body.

Aemond tried his best to remain composed as he watched you make your way around to all the lords in attendance, fluttering your eyelashes and reaching out to greet them.

“Well well, our sister sure knows how to make an entrance.” Aegon admired the way your breasts practically spilled out of your dress. He felt his pants tighten and reached down to adjust himself.

“I believe our sister borrowed one of my gowns this evening,” Helaena chuckled. She couldn’t help but admire you, she always held such a fondness for you that was beyond sisterly affection.

It was quite common for the pair of you to change in front of each other, sometimes even bathe together. She knew her eyes always lingered a bit too long on your bare form.

Sometimes she would fantasize of her mouth between your legs, indulging in the taste of your juicy cunt like a man starved.

The siblings were broken out of their train of thought when your voice broke through the conversations being made.

You climbed up to the top of the steps at the royals table and cleared your throat.

“A toast!” you declared with a shit eating grin. You turned to look at your brother, the king adorning his valyrian steel crown.

You bowed, knowing you gave him the perfect view of your breasts and smirked, “to my brother, king Aegon, for his bravery on the battlefield and for leading us to victory!”

Aegon shamelessly bit his lip and matched your smirk, “Anything for family dōna haedar (sweet sister).

You then turned to Aemond, excited at the prospect of making your older brother blush.

“To my brother Aemond, who fearlessly rode his dragon vhagar and defeated our enemies in the sky!”

You took a sip of your wine as Aemond shifted in his seat and cleared his throat, nodding at you quickly before looking down at his plate.

You then turned and stalked toward your elder sister, confusion evident on her face as you stood in front of her.

You stared into her eyes, “ to my dear sister Helaena, for protecting me from harm whilst the battle raged on. For keeping me company during the day and in the nights when i couldn’t sleep,” Helaena sat impeccably still as you bent down and kissed her on the cheek. A pink hue immediately consuming her face as she stared back at you.

Your mother and Otto exchanged a glance, baffled by your odd behavior.

You nearly tripped as you climbed up to stand on the table and face the crowd. “Let us drain our cups to celebrate our newfound freedom. Kostagon īlva ērinnon maghagon zūgagon isse lī qilōni nykeōragon gōvilagon īlva,” a few drops spilled down you chin as you drained the last of your wine. (May our victory bring fear in those who stand against us).

The crowd applaused and lifted their cups to meet your toast, your mother urging the guards to remove you from such a compromising predicament.

Suddenly, a presence behind scooped you up under your knees, making you yelp in suprise.

“How much have you drunk sister?” Aemond murmured in your ear as he brought you back to the royal table.

Aegon couldn’t contain his laugh at his sisters outburst.

You wound your arms tightly around Aemond’s neck as he attempted to set you down.

Finally, you conceded and plopped into your chair next to your king brother.

“Little sister, you are too far gone,” Aegon tucked a piece of your silver hair behind your ear.

Reveling in the attention, you giggled, “ Whatever do you mean, dear brother. i am just delighted with our families victory!” You proceeded to gulp down the goblet of wine in front of you and pop a lemon cake into your mouth.

“Perhaps you should retire for the night sister, until you’re clear of mind,” Helaena suggested. her hand absentmindedly reached out for yours.

You looked at her for a moment, before a mischievous smile grew on your face.

“Mandia, do you like my gown?” you asked, hoping she knew where you procured it from. (older sister)

Helaena lightly chuckled, “MY gown looks even better on you, you look beautiful.”

You turned to your king brother, “What do you think, lekia? does it look nice on me?” (brother) you had taken the time while speaking to Helaena to slightly pull down the bodice of your dress, leaving your cleavage even more on display.

“Ravishing, I’d be wise to command all the lords here to steer clear of you. Wouldn’t want my dear sister caught up in these men’s affections-” he shamelessly stared down at your breasts and pursed his lips. “could we, hm?”

You could just make out the darkening in your brothers eyes, and when you turned to Aemond you could see him wearing a similar expression.

“Oh brother, you needn’t worry about other suitors”, your eyes twinkled as the wine coursed through your veins.

You slowly leaned over to whisper in his ear, “Because i only want the three of you,” you boldly kissed the outside the kings ear.

Helaena and Aemond were frozen at their sisters revelation. you pouted, “You do not want me? I thought we were meant to have each other, body and soul?”

The words tumbled out of you mouth without a second thought, “It’s family tradition to claim each other, is it not? I’ve preserved my maidenhood just for you issa ānogar” (my blood)

You leaned in once more to daringly grip Aemond’s cock through his riding leathers. “I can feel your desire for me lekia, do you deny it?,” you pouted.

aemond promptly gripped your arm and yanked your hand away.

“Sister, there are prying eyes everywhere,” he hissed as he look at you disapprovingly.

The taste of rejection settled on your tongue. You couldn’t see the turmoil coursing through your siblings, all three so close to admitting their shared desires for you.

You huffed and pushed out your chair. “I suppose, then, i shall have to find a suitable lord to satisfy my needs. I’m sure any man here will delight in claiming my innocence, filling me with their seed. perhaps lord strong-“

Aemond forced you back into your chair and loomed over you, gripping your face just hard enough to silence you.

“Nyke dōrī knew īlva mandia istan mirrī līve,” he chuckled cruelly. (I never knew our baby sister was such a little whore).

His eyes traveled down to your exposed breasts and softly hummed.

Your eyes widened at the filthy words.

Knowing no one else at the table could understand them, Aegon added, “Skorkydoso bē nyke obūljagon ao toliot bisa qurdon se leghagon ao rūsīr issa nūmo, ao raqagon bona?” (how about i bend you over this table and fill you with my seed, would you like that?). Your small clothes began to dampen with arousal.

To onlookers, it simply appeared as your brothers doting on you, as Aegon lightly traced circles on the small of your back.

Helaena’s eyes began to cloud with lust as she saw her brothers words effect on you. You rubbed your legs together at your brothers depraved words.

“Please”, was all you could muster as you looked over at your sister. Here you were, doe eyes begging her siblings to defile, corrupt as they please.

Soon, she leaned over and whispered in your ear, “Gūrogon aōla se jikagon naejot aōha”. (excuse yourself and go to your chambers).

Your mind was hazy with desire for your siblings, fantasizing about this day for years. A part of you knew you would end up with them, as it was Targaryen tradition. The wanton lust you carried for each of them only the cherry on top.

Scanning the room, you spotted your mother and beelined over to her.

“Dear mother, i’m afraid i need to retire to my chambers. I feel i need to lie down” your mother caressed your face.

“Have you fallen ill, dear? Your cheeks are quite flushed.”

You could feel their gaze on you. Stumbling over your words, you chuckled nervously, “I-I think I outdid myself with the refreshments”.

Your mother clicker her tongue critically, “You certainly made a spectacle of yourself tonight. I hope you’ve learned from this.” you nodded.

With a final scan over your form, Alicent bid you good night and kissed your forehead.

Your mind swirled with the possibilities of what they would do to you. You felt slick running down your legs at the unspoken promise in your sisters words. Soon, i will have them.

The door was in your sights as a hand reached out to stop you in your tracks.

“I must say, princess you look absolutely divine this evening,” lord Bronn Lannister brought your hand to his lips and smiled at you.

You could smell the wine on his breath, just as he probably could with you. You took a slight step back and curtsied, “You are most kind, my lord. if you’ll excuse me-”

“And where could such a lovely lady be running off to, the party is far from over,” he yanked you back into his space. He twirled a lock of your hair between his fingers, pressing himself disgustingly close.

“If you are in need of entertaining, I’d be happy to oblige,” his eyes shamelessly raking over your form.

Bile began to rise at your throat. The panic at his bold behavior surged through you, and you tried to pull away to no avail.

“Let me go, you’re hurting me-”

“Quite the gentleman, lord lannister. you’ve certainly outdone yourself tonight. Do you have such little regard for your life that you’d dare touch the princess?” your brother Aemond yanked him back by his collar.

“I-”

A hand from behind slithered up to squeeze his shoulders. “I could have your hand chopped off for laying a hand on my sister. even better, i could have you hanged at this very party,” Aegon whispered behind him, delighting in watching lord lannisters skin crawl.

“Forgive me, my king. I-I meant no offense-“

“It’s not them you should be apologizing too,” your older sister pulled you into her embrace. You buried your face in your neck to calm yourself, overwhelmed with what had just transpired.

“Sister, he frightened me,” you whimpered into her neck, her hand reaching up to stroke at your hair.

Aegon and Aemond fumed at seeing their sister in such distress.

“sir criston!” Aegon roared, “Perhaps Lord Lannister needs a refresher in banquet etiquette. why don’t you escort him down to a cell,” he took one of the lannisters cheeks in his hand and smiled sinisterly. Then, he wound his arm back and struck him with such force his stumbled to the ground.

The crowd stilled as the scene unfolded. Lord lannister was then unceremoniously dragged through the doors and down towards the cells.

Aemond once again took you in his arms and walked out of the banquet hall. As you did earlier that night evening, you tightly wound your arms around his neck for fear of losing him.

The three of you silently walked back to your chambers, Aemond keeping you his arms as he sat you both on the bed.

After a few minutes of silence, you mustered, “K am sorry for my outburst and the events that followed. I admit i have had my share of wine tonight, i just wanted to-“

Aegon took your chin in his hand and stared deeply into your eyes, “Dear sister, you have no reason to apologize. I will have that cunts throat for putting his dirty hands on you.”

The idea of your brother executing lord lannister made a bolt of desire spark through you. Knowing your brother possessed such power and would wield it to protect you made you rub your thighs. Aemond felt every ounce of it.

A yawn soon broke the silence. Aemond began to lay you back on your bed until you softly whined, “Brother i cannot sleep in such a contraption, can you unlace the corset?”

He was surprisingly deft at weaving through the bindings of your dress. Soon, you were left in a small cream colored shift, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Helaena tried not to stare, although proved futile as you reached over to kiss her on the cheek. “Sister, you look very beautiful tonight as well. the gods have blessed me with such a ravishing sister ,” the last bit of wine in you spoke as you pulled the shift over your head, leaving you bare for your siblings.

Aegon shamelessly looked over your body. He saw the way your nipples perked from the breeze, He had to contain his groan.

Moving down past your perfectly sculpted birthing hips, he ogled at his sisters plump, juicy cunt. Oh, how easy it would be to spread your thighs have a taste.

Perhaps he’d indulge in your cunt whilst you slept the wine away. He knew he could bring you to peak on his tongue, even in sleep.

Knowing you were on the brink of sleep, Aemond refrained from lingering on your form too long. Already feeling the effect of seeing your naked body in his riding leathers, he reached for the blanket to cover you.

Your head hit the pillows. and as your mind was pulled closer to the realm of sleep, you muttered, “I do want you, all three of you. issa ānogar.” (my blood)

A subtle glance was exchanged between the three of them before Helaena kissed you sweetly on the forehead. “Sleep well little sister.”

The doors to your chambers closed behind them and Aegon chucked,” How am i to sleep when our sister practically begged for me to spear my cock inside her”.

“Hush,” Aemond hissed, knowing there were likely guards lurking about.

“We will speak of this on the morrow. perhaps it was only the wine talking, she seemed quite out her wits,” Helaena suggested with the slightest tone of disappointment.

“She wants it. She craves it,” Aegon made to walk back into your chambers. Aemond snorted and abruptly stopped him with a shove to the chest.

At the sound of steps drawing closer, the three of them separated to their respective chambers.

The ache between your legs only worsened as the night grew later. You were enraptured in the most depraved of dreams. Imagery of your brothers impaling you on their cocks and filling you to the brim with their seed, all while getting lost in the taste of your sister’s cunt swirled through your mind.

You would soon wake with an inescapable hunger that only they could satiate.

— PART 2

i hope you enjoyed! planning on doing a part two so comment if you’d like to be added to the tag list! ♥︎

- alice 𓆩𓆪

[aprilthearcher]

replaying your laughter

harry potter x slytherin!fem!reader ― Harry has a crush on a Slytherin, which could collapse the entire school, but he doesn't seem to care much.

slightly inspired by 'message in a bottle' by taylor swift. there could be a second part if anyone's interested in it. don't forget to like, or reblog, or leave a comment! those are always appreaciated.

word count: 1.4k

part two (covered in you)

#masterlist!

Harry was sure that half – maybe even more than half – of Gryffindors House would never forgive him for having a crush on a Slytherin. Yet, Harry couldn’t really bring himself to care. The lot of them had called him a liar just last year, and none of them, friends or not, had the right to tell him who was appropriate enough or not to go on a date with. 

It was hard not to miss her when she was one of the few Slytherins in Harry’s year who had never insulted him nor any of his friends. As a half-blood, she didn’t care about ‘blood traitors’ or muggleborns nor was she a member of Malfoy’s gang. Also, the fact that she was best friends with Luna Lovegood made her trustworthy in Harry’s eyes. 

Although they had shared many classes during their years at Hogwarts, Harry didn’t know when he’d started to feel this way towards her. Had it been during their third year, after he’d seen her yell curses at Marcus Flint because he didn’t want girls in the Slytherin Quidditch Team? Had it been during their fourth year, after he saw her in an elegant, deep blue gown at the Yule Ball dancing with a Ravenclaw a year older than them? Had it been during their fifth year, after he’d seen her comfort two first years from Slytherin and Hufflepuff that had spent their afternoon in Umbridge’s office? Had these feelings been there since he’d met her on the train in their first year after she couldn’t find her older sister? 

Has he always been so clueless? 

Now, despite the fact that this recently discovered crush made Harry’s heart almost burst out of his chest any time he’d see her – whether in real life or in his dreams –, it didn’t mean that he would easily hand the victory to Slytherin in the match they were about to play. 

Standing face to face with Urquhart, Slytherin’s new Quidditch Captain, Harry tried to avoid her eyes and how imposing she looked dressed in the deepest hue of emerald green. Still, when Madame Hooch blew the whistle, Harry couldn’t help but raise his head in her direction. Her eyes quickly settled on his, and Harry almost punched himself for being the first one to look away. 

Up in the sky, a hand on his broom keeping him steady, he thought he’d have a moment of peace from her. But, in his defence, flying round the pitch looking for the snitch and making sure that his team was playing well eventually led him to find the force of nature that was her on top of a broom. Watching the speed at which she flew, Harry was somewhat relieved that she had never intended to become a Seeker. Yet, as magnificent as she was with a Quaffle in her hands, Ron’s confidence that there was Liquid Luck running through his system managed to block all of the shots she’d thrown at him. Anyone could tell from the look on her face and her stance on her broom that she wanted to rip off Ron’s head, probably use it to mark a few points as well. Her kindness, Harry realised then, did not make her less of a competitive hothead.

The match finished with the snitch in Harry’s hands, granting yet another win to Gryffindor. A smile on his face, he let his eyes trail over his team, each with a grin on their faces as big as his. He saw Ron lifting both of his arms, celebrating with the scarlet and gold crowd, and Ginny dive-bombing into the podium from where Zacharias Smith had been calling the match. 

Harry looked for her once more, finding her already on the ground with the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch Team. He’d started descending when he saw what seemed to be a fight between her and Urquhart. The Slytherin Quidditch Team had a finger pointed to her chest, which she quickly dismissed with a jab of her hand and a hissed that Harry got to hear as a ‘Don’t fucking touch me’. This infuriated Urquhart more, making him get closer to her face, but with only a stamp of her foot, she sent him flying backwards. 

Madame Hooch’s whistle blew loudly across the pitch, and the crowd finally caught on what was happening. Harry saw them go from celebrating, or sulking in the case of the silver and green sea of people, to whispering excitedly about the tussle. Urquhart was now marching in her direction, though Harry noticed some hesitation on his pace when the determination settled on her face. He had known, not that Harry spent a lot of time observing her, that she was very capable at wandless magic. In Urquhart’s case, he was always ready to start a brawl, yet he never saw through; opting, instead, to play it cool when he realised that he wouldn’t come out triumphant. 

Because of some kind of instinct, Harry drew closer to the Slytherin Quidditch Team, standing a few paces behind her. Zabini observed him, his eyes were narrowed and his arms were crossed; it was clear he wasn’t there to stop his teammates from fighting each other. Suddenly, Snape stood between Urquhart and (Y/N). His face was rougher than usual and with only a few words he sent the Slytherin Captain back to the castle. Then, Snape turned to them, raising his eyebrows at the sight of Harry.

“Potter, shouldn’t you be celebrating?” Said Snape. The mere mention of the word ‘celebrating’ added a layer of disgust to his face. “Or is it that you cannot bear that the attention is not on you?”

Before answering, he looked at her. She had glanced back at him at the mention of his name, clearly surprised that he was here. Their eyes met for a brief second, one in which Harry noted the colour of his eyes was similar to that of her robes. 

“I was only making sure that none of the players of your house got hurt. Seeing as Malfoy wasn’t here to play today, to get yet another replacement would surely affect the team.”

“How… heroic. Always ready to save the day, Potter.” Harry smiled sarcastically at Snape’s comment. “Miss, I expect to see you at my office tomorrow morning. We will discuss your detention.”

“Detention? Urquhart was the one to start the fight. He was the one yelling at me and getting all over my face.” Harry was certain that weren’t for the fact that Snape was a professor and the Head of her House, he would have suffered the same fate as Urquhart, thrown back across the pitch. He stopped himself from laughing at the mental picture of that. 

“It’s not up to discussion, but if you keep complaining you will do a month of detention rather than two weeks.” With her silence and the matter already settled, Snape started walking towards the castle, Zabini and the rest followed him.

Now that the two of them were alone, Harry didn’t know what to say. The bleachers were emptying, some members of his team had already left the pitch. 

“Um, thanks for that, I guess,” she mumbled. It seemed she didn’t know what to say either. 

“Uh, yeah, no problem.”

There was another moment of silence where both of them avoided each other’s gaze, looking at their shoes or the brown gloves on their hands.

“What did- What did Urquhart say to you?” Harry asked. He was curious, but he also wanted to keep talking to her. 

“He basically blamed the loss on me, saying I wasn’t fast enough or my aim was off, which could be true, but it’s not as if the rest of the team got the same. He said it to me because I’m the only girl, so…”

“So he’s a prick and no better than Flint.”

She laughed at that, softly and probably reminiscing that time she cursed him for not wanting to put her on the team. Harry swore that if he could hear that laugh play in the back of his mind forever, he wouldn’t need anything else. It would be her laugh that’d spurred him on. He thought about running to Dumbledore’s office and using the pensieve to replay this moment over and over again.

“Yeah, at least Montague would yell at all of us.” She mentioned while beginning to play with the strap on her gloves. “Anyways, I think it’s time for me to get back, and you have a win to celebrate.”

“Yeah, yeah, I do. But, um, you played well today. You’re a great Chaser.”

She whispered a small ‘thanks’, biting her lower lip in an attempt to contain the grin that was about to erupt in her face. 

thank you for reading!

[kairawrites]

off track.

minors dni 18+, thanks!

🌺masterlist🌺

pairing: lewis hamilton x black!reader

author's note: careful kaira, your Lew fantasies are showing. this is not edited, didn't need to chicken out of sharing it.

Summary: Keeping your relationship a secret is tough when Lewis can’t keep his eyes or hands off you.

Words: 2254

On track, Lewis Hamilton is fast, calm, and laser-focused, with an instinct for precision that makes every lap feel effortless. His driving is a masterclass in control, blending speed with a strategic mind that sees opportunities where others see limits. As the adrenaline surges, it sharpens his senses, fueling a relentless drive to push boundaries and seek perfection, making him not just a competitor but a force of nature on the asphalt.

Off track, he's slow and relaxed, with movements that are unhurried and deliberate. He savors each moment, finding joy in the simple pleasures and beauty around him. His demeanor is calm, almost meditative, as he takes the time to appreciate the world outside of racing. When he speaks, his words are thoughtful and measured, often turned to praising others and acknowledging their efforts. His humility shines through, as he effortlessly uplifts those around him, offering encouragement and gratitude with a sincerity that reflects his deep respect for people and life.

These habits carried into the evening, which had stretched far longer than he preferred. The event was a glittering affair, filled with familiar faces and the kind of small talk that came with the territory. It was an opportunity to converse with celebrities from different industries, and networking—a skill he had honed over the years—was second nature to him. He moved effortlessly from one conversation to the next, seamlessly blending charm and intellect. The number of introductions, handshakes, and posed smiles under the barrage of camera flashes blurred together, each interaction a practiced routine.

Yet, despite the buzz and the endless flow of champagne, his attention was elsewhere. His thoughts kept wandering back to you, the one person who stood out in the sea of glittering gowns and tailored suits. Every so often, his eyes would seek you out across the room, lingering on you as you moved through the crowd. He found himself captivated by the way you smiled, the way you laughed at some offhand remark, and the way you carried yourself with effortless grace.

The conversations around him faded into the background as Lewis watched you, his focus narrowing until you were the only person in the room who mattered. Each lingering glance he sent your way was filled with unspoken thoughts, a silent pull that neither of you could ignore. Even as he navigated the demands of the evening, you remained at the forefront of his mind, an irresistible presence that drew him in, no matter how much he tried to stay engaged with everyone else.

A month--that's how long it's been since he's last seen you. Work obligations, on both ends, proving to be an obstacle. It wasn't ideal for your reunion to be at such a public place.

The stunning emerald, green gown that flowed like liquid silk, the color a striking contrast against your deep brown skin, making you look like a jewel amidst the crowd. The gown featured a plunging neckline and a thigh-high slit, adding a hint of allure while maintaining an air of sophistication. The rich green fabric caught the light with every step you took, highlighting the gown’s luxurious texture and making you the center of attention. You stood out so brilliantly that you attracted the gaze of every man in the room.

Most men would scowl at the idea of other men admiring their girlfriend, but their attention didn’t spark jealousy in Lewis. Instead, he admired each detail of your ensemble, knowing that every element was tailored to suit his taste. His eyes were drawn to the plunging neckline of your gown, where a delicate necklace nestled against your skin. The necklace, a gift from him, was a masterpiece of craftsmanship: a simple yet elegant silver chain adorned with a single, brilliant diamond pendant. It shimmered subtly, catching the light with every movement you made. Lewis couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of pride, seeing how the necklace complemented your beauty and how, despite the undercover nature of your relationship, every detail was a reflection of his admiration and love for you.

Tonight, his hello came in the form of his touch, his fingers brushing against yours with a gentle, intimate caress as he removed the empty champagne flute from your hand. You felt a shiver of warmth at his touch, a familiar sensation that sent a flutter through you. He replaced the flute with a glass of wine, his right hand settling possessively on your hip for the briefest of moments. His touch reassuring, grounding, as his thumb dragged along the fabric of your gown resting against the small of your back.

“Stunning as always, Ms. Y/L/N,” he notes, his touch tracing the curve of your hip. Lewis leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your ear as he adds, “I was hoping we can find a more private place to talk later.”

You sipped your wine, the cool liquid a sharp contrast to the heat of his touch. With a cheeky smile, you responded, “You expect the man of the hour to disappear unnoticed?”

He nodded towards the bartender, signaling for a refill of his whiskey. As he turned back to you, his eyes held a playful glint. “You’d be surprised what I can do, love,” he said with a grin, his touch leaving a sudden chill as he withdrew his hand. His gaze swept the room, taking in the crowd with a calculated look, as if considering the best way to make his escape without drawing too much attention.

Accepting his glass, Lewis took a leisurely sip, savoring the rich taste of his whiskey. His gaze returned to you, and he shamelessly took in every detail of your appearance. His eyes roamed over the elegant curve of your neckline, the way the gown accentuated your figure, the length of your thigh, down to your ankle. Retracing each feature, the corner of his mouth turning up as his gaze traced the curve of your lips.

Despite the warmth and familiarity of his gaze, you felt a twinge of nervousness. Each time his eyes meet yours, they seemed to pierce through the layers of confidence you typically exude. The intensity of his admiration, though flattering, made your heart race slightly. His gaze lingered with an intensity that was both flattering and unnerving, causing a delicate warmth to creep across your cheeks. The heat spreading from your head to your toes, causing you to find relief in the wine you held. Despite your surroundings, and the respectable distance between your bodies, you could feel the weight of his attention, the way it made you acutely aware of every movement and every expression, as if Lewis could read your thoughts with just a look. It was something you haven't gotten used to and probably never will.

The way his eyes had a way of making you feel like the center of his universe, which was both exhilarating and a little unsettling.

You cleared your throat, shifting your gaze to his emptying glass. “Congratulations on your Grand Prix, Lewis. Looking to unwind tonight?”

“In more ways than one,” he replied with a grin, his eyes twinkling with humor. “Don’t worry, I’m not behind the wheel tonight.”

You giggled, your eyes meeting his with a playful challenge. “Looks like you’re trying to get into trouble.”

His smile widened, and he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Promise, I’ll save the best kind for you.” He winked, a hint of mischief dancing in his gaze. As he turned back to signal the bartender for his refill, his hand lingered on your hip, creating a warm, comforting pressure. Once his drink arrived, he met your gaze. "As always, the pleasure is mine, Ms. Y/L/N," he smiled before returning to his guests.

And believe me, it was.

Tonight, his eyes admired the chestnut lipstick, noting the contrast of its rich hue against the soft, full curve of your lips. His gaze drawn to the way your teeth gently dug into the tender flesh, a gesture of both contemplation and restraint. His thumb traced the curve of your bottom lip, the touch light yet insistent, encouraged you to release the bite and reveal the full, seductive shade of your lipstick. You had spent time perfecting your makeup, after all, and he intended to appreciate every detail.

Tonight, he spoke praise into the warmth of your ear, his voice softening as his lips and tongue traced the delicate curve of your neck. His gruff tone melted into a whisper, and he pressed gentle kisses to your pulse, each touch sent shivers down your spine. The contrast of his rugged voice with the tenderness of his actions creates a captivating intimacy, as if he’s recommitting and savoring each inch of you to memory.

Tonight, his calloused hands traced the curves of your hips, admiring the gentle dips and contours as he gripped and kneaded the soft flesh beneath the fabric of your dress. His fingertips dragged and lingered, moving slowly towards your thighs, igniting a thrilling heat with each deliberate touch. His senses were flooded with your scent, a heady mix of perfume and warmth that fueled him with a high he could only ever capture on the track. The intensity of the moment, the closeness of your bodies, and the undeniable chemistry between you all combine to create a rush unlike any other, driving him to lose himself in the sensation.

It was the feeling of pleasure he felt with you, that was unmatched by any woman before, which fueled the movements of his fingers as they slipped between your legs. The strokes of his thumbs meticulously hitched your breath, fluttering your eyes closed. The heat of his mouth, sucked against your chest, your neck, the weight of his body pressed you against the chilled bathroom door. The pressure he built weakened your knees, your fingers clinging to his shoulders as you struggled to breathe.

"Lew…"

His brow arched, his teeth catching the overhead vanity light in a brief flash of white. "Hmm?"

Your lips parted, but your voice was caged beneath the shaky breath his touch pulled out of you. The tremor in your chest revealing the effect he had on you, making it difficult to form coherent words. His touch, both electrifying and tender, left you breathless and yearning for more.

You should've tried harder, fought against the voice in your head screaming for you to push him for more. More than just kisses and the warmth of his fingers. The voice urged you to regain control of your limbs, unbuckle his pants, and feel the part of him you'd missed the most--but you couldn't.

All you could think of is how much you've missed this—how every touch, every whisper felt like it had been too long in coming.

"It's been too long," he murmured, completing your thought as if reading your mind. His left hand rested on the base of your throat, the metal of his rings cool against your overheated flesh. His thumb pressed gently against your chin, tilting your face upwards, compelling you to meet his gaze. His touch was both commanding and reassuring, reminding you of the depth of your connection and the longing that has only grown in the time apart. "You missed me?"

Your response fell short of what he wants. The soft nod of your head, before it lulled back to rest against the door was not what he wants. He wanted to hear the tremble in your voice, the shift in octaves, that replayed on a loop in his mind when he tried to recreate the warmth of your touch in his bed alone. He wanted to see the clouded mixture of lust and pleading in your eyes as your hooded gaze holds his, but your eyes are gripped shut denying him what he wanted.

Instead, you responded by gripping his wrist, keeping him in place as he attempted to slow his pace. Your hips rolled desperately, attempting to matching the circles he drew against your skin. 

His chuckle washed over you. His lips warm against the corner of your mouth. Despite your attempt of control, he easily regained it. His touch drifting from your clit, dragging painstakingly slow along the outside of your folds.

"Seems you've forgotten a few things. Hm?"

His touch is meticulous, never brushing against the spot you need, leaving you yearning for more. He kissed your lips slowly, the tenderness of the gesture both soothing and electrifying. Sucking against your bottom lip, he repeated the action as your hips instinctively jerked seeking the high slowly threatening to slip away.

With a soft, commanding tone, he told you, “Lemme see those pretty eyes.”

As you obey and lift your hooded lids, his smile widened with a mix of satisfaction and adoration. It’s a smile that starts in his eyes, which crinkled slightly at the corners, and spread to his lips, revealing a hint of his teeth. The smile is warm and genuine, a reflection of the affection and pride he feels as he takes in the sight of you. The pride he feels in knowing that no other man had the same effect on you. There’s a touch of playfulness in his expression, as his tongue passed over his lips.

“Attagirl,” he murmurs softly, his touch returning to your clit.

The content giggle that escaped your lips, melted into a breathless moan coaxing his finger between your slick folds. It was a sound he'd chase until the end of time. Once it was unlocked, he knew soon the sound of his name on your lips would follow.

"...that's what I've missed," Lewis hummed.

[heyjudeb]

It Couple - Jude Bellingham

Summary: Jude and Y/N share a cute and affectionate moment on the red carpet Word Count: >1k Warnings: fluff, romantic moment The red carpet was a dazzling cascade of lights as celebrities and influencers made their grand entrances. Among them, Jude Bellingham and Y/N Y/L/N, the stunning Victoria's Secret model, stood out like a royal couple. Jude, dressed in a tailored black tuxedo that accentuated his athletic frame, exuded an aura of confidence and charm. Y/N, radiant in a custom-made Versace gown that hugged her curves perfectly, looked every bit the goddess she was often portrayed as on the runway. The gown, a deep emerald green, brought out the striking color of her eyes and contrasted beautifully with her cascading waves of chestnut hair. "You look stunning, baby." Jude said in her ear while keeping his hand on her waist constantly, tugging on it from time to time. "You're my best accessory, that's for sure." Y/N said giving him a kiss on the cheek. As they posed for photos, Jude kept his arm firmly around Y/N’s waist, pulling her closer every now and then. Each time their eyes met, their smiles grew, the connection between them clear to everyone watching. Jude’s subtle tugs at her waist were more than just for the cameras; they were a silent reassurance, a display of his affection. They moved down the carpet, Jude spotting a familiar face in the crowd. “Hey, mate!” he called out, giving his friend a quick hug and handshake.

Y/N continued down the carpet, her graceful walk turning heads. An interviewer approached her with a microphone. “Y/N, you look amazing tonight. Who are you wearing?”

“Thank you so much,” Y/N replied, her smile radiant. “I’m wearing Versace. They did an incredible job with this gown.” The interviewer nodded. “And how’s the event going for you so far?”

“It’s been fantastic. It’s great to see so many talented people here,” Y/N said, her eyes sparkling." So, I'm enjoying it very much?" "Where is your mister, Y/N?" the interviewer asked Y/N, smiling. Just then, Y/N felt a pair of arms wrap around her waist from behind. Jude gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, causing her to blush. Jude has no problem showing affection in front of the cameras, which is the opposite of Y/N. She's more reserved and shy, that's why Jude likes to put her in the spot and finds it very cute. "There he is" Y/N said resting her hands on his arms. “Ah, here’s Jude!” the interviewer exclaimed, turning her attention to him. “You two make such a beautiful couple. Can you tell us a bit about your relationship?”

Jude grinned and pulled away from Y/N, holding her hand. “Well, I have to say, it’s been a challenge. You know, trying to keep up with a supermodel,” he said, winking at Y/N. “But seriously, she’s amazing. I think we just balance each other out.” Y/N nodded at his words, looking in his eyes, admiring him. The interviewer smiled, then hesitated for a moment before asking, "There have been some rumors recently about you two possibly taking a break. Can you address those?"

Y/N's expression dropped slightly. She saw those rumors going around on social media and the comments of him being better off without her still affect her. But before she could respond, Jude squeezed her hand reassuringly and stepped in. “Oh, those rumors,” he said lightly, a charming smile on his face. “We hear them too, and we just laugh. I'm not going to let this beauty slip away from me that easily, so rest assured, everyone!” Y/N felt so happy and at ease once she heard these words coming from him. Obviously, she was sure about his feelings for her, but hearing him say those things openly with no regrets made her feel even more special.

"That's great to hear! May I ask shortly, how did you meet? I don't think you've shared that story in an interview before." The interview asked again, eager to get as much from them as possible. "Well, I don't think we shared, did we?" Y/N turned to Jude to ask him. "Nah, I don't think so," Jude replied, smiling. "We met at a charity event a couple of years ago. I saw her across the room and knew I had to talk to her. Best decision I ever made."

Y/N laughed softly, her eyes glowing with affection. "He was so nervous. It was adorable."

The interviewer beamed. “That’s a lovely story. What do you enjoy most about your relationship?”

Jude looked thoughtful. “I think it’s the way we support each other. We both have busy careers, but we always make time for each other.” Y/N nodded. “We also love having fun together. He makes me laugh every day.” The interviewer smiled warmly. “You two are truly inspiring. Thank you for sharing. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

As they walked away, Jude leaned down and whispered in Y/N’s ear, “You’re amazing, you know that?”

Y/N blushed, her cheeks warming. “And you’re my favorite person,” she whispered back, her eyes full of love. They finally reached the end of the carpet, where a sleek black car waited to take them to the after-party. Inside, the atmosphere was cozy and private. Jude held Y/N’s hand, his thumb gently stroking her knuckles. “I’m so glad you’re here with me tonight,” he said sincerely.

Y/N leaned her head on his shoulder, feeling a deep sense of contentment. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” she replied softly.