#i really do need more winter palace threads

[hoboblaidd]

Winter Palace Solas is truly top five Solases. That's the Dread Wolf in the corner wearing the ugliest fucking hat in the world, holding a glass of wine that never runs dry, downing frilly Orlesian cakes and ham that "tastes of despair", people watching everyone, waltzing through an assassination plot drunk off his ass, and getting ready to dance with his partner. What an icon.

[orlesianhennin]

I really feel like so many people who hate Vivienne for being power hungry do not fully grasp and appreciate the desperation that Vivienne feels because she conceals it so well… as little content as she got, she honestly is expertly written and presented and it’s why it disappoints me so much when people hate her for surface level reasons… her writer deserves so much more appreciation.

I think it is subtle because she hides it and you really have to care about the character to seek out these threads and understand her motivations… she is in danger of total irrelevance, being cast aside by society (and history), and she is forced to ride the coattails of some upstart organization because all of the institutions she is invested in have either totally failed her or cast her aside.

She is clearly a prideful person who does not readily admit this… but her true talent is how clearly she can evaluate this and understand her own position. She suffers no delusions. She knows the Circle’s standing in society is diminished to nothing if it doesn’t house and account for the majority of mages, and she is left with just meek Chantry loyalists and sycophants who are lost without her guiding hand, as even otherwise pro-Circle mages with any sense have abandoned ship and left both rebels and loyalists at this point to see where the chips fall (Ellandra) - and the Chantry itself has been all but decimated in terms of military and political power. The one lifeline she has is the Imperial Court, and the fickle nobility have moved on from her - the mages are now a threat that she cannot control or offer any meaningful opposition to, and Celene’s favor has turned to Morrigan, and Vivienne does not know if she will ever have it again. She knows Bastien is dying, and that all that she has left at court will be those who hold kind feelings towards her such as his family, and that is a position she can never accept - being at the mercy of others.

We meet Vivienne, this impressive, powerful mage, who has made a life for herself by maneuvering brilliantly, all to improve her own standing, at a point where she is in danger of losing everything she has. And she doesn’t let on, at least not explicitly, but she joins the Inquisition out of desperation - it’s obvious she sees it as an opportunity, but the gravity of the situation for her isn’t clear from the start. She refuses to lay down and fade away. Vivienne would never had joined this fledgling upstart organization if she was in a better position at Court or there wasn’t a vacuum of power. She is very close to having nothing left, and starting over - and so she does. Before the rug can be pulled from under her, she gets out and sets off for herself again.

Vivienne, often accused of pride, privilege, and self importance, comes to the Inquisitor out of pure humility. She knows she is reduced. And her gamble ultimately pays off, and the Inquisition becomes the political juggernaut that it does, and she becomes more powerful and important than ever just by association. And I like to think, especially with an Inquisitor who respects and befriends her, that she plays no small part in shaping the organization.

I think this is also why, potentially, she plays it so cool at the Winter Palace. She doesn’t get involved… she doesn’t need to. Simply being present is a statement to the court, and she truly doesn’t care about who wins; it’s not just the Game, it’s personal, despite what she claims. That they cast her aside, and now they are interested again… not necessarily in her, but still, she sees the paradigm shifting again. She is now a part of the organization who gets to change Orlais, and favor with the Inquisition is quickly becoming just as important as favor with Celene.

The whole arc is a subtle one as she really doesn’t get much attention, but if you pay close attention, it shows how expertly Vivienne plays politics. We already know she came from nothing and maneuvered into a powerful position. But I think not everyone realizes she is nearly back to nothing when we first meet her… and through the course of the game’s events, by allying with the right people, she plays the game well enough to become an advisor to the most influential person in southern Thedas… and potentially even Divine. But her initial plea to the Inquisitor, for all the great lengths she goes to keep up the appearance of strength and invulnerability, comes from a place of utter desperation.

[idyllcy]

a pathological people pleaser

word count: 4.4k

warnings: smut || pt 2 to and i wouldn't marry me either

summary: Jinshi's getting desperate to bed you.

夏

Jinshi contemplates what kind of a ring to get you. He really does. He looks through the designs that had been initially made for your marriage, but he finds inspiration in none of them. You would suit a ring that's crafted with only the finest of materials, not a ring that was just bought from the streets. Though, you had been going out with Maomao more often with some guards to have fun and buy food. At some point, the palace chefs are going to need to learn how to make a roujiamo that tastes like the ones on the street and not the fancy food that you had grown used to having.

He calls Maomao and Gaoshun for help picking a ring, but ultimately neither of them come up with something that would suit you. (He even asks his mother, but she is no help either.)

So, he rots in the confinement of your shared office, head spinning as he sketches more and more ring designs. The one of the current empress is nice, but it is not something of your style. The one that his mother had received was pretty as well, but not something that he desired to put on you. Perhaps a simple jade ring of your size would do better, but it seemed too plain compared to the kind of treatment he was supposed to give you. A simple jade ring would be fitting for him, but not necessarily for you. He would give you gold, but he wasn't quite sure what kind of a ring design would fit you.

He's gonna age from this, he swears.

Yet, he continues sketching at it between his paperwork, frowning at how big of a demand there are for eunuchs. The lower ranking concubines were still desperate, he finds. Perhaps especially with the announcement of his marriage... not announcement. He was married, but with the revealing of his marriage, it seems some concubines are getting desperate for some sexual release. Jinshi... really is no better than they are. He finds that he can't sit still around you these days.

He's... desperate. Yeah. Desperate is the right word.

"Rotting in here again?"

"You know, I'm starting to think you're actually Diu from your actions." Jinshi grumbles from his desk, shoving the paper with the ring designs to the side, catching your eye.

"To be fair, I am him, and he is me." You pick up the paper, tilting your head at the ring designs. "Designing rings for me? How sweet of you. Why not just use one from the treasury?"

"You deserve a new one." He groans. "I wanted to design one for you."

"Why not just gold?" You hum. "And then thread a pearl and jade orb through them."

"A jade ring would be nice." Jinshi hums, staring up at the pin in your hair. "To match your pin."

"Whatever you design." You hum. "I'm sure I will be satisfied."

"It has to be perfect." He mopes. "Or else I will not forgive myself."

"That's rather harsh on yourself." You hum, reaching for his brush as you sketch a design. "I liked the ring presented to the empress."

"The blue gem?"

You tap your chin. "Though, the gold isn't my favorite combination." You finish your sketch, noting down the color scheme, and Jinshi blinks at the choice.

"You just want a plain jade ring?"

"For the wedding ring." You blink. "The westerners are quite intriguing with the tales they tell. The women there boast many rings."

"You went to the west?"

You shrug. "A season is plenty of time to explore."

"She went to a port city." Maomao speaks up from the door. "Gaoshun is asking for the report."

"I sent it to him already?" You raise a brow.

"The one regarding the ceremony in the winter."

"Ah." Jinshi's fingers slide down the stack, pulling out a booklet between all of it. "Here."

Maomao nods, pausing as she catches wind of the ring design. "How about a ring with the royal family's seal?"

"I'm not becoming crown prince." Jinshi grimaces.

"I am sure the emperor would allow it regardless."

"I don't want a ring like that." You pause. "though, it would be quite a statement to wear it on the pinky."

"You want a divorce?!" Jinshi cries, heartbroken as Maomao leaves the room with the report.

"No." You shrug. "I might if you keep putting off the concubines' requests."

Jinshi jumps in his skin as he goes back to the papers, and you glance at the ring you've drawn.

"Carve a jade ring with a phoenix for our wedding ring. I do not desire gold." You hum. "And you are to have a dragon on yours."

Jinshi looks up at you, eyes gentle as he drinks in your figure under the setting sun, summer wind rustling the leaves outside, heat not too much to handle either. There is something delicate and breathless about you to him. You are worth so much, yet he had to spend such little time compared to the age of the universe to prove that you are his only one. Time is suck a fickle thing when it came to the clouds and sky. He supposes that's more a reason to treat you well and make up for time lost.

"Is that all you want?"

"What else would I want?"

"How about a jade pendant?"

"With the royal family's seal carved into it?"

Jinshi laughs. "Why not my last name?"

"Sure, pretty prince."

Jinshi flushes.

秋

You have tea with Ah-Duo a lot during fall. The weather cools bit by bit, and you sit in your yard, peeling the sugarcane as she looks through the files, humming at your writing, each stroke nice and clean. She puts the papers down, a maid rushing over to take them to your study, and she glances at the sickle and cane in your hand. It seems you have found new talents outside of the palace walls. It fills her with a sense of warmth, almost.

"How do you feel about the new eunuchs?" She hums.

"Some of them are rather attractive." You hum, not paying much mind as you cut off a piece for the lady.

"Is that so? Yue would have a heart attack if he heard you say that." She takes the piece, popping it in her mouth as she chews, humming. "It's sweet. I like it."

"That's good." You laugh. "I had the chefs just hand me whichever one." You continue to hack at the crop with the sickle. "Jinshi would be fine."

"I doubt it." She hums, spitting out the dry cane into the bowl prepared beforehand by the maids. "He is rather protective when it comes to things he desires... you included."

"It is only recently that he has become protective over me." You hum, putting a piece into your own mouth as you chew. She was right. It is sweet. "Which is also why he refuses to become the imperial prince."

"You would make a great empress."

"I would." You chuckle. "I have been raise for the role, after all."

"Though, this is better." She smiles. "You are happier like this."

"Oh, well as empress, I suppose I would not do too much. Jinshi, though? That poor man."

"He would have quite the work set out for him." She hums. "Though, you would be there to support him."

"I suppose." You hum. "It would be better had you been ascended to the position of empress."

"What is done is done." She hums. "I find it more amusing that your talk with the emperor of letting me visit worked."

You snort. "I saw the chance and took it. It would be a shame to not host you at least once in a house that is now warm."

"I suppose so." She smiles. "Does it not hurt to cut the sugarcane yourself?"

"It does not." You hum. "My hands are stained with sugar, and I work up a good sweat. I find it fun."

"Fun?"

You snap the plant in half, handing the peeled half to Ah-Duo as you continue with the unpeeled half.

She bites it, humming. "It is good. Is there a reason to cut it? I no longer remember."

"It's so you can get the most of it." You offer her one of the knives on the table. "Be careful not to cut yourself."

"I will." She nods. "Have you learned anything else?"

"A foreigner showed me how to peel a pomegranate." You pause. "Oh, and I have developed a strange talent for peeling oranges. It is incredible how clean it can peel with the right tools."

She nods, popping a piece into her mouth.

"How are the children?" You tilt your head, cutting another piece to put in the central bowl.

"They are faring well." She hums. "They are children, after all."

"I suppose." You mumble. "Jinshi went a little insane on their family."

"Not to mention he had full right, holding the army seal." She chuckles. "I heard from the maids that the imperial court threw a fit upon the realization that you had been holding onto something so precious and had just casually given it to Jinshi in order to save a maid."

"Not just any maid at the time." You snort. "Jinshi's dear maid."

"Of course." She smiles. "Though, he had been in love you. He had simply pushed it down."

"Like father like son, I suppose." You mumble. "Has the emperor visited?"

"Not yet." She pauses. "Is he planning so?"

You turn your head at the sound of footsteps.

"Jinshi." You hum, smiling.

He steps over to press his lips to your forehead, smiling fondly at your juice-stained hands, only freezing when he remembers his mother is with you. "...niang."

Ah-Duo waives her hand. "How cute."

Jinshi flushes, and you chuckle, pinching his cheek.

"You needed something?"

"The emperor is coming for a visit, niang." He pauses. "To our residence. He will be visiting the tearoom."

You raise a brow at Jinshi.

Jinshi shakes his head at you.

"Very well." You grin, shaking Jinshi off of you as you peel the sugarcane with eerie accuracy, cutting the rest into bits for the late consort to enjoy. "You can take the bowl."

"None for me?" Jinshi pouts.

"The emperor matters more in this case." You shrug. "I shall send some maids to accompany you."

"Alone will be fine." Ah-Duo nods. "Thank you."

You smile as she leaves, and Jinshi takes her spot, pouting at the sugarcane she had left behind.

"I want a bite."

You take the plant from him, cutting pieces off for him, watching as he chews, reaching for his throat as he threatens to swallow. This fucking dumbass.

You pry his jaw open, ignoring the fact that your hands probably taste like some sort of sugar, ordering him to spit it out. He listens, dry cane spat into the bowl you've held before his mouth, and his spit slides down with hit, the poor male panting like some bitch in heat. You let go of his mouth, exhaling as you mumble. "Good boy."

The words ring in Jinshi's head and shoot straight to his dick, and he licks your fingers unconsciously, eyes half-lidded as he tastes the sugar on them. Wait.

fuck.

He was NOT supposed to do that.

You freeze as something brushes your knee, and you stare into Jinshi's eyes as he stares back up at you, blinking rapidly, praying you wouldn't point it out. The two of you meet eyes, and you back up, sitting back down as the two of you wait for the other to speak up. Jinshi refuses to speak up.

You break the silence. "I'll wait."

"Thank you." He mumbles, cheeks red in embarrassment as he rushes off to somewhere private.

This is awful.

冬

some days you wonder how long Jinshi went without sexual release.

It's a strange thought, really. So, when you and Jinshi are wedded and you're waiting for him on the wedding night in your shared bed, you don't know what to think. Alright, wedded is the wrong word. The two of you are rewedded, and you are dressed in the robes the late empress had prepared for the two of you to sleep together in. You think it's too little, but apparently it's supposed to rile Jinshi up. Speaking of Jinshi, you wonder how he's dealt with getting boners. He... can't sleep with someone because he's a eunuch, but he can't just leave himself hard forever.

Jinshi stares at you from the door as you're lost in thought.

Skin. You're showing skin. He feels rabid at the sight— as though he were some carnivore in the wild, grew before his eyes. He feels as though he would go feral if he were to get his hands on you, so he stands there, collecting himself. He can't scare you off. He finally has you in his hands again, this time treating you properly, and he can't just scare you off because he's wanted to touch you for ages but couldn't.

"Jinshi?" You tilt your head at him, and he musters up a smile.

"I don't want to scare you." He pauses. "But I fear the maids did a little too good of a job with you."

He offers you a drink, and the two of you down it before you lick your lips to speak up.

"Why? You want to defile me?" You lean forward, almost as if to emphasize your point, and Jinshi flushes red.

"I really wonder how you learned to flirt like that when you were Diu." Jinshi sits next to you, fingers pushing your hair back as he leans in. "This is fine, right?"

"Would be funnier if I were Diu right n-" You're cut off as Jinshi presses his lips to have you shut up. He loves you, but god, were you infuriating sometimes. It was as though the winter and spring without him had changed you into a different person— not that he minded. You're charming no matter how you act or react. Your hair scrunches between his palm and fingers, and you tilt your head to give him better access, passion and longing staining your face as he presses his lips to yours and his fingers bloody with something he's wanted forever. Some sort of twisted passion beats from his chest to yours, a whimper spilling past his lips as you thread your fingers through his hair.

He only pulls away when you soften against him, chest pressed to his as he feels your muscles tensing from the lack of breath.

"You still with me?" He moves his hand out, your hair slipping between his fingers as you hang your head to breathe.

"I sure wish you weren't good at everything you did," You keep your head hung, unraveling his robes with ease, palming his cock through the fabric wrapped around his waist. Jinshi's hips shift slightly for more friction, and your hand presses down on his hipbone, forcing him to still as you pull on the strand to free him, licking your lips at his length. "I don't think you're going to fit, pretty boy."

"We'll make it fit." He hisses out as you let the spit on your tongue roll onto the tip of his cock, smearing the precum with your saliva, your fingers smooth against his length as you spread it. Jinshi whimpers as you do, the ring around your finger cool against his skin, and you lean in to stare up at him through your lashes, biting your bottom lip as your hand speeds up. Jinshi whimpers, hand flying to wrap around your wrist and hold you still, and you tilt your head, yelping as he takes your lips pushing you back into the mattress. You lean into the kiss as he tugs on the bow, string coming out and top falling off with ease as his fingers brush your tits, thumb pressed to your nipple, humming into your mouth at the feeling of it hard. "Let me take care of you tonight." He huffs, pulling from you as he forces your tits up with his hands, pinching your nipple to catch a wince from you.

"Mean." You pout, no real annoyance on your face, and Jinshi busies himself with your chest, lips pressing a kiss to the meat of your chest, biting down— almost as though to mark you as his territory. It irks him some days that the maids still have lingering crushes on you from when you were Diu. So, his bites trail up from your chest to your neck, canines crazing over your pulse point as he bites down, hands sliding down to hold your waist as you crane your neck and whimper. Jinshi leans to force his chest to yours, and your fingers curl uncomfortably next to you as he sucks on your neck, purple blooming across your skin wherever his lips were.

"You're so pretty." Jinshi mumbles, finally pulling his lips off of you with a pop, staring down at you as you're suddenly aware that you are bare. You try to hide yourself but Jinshi makes work of his hands swiftly, holding your wrists together as he rolls his hips against yours experimentally. "I wonder how much of my reading is going to pay off."

"Studying through indecent literature? How sinful of you." You arch your back as he pulls your undergarments off, spreading your legs slightly as he slides his index finger down your slit, taking note of the slick threatening to spill out.

"I'd say this is worse, though." He slides a finger into you with ease, and you whimper as he curls it, nails slightly grazing your walls, making you gasp. "You sound so sinful like this. I sure hope you didn't let any other man see you like this."

"And if I did?"

"Then I'd suppose I'd just have to ruin their life." Jinshi straightens his middle finger as he curls his index out of you, sliding both into you at once. You shift slightly at the stretch. Jinshi curses under his breath at how tight you are. He doesn't want to break you your first night. So, he spreads his fingers in you slightly, thumb on your clit as he tries to loosen you. Instead, you flutter around him, only a light gasp freeing from your lips as he furrows his brows. He spreads his fingers, trying to make space for a third and get a reaction out of you. Instead, you don't react, simply shifting your hips to accommodate the stretch from his fingers.

"Am I bad?" He pouts, thumb finding your clit.

"No." You breathe, squirming from his touch.

"Am I average?"

"Jinshi, I have no idea. This is as much of my first time as it is yours." Your wrists fight against the grip of his hand, and he lets them go, lowering his face to your pussy instead, hooking your knees over his shoulders as he pulls you up. You back arches dramatically as he wraps his arms around your thighs, and Jinshi presses his tongue flat against your cunt, licking up as you jolt. He watches as your pussy flutters around nothing, and he slides his tongue in, moaning into your against as he tastes you. So this is what you taste like— some mixture of sin and lust, nectar that would put even the sweetest of peaches to shame. It would drive Jinshi to madness, he supposes.

Your fingers grasp at the pillow above your head, whimpering with each flex of Jinshi's tongue, and his fingers dig into your thighs, earning a squeal from your lips as you feel something tighten in your stomach. Your eyes widen as your nails dig into the sheets and your back arches impossibly more, tears in the corner of your eyes as Jinshi sucks at your orgasm, ignoring the mess of slick sliding down his chin and splattering onto the sheets. You turn red in embarrassment at the mess, but Jinshi pays it no mind, continuing to lap at your pussy, eyes digging into yours as he puts on a show for you. You look away from his eyes, opting to make a mess on his tongue instead, eyes rolled to the back of your head as a second orgasm crashes upon you. Jinshi drinks it up just as eagerly as the last, eyes half-lidded as

Your legs shake as Jinshi lets you down, fingers wiping the slick from his face as he pumps himself with it, and then sliding his tip beneath the hood of your clit to further coat his dick in your cum. You shift against his cock, grinding lightly into him as he chuckles. "Patience, beloved."

"I'd say you're worse than me." You heave, walls fluttering around Jinshi's length as he slides in. He notices the way your skin lifts with him inside of you, and he presses down on the bulge, blinking slowly. You gasp, stomach flexing out of instinct, pussy clenching around Jinshi with a hiss. Jinshi stays still, thumb brushing your clit to incite a reaction from you, earning him a lewd whimper. The sound shoots straight to his cock, head spinning as he slides his palm up your abdomen to your chest, pinching your nipple as he swallows.

"This is fine, right?"

"Insecure?" You roll your hips in affirmation. "I wouldn't have married you or let you catch me if it wasn't."

"Tease." He grumbles, taking your legs and folding them to your shoulders, forcing himself further into you. You moan, clenching around him as he moves, holding you down by the hips as he slams into you with each thrust, gasps slipping past your lips and colors in your vision as he moves. Flowers blossom in your lungs as you try to catch your breath, head spinning deliciously at the taste of Jinshi's lips on yours, a light fragrance from the rice wine he had taken mixing with the one on your lips, and you moan into his mouth, squirming from his touch. Your legs relax over his shoulders as he presses into you, fingers digging into the plush of your thighs, hair sliding off his shoulders to cage you in as you whimper.

The wind rustles the trees outside as you cum around Jinshi the first time, brows knit together and eyes closed as your face twists from the unfamiliar sensation, head thrown back and lips parting once the crash ended, and Jinshi stills, hand reaching to brush your hair to the side, cupping your face with his hand. "You alright?"

"Felt weird." You mumble. "Did you..?"

"No." Jinshi hums. "Would you like me to? Inside?"

"I don't mind." You whisper.

"Alright," He starts moving again, focusing on himself as your legs slide off his shoulders and fall into the mattress, hooking behind his pelvis as he thrusts, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as he pistons into you, your breath caught in your throat as you see white and stars, drool threatening to leak down your chin and choke you with your head thrown back and muscles tense. Jinshi pants into your ear as he feels himself get close, pulsing and ebbing inside of you with each roll of his hips, your name spilling past his lips in some sort of raw desperation and begging, only spilling into you once you call his name back through your cloudy haze, white painting your walls as white fills your vision, the same white visible in the air on the snowy trees.

His breath mixes with yours as he rests his forehead on yours, bare skin pressed to yours, sweat and cum mixing with your own, the two of you merged as one. In the distant past, you loved him until it physically destroyed you, and in the distant future he will love you until he is stuck in the same destruction that had dragged you away from him. Only then would he forgive himself, lips spreading into a gentle smile, eyes staring into yours as yours are closed, catching your breath as your chest rises and falls, vine of hickeys and bruises trailing down from your neck to your waist. Your walls flutter around him as you recover from another orgasm, skin flushed like peonies as Jinshi tilts his head to press a kiss to your shoulder.

"Still with me?" He presses his palm to your cheek, palm brushing your skin.

"Yes." You pant, grimacing at the squelch that sounds when he pulls out of you.

"I wonder if we'll be with child."

"I doubt it's this easy." You mumble, lashes fluttering. "Would you want one?"

"Up to you." He mumbles, reaching to the side to pour himself another glass of wine. "We do not have to worry about succession either."

"Oh, I've never been so thankful to have not ended up where I was supposed to." You sigh in relief.

"You do not want one?"

"Not my priority." You hum. "Unless you wish for one."

"You are my priority." Jinshi hums, offering you a glass. "Another?"

"No." You roll onto your stomach to stretch your back. "We have plenty of time as well."

"I suppose." Jinshi hums, holding his hand out for yours.

You give him your right hand, and he pouts.

"Your left. The ring."

You free your arm and hold it out, and Jinshi kisses your knuckles gently, eyes closed as he hums contently.

"We match." He smiles, lips curled into a gentle smile, eyes full of a warmth you had forgotten he was capable of. You smile, a laugh bubbling out of your chest as he fiddles with your fingers, some sort of domestic ambiance filling the room. And just like that, your anxieties fade away, and a smile makes way on your face.

"I love you." He hums, lips pressed to your forehead as he lays next to you, still holding your hand, his ring brushing against yours.

"I love you too." and you close your eyes, body relaxing into his, heartbeat one below the missing sun.

[brunchable]

Winter King, Part Two : I Wish You Would. . .

Pairings: King AU Bucky Barnes x Out of place Queen Reader Words: 18K Themes: Royaltycore AU, love and power, Arranged Marriage, georgian/regency era misogyny, Eventual Smut. Summary: The Kingdom's court is treacherous, and enemies lurk in the shadows, waiting to exploit any sign of weakness. Althought Y/N is determined to be a worthy queen of the crown, she find out that The King is as elusive as he is captivating. A/N: Inspired by Queen Charlotte. Also, if you like Sharon Carter, I'm sorry, someone needs to be an antagonist lmao. I hope I tagged everyone.

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

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

The clinking of delicate china sounded in the sunroom, but the undercurrent of hostility was unmistakable. Sharon and Leah exchanged a glance, their eyes gleaming with something far more sinister than polite conversation. The warmth of the sun couldn’t reach you through the tension coiling around the table.

Sharon’s voice sliced through the moment, sweet but sharp, as though testing the blade before delivering the cut. “You know, Princess, there’s a rather fascinating story about His Majesty. It surprises me that no one has mentioned it to you yet.”

Your grip tightened on the teacup, but you kept a calm facade. Their words were like needles, pricking at your composure, but you wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you uneasy.

“Oh?” you replied, your tone light, “Do enlighten me.”

Leah leaned in slightly, lowering her voice as though sharing a secret meant only for your ears. “Well, it’s said that he was quite... entangled with Lady Maria for some time. You know how close they were? Practically inseparable.” She shot you a look that made your stomach tighten. “Of course, that was before you.”

The name Lady Maria was familiar to you, but the way they spoke it—like a weapon—made it clear they intended to lodge it in your heart, to make you doubt.

“Oh, I see,” you said, carefully placing the teacup down, though you could feel the prickle of unease beneath your skin. “Is this the same Lady Maris who now resides in the countryside?” You smiled, a sharp edge to your words. “Quite the distance from the palace, wouldn’t you say?”

Leah’s smile faltered ever so slightly, but Sharon’s eyes glittered with cruel amusement as she picked up the thread of the conversation. “Distance means little when it comes to passion. And His Majesty isn’t the type to forget such things... so easily.”

The insinuation in her words cut deeper than you wanted to admit. You could feel your composure slipping, the words sinking into your chest like stones. 

You met Sharon’s gaze squarely, keeping your tone even. “I find that real passion leaves no room for doubt,” you said smoothly, “nor for ghosts of the past.”

Sharon’s lips curved into a smile, “Of course, but the past has a way of... lingering, doesn’t it? Men like His Majesty—they tend to crave excitement. And I imagine keeping his interest will be... challenging.”

The implication hit its mark, a knot of jealousy tightening in your chest. They wanted you to believe you couldn’t hold Jame’s attention—that you were nothing more than a placeholder for someone more exciting, someone like Lady Maria.

Your breath caught, but you forced yourself to smile, lifting your teacup as if you hadn’t just been struck by their words. “I find that security comes from understanding,” you said, “And I’m more interested in the present than the past.”

Leah chuckled softly, leaning in closer. “Oh, but the present can be just as... tricky. After all, there are so many... distractions in the palace. You haven’t known him for very long, have you? So much is still hidden.”

Her words felt like poison, seeping into your mind, whispering the doubts you had been trying so hard to push away. Do you really know him? Can you trust him?

But you refused to let them see you falter. You couldn’t. Not when they were so clearly enjoying the game.

“Everyone has their secrets,” you replied calmly, though the weight of those secrets pressed down on you. “But I’ve learned not to rely on gossip to understand someone.”

Sharon’s eyes gleamed, her smile growing. “But don’t you wonder? All those nights he slipped away. Who knows where he went? Or who he was meeting under the moonlight?”

Your heart clenched, the insinuation sharp as a dagger. You could feel the cold tendrils of doubt creeping into your mind, wrapping around your thoughts. Was James still slipping away at night? Was there more he wasn’t telling you?

But you couldn’t let them see that doubt. You had come too far to let their words unravel you.

“I’m sure there are many stories about Prince James,” you said, your voice remained calm, though each word felt heavier now. “But I trust what I know, not what others choose to speculate about.”

Leah’s smile was thin, but her eyes sparkled with triumph, as though she sensed she had struck a nerve. “We’ll see soon enough, won’t we? After all, the wedding is tomorrow. Then we’ll all know whether you can... keep up.”

The words lingered, a challenge woven into every syllable. They were waiting for you to fail, to prove that you weren’t strong enough for this world, for him.

Your pulse raced, the pressure of their words settling like a weight on your chest, but you refused to let it break you. Slowly, you set your teacup down with a soft clink, meeting Sharon’s gaze one last time.

“I’ve faced many tests in my life,” you said, your voice low, but firm. “And I’m still here. I think that says enough.”

The tension hung thick in the air, you rose from your seat, the finality in your movement punctuating the moment. You had given them no ground, no cracks to exploit, and their smiles, once sharp and mocking, now seemed to falter, ever so slightly.

But just as you turned to leave, Sharon’s voice—smooth and saccharine—floated after you, stopping you in your tracks.

“It’s admirable, really, that someone from... Zienna is so resilient. I suppose growing up in such a small, modest country must have prepared you for all sorts of challenges.”

You froze, your hand pausing on the back of the chair. The underlying disdain in her tone wasn’t lost on you. Zienna, your home, was renowned for its beauty, but in the grander scheme of royal politics, it was often dismissed as insignificant. You could feel the mockery laced in her words, as if she were implying that your upbringing had made you desperate to prove yourself.

Leah’s laughter was light, airy. “Oh yes, Sharon. I imagine life there must have been... quaint. So very different from here, don’t you think, Princess?”

You turned slowly, meeting both of their gazes, your own smile never wavering. 

“You’re right. Zienna is different,” you said softly, letting the pride in your voice fill the room. “It’s a place where strength is measured by character, not status. Where beauty is in the resilience of the people, not the grandeur of a palace.”

Your words silenced them, the smile slipping from Sharon’s face. Leah’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though she hadn’t expected you to turn their words around so effortlessly.

“And if growing up there has prepared me for anything,” you continued, your voice steel beneath the sweetness, “it’s how to recognize empty words and empty hearts.” You paused, letting the weight of your gaze linger on them. “Qualities I can spot a mile away.”

The sunroom felt colder now, your retort hanging in the air like a cloud. Sharon’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t respond. Leah shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her earlier smugness evaporating.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” you said, a polite smile on your lips that didn’t reach your eyes, “I have preparations to attend to.”

And with that, you turned on your heel, leaving them behind. Each step you took away from the sunroom felt like a small victory, but even as you walked, their words echoed in your mind. The whispers of Lady Maria, the insinuations about James’s loyalty, the insults directed at your homeland—they lingered, swirling together into a storm of doubt.

As soon as you were out of sight, the carefully composed expression you had worn in the sunroom dissolved. Your lips pressed into a thin line, and with a sudden surge of frustration, you stomped away, your footsteps heavier. The garden path crunched beneath your shoes as you strode forward, the crisp air doing little to cool the heated emotions roiling inside you.

Your maids hurried behind you, their footsteps quick and uncertain as they struggled to keep pace. The sun was bright but dipped lower, casting long shadows over the carefully manicured hedges, but none of it registered in your mind. 

You stormed past the familiar stone wall—the very one you had once tried to climb, desperate for an escape from this life. A fleeting memory of that morning flashed in your mind, but you quickly whipped your attention forward, determined not to linger on what felt like another lifetime ago.

The sting of Sharon and Leah's words echoed in your thoughts, the insinuations they had dropped like poison slowly seeping through your veins. The worst part wasn’t their cruelty—it was the lingering doubt they left in their wake, the nagging feeling of inadequacy they had sown in your heart.

As you rounded the corner of the garden, you nearly collided with Captain Rogers. You froze for a moment, caught off guard by his presence. His tall frame blocked your path, and you looked up to meet the eyes of the man you had only seen from a distance—a legend in his own right, but unfamiliar to you until now.

“Princess,” his deep voice said, the faintest hint of surprise in his eyes. He stepped back, his posture respectful, but his gaze lingered on you, as if trying to piece together the storm that was painted across your face.

You drew in a breath. His broad shoulders seemed to fill the space, the strength behind his calm gaze only adding to the silent authority he carried. This was the first time he had seen you up close—really seen you—and you could feel his curiosity. His gaze was far too perceptive, as though he could sense the frustration crackling beneath your surface.

He didn’t move, his eyes scanning your face, taking in every detail—the tightness around your lips, the tension in your posture.

“Forgive me, Princess,” he said, his tone gentler now, “I didn’t mean to startle you. Is everything... all right?”

You hesitated. There was something in his voice—genuine concern, but also a strength, as though he was someone who wasn’t easily swayed by the petty games of court. The temptation to unload your frustration rose, but you bit it back, unwilling to show any weakness in front of someone you barely knew.

Behind you, faint whispers and barely contained giggles from the maids floated through the air.

“He’s even more handsome up close.”

“I heard he’s unmatched with the sword.”

“I wonder if the princess is the one who’s caught his eye.”

Their words blended together, stoking the embers of your growing frustration. You shot them a glance, and the group immediately fell silent, though the sparkle in their eyes remained, a few of them nudging each other playfully.

“Captain Rogers,” you repeated, forcing your attention back to him. His eyes flickered past you, noticing the commotion, but he merely smiled, almost as if he was used to the admiration.

"Apologies," he added with a subtle nod toward the flustered maids. "It seems I've become quite the spectacle." His lips quirked in a brief, amused smile before his gaze settled back on you, serious once again. "But that doesn't matter. Is everything truly all right, Princess?"

Your chest tightened. For a moment, the warmth in his eyes threatened to melt the wall you'd built, but you steeled yourself, unwilling to let anyone—especially James’s dear friend—see the cracks.

“Just taking some air,” you replied, attempting to sound indifferent, but your words wavered, betraying a hint of the emotional storm that raged inside you.

Captain Rogers didn’t move, his gaze softening. “It doesn’t seem like the air is doing much to help,” he observed quietly, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The subtle warmth in his tone took you by surprise, pulling you from the haze of your own thoughts. It was the first time someone had spoken to you without a layer of formality, without some hidden agenda woven into their words. You weren’t sure if it was refreshing or irritating.

“Well,” you said, lifting your chin slightly, “hence why I’m going inside.”

He stepped aside then, giving you room to pass, but not before his gaze lingered on you one last time, as though he were trying to understand what had unsettled you so deeply. There was no judgment in his eyes—only curiosity.

You nodded curtly in thanks and strode past him, determined not to let him see the cracks in your composure. But even as you walked away, you could feel his presence behind you, as if he were still watching, trying to figure out the puzzle you hadn’t realized you’d become.

Your rest of your maids caught up as you reached the palace doors, their hurried whispers behind you barely registering. You walked past the towering columns and through the grand foyer, a figure appeared ahead of you—a palace staff member—your valet—his uniform crisp and formal. He looked as though he'd been searching for you, his eyes lighting up with relief the moment they landed on you.

“Ah! Princess,” he said, his voice polite but hurried, his slight bow both respectful and urgent. “I’ve been looking for you. Please, follow me—your fitting for the wedding dress is ready.”

You blinked, your frustrations from the sunroom now mixing with a new surge of nerves. The wedding dress fitting. Another reminder of how close the ceremony was—how close you were to stepping into a role you weren’t sure you were ready for. But there was no time to dwell on that now.

You nodded, giving a small, composed smile, though inside, your thoughts still raced. “Of course. Lead the way.”

Scott straightened and gestured down the hall, his steps brisk as you fell in behind him.

× × × ×

The fabric of the gown rustled as the maids adjusted the delicate lace at your sleeves, each stitch tightening like the invisible binds that held you in place. It wasn’t the dress constricting you—it was everything. The ceremony, the expectations… him.

James had become more of a shadow in your life than a man. You hadn’t seen him properly since that morning in the garden, where the flicker of connection between you felt like something precious, something fragile. Since then, you’d only glimpsed him—his tall figure at the coronation, his back turned to you, always just out of reach. And yet, the memory of his touch, the sparkle in his eyes as he teased you, lingered in your thoughts, whispering promises that felt as intangible as smoke.

But promises were thin when matched against the reality of your situation.

Your fingers fidgeted with the silk of your gown as another seamstress knelt at your feet, adjusting the hem. The fabric was exquisite, shimmering beneath the light, but it felt like a gilded cage. 

Lady Monica Rambeau circled you, her sharp eyes missing nothing, her presence as unyielding as the steel boning of your corset. She had been assigned to you since the engagement had been announced, her demeanor polite but impenetrable. No matter how hard you tried, you could not pierce the veil of formalities that cloaked her every word.

As Lady Rambeau came around the front of the gown, you cleared your throat, trying to keep your tone light, though the questions weighed heavily on your mind. “Lady Rambeau, I’ve noticed something.”

Her fingers stilled as she pinched a piece of fabric at your waist. “Hm?”

You hesitated, watching her closely. “The King… he always wears a glove on his left hand.”

Lady Rambeau didn’t flinch, but there was the slightest pause in her movements, the briefest tightening of her lips. You had been trained to notice such things.

“Yes, Princess,” she said, her tone smooth, but you caught the subtle shift in her expression. “Many royals have their eccentricities.”

You narrowed your eyes, not satisfied with her evasive response. “It seems more than just an eccentricity, doesn’t it?”

For the first time, Lady Rambeau’s gaze met yours directly, a flicker of something—was it pity?—in her eyes. “The prince prefers not to discuss such matters. It is... a personal choice.”

You straightened your back, feeling the frustration coil tighter inside you. You were about to marry him, and yet everyone seemed to know more about your future husband than you did. 

“A personal choice that no one seems willing to explain,” you countered, your voice sharp. “I’m about to marry him. Don’t I deserve to know the truth?”

There was a beat of silence before Lady Rambeau averted her gaze, focusing on the gown again. “Some truths, Princess, are best left for the prince to share himself.”

Her words landed heavily in the room, closing the conversation with an air of finality. You clenched your fists, feeling the fabric of your gown bunch beneath your fingers, the weight of everything pressing down on you like the tight bodice of this perfect, suffocating dress.

“Perhaps,” you muttered under your breath, “but a queen who knows nothing of her king is little more than a pawn.”

Lady Rambeau’s lips tightened again, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she straightened, her expression smoothing back into its usual calm, controlled mask. 

“The gown is perfect,” she said, her voice cool. “You will be the vision of a queen.”

You stared at her, your frustration simmering. 

“A vision,” you repeated softly, looking at your reflection in the mirror. The girl staring back at you wore a gown fit for a queen, but there was something hollow in her eyes. The truth was, you felt like an imposter in that mirror. How could you marry a man who remained an enigma, hidden behind secrets no one would speak of?

Lady Rambeau cleared her throat, sensing your thoughts. “Before we conclude, Princess, we must review the schedule for the day.”

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest. Not yet, anyway. “Of course.”

Lady Rambeau reached for the small ledger on the table, flipping through the neatly written notes. “This afternoon, after we’ve finalized the details of your gown, there will be a brief... educational session.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Educational session?”

Her voice was smooth, unflappable. “Yes, Princess. It is customary for brides of your station to receive instruction on matters... related to the marriage bed.”

Heat rushed to your face, and the room suddenly felt stifling. “I—what kind of instruction?”

Lady Rambeau, as always, didn’t blink. “There will be materials provided. Diagrams, illustrations. You’ll be prepared for what is expected of you.”

The air in the room seemed to thicken, and you fought the urge to pull at the bodice of your gown. This wasn’t just a wedding—it was the beginning of something far more daunting, far more real. And you were expected to step into it without hesitation, without question.

Lady Rambeau seemed to sense your discomfort but pressed forward. “Afterward, there will be time for rest before your private dinner with His Majesty.”

Your pulse quickened. The first private moment with James since that morning in the garden. You hadn’t been alone with him since. You hadn’t seen him up close, hadn’t had the chance to ask the questions that had been building inside you.

“A private dinner?” you repeated, trying to shake the thoughts of the diagrams, of everything that seemed to loom on the horizon.

“Yes,” she confirmed, her voice unwavering. “It will be your final opportunity to speak with His Majesty before the ceremony tomorrow.”

You swallowed hard. Final opportunity. The phrase echoed in your mind like a warning. This was your last chance to confront him, to ask about the glove, about the rumors, about everything you had been kept in the dark about.

You nodded slowly. “I see.”

Lady Rambeau closed her ledger with a faint snap, offering a thin smile. “Everything is in place for tomorrow, Princess. You need only focus on your duties as queen.”

Duties. Expectations. Those were the words that seemed to follow you everywhere. But what about your fears? What about the truth? What about the man you were about to spend your life with?

You swallowed the frustration rising in your throat and nodded. “Very well.”

Lady Rambeau’s expression softened ever so slightly, perhaps sensing your internal turmoil. “Is there anything else, Princess?”

For a moment, the bitterness from the morning tea bubbled back to the surface, and you found yourself saying, “Actually, yes. Are there... any other ladies I can spend time with? The morning tea with Lady Sharon and Lady Leah left a rather bitter taste in my mouth.” 

Lady Rambeau’s lips twitched, the barest hint of amusement crossing her face before she masked it once more. “I see. I can certainly arrange for you to meet with a more agreeable company.”

A small sigh of relief escaped you. “Thank you. That would be much appreciated.”

With a nod, Lady Rambeau offered a brief, genuine smile. “Consider it done, Princess.”

× × × ×

You sat in an ornate chair, stiff and uncomfortable, while across from you, the Governess stood like a sentinel, her stern expression and ramrod-straight posture making the space feel even more intimidating.

Your eyes flickered nervously to the stack of leather-bound books on the table between you, each one larger and more foreboding than the last. Then there was the parchment—rolled up, but ominous in its stillness. There was something about the entire scene that made your skin crawl, as though you were not here for a lesson but being led into battle.

“Princess,” the governess began, her tone clipped and authoritative, “this session is essential to your role as the future queen and wife. It is vital that you understand the... expectations that will be placed upon you in the marriage bed.”

You found yourself shifting uncomfortably in your seat. Your hands gripped the armrests, trying to hold on to a semblance of composure. But there was nothing composed about this moment, nothing regal about what was happening.

The governess pulled one of the books from the pile and flipped it open, revealing a diagram that made your stomach turn. The lines, the shapes—they were clinical, and yet, utterly mortifying. You felt heat rising in your face, and it took everything in you not to roll your eyes. The absurdity of the situation made you want to laugh, but you bit down on the impulse, hard.

“This,” the governess continued, her voice as sharp as her gaze, “is crucial knowledge for fulfilling your wifely duties. You must be prepared to consummate the marriage.”

You swallowed hard, shifting again, the lesson settling over you like an iron cloak. “I think I understand the general concept,” you muttered, trying to keep your tone light despite the tight knot of discomfort twisting in your gut.

She ignored your attempt at levity, her movements precise as she unfurled the parchment on the table. It revealed even more intricate—and mortifying—illustrations. Your eyes widened in disbelief as you stared at the detailed depictions, each one meticulously labeled as though this were a scientific experiment and not the intimate realities of your future.

You blinked, your heart pounding faster, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of your neck. This can’t be happening.

“Pay attention, Princess,” the governess said sharply, noticing your wandering gaze. “This knowledge is essential. You must understand your role—how to fulfill your responsibilities as a wife.”

Your patience snapped. You could no longer hold back the bubbling frustration. 

“My role?” you echoed, gesturing toward the diagrams with a wave of your hand. “You mean my role as a willing participant in this?”

The governess’ eyes narrowed, her back straightening further, if that were even possible. “Princess, this is not a matter to be taken lightly. The consummation of your marriage is not only expected, but required. You must take your duty seriously.”

A snort escaped you before you could stop it. The absurdity of it all—the coldness, the diagrams, the formality of something so intimate—was overwhelming. You hadn’t seen James in days, hadn’t even spoken more than a few proper words to him, and here you were, being lectured on consummation because it was a royal decree.

“I haven’t even had a proper conversation with the man,” you blurted out, almost laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. “How am I supposed to take this seriously?”

The governess’ gaze turned icy, her lips thinning into a disapproving line. “Princess,” she began, sounding a bit disappointed, “you may find this situation amusing, but let me remind you—this is no laughing matter. As queen, it is your duty to provide heirs. That cannot happen if you do not fulfill your responsibilities to His Majesty.”

The levity you had clung to vanished, replaced by something far darker, far more suffocating.

Heirs.

This wasn’t just about duty anymore. It wasn’t about vague responsibilities or distant expectations. This was real. This was your future—your life.

“So,” She cleared her throat noticing the change in your demeanor, “If you don’t want His Majesty to find a consort willing to provide him an heir, I suggest you listen and learn carefully.”

The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. You tried to even out your breathing, but the panic clawing at your chest made it difficult to think, difficult to even breathe. You were no longer the girl standing in the garden, teased by a prince about escaping. You were a woman facing the stark reality of a role that felt far too large for you.

Your heart pounded in your ears as the governess’s cold, unrelenting gaze bored into you. She wasn’t just speaking of abstract duties or obligations. This was real, and you had no escape.

“I... I understand,” you whispered, though the words felt hollow. 

“Do you?” the governess asked, her tone softer now, but still cold with authority. “This is your reality, Princess. You cannot run from it. The marriage will be consummated. You will need to provide heirs. There is no escaping that.”

Each word she spoke settled into your bones, cold and unyielding. You had spent so much time avoiding this truth, brushing it aside as something distant. But now, with the weight of her gaze and the reality staring back at you from those diagrams, there was no avoiding it.

The laughter that had once bubbled in your throat turned bitter. There was no humor here. No escape.

Your hands clenched in your lap, gripping the fabric of your gown so tightly your knuckles turned white. You wanted to protest, to fight back against this fate being thrust upon you, but the enormity of it left you speechless. For the first time in days, you felt utterly powerless.

The governess, sensing your resignation, continued in her cold, measured tone. “I suggest you take these lessons more seriously from now on, Princess. This is not just about your future. It is about the future of the kingdom.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. There was nothing left to say.

You nodded, barely, the movement small and mechanical, as though you had been drained of all energy, all fight. Her words had pressed down on you, threatening to snuff out the last bit of spirit you had left.

And the worst part?

She was right.

There was no escaping this.

× × × ×

Lady Romanoff

The sound of clashing steel filled the training yard, the sharp ring of swords slicing through the afternoon air. Lady Natasha moved with deadly precision, her every strike calculated, her every parry effortless. The soldiers she sparred with were drenched in sweat, struggling to keep up with her, but she showed no mercy. Her red hair was tied back, a single loose strand framing her sharp, focused features.

"Lady Natasha!" A voice called out, breaking the rhythm of the duel.

She spun around, lowering her sword as a servant approached, bowing deeply before handing her a letter sealed with the royal crest. Her sharp eyes lingered on the seal for a moment before she waved her sparring partner off, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.

Natasha turned away from the yard, stepping into the shade of the estate’s stone walls as she broke the seal. Her fingers traced over the words, the formal language of the letter at odds with the simple, direct life she preferred.

“To Lady Natasha Romanoff,

By order of His Majesty and the future Queen of Montelune, you are hereby invited to join the Princess Y/N’s court as a trusted advisor and protector…”

Her lips curved into the barest hint of a smile. Protector. She could handle that.

The wind stirred around her as she folded the letter, her eyes flickering toward the horizon where the palace loomed in the distance. She had been summoned. And when the future queen called, Natasha Romanoff never refused.

- - - -

Lady Maximoff

In the quiet of her private study, Lady Wanda Maximoff sat by a large, arched window overlooking the rolling hills that stretched far beyond her family's estate. The air smelled of herbs and candle wax, and the only sound was the faint crackle of the fire behind her. She was deep in thought, her hands idly weaving through the delicate threads of red magic that swirled around her fingertips, when a soft knock broke her focus.

A servant entered, bowing as he held out a letter sealed with the royal crest. Wanda's brows knit together as she dismissed the magic with a flick of her hand, taking the letter and gently breaking the seal.

The letter unfolded in her hands, the parchment crisp and formal, though the weight of its words pressed heavily on her chest.

“To Lady Wanda Maximoff,

By order of His Majesty and the future Queen of Montelune, you are invited to join Princess Y/N’s court, where your wisdom and unique abilities will be invaluable…”

She blinked, her eyes lingering on the phrase unique abilities. They were calling her for more than just her title. A sense of unease stirred in her chest, but also a flicker of something else—purpose.

She closed the letter carefully, her eyes drifting out of the window again. Her future was no longer here in the quiet, secluded halls of her family home. It was with the future queen. It was time to leave the shadows behind.

- - - -

Lady Potts

Lady Virginia Potts stood in the grand parlor of her estate, the late afternoon sun casting golden light over the polished wood floors. Her hands were busy organizing the mountain of correspondence scattered across the table, responding to various requests from lords and ladies who sought her counsel. Her estate was immaculate, a reflection of her meticulous nature.

A servant entered quietly, holding a single letter with a royal seal, far more significant than the others. Pepper paused, her hands stilling as she reached for the letter, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

Breaking the seal, she scanned the words with a practiced eye, though the gravity of the message slowed her reading.

“To Lady Virginia Potts,

By the request of His Majesty and the future Queen of Montelune, you are invited to join Princess Y/N’s court, where your knowledge and expertise in matters of statecraft will be essential…”

Pepper set the letter down, her fingers resting lightly on the parchment. It had been some time since she had involved herself with court politics, preferring the stability of her own estate and businesses. But this... this was a request she could not turn down.

The future queen needed her, and where there was a need for clarity and order, Pepper Potts would always step in.

She smoothed the letter, her lips curving into a soft, knowing smile. The court had no idea what they were in for.

× × × × 

The heavy oak doors creaked open as you were led into the private dining room, the faint rustle of your gown the only sound as the maid quietly withdrew behind you, leaving you in the stillness of the grand chamber. A fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a golden light over the room, and your eyes fell on him immediately.

King James stood by the large window, one hand resting on the frame, the other gloved hand at his side. He looked out over the sprawling grounds, the fading light of the evening casting a halo of gold through his hair, painting him in a soft, almost ethereal glow. You simply stood there, unable to speak. Unable to move. You hadn't seen him like this before—unburdened by the weight of ceremony or titles—and it stirred something deep within you.

Sensing your presence, he turned slowly, and the moment his eyes met yours, the air shifted. His smile bloomed—soft, adoring, and it lit up the space between you, as though you were the only person in the world.

"Princess," he murmured, his voice warm and intimate, yet restrained. There was a note of something unspoken there, something deeper. The way he looked at you—his blue eyes tracing the delicate lines of your face—made your heart stutter in your chest.

You offered him a small curtsy, your stomach fluttering as you lifted your gaze. “Your Majesty.”

"Please, to you I’m just James." James gestured to the long, elegantly set dining table. “Join me.”

You approached the table with grace, your pulse quickening as you took in the grand spread before you. The chairs were separated by a stretch of three empty seats, and despite the intimate setting, the distance felt like you're oceans apart. You hesitated for a moment but obeyed, sitting across from him at the far end.

He watched you, his smile not faltering, but his eyes grew thoughtful as you settled into your seat. “You look lovely,” he said quietly, his voice rich but gentle.

Your heart gave a little flutter, and despite the formality, you couldn’t help but feel warmth creep up your neck at his words. 

“Thank you,” you replied, meeting his gaze with a steadying breath. “You seem… deeply in thought,” you added, noting the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his gloved hand rested stiffly against the table.

He let out a quiet breath, his eyes lingering on yours as though he was trying to gauge your thoughts. 

“Perhaps,” he admitted with a small, almost shy smile. “It’s hard not to be when my future is sitting across from me.”

You look down with a smile, a shy reaction. But before you could let them settle too deeply, you cleared your throat, turning the conversation to lighter things. Questions formed quickly in your mind—trivial, unimportant things, but questions that would keep your heart from racing too fast, your thoughts from spiraling.

You gathered your courage, determined to make this dinner less formal and distant. There was so much you didn’t know about hum—about the man you were about to marry. So, before the weight of more serious questions settled over the evening, you decided to ask him about the smaller things. Things that would make him feel more human, less like the elusive king you were supposed to wed.

“Do you have a nickname?” you asked, breaking the silence with a playful tilt to your voice, hoping to ease the tension that had been lingering since the moment you entered the room.

James blinked, surprised by the question, then let out a soft chuckle. “A nickname? I didn’t expect that to be your first question.”

You smiled, “I have to start somewhere, don’t I?”

He grinned, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Well, my mother used to call me Bucky when I was younger,” he said, his voice softer now. “But that name’s reserved for a select few.”

“Bucky,” you repeated, the name feeling strangely intimate on your lips. “And who are these ‘select few’?”

Bucky’s smile widened, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his gaze. “People I trust. Mostly my closest friends.”

Your curiosity grew, and you seized the opportunity to dig a little deeper. “Speaking of which, who are your best friends? I feel like I should know the people who are important to you.”

“Steve—Captain Rogers, as you might know him. He’s been my best friend since we were boys. There’s also Sam—he’s got a sharp sense of humor and enjoys keeping me humble.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a good group around you.” You couldn’t help but smile at the affection in his tone. 

Bucky nodded, his gaze growing warmer as he spoke of his friends. “Yeah, I’m lucky to have them.”

“And your horse? What’s his name?” You shifted in your seat, feeling a bit more comfortable now that the conversation had softened.

“His name’s Alpine.” He glanced at you with a grin, clearly surprised at your curiosity.

“Alpine?” you repeated, arching a brow.

“It suits him,” Bucky said with a shrug, though there was a twinkle of fondness in his eyes. “He’s stubborn, strong-willed… reminds me of someone.”

You laughed softly at that, feeling the weight of the room lift slightly. “I’d like to officially meet him sometime.”

Bucky’s smile lingered. The conversation had been easy, light, but the distance—both physical and emotional—still felt too vast. You wanted to ask more, to dig beneath the surface. But the space between you felt like a barrier, one you suddenly couldn’t bear any longer.

Without overthinking it, you set down your cutlery, stood, and lifted your plate from its place. Bucky’s eyes widened slightly in surprise as you walked around the table and sat beside him, taking the chair at his right.

Bucky watched you, clearly taken aback, but there was no disapproval in his gaze. If anything, he was amazed at how you seem to give no mind with tradition.

Bucky looked up at you, his lips curving into an intrigued smile.

“Sitting across from you felt… wrong,” you admitted softly. “There’s too much distance.”

Bucky’s eyes softened at your words, and though his expression remained composed, the way his body angled toward you—subtly, almost instinctively—revealed more than he probably intended.

You swallowed, heart pounding as you prepared yourself for the question you’d been avoiding all night. “There’s something I need to ask you, Your Majes—”

“James.”

“James. . .” You repeated his name.

Sitting next to him, the air seemed intimate, and the flicker of the candles on the table cast shadows that danced between your gazes. He was watching you—intensely, yet not in a way that was uncomfortable. There was something magnetic about the way he studied you, as if he was trying to figure you out, but not in the calculating manner you’d come to expect from others.

You swallowed, composing yourself. The words slipped from your lips before you had time to second guess them. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you... about Lady Hill.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t falter, but you noticed the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched ever so subtly. He turned slightly to look at you, his eyes searching yours.

You hadn’t meant to sound so blunt, but the name had hung between you like a shadow since the ladies made sure the name stuck to you. The jealousy bubbling up inside you—the ache you refused to admit even to yourself—made it impossible to keep the question locked away.

“Lady Hill,” you continued, your voice quieter now, though no less steady. “I’ve heard... stories. About you and her.”

Bucky sighed softly, his eyes drifting momentarily to the flickering flames in the hearth before returning to you. “You’ve heard a lot, I’m sure.”

You pressed your lips together, not trusting yourself to speak. It was foolish, really—this feeling of jealousy. You barely knew him, yet the thought of him being close to someone else, someone before you, unsettled you in ways you couldn’t quite understand. Or, maybe you did, but you didn’t want to admit it.

Bucky turned his full attention to you now, his eyes softening, though his gaze held something more serious, something weighted with regret. “There was a time when Lady Hill and I were... close. But that time has long since passed.”

You exhaled softly, though the knot in your chest didn’t fully loosen. “And now?”

His gaze softened even further, as if he could see straight through your carefully composed exterior. “Now?” he echoed, his voice quieter, more intimate. “Now, I’m here with you, not her. And that should tell you everything.”

The words sent a flutter through your chest, though you tried to ignore it. There was something undeniable between you—a pull, a connection that went beyond formalities. Yet, you couldn’t let yourself get lost in it. Not yet.

“Yes, yes it does.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed as he studied your expression, taking in the slight tremble in your voice and the way you seemed to press your lips together, fighting to keep your emotions in check. He didn’t need you to say anything more to know what was going on in your head. He could see it, the doubt creeping into your mind.

He sighed softly, setting down his glass, the clink against the table louder than the quiet room. His gaze never left yours, though.

“Something’s wrong,” he said quietly, his voice laced with a gentleness you hadn’t expected. “You’re not just asking about Lady Hill. There’s something else. What is it?”

You blinked, taken aback by how perceptive he was. You hadn’t meant for him to see through the carefully built walls you had erected. But there he was, watching you with concern, as though he could sense something brewing inside you. Your pulse quickened as you struggled to keep your composure, to bury the jealousy that had crept up, uninvited, after hearing all those stories.

You looked away for a moment, trying to find the right words, to shake off the feeling that you weren’t enough—that maybe you never would be for a man like him. But Bucky wasn’t the type to let something like that slide.

“Y/N,” he said softly, leaning in just a little, as though closing the gap between you might help ease the distance in your heart. “Talk to me. Whatever you’ve heard... Whatever they’ve said, you can ask me. I’ll tell you the truth.”

Your breath hitched, his words wrapping around you like a lifeline you hadn’t realized you needed. Slowly, you turned back to face him.

“They...” You hesitated, biting your lip as you struggled to say it. “They said, you always sneak out late at night to see her.” The admission came out more quietly than you intended.

“Do you believe that?”

You swallowed hard, looking down at your hands as your fingers twisted the fabric of your gown. 

“I don’t want to believe it,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “But... they’re so convincing. And I—” Your breath hitched as the words caught in your throat, and you couldn’t bring yourself to finish the sentence.

“Who is ‘they,’ Y/N?”

“People in court. They... they—”

“Be specific,” Bucky interrupted, his voice low, a command wrapped in concern. His blue eyes darkened with a mixture of frustration and protectiveness. He wasn’t angry—no, this was something else. He needed to know who had put these thoughts in your head, who had made you doubt him.

Your mouth hung open, caught off guard by the force of his words. He wasn’t going to let this go. He wouldn’t just sit there and let these rumors fester. And now, you couldn’t stop wondering—what would he do if you said their names? What would happen if you told him it was Sharon and Leah who had whispered those poisonous words into your ears?

For a brief moment, the idea of saying their names lingered on your lips. But you hesitated. Would telling him only make things worse? Would it lead to a confrontation you weren’t ready for? What if he confronted them, and everything in court shifted?

His gaze remained locked on yours, unwavering, waiting.

“Y/N,” he said again, his voice softer now, “Tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter who said it,” you murmured finally, shaking your head before looking back at him.

He blinked, surprised by your words, by the mercy you had just shown—choosing not to name those who had tried to plant doubt between the two of you. Most people in the court would have been eager to point fingers, to seek revenge or justice. But not you.

It doesn’t matter who said it. Your words echoed in his mind, and he realized just how different you were from the others. You weren’t driven by spite or the need for retribution. And that stunned him, amazed him in a way he hadn’t expected.

A slow breath escaped him as he continued to watch you, the vulnerability in your eyes clear, yet there was a strength there, too. A strength in choosing to let go of the pettiness of court gossip, in refusing to let others’ words dictate your path.

God, you're unlike anyone I've ever known.

But even as that admiration filled him, Bucky knew one thing for certain: he would find out who had whispered those lies to you. He wouldn’t let this slide. Not for the sake of revenge, but because those people—whoever they were—had tried to tarnish what was growing between you and him. And that was something he couldn’t forgive so easily.

Still, he wouldn’t push you now. He wouldn’t force you to tell him. You had shown mercy, and he respected that. But he would find out in another way. Quietly. Without involving you any further.

“You’re right,” he said softly, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. “They don’t matter.”

You nodded with a fleeting faint smile. Your eyes flicked to his gloved hand, the leather dark and smooth, always present, never explained. 

“The glove. . .” you trailed off hesitantly, “Why do you always wear it?”

Bucky’s gaze followed yours, landing on the glove that covered his left hand. His face shifted, the softness hardening into what seemed like pain, and you thought he might not answer.

He flexed his fingers beneath the glove, his jaw tightening. “It’s... not something I speak about often,” he admitted quietly, his voice rougher now. “But since you’ve asked, and since we’re to be... married, I’ll tell you.”

You held your breath, your heart pounding as you waited for him to continue.

Bucky turned his head slightly, the tension in his posture growing. “I was injured. A long time ago,” He paused, his eyes flicking to you, gauging your reaction. “The glove hides the... reminder.”

He was holding back, guarding himself. You could feel it, sense it in every strained breath he took. Whatever lay beneath that glove—whatever part of him he hadn’t revealed—it was something that still haunted him, something he wasn’t ready to share to its full extent.

“I’m... sorry,” you said quietly, the words feeling inadequate. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

Bucky offered a small, strained smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “There’s no need to apologize. It’s just a part of who I am now.”

“I see. You are very brave.”

His fingers twitched, aching to close the small space between you. But instead of reaching out, he curled them into his lap, trying to keep control. Because if he touched you now—if he let himself give in even for a second—he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

But the fear... the fear that you wouldn’t want this—wouldn’t want him—kept him silent. For now.

“You surprise me, you know,” he murmured, his voice low, intimate.

You blinked, “I do?”

He nodded, his lips curving into a small, almost tender smile. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met. You ask questions no one else dares to ask.”

“I want to get to know you. .” You said without missing a beat, “You gave me a choice at the garden—whether to run or stay while knowing who I was—I chose to stay.”

The warmth in Bucky's gaze sent a flutter through your chest, making it hard to think clearly. You could feel the weight of his stare on you, the way his eyes traced every curve of your face, every movement you made.

"I feel the same way," Bucky said, his voice so soft it was almost lost in the space between you. His eyes lingering on your lips before slowly moving to look into your eyes.

You felt a pull, an unspoken invitation hanging in the air. You smiled and straightened yourself, “Good, I’m glad we both ag—”

Before you could finish, his hand cupped the side of your face and captured you into a kiss. His touch electrifies every fiber of you, and you froze, your heart hammering in your chest.

It wasn't a tentative kiss, nor was it hesitant. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as his lips moved against yours, gently nibbling on your bottom lip. He kissed you like he'd been dying to do it, like he'd been holding back for far too long, and now he couldn't help himself.

Your breath hitched, your mind going blank as you melted into him, your hand instinctively gripping the sleeve of his coat. The taste of him, the feel of his body so close to yours, was intoxicating.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His eyes searched yours, filled with an adoration you had never seen before, and it took everything in you to catch your breath.

“I've wanted to kiss you since that day but I had to let you go," Bucky whispered, his voice rough with need. 

His gaze was heavy, half-lidded with desire, and just as he was about to lean in to taste you again, a knock at the door cut through the moment, shattering the fragile bubble of intimacy.

You jolted away from him, creating a hasty distance between you, while Bucky remained unusually calm, though his eyes still burned with the heat of the moment.

“Enter,” Bucky called out, his voice steady despite the tension lingering in the room.

The door creaked open, and Steve entered, his gaze flickering between you and Bucky before settling on his friend.

“Your Majesty, Are you ready to leave?” Steve asked, his tone casual, though you didn’t miss the brief glance he gave you.

“Oh,” Bucky muttered, his posture relaxing as he slid his hands into his coat pockets. “Is it that time already?”

You busied yourself, trying to smooth down your gown and regulate your breathing as you stood up, your heart hadn’t quite slowed.

Bucky stood slowly, his eyes never leaving yours as he straightened his coat, a small, teasing smile curling at the corners of his lips. He took a step toward you, the warmth of his gaze made your heart flutter all over again.

He reached for your hand, taking it gently on his own, and brought it to his lips, his touch soft and reverent. The kiss he pressed to the back of your hand was tender, but the heat of his breath sent a shiver racing up your spine. When he pulled away, his fingers lingered, tracing the delicate skin of your knuckles.

“I enjoyed my time with you tonight,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate. His thumb brushed lightly over your skin, and you could feel the sincerity in his words. “I shall see you tomorrow.”

He leaned in ever so slightly, his voice dropping even lower, the teasing glint returning to his eyes. “And Princess, don’t think about climbing any more walls,” His lips tugged into a smirk, “I won’t help you, if I find you.”

A soft laugh escaped you despite the warmth in your cheeks, and before you could respond, he stepped back, releasing your hand with a lingering touch.

Turning toward Steve, Bucky’s expression shifted back to his usual composed self. “Steve, walk her to her chambers, I’ll meet you outside.”

Steve nodded, stepping forward as Bucky offered you one last look, his gaze softening again. “Rest well, Y/N. For tomorrow I shall be yours, and you mine.”

And with that, he left the room, his presence like a shadow lingering even after the door closed behind him. You stood there, still reeling from the touch of his lips on your hand, from the quiet promise in his words, as Steve approached, clearing his throat gently to pull you from your thoughts.

“Shall we?” Steve asked, his voice calm as always, though there was a knowing edge to his expression, as if he had sensed more than he let on.

You nodded, your heart still racing, but you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips as Steve offered you his arm. As you walked together toward your chambers, you couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight had changed everything. And no matter how much you tried to calm your racing heart, the warmth of Bucky’s kiss stayed with you, long after you had bid him goodnight.

× × × ×

The heavy velvet drapes lining the walls absorbed much of the noise, leaving the soft echo of your footsteps the only sound that filled the space.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, “You’re quiet,” he said, his voice gentle, as though he didn’t want to intrude on whatever was lingering in your mind.

You gave a soft, tight-lipped smile, your heart still not quite calmed down after what had transpired with Bucky. 

“I find myself with much to contemplate,” you murmured, your voice carrying the weight of the evening. You stole a glance at Steve, who seemed to nod, understanding more than you expected him to.

“Bucky often has that effect upon people,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips, though his gaze remained forward.

The comment caught you off guard, and despite yourself, a soft laugh escaped. “Does he?” you asked, your tone teasing, but there was something in Steve’s smile that hinted he knew exactly what had happened between you and Bucky.

Steve chuckled, his voice a low rumble. “You’ve noticed by now, haven’t you?” He gave you a sidelong glance. “He is not an easy man to understand, I grant you that. But when he chooses to care for someone…” Steve’s voice faltered slightly, as though choosing his words with care, “…he does not do so in half measures.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the implication, but you didn’t respond. Instead, you kept walking, the candle lit hallway stretching out ahead of you, each flickering light casting long shadows on the stone floor.

Steve’s words hung in the air, and as you walked in silence for a moment, you couldn’t help but replay Bucky’s kiss in your mind—the way his lips had lingered on yours, the way his eyes had softened when he looked at you, the teasing warmth of his final words.

“Bucky’s lucky to have someone like you,” Steve said after a while, breaking the silence again. His tone was sincere, almost protective, and when you looked at him, you could see the loyalty in his eyes—not just to his friend, but to you as well.

The comment took you by surprise, and you blinked, unsure of what to say. “I’m lucky to have met him,” you replied softly, your voice carrying more weight than you had expected. It wasn’t just a formal response; it was the truth. In the short time you’d known Bucky, he had drawn something out of you—something deeper than you were prepared to admit.

Steve’s gaze softened, and his lips curved into a small, approving smile. “I’m glad you think so.”

As the walk continued, the palace walls seemed to narrow slightly, the corridor leading toward your chambers now dimly lit by only a few flickering torches. You could feel the end of the evening approaching, and with it, a certain reluctance to leave the comfortable quiet that had settled between you and Steve.

“Tell me, Captain,” you began hesitantly, “do you believe that His Majesty ever... doubts himself? Given the weight of the responsibilities he bears?”

Steve’s expression grew thoughtful, his brow furrowing ever so slightly. “He bears more than most could comprehend,” he said slowly. “But one thing I know with certainty—once his mind is set, whether it be upon a matter or a person,” his gaze flickered toward you meaningfully, “he does not question his resolve.”

As you approached the door to your chambers, Steve slowed, and you could feel the shift in the air, the end of the conversation nearing. He let go of your arm and turned to face you fully, his expression serious but kind.

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” he said simply, as if promising something far greater than just his presence. “If you need anything.”

“Thank you,” you replied, meaning it more than you could express.

He gave you a small nod, stepping back slightly as you reached for the door handle. “Goodnight, Princess.”

You paused, the door half-open, and gave him a warm smile before slipping inside. “Goodnight, Captain.”

As the door closed behind you and you backed against the door, your heart still racing, you realized that tomorrow your life will be changed drastically.

× × × ×

Captain Rogers descended the grand staircase, he adjusted the hilt of his sword, his gaze scanning the courtyard for Bucky.

The king was waiting by the fountain, leaning against his white stallion, Alpine, his silhouette almost ethereal under the silvery moonlight. 

“Ready to head out?” Bucky asked, his voice low and casual, as if they were merely discussing a routine ride instead of what lay ahead.

Steve mounted his own horse, the leather creaking softly beneath him as he settled into the saddle. He glanced at Bucky, then asked, “You kissed her, didn’t you?”

A smirk tugged at Bucky’s lips, but he didn’t turn to face Steve. “Wouldn’t you?” he replied smoothly.

Steve let out a sigh, shaking his head slightly. “I’m not going to answer that.”

A soft laugh escaped Bucky, the sound surprisingly light given the tension that clung to the night. They nudged their horses forward, the steady clop of hooves the only sound as they made their way along the moonlit path.

“You know,” Steve began, his gaze drifting to the silhouette of the palace behind them, “I have to wonder… Why do you want to be in Annecy tonight? Your wedding is tomorrow, Buck.”

Bucky’s shoulders tensed slightly, and he let out a low, rueful chuckle. He flexed his left hand, the movement barely perceptible but unmistakable to Steve’s watchful eyes. 

“You know why,” he said softly.

Steve nodded, understanding flashing across his features. He knew Bucky’s struggle—the ghosts that haunted him, the weight he carried that went far beyond a king’s responsibilities. There was always a part of Bucky that seemed to be at war with himself, the part that made even the simplest things—like sharing the same roof with his own future wife—feel like an insurmountable task.

They rode in silence for a few more minutes, the steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves lulling them into a semblance of calm. But then, Bucky shifted in his saddle, his gaze flickering to Steve.

“I need you to do me a favor,” Bucky said suddenly, his voice quiet but firm. “I need you to show a little interest in the princess.”

Steve’s head snapped around, his eyes widening. “What?” He blinked, incredulous. “Have you gone mad? Are you trying to get my head chopped off by the Queen Dowager?”

Bucky’s lips twitched into a smile, but his eyes were serious. “It’s important, Steve.”

“No,” Steve said flatly, shaking his head. “I’m not doing that. It’ll cause a scandal. It’ll make you look like a fool and make me look even worse.”

“Oh, come on,” Bucky urged, his tone almost playful.

“No,” Steve repeated firmly, his jaw set. “Why? Why would I do that?”

“Because I need some gossip,” Bucky said with a grin, though his eyes held a hint of something deeper. “Just enough to keep people talking.”

Steve let out a begrudging laugh, shaking his head again. “That’s worse, Bucky. Do you know how bad that would look? I’ll look like I’m trying to swoop in and steal the queen. The court would eat us alive. And besides—” he narrowed his eyes at Bucky, his expression hardening, “you really want to make me look like that?”

“Just trust me on this,” Bucky insisted, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “I’ll have your back, like I always do. You know that.”

Steve held his gaze for a long moment, suspicion mingling with concern. Bucky had that look in his eyes—the one that said he was up to something, something he wasn’t sharing.

“What are you really up to, Bucky?” Steve asked quietly, his brow furrowing. “What’s this really about?”

Bucky hesitated, the playful glint in his eyes dimming. He looked away, his gaze turning distant. “I need to find out who’s making up stories about me.”

“So, you want to use me to flush out whoever it is?”

Bucky’s lips twisted into a rueful smile. “Something like that.”

“Bucky…” Steve’s voice held a warning edge. “You’re risking a lot by playing these games.”

“It’s not a game,” Bucky shot back quietly, his voice tight. “They’re trying to undermine her, and I can’t stand by and watch.”

Steve stared at him, a mix of disbelief and reluctant understanding on his face. “And you think feigning interest in the princess will make them reveal themselves?”

Bucky shrugged, his smile strained. “Jealousy’s a powerful thing. If I act indifferent, it might embolden them. If I get you to show some interest in her, they might think they have more of an opportunity to turn her against me. The more they reveal, the more I can do.”

Steve let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his hair. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Bucky’s expression softened, the steel in his eyes giving way to a gentler determination. “I know. But I can’t let them manipulate her. I can sense that Y/N is strong, but she’s alone here. She needs to see I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep her safe—even if she doesn’t understand it yet.”

Steve was quiet for a long moment, his gaze searching Bucky’s face. “And what if it backfires? What if she thinks you’re encouraging me because you don’t care?”

“Then I’ll have to fix it.” Bucky’s voice was resolute, his gaze unwavering. “I’ll make her see. But first, I need to know who’s been feeding her lies.”

Steve’s shoulders slumped, a sigh escaping him. “You’re asking me to throw myself into the lion’s den.”

“Just for a little while,” Bucky said softly, his voice almost pleading. “Just until I get to the bottom of this.”

Steve shook his head, but a small, resigned smile tugged at his lips. “You owe me a lot for this, you know that?”

Bucky let out a quiet laugh, the tension in his posture easing slightly. “I know. I always do.”

They continued riding in silence, the moon casting long shadows along the path. Steve’s mind raced, weighing the risks and consequences, but beneath it all was a steady resolve.

“Fine,” he murmured after a long pause. “But don’t blame me if this blows up in your face.”

“I won’t. Thank you, Steve.” Bucky smiled, his expression grateful and laced with relief.

Steve nodded once, the resolve in his eyes mirroring Bucky’s. “Let’s hope this works. For her sake.”

“Yeah,” Bucky whispered, his gaze turning distant as his thoughts drifted back to you. “For her sake.”

× × × ×

The morning of your wedding dawned with a soft golden light filtering through the tall windows of your chamber, bathing the room in its warmth. You sat in front of the grand vanity, your reflection staring back at you, almost unrecognizable in its regal splendor. The maids had been working tirelessly to prepare you, their hands deftly weaving your hair into an intricate style, fastening the delicate tiara onto your head—a symbol of the new life you were about to enter.

Your gown, a masterpiece of lace and silk, shimmered in the soft light, its heavy skirts spreading around you like a cascade of moonlight. The bodice fits you like a second skin, the embroidery of gold thread intertwining with pearls, adding to the weight you already felt in your chest. You could hear the faint noises of activity from the palace below, the preparations for the ceremony well underway.

A knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. Lady Rambeau entered, her usual composed expression softening slightly as her gaze settled on you. 

“Princess,” she said, bowing her head, “the carriage is being prepared. It will be time soon.”

You nodded, your hands clenching and unclenching in your lap. Your heart was a storm, the events of the past days swirling together with the impending reality of the ceremony. This is it, you thought. There was no more time for questions, no more time for doubts.

Lady Rambeau approached, sensing the nervousness in you. “You look every bit the queen,” she said quietly, offering a rare, almost motherly smile. “His Majesty will be pleased.”

You swallowed, your heart stuttering at the mention of Bucky. Bucky. How strange it felt to think of him as both the man you had kissed, the man whose touch had ignited something deep within you, and the king you were about to marry. The man who was still so much of a mystery to you, though the connection you felt with him was undeniable.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice soft, your mind too tangled with emotion to say more.

The doors of your chamber opened again, and in walked Captain Rogers, looking as composed and stoic as always, but when his gaze landed on you, he froze, his eyes widening with something akin to awe.

For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words, and then his expression softened, his voice coming out quieter than usual. “Princess…” He cleared his throat, his gaze sweeping over you once more. “You look... radiant.”

His compliment caught you off guard, and you felt a faint blush creep up your cheeks. “Thank you, Captain,” you murmured, unable to suppress a small smile. There was something endearing about seeing the usually composed Captain Rogers momentarily taken aback.

He gave you a small, respectful nod before regaining his usual composure. “It is time,” he said, though his voice was still tinged with admiration.

Lady Rambeau stepped back, allowing you space, and Captain Rogers extended his arm toward you. “Shall I escort you?”

You hesitated only a moment before placing your hand in his. His arm was strong and steady, a rock amidst the storm that churned within you.

Captain Rogers led you down the grand staircase and out to the courtyard where the carriage awaited. Its intricate design was fit for a royal wedding, adorned with fresh flowers and draped in soft velvet. The horses were restless, sensing the energy of the day, and the servants moved with ease, making final adjustments.

As you reached the bottom step, Captain Rogers assisted you into the carriage, his hand still steady as he helped you settle into the seat. Lady Rambeau followed behind, ensuring everything was in place before stepping aside.

Captain Rogers gave you one final look before closing the door. “You will be magnificent, Princess,” he said, his tone filled with quiet confidence. “And His Majesty will be waiting.”

You smiled softly, trying to calm the flurry of nerves that danced in your chest. “Thank you, Captain.”

With a nod, he stepped back, and the driver clicked his reins, the carriage lurching forward toward the abbey where your future awaited.

The ride was quiet, the only sounds were the clatter of hooves against the cobblestone streets and the soft rustling of your gown as you shifted. Through the windows, you caught glimpses of the city—banners flying high, people lining the streets to catch a glimpse of the royal procession. Their cheers and waves were a blur, but their excitement was palpable, filling the air with a sense of anticipation.

As the carriage approached the abbey, your heart began to race. The towering spires of the grand stone building loomed ahead, casting long shadows across the cobbled courtyard. The doors of the abbey were open, revealing the grand aisle that stretched toward the altar where Bucky would be waiting.

The carriage came to a slow halt, and you took a deep breath, steadying yourself as the door opened. Captain Rogers appeared once again, offering his hand to help you down.

“Are you ready, Princess?” he asked, his tone as steady as his hand.

You nodded, though your heart felt as if it were about to burst from your chest. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Captain Rogers smiled softly, and as you stepped out of the carriage, he guided you toward the abbey’s entrance. The distance between you and the altar felt both infinite and fleeting. The weight of your gown, the gaze of the crowd—it was all overwhelming, yet the thought of Bucky waiting for you at the end of the aisle gave you strength.

The inner doors of the abbey slowly creaked open, revealing the breathtaking sight before you. The soft sound of music swelled through the vast stone hall, a hauntingly beautiful melody echoing off the towering pillars. As you took your first step inside, delicate flower petals, pale pinks and whites, drifted down from the ceiling, falling like a gentle rain around you, each petal kissing the floor at your feet.

The entire kingdom seemed to be watching, every gaze fixed on you as you stood framed by the grand doorway. Your heart raced, each beat thundering in your chest as you took in the magnitude of the moment. The aisle stretched out long before you, lined with noblemen and women from across the kingdom, their eyes wide with anticipation. But none of them mattered.

Because at the end of the aisle, waiting by the altar, stood James.

His regal form was clad in the finest ceremonial attire, gold embroidery gleaming against the dark velvet of his tunic. He looked every bit the king he was, tall and powerful, but his gaze—his gaze was solely on you. As the flower petals fluttered down, his expression softened, his lips curving into the smallest, most tender smile. His blue eyes, usually so guarded, were filled with warmth, a quiet awe that sent a rush of emotion surging through you.

You inhaled deeply, gathering your strength. You were walking alone, without an arm to hold, without anyone to guide you. This moment was yours to face. And with each step you took, you felt the weight of the gown, the tiara on your head, the delicate lace of your veil—all of it settling over you like a mantle of responsibility and power.

The crowd whispered in reverent awe, but their voices seemed like distant echoes as you walked forward, the petals beneath your feet crinkling softly with every step. The aisle felt both endless and too short, time stretching and compressing. But you kept your head high, your gaze locked on James, the silent thread between you pulling you closer with every heartbeat.

As you drew nearer, you could see the way his eyes shimmered, as if he, too, felt the enormity of the moment. His posture was regal, composed, but there was something in his expression—something that told you he was as affected by this as you were.

With each step, the world around you faded. The grandeur of the abbey, the watching crowd, the petals—they all became background to the electric pull between you and James.

Finally, you reached the end of the aisle. Your breath hitched, heart pounding, as you came to stand before him. For a moment, everything else fell away. It was just you and him.

James’s hand extended toward you, his touch warm, his smile soft and full of something deeper than words. “Y/N,” he whispered, his voice low, meant only for you. “You’re captivating.”

A flush crept up your neck, you were about to become his queen. You were about to take your place at his side—not just as a bride, but as his equal, his partner.

You gazed deeply into the most bewitching blue eyes, in the way his hand held yours so carefully, you knew that whatever doubts you had carried—about the kingdom, about him—they had no place here. Today, there was only you and Bucky, standing together at the threshold of something far greater than either of you could have imagined.

Bucky’s eyes never left yours, as if he were searching for something—reassurance, perhaps, or some unspoken promise. His fingers, warm and steady, curled gently around yours, grounding you in the midst of your racing thoughts.

The officiant’s voice cut through the air, ceremonious and strong, pulling you back to the present, though Bucky’s gaze still tethered you in place.

“Today, we bear witness to the union of our King, James Buchanan Barnes the third and his chosen bride, Princess Y/N of Zienna, a bond that not only joins two hearts but solidifies the foundation upon which this kingdom shall flourish.”

The words washed over you, powerful yet distant, as if they belonged to someone else’s story. And as you stood there, facing Bucky, you realized that while this was the culmination of the court’s expectations and the kingdom’s future, it was also more than that.

It was about him.

And you.

Bucky’s thumb brushed lightly against the back of your hand, a small, intimate gesture that sent warmth flooding through you. You met his gaze, and in that moment, something shifted. The doubt, the fear that had haunted you for weeks, seemed to dissolve under the intensity of his silent promise.

“Princess Y/N,” the officiant’s voice drew you back, “do you take King James as your husband, to honor and stand by him for the good of this kingdom and for all the days of your life?”

Your heart stilled for a fraction of a second, and then, with a steady breath, you nodded.

“I do,” you said softly. It wasn’t just a vow to the kingdom or its expectations; it was a vow to Bucky, the man beneath the crown, the man you were beginning to see more clearly with every passing moment.

The officiant turned to Bucky. “And do you, Your Majesty, take Princess Y/N as your wife, to cherish, protect, and honor her, for the good of this kingdom and for all the days of your life?”

Bucky’s gaze never wavered. His voice, low and steady, seemed to echo through the hall, even though he spoke just for you. “I do.”

As the officiant began the final blessings, you barely heard the words. All that mattered was Bucky’s hand in yours, the gentle press of his thumb against your skin, the warmth of his presence. And in his eyes, you saw it clearly—this was not just duty for him either. There was something deeper, something neither of you had fully acknowledged yet, but it was there, undeniable and magnetic.

“By the power vested in me,” the officiant declared, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

The abbey seemed to hold its breath. The world, once again, shrank to just the two of you.

Bucky took a slow step closer, his hand still entwined with yours. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before meeting your eyes again, something flickering in his expression—anticipation. He leaned down, his movements careful, as though savoring the moment, and pressed a kiss to your lips.

It wasn’t a ceremonial kiss. It wasn’t for show.

It was the kiss of a man who had been waiting, yearning for this moment. His lips were warm, his touch tender yet filled with a quiet passion that left your heart racing all over again. The crowd faded away once more, the applause distant and faint, as you melted into him, your hand tightening around his.

When Bucky pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re mine now,” he whispered softly, just for you. There was no arrogance in his voice, only a raw honesty that sent shivers down your spine.

“I am,” you whispered back, your voice barely audible, but the words hung between you, carrying a promise that went far beyond this day.

Bucky’s lips quirked into a small smile, his eyes alight with something warm, something real. And as you both turned to face the crowd, ready to walk back down the aisle as husband and wife, you knew—whatever challenges lay ahead, whatever doubts or fears still lingered, you would face them together.

× × × × 

The grand hall was alive with music and laughter, the sounds of celebration echoing off the high ceilings. Glittering chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow across the room, illuminating the hundreds of guests who had gathered to celebrate the royal union. The air was filled with the scent of fresh flowers and fine wine, mingling with the soft murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.

You stood at the edge of the dance floor, a glass of champagne in hand, watching as couples twirled in elegant dances, their gowns and suits a blur of color and movement. The weight of the tiara on your head reminded you of your new role, but it felt strangely lighter now, after the vows had been spoken, after the kiss that still lingered on your lips.

Across the room, Bucky stood among a group of nobles, listening to their conversation with polite attentiveness. But his gaze kept drifting back to you, his watchful eyes never leaving your figure for too long. There was a tension in the way he stood, a quiet possessiveness in the way he observed you, as if even from this distance, he wanted to be sure you were safe, that you were comfortable.

You could feel his gaze burning on you, and it sent a flutter through your chest. He hadn’t been far from your side all night, his presence a constant reassurance, a steady anchor amidst the whirlwind of festivities. And though you hadn’t had much time to speak since the ceremony, every glance, every brief touch of his hand against yours, felt like a promise that this night was only the beginning.

A soft voice at your side drew your attention back to the present. “Your Majesty.”

Lady Rambeau appeared at your elbow, her expression as composed as ever, through her eyes held a hint of warmth. “There are a few ladies I’d like you to meet,” she said, her tone formal but respectful.

You nodded, grateful for the distraction. “Of course.”

She gestured toward a small group of women approaching from the other side of the room. As they drew nearer, you recognized them from their noble houses, each of them a prominent figure in the kingdom. But there was something more about them—an air of confidence, of grace and power—that set them apart from the other courtiers.

“These are some of the finest ladies in court,” Lady Rambeau continued, her voice lowering slightly as they approached. “They will be valuable allies to you, my Queen.”

The first woman stepped forward, her striking red hair catching the light as she offered you a small, respectful curtsy. “Lady Natasha Romanoff, Your Majesty,” she introduced herself, her voice smooth and controlled, though her sharp eyes seemed to take in everything at once. “It is an honor to serve the queen.”

You smiled, feeling the weight of her words and the strength behind them. “The honor is mine, Lady Natasha. I look forward to getting to know you better.”

Next, a woman with dark, piercing eyes and an aura of quiet intensity stepped forward, offering a graceful curtsy. “Lady Wanda Maximoff,” she said, her voice soft but filled with a certain gravity. “If ever you have the need for my skills, my Queen, they are at your disposal.”

You nodded, sensing something deeper in her words, though you couldn’t quite place it. “Thank you, Lady Wanda. I appreciate your support.”

Finally, a woman with an air of calm authority and intelligence stepped forward, her blonde hair elegantly styled. She smiled warmly at you, her eyes twinkling with a quiet humor. “Lady Virginia Potts, Your Majesty. I oversee many of the palace affairs, so if you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

You returned her smile, feeling instantly at ease with her. “I will certainly keep that in mind, Lady Virginia. Thank you.”

Lady Rambeau stepped back slightly, allowing you to take in the moment, surrounded by these powerful women who had now become your allies. There was a sense of reassurance in their presence, a reminder that while this role may be daunting, you were not alone.

As you exchanged a few more pleasantries, you felt Bucky’s gaze on you once again, a protective and possessive energy that seemed to radiate from him even across the crowded hall. You glanced over your shoulder, catching his eyes from across the room.

He gave you a small, knowing smile, his eyes flicking toward Lady Natasha, Wanda, and Pepper as if to acknowledge their presence before returning to you. There was a promise in his gaze—a promise that he would always be watching over you, no matter where you were or who you were with.

You turned toward Natasha, who was observing the room with sharp, calculating eyes. "It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?" you asked, your voice soft but holding a hint of amusement. The grandeur of the evening, the weight of the crown on your head, the people all watching—it was overwhelming, and yet, there was a certain thrill in it.

Natasha’s lips tugged into a small smile, her gaze flicking back to you. “It is. But I imagine you’re used to holding your own.” 

“I’m learning quickly, I suppose.” You smiled back, appreciating the compliment. 

“I don’t doubt it,” Natasha replied smoothly. “You’ll find the court can be... an interesting place. But if you play your cards right, you’ll have allies in all the right places.” There was a sharpness to her words, a subtle warning about the political nature of the people around you. But beneath it, you could sense her offering her support—her expertise.

Pepper leaned in slightly, her tone warm and filled with humor. “What Natasha means is that while the court can be a bit of a battlefield, there’s no need to navigate it alone. The three of us, well,” she gave a small shrug, “we’ve had our fair share of skirmishes.”

Wanda nodded, her dark eyes studying you with quiet intensity. “The court is full of whispers and schemes. People will say anything to sway your favor.” Her voice was soft, but there was a firm resolve behind it. “But when you surround yourself with people who have your back, the noise becomes just that—noise.”

You took a sip of your champagne, letting their words sink in. It was comforting, in a way, to know that these women had been through the same games you were just beginning to experience. You had already seen the sharp edges of the court with Sharon and Leah—how they used rumors and backhanded comments to try to shake you. 

Pepper glanced at you, her eyes twinkling with understanding. “I’m sure you’ve already had a taste of how competitive some of the women can be.” She raised an eyebrow knowingly. “Sharon and Leah, I imagine?”

A soft laugh escaped you before you could stop it, and you nodded. “You could say that. They’ve been… welcoming in their own way.”

“Welcoming. . .That’s one way to put it.” Wanda exchanged a glance with Natasha, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

“Don’t worry about them. They’re just... testing the waters. Seeing if you’re as strong as you look.” She paused, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “I have a feeling they’ll be disappointed.”

 “I certainly hope so.” You couldn’t help but grin at Natasha’s confidence in you.

Pepper leaned in a little closer, her voice dropping slightly, though there was still a playful edge to it. “If you ever need a little extra... assistance in handling those types, just let us know. We’ve got plenty of experience dealing with difficult people.”

Wanda’s gaze softened, sensing your internal struggle. “Don’t let them intimidate you. You are the queen now, and that holds power. But more importantly, you have us.” She gestured to the women around you. “We’ve all been through our own trials. We know what it’s like to navigate these treacherous waters.”

Natasha nodded in agreement, her voice quieter now, more sincere. “And we’ve made it through to the other side. You will too.”

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at their words. It wasn’t just the alliance they were offering—it was genuine friendship, the kind of support that went beyond titles and formalities.

“Thank you,” you said softly, your voice laced with gratitude. “I didn’t expect to find this kind of... connection here.”

Pepper placed a gentle hand on your arm, her expression kind. “We look out for each other. That’s how we survive.”

They exchanged glances, their shared smiles filled with a mixture of amusement and affection, and you felt a deep sense of belonging in their presence. It wasn’t just about surviving court anymore—it was about thriving.

Pepper gave a mock sigh, shaking her head with a smile. “Honestly, I’m surprised there hasn’t been any drama tonight. Though, with Sharon and Leah, it’s only a matter of time.”

Wanda chuckled softly. “Perhaps they’re waiting for the right moment. You know they love an audience.”

Just as the laughter between you and the ladies began to fade, a warm presence approached from behind, sending a shiver of awareness down your spine. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. The subtle shift in the air, the quiet command of the space—Bucky.

You glanced over your shoulder, your heart giving an unbidden flutter as his deep blue eyes met yours. He wore that easy smile, the one that made it seem like he was perfectly comfortable with the world, though you knew there was more to it than that.

"Ladies," Bucky greeted smoothly, giving a small but respectful nod to Natasha, Wanda, and Pepper. "I hope I’m not interrupting anything too important." His gaze lingered on you, a playful glint in his eyes.

Natasha raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Nothing you couldn’t improve upon, Your Majesty.”

Bucky chuckled, his eyes flicking to each of them before settling back on you. “In that case, I wonder if I might steal my wife away for a dance?”

You could feel the amusement radiating from the women beside you, but it was Pepper who spoke first, her tone light and teasing. “By all means, Your Majesty. Just don’t keep her too long. We were just getting to the fun part.”

Wanda smirked, adding, “We wouldn’t want her to forget where her real loyalties lie.”

“I’ll do my best to have her back before you can miss her.” Bucky chuckled again, his hand extended toward you, palm up, his gaze softening as it locked onto yours.

You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips, warmth spreading through you as you placed your hand in his. His fingers curled around yours, firm yet gentle, and the simple touch sent a wave of anticipation through you.

“I’ll be back soon,” you promised the ladies, though your attention was already fully on Bucky.

Bucky gently led you away from the group, to the dance floor, you felt the world begin to fade away, leaving only the two of you.

The music swelled around you, the soft notes of the waltz filling the air like a gentle breeze, but it was Bucky’s presence that consumed you. His hand was warm and sure at your waist, the other cradling your hand as he guided you effortlessly across the floor. His touch, the closeness, made your heart race with an unfamiliar but welcomed thrill.

You looked up at him, meeting his gaze, and the corners of his mouth lifted into that boyish smile that always made your pulse quicken.

“You seem deep in thought, Y/N,” he teased lightly, his voice a soft rumble, the glint in his eyes mischievous.

“I was thinking,” you replied, feigning seriousness, “how lucky I am that you haven’t stepped on my gown yet.”

Bucky chuckled, the sound low and warm, and without warning, he spun you, pulling you back to him with a flourish that made you gasp in surprise. You stumbled slightly, but his arms tightened around you, pulling you against his chest.

“I’d never let that happen,” he murmured, his lips dangerously close to your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine. “You’re far too precious for me to misstep.”

Your laughter bubbled up, light and carefree, filling the space between you. It was strange how easy it was to laugh with him, how quickly he could disarm your nerves, making the weight of the evening feel like nothing.

As the music slowed, he leaned in and placed a soft kiss on your temple, the tender gesture sending a wave of warmth through you. His hand, still at your waist, slipped slightly lower, pulling you closer as he whispered, “I think you owe me a dance every day for the rest of our lives, don’t you think?”

You grinned up at him, your heart soaring. “Every day? I thought kings were supposed to be busy ruling kingdoms.”

Bucky’s eyes gleamed with affection, his lips brushing your forehead this time. “For you, I’ll always find the time.”

Before you could respond, he spun you again, your skirts flaring out around you as you twirled. You giggled, completely caught up in the moment, in him. When you came back to him, he caught you easily, his grip firm and strong, and you couldn’t stop the laughter that escaped you.

“There’s that laugh. You should smile more often. It suits you.” He smiled down at you, his gaze tender, his thumb brushing your cheek. 

Your cheeks flushed under his gaze, the butterflies in your stomach refusing to settle. His eyes held something deeper, something that made you feel as though you were the only two people in the room.

Without another word, he leaned down and kissed the corner of your mouth, his lips lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. Then, as if unable to resist, he placed another kiss on your cheek, then one at your jaw, and finally one just below your ear.

“James!” you gasped, though your laughter betrayed you as you squirmed in his arms, the playful affection catching you off guard.

He laughed, a low, rich sound, his breath warm against your skin as he whispered, “I can’t help myself. You look too alluring tonight.”

You couldn’t stop the blush that crept up your neck, but you leaned into him, resting your head against his chest for just a moment, allowing yourself to melt into the warmth of his embrace. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, a comforting rhythm that matched the sway of your bodies as you danced.

As the music slowed to a gentle hum, Bucky’s hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the soft skin there. He tilted your chin up, his eyes soft but filled with that same playful affection.

“Have I told you tonight how lucky I am to have you by my side?” His voice was a low whisper, meant just for you.

You smiled, feeling your heart swell. “No, this is the first.”

“I’ll make it a hundred before the night is over.” He grinned, his thumb gently tracing your jawline. 

Before you could reply, he pressed his lips to yours, the kiss slow, tender, and full of unspoken promises. It wasn’t the hurried, stolen kiss from before—it was on purpose as if he were reminding you that despite all the eyes watching, this moment was just yours.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, he whispered, “I’ve been waiting all night to be with you.”

“And now you are,” you murmured, feeling the warmth of his breath against your lips.

His lips brushed yours again in response, a feather-light touch that left you breathless. And as the music faded and the evening stretched on, the two of you swayed together, the rest of the world melting away in the warmth of his touch and the quiet, intimate moments you shared.

For the first time all night, you weren’t just the queen and her king. You were simply Bucky and Y/N—two souls bound by something far deeper than titles or crowns.

× × × × 

From your position on the dance floor with Bucky, you caught glimpses of the other guests enjoying the festivities, but it was Captain Rogers who caught your attention. He stood near the edge of the room, his eyes drifting—not to the crowds or the dancing couples—but to Lady Natasha.

For most of the evening, you had noticed him, his gaze lingering on her with a quiet, almost tentative intensity. Steve Rogers was many things—brave, honorable, and steadfast—but when it came to matters of the heart, it seemed he was not as confident. Natasha, for her part, appeared entirely unaware, laughing and speaking with Wanda and Pepper, graceful as always.

But then there was Sharon, standing not far from Steve, her eyes on him, watching his every move. You could see it in her posture, the subtle tilt of her head, the way her fingers gripped her glass—she thought his attention was on her. It wasn’t difficult to guess where this was heading, and the tension of it made your heart race for reasons entirely different from the dance.

Beside you, Bucky must have sensed your distraction, because he leaned down and murmured, “What’s caught your eye, my Queen?”

You smiled, tilting your head slightly toward Steve. “I think Captain Rogers is about to make a move.”

Bucky followed your gaze, his lips quirking into a knowing grin. “About time. He’s been staring at her like a lost puppy all night.”

You chuckled softly, watching as Steve squared his shoulders, his resolve clearly building as he took a deep breath and started toward Natasha. The room seemed to slow, the moment stretched out as he approached her, his expression carefully composed but with a hint of nervousness beneath the surface.

But just as Steve was a few steps away from Natasha, Sharon stepped forward, a bright smile lighting up her face, clearly under the impression that he was coming for her. She reached out, her fingers brushing his arm in what she must have thought was a gentle, flirtatious gesture.

“Captain Rogers,” Sharon greeted warmly, her voice lilting. “I was just wondering if—”

Steve, clearly caught off guard, blinked at her in confusion, his eyes flickering quickly from Sharon to Natasha, who had just turned and was watching the interaction with a raised eyebrow.

Sharon’s smile faltered slightly, but she pressed on, her tone hopeful. “Would you like to dance?”

Steve's gaze flickered toward Natasha, who stood not far from him, her expression composed but with that ever-present sharpness in her eyes. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but then his eyes caught sight of Sharon’s father, Lord Carter, watching the scene unfold from the corner of the room. The older man’s gaze was piercing, his posture stern and authoritative.

Steve hesitated, his throat tightening. He was well aware of the power Lord Carter wielded within the court, the weight of his opinion, and how much sway he held over many matters—both spoken and unspoken. His glance darted back to Sharon’s expectant expression, her eyes wide with anticipation.

For a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold its breath. Steve’s jaw clenched, his shoulders rigid as he fought with himself internally. And then, as if a decision was made for him, he forced a smile and nodded. 

“Yes, of course.” he said simply, offering his hand.

Sharon’s face lit up with a brilliant smile, and she slipped her hand into his, her gaze flickering triumphantly to Natasha for just a fraction of a second. Lord Carter nodded approvingly from his spot, his face easing into a look of satisfaction.

But as Steve led Sharon to the dance floor, his eyes found Natasha one last time. The disappointment in her gaze, so well hidden behind her cool demeanor, pierced him deeper than any wound ever had.

Bucky’s hand remained steady on your waist as you moved together, his gaze focused on you. But your attention wavered, drawn back to where Steve and Sharon now stood together on the dance floor. The way Sharon’s lips curved into a self-satisfied smile made something coil unpleasantly in your chest.

You kept your expression serene, eyes trained on them with the same polite interest expected of a queen surveying her court. The facade was perfect—no one would guess that beneath the surface, your feelings toward Lady Carter were far from friendly.

“Everything alright?” Bucky’s low murmur brought your focus back to him. He was watching you, his eyes filled with curiosity. He hadn’t noticed the brief flicker of disapproval in your gaze, hadn’t caught the way your fingers tightened slightly against his shoulder.

You smiled up at him, soft and unassuming. “Of course,” you replied lightly, matching his steps with effortless grace. “I was simply observing our Captain. It’s not often we see him… in such a position.”

Bucky’s gaze shifted briefly over your shoulder, a smirk tugging at his lips. “No, it’s not,” he agreed, amusement lacing his tone. “Poor Steve, stuck dancing with Lady Carter when it’s clear his mind is elsewhere.”

Your smile grew a touch tighter, but you nodded, letting out a soft, almost indifferent laugh. “Yes, quite the predicament,” you mused, keeping your voice light and even.

You knew Bucky wasn’t probing further—he was simply sharing an observation, unaware of the way Sharon’s presence grated against you like nails on silk. And you intended to keep it that way.

He spun you gently, your skirts sweeping elegantly around you, and you caught sight of Sharon’s face once more. She was speaking animatedly, leaning just a bit too close to Steve, clearly basking in whatever illusion she’d spun for herself.

You looked away before Bucky could follow your line of sight, turning your gaze to meet his instead. 

“Do you think they make a good match?” you asked the question casually and laced with just the right amount of interest.

Bucky shrugged slightly, his grip on you unwavering as he guided you through another smooth turn. 

“Steve can decide for himself,” he replied, a neutral smile on his lips. “But it’s obvious where his heart lies.”

You hummed softly, nodding as if merely considering his words. “I suppose so,” you murmured, then shifted the topic with ease, guiding the conversation away from Steve and Sharon.

As Bucky’s attention shifted fully to your words, your expression remained the picture of calm. Yet inwardly, your gaze flickered back to the dance floor, watching as Sharon leaned in, whispering something into Steve’s ear.

Your smile didn’t falter, not even for a second. But the disdain simmering beneath it was a quiet, insistent thing, buried beneath layers of grace and composure. Sharon could have her little victory tonight—it didn’t matter.

Because you knew exactly where Steve’s gaze would turn when the music ended, and it wouldn’t be on the lady currently in his arms.

× × × × 

The carriage wheels creaked softly beneath you as they rolled over the gravel path, the only sound filling the heavy silence between you and Bucky. You sat across from each other, the space that had once felt warm now stretched and distant. Bucky’s gaze was fixed out the window, his profile bathed in the soft moonlight, but his expression was unreadable. You had tried to break the silence once or twice, but each attempt had fallen flat, met with a polite nod or a quiet murmur. The joy and excitement from the wedding already felt like a distant memory, replaced by the weight of unspoken words and something heavier that lingered between you. The estate loomed ahead, but instead of excitement, a growing unease settled deep within your chest.

The estate stretched out before you, magnificent and imposing. The manicured gardens glistened in the fading light, and the grandeur of the manor seemed to stretch endlessly, its windows glowing like embers. As the carriage halted, Bucky disembarked first, extending a hand toward you. His touch, though familiar, carried an unusual stiffness that unsettled you.

As you stepped down, you glanced at him, uncertainty swirling in your chest. "Where exactly are we?"

Bucky’s lips curved slightly, the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. His gaze drifted to the manor. "Well, what do you think?"

You took in the estate’s breathtaking beauty, momentarily distracted by its splendor. "It’s magnificent. Who resides here?"

Bucky’s gaze softened as he turned back to you. "I had it refurbished just for you."

Your heart stuttered in your chest, a warm flutter of surprise catching you off guard. "This is our home?" you asked, hope threading through your voice. "James..."

But Bucky’s expression faltered, his tone more measured. "It’s your home."

Confusion washed over you, your brow furrowing. "My home? What does that mean?"

"This is where you will live." Bucky’s eyes flickered briefly, avoiding yours.

A chill ran through you as his words sank in. "I’m not sure I follow," you said slowly, your voice laced with uncertainty. "If this is my house, then surely it is ours as well?"

Bucky’s face remained impassive, though his tone was distant. "Technically, St. Vincent’s Palace is our residence. But here, this is where you will stay."

Your pulse quickened. "And where will you stay?" you asked, feeling the weight of his reply before he even spoke.

Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly. "I have an estate in Annecy."

A sinking feeling settled in your stomach. "So, you intend to live in Annecy?"

"Yes."

"And I’m to live here?"

"Yes."

Your chest tightened as you stared at him, disbelief clouding your thoughts. "But it’s our wedding night."

"It’s late," Bucky said, calmly, almost too calm. "You’ve been traveling. You should go inside, meet the staff, rest. You’ll need your strength for the coming days."

You shook your head, frustration bubbling to the surface. "No, James. It’s our wedding night. We’ve just been married." Your voice dropped, your cheeks flushing slightly. "Aren’t we supposed to spend the night together? Is that not what married couples do?"

Bucky’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Are you asking me to perform my marital duties to you?"

You blinked, caught off guard. "I’m not asking anything," you replied, your voice wavering. "I just thought... Isn’t this the night we’re meant to spend together? My governess always said that’s how it’s done. . . That it’s important."

He let out a heavy sigh, the tension in his shoulders palpable. "Very well," he muttered, turning abruptly toward the entrance. "I’ll stay then."

"James!" you called, quickening your pace to follow him.

"I said I’ll stay," he repeated curtly, his strides long and deliberate. "Are you coming or not?"

The staff clapped politely as you entered the grand foyer together, but your mind was elsewhere, trying to make sense of what was happening. 

"James, slow down," you pleaded, your voice rising as you hurried after him. "I can’t keep up with you."

He came to a sudden halt, turning to face you, frustration etched into every line of his face. "You wanted me in the bedroom. Isn’t that what you were asking for?"

You froze at his words, the intensity of his gaze making your heart race. "No."

His brow furrowed. "No?"

"Not if you’re going to act like this," you said, your voice trembling. "You’re upset. What have I done? If I’ve offended you in any way, I’m sorry—"

Bucky’s expression softened, but there was still tension in his stance, his left hand flexing. "You haven’t done anything wrong," he said quietly, though his voice carried the weight of something unspoken. "It’s just... I’m comfortable in Annecy."

Your heart clenched. "Then let’s go to Annecy together."

Bucky shook his head. "No. You’re staying here."

"Why?" you asked, searching his face for answers. "You don’t want me to go with you?"

"This is your home," he said firmly, his tone final.

You felt the distance between you grow with every word. "My home. . ."

"Yes."

Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy. "I see."

Bucky exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he nodded. "Good. Then everything is settled."

But nothing felt settled. Not at all. "No. No, it is not settled." you said, your voice cracking in utter confusion. One moment he couldn’t get his hands off you, this sudden change was too difficult to let go. "James, is this what our marriage will be? Us living separately?"

"Yes," he replied, his voice steady but detached.

"Why?" you whispered, tears threatening to well in your eyes.

He hesitated for a moment before answering, "I thought it would be... easier this way."

"For whom?" you asked, the pain in your voice evident. "For you? Or for me?"

Bucky’s patience frayed, his tone sharpening. "I’m not having this discussion with you."

You stepped closer, your voice pleading. "I just want to understand. Please, tell me why—"

"I don’t need to explain anything!" Bucky’s voice thundered, his frustration boiling over. "I’m the one who decides, and I have decided. Are you forgetting that I am your KING?!"

His words hit you like a physical blow, your heart shattering. You stepped back, your voice trembling as you dropped into a low curtsy. 

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," you said quietly, your head bowed in deference. "I thought you were just James."

Bucky’s expression fell, regret flickering across his face. He reached out for you, his voice softer now. "Y/N, please—"

But you pulled back, avoiding his touch. The guard you thought you’d lowered, the tentative trust you were building—everything slammed back up, a fortress around your heart. You were foolish enough to think you were getting to know him better.

 It was clear now how wrong you were.

"May I take my leave, Your Majesty? Or do you have more to say?" Your voice was brittle.

Bucky’s hand dropped to his side, a look of defeat crossing his features. "Y/N... you don’t understand, this is for the best."

You swallowed hard, forcing a brittle smile as you nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "Whatever you wish. I shall rest now. I wish you a safe trip to Annecy."

With that, you turned and walked away, the echo of your footsteps haunting the grand hall as you left him standing there, the distance between you stretching wider than ever.

Love always blew up in your face, shattering whatever good you’d dared to believe in. You were a fool to believe that it wouldn’t go south in the worst way this quickly.

Each step you took, you buried the yearning, the desperation to reach out and demand more from him—from what you could be together.

Instead, you rebuilt the walls. You raised the drawbridge.

And you vowed to tread carefully with your emotions when it comes to him.

[undiscovered-horizon]

In Emerald Hearts, Emerald Minds - Nikolai Lantsov x Reader

[mentions of unwanted advances + suggested groping + suggestive/sexual (consensual) themes]

☽ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ☾

SUMMARY: When Vasily asks you to forget his half-brother and marry him instead, you escape the Little Palace along Alina. Nikolai realizes something strange is going on when Kaz mentions seeing a similar emerald ring on the woman that came with the Sun Summoner. With how much you and Nikolai have been running in circles to find each other, the reunion aboard Volkvolny feels almost fated.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 4.6k

>>Grishaverse-inspired playlist&lt;<

It feels like the Winter Fete has been going on forever. The champagne keeps on being poured, the guests keep on dancing and the circus acts just keep on performing as though tomorrow is a mere mirage, a concept of a certain time period that never actually comes. Inside those walls of gold and marble, the misery devouring all of Ravka seems like nothing beyond a mad nightmare - something so removed from reality, it’s hilarious in its ridiculousness. Everyone is so carefree and happy you almost take their joy as your own.

Almost.

The orchestra begins playing Waltz of the Flowers and you feel your throat tighten. Despite doing your best not to, your mind relives that fateful night when everything changed. For the longest time, you’d been claiming that the change was for the better but now, standing alone for another year in a row and watching the dashing aristocrats spin to the music, you’re not so sure anymore.

“You really need to stop doing this,” Nikolai says firmly. Although his tone is decisive and clearly unwilling to accept defiance, a pronounced hint of amusement lives between his words - a thread of light-heartedness, one might say.

Your eyebrows gently furrow. “Doing what?”

“Smiling at me like that. Any longer and I might ask you to marry me.”

It feels like you’re about to burst at the seams. Trying to contain your emotions, and failing at it quite horribly, you bite your lower lip. “I might say yes.”

“Where have you gone, Kolya?” you whisper under your breath. The gloss of vacancy covering your eyes blurs the dancing bodies into one mass of faceless strangers. But it also makes you not notice someone approaching you.

“I find it quite admirable.”

Vasily’s voice startles you. To your now-gone relief, you didn’t have the displeasure of running into him all evening - until now. If you were to list all of the things about the older Lantsov son that makes your skin crawl, you’d be done by the time another Winter Fete is organized. The top of the list, however, deserves to be mentioned as it’s an inseparable part of your every interaction with the prince: he’s quite adamant and crude in his desire to be more than just a future brother-in-law to you.

“Excuse me?” you stutter out.

That patronizing look on his face is now accompanied by a cocky half-grin as he realizes he caught you off-guard. “Your devotion to my brother. For all we know, he might be already dead, Saints’ protect him.”

“Don’t even say that!” you hiss at him. Right after, you look around to check whether one of the guests has noticed your unpleasant exchange.

Despite what you’ve just said, you know he’s right. There’s no way you can be sure that your Kolya is either dead or alive. Perhaps this is the detail further ripping your heart apart - you don’t know anything about his fate; you’re mourning, although you’re yet to see the coffin. You haven’t for a few years now and each passing month of silence only made court gossip more cruel and bold.

“All I’m saying, dearest,” Vasily begins quietly as his hand drags along your arm, “is that the moment the news of Nikolai’s death reaches the Grand Palace, you’ll be thrown out. On the other hand, I can make you the Queen of Ravka. And unlike my brother, I won’t disappear off the face of the Earth and forget about his beloved lady.”

The word of endearment is dripping with sarcasm as it leaves his chapped lips. His breath reeks of alcohol and you unknowingly turn your head away. Vasily seems to think you’re about to leave his side, so his hand tightly grips your arm. The hold is almost bruising. He yanks you even closer towards himself.

“Kolya hasn’t forgotten about me,” you say in a shaky voice. Maybe he’s not as foolish as he appears and Vasily is genuinely trying to break you down.

The prince studies your face for a moment, definitely noticing how shaken you are. His eyes have the strangest glint to them - something between desire and contempt. “Is that so?” he barely stifles a grim laugh. “He would have written you a letter if that were true, no?”

Tears sting your eyes. Vasily is certainly smarter, or at least more cruel, than he lets on. He knows exactly what to say to get into your head. It’s a startling difference between him and Nikolai - only one of them does what he can to keep a smile on your face. Well, did.

His dirty, rough hand grabs your chin. Vasily forces you to look at him, his smile wavers upon noticing your desperation. “Consider your options, зайка,” he purrs out. The prince’s other hand trails your face. “The choice is yours.”

A tear falls down your cheek. You feel it rolling across your skin and you silently hope the guests surrounding you are watching this scene. Then, you lean in even closer to Vasily’s face. The whisper leaves your lips like a viper’s venomous hiss: "I will marry you the day you lay his dead body at my feet."

To your surprise, Vasily drops his hands and takes a step back. Despite the self-assured smile on his face, you can see the fury inside his eyes. “As you wish.” He bows curtly, turns on his heel and marches away, undoubtedly looking for another glass of alcohol and a lady naive enough to warm his bed.

The palace suddenly feels stuffy and overcrowded; the music is too loud, the plethora of smells make your head spin.

Outside. You need to get outside.

Bumping into several guests and mumbling half-coherent apologies, you run through the halls of the Little Palace. When the cold, night air hits your flushed cheeks, only then do you stop. Taking in a deep breath, you can actually feel your thoughts becoming clearer. 

With each gust of freezing wind, all the anger and sadness is leaving your shaking body. Vasily just wanted to get a rise out of you and, as much as you don’t want to admit it, he succeeded. Unlike he claims, Nikolai surely is alive. Maybe bruised or sick or not sleeping well but as long as there’s no news about him being dead, he is as alive as one can be. The same starry sky hangs above your and his heads. Perhaps, in this small moment of longing, he’s thinking about you too. Wherever he is.

A tired sigh leaves your lips. You’re about to turn around and go back inside when a silhouette moving in the night catches your attention. The shape is swift although careful like a lizard approaching a fly. You see them looking around before running for another few meters only to hide behind a bush or piece of architecture.

Curious and a little scared, you follow the stranger towards one of the carriages. Quietly, you get close enough to grab their wrist. The shape lets out a gasp and turns around to look at you.

“Alina?!” you whisper. What in Saints’ mercy is she doing? You look at her warm, casual clothes and the bag on her back. “Are you running away?”

“I need to leave,” she answers equally quietly. Her voice as well as her stare is filled with certainty - she’s convinced beyond reasonable doubt this is the right thing to do. “Please, don’t try to stop me.”

You let go of her hand. “Stop you?” A dry chuckle leaves your lips. “I’m coming with you.”

“What?” she deadpans. Alina is staring at you with a vacant stare and her mouth slightly agape. Apparently exchanging royal comforts for hay and stolen apples is unthinkable.

“If I have to spend one more day around Vasily, I will murder someone.”

Alina slowly nods her head - she can definitely understand the sentiment. A dimwitted Fjerdan would have more charm than the older prince. But then she squints her eyes, looking at you with a sense of scepticism.

“Out there, there won’t be warm beds and three-course dinners, you know?”

“I know,” you answer with a careless shrug. Loitering and wandering isn’t for ladies of your sort, it’s like throwing a finless fish into a tank with sharks. Despite that, you’re quite convinced the means justify the end, at least in this scenario. “But out there is my Kolya. And I’m done politely waiting for him.”

A shadow of sadness covers her face. If there’s anyone who can understand your plight, it’s her. In fact, she is luckier than you - she saw her lover maybe an hour ago. Pleasant or unpleasant, the meeting confirmed to her that Mal is at least alive. It’s not a privilege you could afford.

“Then let’s go,” she says to you before opening the chest in the back of the carriage. Forgetting all of your etiquette and social standing, you climb into the compartment with her. Towards adventure or death, you’re going somewhere.

“The ring gave you away,” Kaz announces. “It’s too expensive for a bodyguard.”

Jesper knits his eyebrows together, suddenly remembering something. He leans towards Kaz but speaks a little too loudly for the question to be inconspicuous: “Didn’t that girl wear the same-”

When Kaz’s cold glare meets Jesper’s squinted eyes, the dark-skinned man immediately closes his mouth halfway through the question. Both of them sit back as they were but the cat is already out of the bag. Well, not entirely - half of it is peeking out of the metaphorical sack.

Nikolai looks between them with unmissable suspicion. Although he’s heard enough to be aware of the possibility that the Sun Summoner isn’t travelling by herself, this is the first time either of the Crows admits it.

His heart begins to beat slightly quicker: Alina run away from the Little Palace along with another woman and that lady was wearing a royal jewel at the time. As long as Vasily didn’t lose his signet on one of his distasteful escapades, the course of events points to only one person - you. Shoving his restless excitement into the deepest chasms of his heart, Nikolai manages to remain his composure:

“Who was wearing that ring?” The prince-turned-privateer unknowingly fiddles with the heavy jewellery on his finger. Noticing the Crows’ reluctance, he makes them an offer: “If you tell me who you saw wearing an emerald ring, I might, say, give you ten minutes to escape.” Nikolai vaguely gestures to the closed window on his right-hand side.

Kaz knows there’s no point in lying any longer. The man in front of him is not only well-informed but also smarter than he looks, making the Crow wonder whether he also knows the answer to this question but prefers to play some kind of a game. In any event, he’s done his part of the deal and his ex-accomplices are left to their own devices. Additionally, he could really use those ten minutes. “A young woman that accompanied Alina Starkov. High-born, confident, decisive. Not a Grisha as far as I know.”

“Not a Lantsov, obviously,” Jesper chips in.

Brekker’s keen eyes catch the barely noticeable change in Sturmhond’s expression - the corner of his mouth merely stuttered up and down but it is enough to tell Kaz as much as he needs:

“You know her.”

Know her? If Nikolai had a weaker grip on his emotions at the moment, he’d laugh until his stomach and diaphragm hurt and then he’ll burst with laughter once more, unspeakably joyous that he might get to see her sooner than he thought. Yes, he does know her but in the way heart knows blood and lungs know air. She’s the ligament that keeps his bones together, the fibres that construct his muscles, the very blood that runs in his veins. Does the Moon simply know the stars? Do trees know their roots and branches?

But for now, he needs to stay focused. 

“Not really,” Sturmhond answers while scrunching his nose. “Many aristocrats wear a ring like that. While I may know of a lot of them, I hardly know anything about them.”

Kaz fights back a mocking half-grin begging to twist his thin lips. “I’d argue that an emerald in Ravka is a rather rare gem.”

“Hers is probably genuine. Mine’s stolen.”

Silence falls between the three men. Nikolai and Kaz are staring each other down, battling in some kind of war of wits and nerves, waiting for the other to give in. Jesper is stealing glances at both of them, feeling the cold tension rise in the air.

Against his deep-seated desire, Kaz doesn’t inquire further about the emeralds or the strange coincidence that the two enigmatic characters wearing them might know each other. He sits back in the chair, his shoulders visibly drop. As much as he’d love to dig deeper, he’d much rather get out of here and reclaim his freedom that is now endangered.

“Well, gentlemen,” Nikolai begins in an upbeat tone, “your ten minutes start now.”

Without saying anything else, he leaves the room. Only then, when the dark, wooden door close behind him, does he let suppressed emotions wash over him. A quiet chuckle brushes past his lips and for a moment even tears sting his eyes. Delight, worry, relief - conflicting sensations merge into one, completely overpowering flame burning inside his chest.

Maybe he doesn’t have the Sun Summoner and he still needs to come up with a plan to catch her but Nikolai hasn’t been this happy for a while now: his солиышко is alright, still making the world brighter and warmer. If he can get to Alina Starkov, he might see her again, although he begins to wonder whether she wishes to see him after all those years of silence and ignorance. But if he can see her, just witness the marvel of her entire being even for one last second, he’ll be cured of the longing and loneliness that has been gnawing at him ever since he left Os Alta.

You’re following the Shu man to what you assume is his captain’s cuddy. The ship creeks and groans under the weight of the crew as well as the power of the waves. The bussing crewmen spare the three of you a glance, only to show disinterest and go back to their duties. It’s a nice change compared to the kerchen ship you travelled on to Novyi Zem, where the captain asked Alina and you to stay under the deck because of the sailors’ superstition. After getting off the ship, it took you a good week to wash out the reek of cured cod from your clothes and hair. Sometimes you still felt like you can smell it in the air, even in the dusty wind sweeping through Novyi Zem.

Your ‘guide’ pushes the door and they swing open with a creak, the list of the ship aiding the motion. Except for the squeaky hinges, probably rusting faster than anyone can manage, Volkvolny is in good shape. In fact, it looks brand new - no mould or woodworms.

“Captain, request for charter,” the stocky stranger announces with a hint of amusement or excitement in his voice. Despite his imposing visage, the Shu man has made a good impression on you but the long sword on his back kept you vigilant against getting too comfortable in his company.

Only when he moves to the side, presenting the three of you to his captain, do you see the face of the infamous Sturmhond.

You want to laugh. In fact, you have to clench your fists to stop yourself from bursting out with laughter. This situation feels like the strangest coincidence that you can think of, which in turn makes you suspect that it’s not a coincidence at all. Because what are the odds?

Nikolai’s face momentarily brightens up when he recognizes you, a new glint lights up his eyes. He looks different than you remember but in all the right ways: his shoulders look broader and his hair is longer, curling in a way that makes him appear more infantile. You remembered him as a handsome man but the Nikolai in front of you is beautiful enough to be considered unreal.

He's staring into you like a deer caught in headlights until Tolya hands him Alina’s unusual means of payment. As Nikolai is turning the piece of jewellery in his fingers, you notice another change: his hands look rougher, definitely scarred from all the adventures you hope you’re yet to hear about.

The blond prince turns his attention back to Alina, Mal and you. “A gold hairpin can get you anywhere. But an emerald ring?” He gestures to you. “It can get you everywhere.”

“It’s not for sale,” you answer, although you know he’s not trying to buy it. After all, he’s the one that gave it to you.

“I don’t want it.” Nikolai shakes his head. Then, a flirty smile appears on his face. “Looks better on you anyway, doll.”

You’re about to respond to his remark when his attention is once again placed on Alina. “Now, Tolya says you’re looking for a charter. Where are we sailing?”

Alina begins the story with ‘the creation of the world’ as your mother used to say: the Little Palace, Darkling, Morozova’s amplifiers and the Fold. Nikolai nods along, never giving away that he’s privy to most of the story. He doesn’t believe in the Sea Whip at first but that’s hardly his fault - not too long ago people wouldn’t believe in the existence of the Sun Summoner and now she’s standing beside you, nervously rubbing her hand. As you have expected from the moment you saw that Nikolai is Sturmhond, he agrees to the insanity of taking up the quest to catch the amplifier.

“Tolya will show you around.” He sends you off. You’re about to follow your friends out of the cuddy when he adds: “You, emerald lady, I’d like to talk to in private.”

Alina gives you a concerned look (‘blink twice if you need help’)  but you only smile and nod at her in response. With Mal tugging at her arm, she reluctantly leaves you and Sturmhond alone.

The moment the door closes behind Tolya and your friends, Nikolai runs around his desk towards you, engulfing you in a bone-crushing hug. His hand threads through your hair, pushing your head further into the crook of his neck. Even if you tried, there’s no way you can pull away or even move. Taking a deep breath, you smell the familiar fragrance of his cologne but now it’s mixed with the scent of resin, saltwater and seaweed.

Then he pulls away, looking you up and down with burning worry. “Are you alright? Are you hurt? What are you doing here?”

You swear he could be bleeding out on the floor and still he’d be apologizing for staining your clothes. It’s heartwarming that despite the years and evident change in his appearance, Kolya is still Kolya.

A wide smile enters your face. “Looking for a frisky sailor to take me on a voyage filled with indecency, obviously.”

“Well, here he is.” Nikolai points to himself and winks at you. “And he’d really like to know why you’re in Novyi Zem with the Sun Summoner and whats-his-face and not in the Grand Palace in Os Alta.”

You let out a heavy sigh and shake your head gently. “I grew tired, Kolya.” His eyebrows slant upon hearing the exhaustion in your voice. Despite the sheer happiness he feels when you say his name, the concern gnawing at his heart seems to be more powerful. “Years have gone by without you giving me even the tiniest sign that you’re alive and well. And your brother, Saint’s have mercy on him because I won’t, has been adamant about marrying me ever since you left. I told him I will accept his proposal the day he lays your dead body before me.” You make pause, noticing a strange shadow hanging over Nikolai’s face. But he’s not saying anything for a moment, so you finish what you wanted to say: “I had to get away from it all. There’s only so much uncertainty and intruding fingers a lady can take.”

“By the Saints,” he breathes out, “did Vasily lay a hand on you?”

You feel his grip around you tighten but it’s not painful, rather securing. “If you’re asking whether he hit me or forced himself on me, then no, he did not. He did, however, make it abundantly clear what he wants from me. On multiple occasions.”

Nikolai’s face twists in a scowl. The glint that lit up his eyes when he saw you is now gone, exchanged for something dark and unstable. “I’m so sorry, if I knew-”

“I know, love,” you interrupt him. He doesn’t need to announce the ends he’d go to in order to ensure you’re safe and comfortable. Nikolai has never said or done so but you’re fairly convinced he wouldn’t shy away from fistfighting Vasily if he said something less-than-savoury to you. “But neither of us could have known.”

“I promised you’d be safe in Os Alta.”

“And I promised to stay put.” You can’t keep laughter in any longer. You’re not quite sure whether your chuckle is born out of happiness or disbelief. “Now look at us.”

Suddenly, he knits his eyebrows close. At first, you think he’s confused but then the slight rise of his cheeks suggests something closer to contempt or disgust. "Would you actually marry Vasily if he gave you my dead body?"

You can only give him an indifferent shrug. "Maybe?” you ponder aloud. “If you were dead, I would lose all care about what happens to me or with me. In a way, I’d be dead too."

Nikolai takes one of your hands and kisses its fingers. Your breath hitches in your throat when you feel his warm lips against your skin. “I could never rest in peace knowing how he’s treating you.”

“Having you haunt me would be incomparably better than you just being gone. Everything is better than silence.”

His shoulders slouch. Nikolai looks away from you for a moment, admiring the floor in his cuddy but even this can’t hide his guilt and shame. “I couldn’t have just popped in for a visit. Not anywhere in Ravka.”

"You couldn't even have written me a letter?"

"Someone at the palace would recognize my handwriting. I couldn't risk it."

"Then you could have dictated the letter to one of your crew."

That self-assured, flirty smirk appears again on his face. "And scandalize my crewmen with the things I want to tell you?”

As much as you’ve dearly missed his insufferable humour, at the moment it’s making your skin crawl. “This is a serious conversation, Nikolai,” you state firmly.

“I am serious, солиышко.” The pet name rolls off his tongue with both weight and lightness as though it belongs exclusively to you and no one else can ever claim it as their own. He kisses your hand again but keeps it against his lips for a while longer. Then, he places your fingers on his chest and you can feel the soft thrumming of his heart. “Do you think I never thought about writing to you? That I didn’t stay up at night thinking about what I will tell you when we meet again? Countless letters I have begun only to tear them apart and throw them into the sea or burn them. If some people found out we know each other, you’d be in much greater danger than Darkling following your steps. I’d rather deal with the heartbreak of staying away from you than know I put you in danger because I can’t live without you.”

It brings you a grim sense of comfort that he’s been equally torn as you were over the lack of contact. You never thought about it before but Nikolai must have been worried sick, not knowing whether you’re alright and happy. Has he imagined your plight and misery as often as you did his?

“What did you write in those letters?” you ask in a shaky voice.

“I wrote about how much I miss you, how it physically hurts to consider that you might think I have abandoned you. When I was hungry, cold, tired or sick, only the memories of you made me push on. On nights when I couldn’t sleep, I’d stare at the sky above me and wonder whether you’re looking at the same stars. I wrote that wherever I go, I see your face. You are in every sunrise and sunset, every flower I see and every fire that warms me.” Nikolai lets go of your fingers, placing both of his hands on either side of your face. The softness in his eyes makes you swoon. “I only wrote the truth,” he says slowly, making sure you understand the weight of his words.

Swallowing back tears, you lean into his warm touch. “My beloved, my heart yearns for you?” you jest in a dramatic voice.

A playful smile creeps back unto his lips. “If only my heart.”

“Gross.”

“You wanted a frisky sailor.”

"You’re a pirate, not a sailor.”

"I’m a privateer,” he drones out the word as though it makes a world of a difference.

"Pirate sounds sexier."

Nikolai gives you a fake frown. “Oh, I definitely am a pirate."

Without thinking twice, he’s kissing you. The sensation is just as comforting as you remember. His soft lips are doting on you, growing needier with each peck as though this is some feverish attempt at making up the lost time. 

He pulls away to catch his breath and although you’re panting yourself, you unknowingly chase after him, unwilling to dismiss this carnal desire just yet. Nikolai seems to notice your eagerness - he flashes you a cocky grin and shortly pecks your lips again.

“You crossed Ravka, the Fold and the sea just to find me?” he whispers. His eyes are stuck to your wet, swollen mouth.

“And I’d do it a hundred more times if I had to.”

You exchange a few more hungry kisses, pecking and nipping at each other’s lips, before Nikolai continues the conversation:

“I want to say that I’m flattered but I’d rather not encourage you to do something this stupid and dangerous ever again.”

“Hate to break it to you but you took all the stupid with you.”

He rests his forehead against yours; hot, laboured breaths brush against your flushed cheeks. “I’d like to clarify that I’m not stupid, I just can’t seem to think about anything other than you.”

Nikolai wraps his arms around your waist. In a swift motion, he turns you around and pushes you against the edge of his desk. His strength surprises you when Nikolai effortlessly lifts you and places you atop the table, pushing off maps and navigation essentials. Firm, warm hands are restlessly wandering across your body, unsure where to lay or what to grab.

You gasp quietly when his fingers sneak underneath your shirt. “Is this the indecent part of the voyage, my frisky sailor?”

“By the Saints, I hope so,” he whispers against your lips. Then, he furrows his eyebrows questioningly. “Is that offensive to say around a living Saint?”

“I don’t think Alina heard you.”

His nimble fingers are quickly undoing the buttons on your clothes. “Well, she will hear you in a moment.”

“Gross,” you say with laughter in your voice but the word gets muffled as Nikolai gets back to kissing you again.

Even if the crew did hear you that day, no one dared say a word.

зайка [zay-ka] - bunny (feminine; term of endearment)

солиышко [sol-nee-shko] - little sun (unisex; term of endearment)

[sockendrache]

Hear me out:

Childe, being the Harbinger's communal wife. Think not in a sexual, humiliating way, as in him losing his status as a Harbinger and being made to serve the others, rather... just domestic wholesomeness.

What does a 'wife' do in the most traditional, old-fashioned sense? Care for the husband by preparing food and taking care of the household.

And what is Childe good at? Cooking and cleaning.

Just... think about it. Childe, finding the staff deserves a break, sending them all home for the holidays.

"But what about the chores?!", the Harbingers cry, used to having others take care of their every need.

And Childe, taking this as a challenge, proceeds to run the entire household in the palace by himself. For him, a certified older brother from a humble family in Morespok, mundane tasks like laundry or making dinner are NOTHING. Hell, they're calming even!

It almost feels like he's ironing sister Tonia's dresses, rather than Columbina's and Sandrone's. Like he's making sure dinner is appealing to a picky kid like Teucer, rather than trying to appeal to a Rat-Bastard like Scaramouche. Like he's helping mother sweep and mop the hallways in his childhood-home, rather than the endless halls of the Zapolyarny Palace.

And the Harbingers are CONFUSED

What is this?? Their bloodthirsty, battle-hungry Eleventh, humming a cheerful little tune while stirring a pot of his signature seafood-dish? The training-halls are empty, Tartaglia and his bow nowhere to be found.... until they think to check the Doctor's lab and find him on his knees, scrubbing away years' worth of grime and dirt? Their winter-coats all have loose threads and small blemishes from Snezhnaya's harsh winters, and the Harbingers plan to simply throw them away and dip into their endless funds to replace them... until Tartaglia instructs to leave them in his room, where he carefully mends them with needle and thread, clearly experienced from years of patching up old hand-me-downs and fixing his little siblings' clothes.

It's unsettling how much they come to rely on him.

Columbina, shameless as ever, finds herself seated by the Eleventh's side while he mends the frayed hem of her dress once again.

"Well, what do you expect? Of course the ends will fray if you keep dragging it on the floor.", he chides, his fingers carefully guiding a threaded needle through the fine silk.

"Ah, maybe I just want an excuse to come see you?"

"Hah, very funny. And who will mend your clothes when her Majesty needs me elsewhere? Be more careful now, I have other things to do."

Columbina trails her fingers over the neat, evenly spaced stitching and hums in delight. "Thanks, wifey! See you at dinner~"

And while the Harbingers who overheard their little exchange chuckle at the Damselette's nickname, Tartaglia doesn't mind.

Because really, what's more embarrassing? Being referred to as the Harbinger's communal wife, or relying on the youngest amongst their ranks on the most basic of tasks? Anyhow, he really ought to start on dinner, or his 'husbands' might go hungry.

[stardust-in-my-mind-blog]

possibly a personified glow in the dark star

so I was feeling anxious and hating it because anxiety

has a way of distracting you from everything real

you're just in a loop of colorful thoughts spiraling around you

too quick to grasp even if you try to

emotional motion sickness to the point of nausea

it's like I try to tell myself not to be anxious

and then I'm anxious because no matter how many times

I try to freaking convince myself

I can't stop being anxious and stay anxious

luckily I am not normally anxious to this point

or I find a way to release the excess energy

so I can clearly analyze why such big emotions

were triggered in my blood with such intensity

I like to think that if I am hysterical it is likely

historical and I'm being given a chance to see

how I felt and how strongly I felt

in a past situation that seems a lot like this

when I think this way it helps me make space

to make a thoughtful choice that will help me

and may help others too because a lamp

lit for your friend is a lamp lit for yourself

I like to keep a lot of lamps lit with an entire lab of

imagination based alchemy with all the elements

and sensational data that flows fully into my system

and is filtered out with what I don't need

I am not just listening to you

I am making a mental file on you and draw a map

where to find it in the mind palace

energy is expressed efficiently with dancing or singing

or creative expression of any kind that produces joy

maybe a walk in the yard where I really look at everything

and focus on how I think the wind looks in my mind

a endless rainbow of thread and color

the friend who warms me after a long winter

with a blanket he says are the color of my eyes

it's so soft and I don't know how to accept

this safety and tenderness and care

especially if I'm not doing something

to make up for my difficult habits and sensitivity

Zephyrus plays with my hair and sings me songs

and I realize how long it's been since I last

laid in the grass and let the sun shine on me

and focus on nothing but that warm energy

and how it lights up my body like the stars

I had to pay $20 for the apartment management to remove

but when it got dark the kids were surrounded by glowing light

I need to go out and get more sun for this earth body

my anxiety melted and I felt myself relax

I'll likely go do it again

interesting fact that a black light

lights up a glow in the dark star

way faster and brighter than the sun

kind of a fun thing to learn

I get anxious before singing and it's kinda hard to manage

but it is reducing in intensity which means

it'll keep following that pattern

until it's a relaxing practice of a talent

I enjoy being seen for in small doses

small steps

[aphroditestummyrolls]

👀👀👀 8 or 53 (or 8 and 53?) for the intimacies prompts?

Take drabble prompts, she said to herself, you can keep them short, she assured herself. (She was lying). This is almost 1.5k hahahahaha I’m insane, but this was also so much fun and I’m really glad I decided to do it. Thanks so much for participating, friend! I loved the ones you picked.

8. Brushing noses, and 53. Listening to each other’s breathing

He was much more grateful for the heavy weight of his new winter finery out in the purple glow of the terrace than he was in the heat and light of the ballroom.

For all your bitching and moaning about the soupy summer, the cold of the mountains makes winter it’s own beast… Yusuf griped, pristine snow crunching under his dancing shoes. Mama would have told you to be careful what you wish for, silly boy.

He took slow steps to the bannister, puffy with white flakes, and let himself sigh out a long breath. He was still hot, reveling in the refreshing chill of the air. And the quiet. The swell of music and the titter of laughter was more distant now than the short distance would usually imply.

Yusuf’s exhale curled past his lips in a swirl, dissipating fast before his eyes.

The snow covered gardens of il Palazzo seemed to glow with a lavender light, radiating up into the deep night sky. It glimmered like a sheet of diamonds, illuminating everything under the moon— both pale and dark, muffled and crystalline clear, Yusuf felt like the world was all his own.

Perhaps it’s cold, he found himself smiling, flexing his fingers with his need for a warm hand in his own, but at least it’s beautiful.

He hadn’t been able to stop his racing thoughts all night. What would Nicolò look like in the fine dancing clothes of noble northerners? Even in Yusuf’s? Would he be well suited to cyan velvet, to silver constellations glittering in the fabric over his collar, and up the soft gossamer undershirt at his neck? The crown weaved into his curls would look so handsome, maybe even more fitting, on his gardener’s head. Yusuf thought he was as elegant, as kingly as any of them.

Could that ever be? His heart swept up like a bird in the cage of his chest, trying to fly at the thought of a world where Nicolò could share his life. He and Nicolò, Princes, husbands and partners— it was a nice dream.

He could dream. He was good at dreaming.

Even the company of Andromache and Quynh was not enough to keep his mind from wandering. Yusuf wished for him with every round of dancing, and every stolen moment.

Like now. He wished for him now— an arm at his waist, or callused fingers intertwining with his cold hand.

The snow crunched under feet that weren’t Yusuf’s, and he turned, glancing back at the golden light of the gauzily shrouded ballroom. The only track of footprints were his own. The night went quiet again, only broken by the warble of strings, but something had shifted in the air on the snowy terrace.

Yusuf couldn’t help the curl of his smile as he turned back to face the bannister, looking down and into the glittering expanse of reflected moonlight.

“Che bellissimo.”

The words curled into the air on a swirl of frost. Pale eyes blinked up at him, taking in every stitch of thread, every gleaming jewel on Yusuf’s most regal tunic. Nicolò was slack jawed, staring up at him as if he were every star in the sky. He hardly resisted the urge to preen, instead reaching out, leaning down where the bannister held them apart, and took his hand.

“Yusuf, you are the sun.” He breathed, taking his outstretched hand in both of his, kissing the knuckles. It made him warm, like the tingle of wine in his bloodstream.

“Ya Amar,” he barely breathed his reply, “you are too far away, all the way down there.”

Nicolò chuckled against the hand at his lips, curling into a smile against Yusuf’s skin. He looked up, playfully through long lashes, and kissed again.

Them, he hurried away, and Yusuf scrambled along the bannister to the far side, following Nicolò’s steps on the other side of the marble— away from the lights of the ball and the tittering laughter of stuffy nobles.

The shadows of the side of the palace were cold, but not for long.

Nicolò was up the small side steps in a blur, hands on Yusuf’s waist, walking the both of them back into the stone corner. No windows, no prying eyes— Yusuf warmed his hands by twining them into the silky brown hair, pushing the hat from his head.

His lips were dry from the winter air, but it didn’t matter when kissing Nicolò. Broad hands stroked up and down his velvet covered back, and Yusuf ached for him.

“It’s been days, where have you been?” He panted between fervent presses of lips.

Nicolò pulled away, only far enough to press their foreheads together, brushing the tips of their frosty cold noses past each other.

“Preparing for the festival, just as you’ve been, your Highness.” He breathed in, slow and steady, pressing one last kiss to the corner of Yusuf’s beard before fixing him with a proper look. “You received my gift?”

The twinkle in those green eyes said he already knew. Yusuf nodded, humming at the memory of the vase of jasmine and roses at his bedside. “You bring the springs of home to this far away winter. You got my note?”

“I hold every word in my heart.”

He squeezed him round the waist, whispering the words as a secret. They were secret— every word, every stolen touch, every flower in Yusuf’s chambers.

Suddenly, he couldn’t bear the thought of returning to the warmth of the ball, alone. He could not stand a single moment of genteel, political dances with fake smiles and simpering small talk— he would be itching out of his skin.

He wanted Nicolò at his side. He wanted arms around him and kisses on his knuckles, pressed close.

He wanted to dance with him in front the eyes of anyone who could see. But the music was no more than a faint melody lilting through on the swirls of snowy breeze.

Listening to the soft echo of the tune, Yusuf found his hands slipping down from that hair, cradling the nape of his neck. He looked Nicolò in his eyes, the moon just barely lighting the planes of his face, and he loved him. He wanted to show him to the world.

He couldn’t.

“What’s wrong?” Nicolò’s breath curled in the air, and he barely broke the hush of the snowy night.

Yusuf cupped his cheek, holding him, studying him.

He shook his head, clearing it as well as he could. Just as he was about to dismiss the furrow of Nicolò’s worried brow, the song changed. It seemed to wrap around them— a waltz.

“Would you dance with me?”

His surprised laugh was more of a muted snort, but Nicolò was smiling. Yusuf felt his heart in his throat, even after all these months of tender steps into each other’s orbits. Nicolò did not have to say yes.

“Dance with you? Right here?”

“We have everything we need— you, me, music, and the moon.” Yusuf only stood straighter, extending his hand just like he had to many a noble guest that evening. But this time, it all felt real. His smile was soft, his frostbitten nose was rosy and cheeks flushed— the snow under his feet crunched, and it felt real. “May I have this dance?”

Nicolò’s palm was broad and warm in his own when he took it. They stepped in close, close enough that the clouds of their breath curled together, mingling. Yusuf took Nicolò’s waist, wrapping him in his arms, and led them in a slow, gentle waltz, never stepping too far from their corner of the world.

It was nearly silent— the muffle of snow and the secrecy of their corner keeping the bulk of the sound away from their ears. There was only the thin strain of the waltz, with its violins and warbling clarinet, and the soft rhythm of breathing. Yusuf could picture it even with eyes closed, their cheeks pressed side by side, the way Nicolò’s tendrils of silver breath caressed over his ear, along his neck and shoulder. He felt so secure. So loved. Hoping his gardener could feel it too, Yusuf took a measured inhale and a long, contented sigh. He pressed his warm lips to the sensitive skin of his neck, nosing at his pulse just to listen to Nicolò’s answering hum.

They turned in slow circles, leaving footprints in the glittering whiteness beneath their shoes. The music was an afterthought. The dancing, even, was beside the point.

Yusuf felt Nicolò’s heartbeat pressed flush to his own, the cage of his ribs expanding and deflating with his soft breaths as he spun them in interlacing circles. What was important was the man he held, the hand that cradled the nape of Yusuf’s neck, and the footprints in the moonlit snow, declaring that they had been here. That their love was real.

Perhaps, he thought, winter is not so bad after all.

[truckloadoffrogs]

SamBucky Daddy Kink

It’s after the mess at the airport, after Siberia, after Steve and him broke everyone out of the weird fucking prison in the ocean (?? what the fuck??), that they finally get to breathe in Wakanda. The King gave them guest rooms in the palace, not accepting no for an answer. He kindly gave them an apartment with three bedrooms and a spacious living room and kitchen, one bedroom for Bucky and the other for Steve when he wasn’t off in some other country glaring at politicians. Unfortunately, he gave Wilson the third bedroom.

There wasn’t anything necessarily wrong with Wilson. He was just-- He just bothered Bucky. He got under his skin. Though he seemed to get genuine pleasure out of annoying the ever living fuck out of Bucky, it never seemed to be with malicious intent. He seemed to be testing Bucky, seeing how far he could go before Bucky would snap, but not because he was cruel. It almost seemed like Wilson was doing it for Bucky’s benefit, not his, like Wilson was showing Bucky that he was fine, he was safe, he wasn’t actually going to snap and go on another murderous rampage because Wilson watched Real Housewives every single day on their couch and refused to change the channel. 

Once Bucky got over that fact, he started to notice other things. Though Wilson didn’t stop teasing Bucky even when Bucky growled at him to quit it, he did stop when Bucky started to curl in on himself, when he got a little quiet and a little scared, waiting for the next baton hit or jab of electricity. Maybe it was Wilson’s own experience with trauma, or maybe it was his inherent goodness, but Bucky appreciated it. Not that he would ever tell him that. 

Wilson also seemed to care for Bucky in ways no one else did. With Steve off in who knows where, struggling to get them pardons, Bucky was adrift in a new country and a new century with new people around him. The other (ex) Avengers seemed wary of him, addressing him in overly polite tones when Bucky ventured outside of the apartment, seeming to wait for the day he reverts back to the Winter Soldier. But Wilson was different. 

He was always there for Bucky when he needed something, but he still teased Bucky and kept him human. He reminded Bucky to eat in the same breath as telling him his flesh arm was beginning to look a little chicken adjacent, he asked Bucky if he wanted to go on a run with him in the morning and get out of the house, and when Bucky mumbled the same “no, thanks” he always did, he grinned in relief and said that he was glad he would be able to run at his own pace for once, but still asked him the next morning and the next morning and the next morning. 

Soon Wilson became Sam, without Bucky even realizing it. Sam had wriggled and shoved his way into Bucky’s life so quickly and smoothly that Bucky had no way of stopping him. Bucky began to respond to Sam’s gentle prodding and encouragements with little smiles and an eye roll, instead of just an eye roll.

One day, when Sam and Bucky were sitting on the couch watching Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, Sam asked Bucky what he would like for dinner and reminded him that he had an appointment with Shuri in the morning. 

Without even thinking, Bucky said, “God, Wilson, you’re such a Da—”.

Many things ran through Bucky’s head as he cut himself off. Shock. Alarm. Panic. Also, what the fuck???

Sam looked away from the television and glanced over at him. “What? I didn’t hear that last part.”

Bucky coughed. “I said 'God, Wilson’.”

Sam hummed, looking speculatively at Bucky. Bucky, still in a state of panic and shock, refused to look away from the screen, hoping and praying Sam would let it go and forget about it. 

Thankfully, some merciful god heard Bucky, and Sam turned back to face the television. 

Bucky let out a relieved breath. What the fuck was that? He almost called Sam Daddy. He’d never called anyone ‘Daddy’ before, not even when he was young and pretty in Brooklyn. He wasn’t some punk, especially now that he was over 250 pounds of muscle and literal metal. If anyone would be called Daddy it would be him. 

He had to admit though, Sam was a Daddy. He takes care of Bucky, he smiles indulgently at Bucky when he stumbles out of his room at the smell of Sam’s cooking in the morning, he bought Bucky’s favorite shampoo before Bucky even knew he was close to running out. He was warm and soft and big. Bucky wanted to curl up in Sam’s lap and feel his strong thighs under him and his gentle arms around him and-- Oh god. Oh no. This wasn’t good. 

If Steve were here he would laugh and laugh and laugh at Bucky’s misfortune. God. Bucky couldn’t believe he went and got a crush on Sam of all people. And not just a crush, oh no. Bucky’s life wasn’t that simple. Bucky wanted to call Sam Daddy. 

Bucky was now hyper-aware of Sam on the couch next to him, still watching the show on the television in front of them. There was maybe three feet between them, both Bucky and Sam leaning on opposite arm rests. Sam’s thick thighs were spread, with his feet flat on the ground, and his arm was stretched out along the back of the couch, big hand almost brushing Bucky’s shoulder. He even sits like a Daddy would, Bucky thought. He looked down at how he was sitting. He was in an almost completely opposite position. One of his legs was curled up under him and the other was up, with his chin resting on his knee and his arms wrapped around it. He looked small and submissive, and Sam looked dominant, like he could grab Bucky’s hair and shove his face down to his dick and make him--

Bucky shivered and uncurled from his position, stretching out his back. Sam looked over at his movement. 

“What did you say you wanted for dinner, Bucky? You didn’t say before,” Sam asked. 

“Uh-- Whatever you want. You pick.” 

Sam looked at Bucky for a beat, before saying, “Okay, baby.”

Bucky looked sharply over at Sam, but Sam wasn’t even looking at him anymore, and gave no sign that he knew what he just said. Though Bucky’s face was calm on the outside (he hoped), inside he was shrieking !!!!! BABY???!?!?!?!

They continued to watch until the end of the episode, Bucky sitting tensely on his side of the couch, and Sam spread out like a whole meal on the other side. When the end credits finished rolling, Bucky dragged a hand through his hair, wincing when it snagged on a tangle. 

“Ow. Shit,” he muttered.

“What’s wrong?”

Bucky looked over at Sam to see him looking back worriedly. “Oh, it’s nothing. I just have to spray some detangler on my hair later.”

“Why don’t I just brush it now? You know it’s easier with another person.” 

Bucky narrowed his eyes at him. “You’ve never wanted to brush my hair before.”

“Yeah? Well first time for everything, right?” Sam asked sweetly. He spread his legs impossibly wider and pointed to the ground between his feet. “Why don’t you get your comb and sit there, and I’ll brush it while we watch a movie?”

Bucky hesitated, before getting up and walking to his room. He had no idea what Sam was playing at, but he wasn’t going to skip out on someone brushing his hair. As he walked back into the living room with his comb in hand, he saw that Sam had moved to the middle of the couch and had turned on a Star Wars movie (Bucky still had no idea which one it was, the order still confused him). 

Bucky slowly walked up to Sam, and shifted back and forth on his feet. Sam smiled encouragingly, and widened his legs again. At his encouragement, Bucky nervously sat between his feet, his back up against the couch and his legs crossed. He reached behind him to hand Sam the comb, and then put his hands back in his lap. 

Sam reached over and started the movie, and then began combing through Bucky’s hair. He started at the ends, and the comb’s bristles gently caressed Bucky’s shoulders and upper back, making him shiver. As Sam slowly made his way up Bucky’s curls, Bucky relaxed more and more, his shoulders slumping and releasing tension he didn’t even know they had. Once Sam’s combing had reached the top of Bucky’s scalp, he was so relaxed he was almost swaying in place, his eyes heavy lidded and vision blurry. 

Gently, Sam pushed Bucky’s head to the side so that his temple was resting on Sam’s knee. 

“There you go, baby.”

Bucky was so out of it he didn’t even recognize what Sam said, he just shivered and slumped more so his cheek pressed against Sam’s thigh. 

Sam hummed appreciatively, and continued combing through Bucky’s curls, even though they were silkier than they had ever been. He continued combing Bucky’s hair until Bucky was fully asleep. 

When Bucky blinked his eyes open again, the television screen was black. He was still leaning on Sam’s thigh, and one of Sam’s hands was gently playing with the ends of his hair, while the other was holding a phone up to his ear.

“Everyone’s fine here, Steve, you don’t have to worry all the time,” Sam was saying, when Bucky finally focused on his voice and not on how comfortable he was on the floor between Sam’s feet. 

Bucky was embarrassed that he fell asleep while Sam was caressing him, like he was some kind of pet, so he started to sit up, but Sam pushed his head back. He continued playing with Bucky’s hair, occasionally threading his hand in at the roots and tugging gently, making tingles spread across Bucky’s scalp and down his neck. 

After a couple minutes, Sam said his goodbyes to Steve and took his hand away from Bucky’s head. Alarmingly, Bucky felt a whine bubble up in his throat, but he stopped it before it could pass his teeth. He still twitched a little though, making Sam glance down at Bucky. 

“Do you want me to keep petting you, Bucky?”

“Yeah,” Bucky mumbled quietly. 

Sam put his hand back in his hair, but instead of petting him, he pulled hard on Bucky’s hair, hard enough that Bucky’s head snapped back. Opening his eyes, Bucky saw Sam’s upside-down face leaning over him, brown eyes glittering. 

“That wasn’t very polite, baby. Where are your manners?”

“...please?” 

“Please what, baby?” 

Bucky’s eyelids fluttered. Was he really going to do this?

“Please, Daddy?” Bucky whispered, “Please keep petting me?”

“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Sam smiled softly. “Of course I’ll keep petting you.”

He gently stroked a thumb down one of Bucky’s cheekbones before tipping his head forward again. Bucky leaned his cheek against Sam’s warm, strong thigh, and closed his eyes as Sam ran gentle, possessive fingers through his hair again. 

--

[sassycassie-s-writing]

Winter Court Wedding

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): A Court of Thorns and Roses Series/Rhysand

Rating: PG/K+

Original Idea: This has been in my head for a few days and I had to get it out of my head so I could write other stuff XD

Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) 2,356 words... yup it ran away from me again. This one pretends Tamlin isn’t a terrible person so we get Rhys instead 😉 @itscheybaby

^^^^^

“Rhysand?” I called through the town house.

“Yes?” His voice was coming from the kitchen.

I went downstairs, holding the box I’d found in our room. “What’s this for?” I asked, indicating the heavy fur-lined black cloak with silver embroidery of the moon and stars up the sides.

“Can’t I give you a gift just because I want to?” His smirk was almost too casual for me to believe him.

“You know I prefer coats in Velaris,” I replied. “So there’s something going on.”

He sighed, wings drooping. “Alright. You caught me,” he muttered. “We’re going to the Winter Court.”

“What for?”

“Kallias and Vivane’s wedding.”

“Didn’t they get married like an hour after he got back from Under the Mountain?”

Rhysand folded his arms, tucking his wings against his back a little tighter. “Yes,” he said carefully, “but they’re hosting a formal reception for their court, as well as for the other High Lords. I’m sure Kallias doesn’t actually want to invite us, or any of the other High Lords for that matter, but Mor and Vivane are really good friends and I don’t think he wants to harm that relationship.”

“So Mor’s coming with us, then?”

“Unfortunately, no. She has to put out a fire in the Court of Nightmares.”

“Literal or figurative?”

“Figurative. Keir is pitching fits again.”

“Ah. Same old, same old, then.”

“Pretty much.”

I decided to change the subject.

“So, the cloak is to keep me warm in the Winter Court climate, I’m assuming.”

“Yes. Hopefully without damaging your dress. Sometimes your coats rumple the skirts. While we’re in Velaris—and anywhere in the Night Court that’s not the Court of Nightmares, really—I don’t mind. But you know what we look like to the other courts. The image we present.”

Wealthy, dangerous, ruthless, powerful Night Court High Fae. Immaculate and pristine. Never even a hair out of place. Always in control of every situation. The High Lord who always got what he wanted, his thunderstorm of a High Lady by his side. Nary a trace of the Illyrian half-breed with self-worth issues and the Autumn Court runaway who’d never belonged anywhere.

“I know,” I said.

Rhys approached me and pulled the cloak out of its small box. “Besides,” he said, slinging it around me, “it does look rather fetching on you.” He bent his head and pressed a kiss to my neck.

“Charmer,” I teased.

He laughed. “I could say the same about you.”

I wrapped my arms around him. “I missed you, while you were… gone.”

Even though he insisted he was fine, I still did my best not to mention Under the Mountain. The secrets he’d been forced to keep, the things he’d been forced to do to keep me and the rest of the Night Court safe. We talked about it when he needed to, and I would always be there for him, but I didn’t need to force the past forty-nine years on him.

Rhys put his arms around my waist under the cloak and buried his nose in my hair. “I missed you too.”

“So when do we leave for the Winter Court?”

He knew I was changing the subject away from what I didn’t want to bring up, but he let me. “Tomorrow. We may stay overnight, we may not.”

“Shame Mor’s not coming with.”

“Agreed. She’d love to see Viviane again.”

“We’ll find some way to reunite them. How about that?”

“I think it sounds delightful. We’ll put them in a sound-proof room so we don’t have to hear them squealing into the late hours of the night.” His sarcasm was not lost on me. I chuckled. We swayed in place for a bit. “Let’s go get prepared for tomorrow, darling,” he said.

“Okay,” I agreed.

—

I already miss the Northern mountains, I thought at Rhys, wrapping the beautiful new cloak tighter around me to suppress a shiver. Even they aren’t as cold as this.

He hid his amused smile with a lazy smirk, boredly surveying the Winter Court ice waste around us as the reindeer-pulled sleigh whisked over the snow. I agree, he thought back, but it’s not for very long.

The small tiara I’d chosen to accompany my gown was like I’d wrapped an icicle around my scalp. The metal of it practically frozen to my skin.

The sleigh turned a corner.

“By the Cauldron,” I breathed.

The palace was made of ice. It towered into the sky with sharp jags and icicle towers, hexagonal walls filtering sunlight from behind. White-furred bears patrolled the battlements alongside the soldiers. All of whom sported white hair and pale blue uniforms. Snow was falling, but there was only a scattering of clouds. The High Lord’s magic, then, probably.

It might be a good idea to close your jaw, Rhys advised, no sarcasm present. We have an image to maintain while we’re here.

Right, I thought.

The sleigh driver pulled us up to a half-circle drive of packed snow. At the apex of the half-circle were two massive doors to the palace, wide open to the deep blue gloom of indoors. After slowing to a stop, we gave the driver a curt but polite thank-you and swept out of the sleigh. I caught Rhys flicking a finger before offering me his arm. What magic did you just do? I thought at him.

Tipping the driver. It’s polite but I definitely don’t want to be seen doing it. Would ruin the monster reputation I’ve spent centuries building. An image accompanied his reply—of a cheeky wink. I sent him back nothing but laughter.

An attendant—a young “lesser” faerie female with skin the color, texture, and reflectiveness of powdered snow—guided us inside. It was a lot warmer within the ice-crafted walls than I would have expected. I almost wanted to remove my cloak. The attendant looked absolutely terrified of us. Rhys and I barely acknowledged she was there, both keeping impassive expressions on our faces. I wished I could reassure her that everything was alright—that we were friendly—but I knew why I couldn’t.

She led us up what technically counted as a spiral staircase—despite it being hexagonal and not perfectly circular—to a suite of rooms. “His Lordship hopes you will be comfortable here,” the attendant said.

“Thank you.” A curt dismissal from Rhys. She scampered away.

Once she was gone and the doors closed, both of us relaxed. “I hate acting like that,” I muttered.

“Me too. But every High Lord puts on a face,” Rhys said. “You remember Helion. He seems terribly prickly and temperamental in public but is quite amusing and kind in private.” Rhys sat on a white sofa embroidered with sky blue winter flora and a few snowflakes.

“I do remember Helion. I also remember wishing you’d given me a warning about it. I was ready to punch him for being so rude to you.”

Rhys winked at me. “That wouldn’t have been nearly as fun,” he replied. I rolled my eyes. “Well, love, there’s nothing to do but wait until the reception. We did arrive a little early.”

“Four hours is ‘a little’?” I joked.

All I got was a shrug. “I like making statements,” he replied casually. “I arrive when I wish and I don’t care about their scheduling. Usually I would prefer to show up late to make it seem like I really don’t care about whatever it is they’ve had the courage to invite me to, but sometimes it’s more fun to arrive much earlier than planned and make that everyone else’s problem.”

I laughed. “You do a good job of making your act seamless.”

“Centuries of practice, darling.” He lounged on the sofa but patted the seat next to him. I sat beside him. It was almost warm enough inside to remove my cloak, but not quite. Rhys’ body heat was helping make up the difference. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

I grinned. “Thanks. You’re quite stunning yourself.” Black jacket, immaculately embroidered in silver and gold, deep midnight blue shirt underneath buttoned all the way up to hide his tattoos, black slacks with a single ring of silver thread around the ankles. It had taken me an hour to convince him to wear a blue shirt instead of black. But it really brought out his eyes. Dimmed the blazing, powerful violet just enough to reveal that his irises were actually blue.

“I’m always stunning,” he replied.

I smacked him in the chest with the back of my hand. “Arrogant,” I accused.

He kissed me. “You like it though.”

I rolled my eyes.

—

The ballroom was enormous. Pillars of glimmering ice reflected faelight bobbing around the ceiling. It was lightly snowing inside. Winter Court High Fae and faeries milled around, talking, eating, drinking. A line extended away from the bride and groom. Well-wishers offering their congratulations.

Rhysand wasn’t going to bother waiting in the line. I knew that. We’d approach from behind or from the other side, offer our regards, and then leave.

But not immediately.

The ballroom was warm enough that I passed my cloak to a waiting attendant. My gown was so dark violet it was almost black. A bell-shaped skirt dotted with beads in the shape of stars swished over the ice floor, lightly dusted with snow. The gown’s sleeves barely capped my shoulders, but the long black satin gloves that ended two inches from the bottom of the sleeves helped keep my arms warm. The bandeau tiara had three dark amethysts glinting among the white diamonds.

The finery wasn’t terribly comfortable, but I knew the effect it had on others.

Rhys and I wandered the ballroom, mingling only occasionally—and only if the other party dared approach us first.

Including High Lord Tamlin of the Spring Court and his charming bride-to-be, Feyre Cursebreaker. Both of them looking happy and healthy and more in love than ever.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Rhys,” Tamlin said begrudgingly. His eyes flicked over to me. I didn’t have to be daemati like Rhys to know what he was thinking. The whispers of the other faeries milling about followed me the moment we entered the room, and Tamlin was likely in agreement.

Freak. Unnatural. Witch. Lightning was not meant to be harnessed by magic like that. She doesn’t belong in any court.

I thought about snapping something at Tamlin, but Rhys cut in smoothly, “We could hardly miss an important function such as this, Tamlin.” He inclined his head at the female on Tamlin’s arm. “A pleasure to see you again, Feyre.”

“Wish I could say the same about you,” she replied dryly.

Rhys tsked, but didn’t say anything to her. “Enjoy the party,” he said to both of them instead before pulling me away. I waved at Feyre, letting an apology touch my expression. Her glare softened a moment and she lifted her fingers as though to wave back, but thought better of it.

I turned away. She’d saved Tamlin and freed the other High Lords and their courts from Amarantha. She gave Rhys back to me—and I couldn’t even give her the thanks she deserved. Electricity crackled in my veins. Rhys jolted slightly as I shocked him. No one else would have noticed.

Easy, he thought at me. What’s wrong?

I let him into an antechamber in my shields, to see what I thought and felt without having to explain. Thoughtful silence followed. We’ll find a way to let you thank her. For us both to thank her. She gave me back to you, too.

Thank you, I thought at him.

Of course. I felt a loving caress against my shields. I sent one in return.

Rhys took me through the crowd, occasionally offering greetings to the High Fae and faeries who didn’t cower as we passed. Rhys’s damper on his power had been loosened. Not released completely, but relaxed—allowing tendrils of darkness to drift from him like shafts of steam. It was an intimidation tactic. He did it a lot.

“Kallias. Viviane,” Rhys said as we approached the bride and groom. Both looked resplendent. Viviane in her simple but no doubt expensive gown that glittered like powdered snow under the moonlight. They turned to us. “Morrigan sends her regards and regrets that she couldn’t make it.” Those words were directed at Viviane. She smiled at the both of us. More warmly at me than at Rhys.

“Congratulations to you both,” I said with a genuine smile. “You deserve to be happy with one another.”

Kallias gave me a cold stare. Wondering where my calculating, ruthless High Lady mask was, no doubt. But I did want them to know that I was happy for them. That I was happy they’d found one another after Amarantha.

“Thank you,” Viviane said before Kallias could reply. She reached out and took my hand in both of hers. “And thank you for coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Rhys said smoothly, smirking slightly.

“We left our gift on the table with the others,” I said softly to Viviane.

She gave me a warm grin. “Thank you. Thank you, both.”

I returned the grin and Rhys bade a curt goodbye to Kallias before we retreated back into the crowd.

“Care to dance?” I asked.

“With you? Always.” He smiled at me. For a moment I forgot we were in another court. All I could think of was him. All I could see was those blazing eyes—that lazy smile. His warmth against me.

I didn’t realize I must have been showing that on my face because he leaned down and kissed me. “The rest of tonight is going to be so much fun,” he whispered suggestively, giving me that playful smirk he always had when he knew we were both going to get what we wanted from each other before the night was over.

A shiver that had nothing to do with the Winter Court chill travelled down my spine. Excitement. “Oh, I think it will be,” I replied.

[politicalmamaduck]

so ere you find where light in darkness lies

A soulmate AU written for @darklinadaily Darklina Week 2021! You can read it on AO3 here. Title taken from Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost.

She was born with the mark on her left wrist.

The sun in eclipse.

Ana Kuya said she’d never seen a soul mark like it and it portended a tragic future. Therefore, Alina needed to pray even harder to the Saints to give her a good future.

At night, she was alone, not praying--but hoping that one day she would meet her soulmate and truly belong.  

She loved Mal, but not in that way—his mark didn’t match. He was her best friend, but not her soulmate.

So she waited until she would meet her soulmate, her partner with the mark on their arm, and find out what the sun in eclipse meant.

There was no one else she ever loved enough to show them her mark. Not that she loved Ana Kuya, but she loved Mal. She never got a chance to love anyone else--not when the First Army was always on the move, or even before that, when other girls--normal girls, girls with parents--were settling down as proper Ravkan wifes and mothers. 

Alina was different, had always been different, even beyond just the mark on her skin. 

Being different made no difference to the volcra, however. Their attacks were indiscriminate, their taste for human flesh insatiable. 

The last thing she could remember was reaching for Mal in that interminable darkness, the soulmark on her arm aflame, her bones and sinews straining, reaching to hang on to the barest thread of hope contained in his fingers, her anchor to life. 

Light burst into the Fold’s darkness, the volcra screaming and tearing away, unable to bear it. 

Alina gave in to the darkness behind her eyes, tasting blood.

When she awoke, everything hurt, and the world had changed. Her world changed more rapidly than she could process.

She was not afraid of the Darkling, despite what she’d heard. Still, when he demanded she lift up her sleeve, she did what she always did.

She protected herself.

She lifted her right sleeve, her bare arm, her unadorned wrist.

The world burst into sunlight, flame, shadow. Alina saw not the light pouring forth from her, but stars behind her eyes. The pain, the pleasure, the release--there was something inside her yearning to break free, to push beyond the boundaries she set all those years ago, to reclaim the life she took from it. 

Alina collapsed to the floor, but before she hit her head, he caught her. 

Her weight was solid in his arms, but she felt light as a feather, protected, cosseted, before the darkness claimed her once more. 

After awakening and being packed off to Os Alta, she bit back a retort about a head injury and horses not being the best combination after passing out twice in the space of hours.

The Grisha didn’t care, but they did care for her wounds. 

She tried to view herself as one of them, and failed. She was still too different--a summoner who could call the sun, even rarer than the Darkling’s shadows. And how would they view her strange soulmark?

When Genya Safin and her team of attendants marched into her new bedroom the next morning, Alina knew she was in trouble. She was unceremoniously stripped and forced into the bathtub while the washerwomen insulted her in Old Ravkan.

It was Genya who looked at the mark first, though, after ordering the attendants out. “Your mark,” Genya said, taking Alina’s hand before she could snatch it away and hide her arm. 

Her bright blue eyes met Alina’s. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen another like it.”

“Really? At the orphanage, they told me it portended a dark future.”

Genya shook her head, her perfect curls bobbing and catching the light. 

“I don’t think so. I think your future will be what you make of it. Now, let’s get you ready.”

Genya’s magic--the Small Science, Alina reminded herself--glossed over her skin, and Alina thought perhaps she finally had a friend other than Mal. 

Maybe she could belong in the Little Palace. 

Maybe she would find her soulmate, the eclipse to her sun, after all. 

In front of the Tsar, in front of his court, she felt the terror she had been denying herself. She wasn’t prepared, she needed more time, she couldn’t do this--

And then the Darkling met her eyes in the darkness. 

He was calm. He trusted her. 

“Now call the sun,” he whispered, and something in her reacted to his voice. Stay, she wanted to whisper back, don’t leave me alone.

He reached for her wrist--

No, she wanted to scream, not that wrist, don’t--

The world burst into light. 

Alina burst into light. 

Her soulmark burst into flame once more. 

It was a beautiful pain, an exquisite torture. 

Don’t let go, she wanted to beg. 

She felt bereft when he did. 

“Welcome home, Miss Starkov,” he said. She knew he meant it. Perhaps, she could believe it after all. 

The next morning, she refused the kefta in his color. She didn’t want to stand out more than she already did. But as they rode through the forest, she realized that with him, she didn’t feel like an outsider, an interloper, a foreigner. 

With him, she felt like she mattered. 

And so it did not matter, later, when she learned the story he told her by the fountain was only partially true. He may have lied--but so did Alina, all those years, denying herself her own truth, so desperate to not be alone. 

It did not matter, for she belonged with him. Both the Darkling and the Sun Summoner, denying their own truths until their reality could not be contained within them any longer. 

The sun in eclipse. Light and shadow--all shall fade, but they were eternal. 

“You are not alone,” she told him, when he laid bare his truths before her--the Grisha were suffering, Ravka was suffering, and they would suffer to see them through the winter, through the Fold, through the dark night before the dawn. 

She left his chambers before she could think too deeply about how her heart was racing, how she longed for his touch, how her soulmark burned whenever their skin made contact.

The morning of the Winter Fete, she kissed him before she could regret it, before she could talk herself out of it, before she could think about it too deeply. The choice was hers, and hers alone, regardless of their soulmarks. 

His smile was like the sun peeking through shadowed clouds after a storm. Alina’s heart felt at peace, even if they were interrupted, never a moment alone for the Black General of the Second Army and his Sun Summoner. 

When their lips met after their presentation, she never wanted their kiss to end. She wanted to devour and be devoured, pour her sunlight into his shadows, subsume and be subsumed. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, and she nodded, smiling as though she had never smiled before. 

They kissed again, and at the back of her mind, Ana Kuya’s voice echoed. Despite how far she had come, some part of Alina would always be a scared little orphan girl from Keramzin with a dark soulmark on her arm. 

“Aleksander,” she said, when their lips broke apart again. 

He met her eyes, and waited for her to continue. Her general, following her lead. 

“I--” she started. How to tell him? 

She looked down from his face to her arm, covered by her black kefta. She would continue to let her body do the talking for her, for it was truer than her words. 

She pushed up her sleeve and held her arm, the truth of her, out to him. 

He looked from her eyes down to her arm and back. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought there were tears in his eyes. 

“I thought you should know,” she said. “So you could be sure--”

Her words were silenced by his kiss. 

“Alina,” he said, when he released her. “Oh, my Alina.”

He held his left arm out to her, and lifted his own kefta sleeve. 

There, as ink black as her own, matching perfectly in shape and size--the sun in eclipse. 

She looked from his arm to his eyes to find the tears matching her own, and closed them for another kiss. 

When he kissed the mark, it was as if her entire body were set aflame. 

Alina was Aleksander’s, and Aleksander was hers.

In his arms, she finally found the belonging she sought. 

He carried her from the war table to his bed, rich and opulent with black sheets, though she hardly noticed at the time. 

There were too many layers between them, keftas and pants and tunics and belts.

Their kisses, their touches, were frantic, as if the world were on fire along with their bodies. 

His hands were on her neck, in her hair, cupping her cheeks. 

Her hands were shaking as she undid the many clasps on his tunic. 

Her soulmate, her belonging, her future. 

When their clothes were removed, their bodies laid bare, she reveled in their truth. His touch was like a brand upon her skin, marking her, claiming her as his own. If they did not consciously know then, their bodies knew the truth of the other, as they always would.

Intimacy was about the truth of oneself and another, of finding oneself with their partner.

His lips met and caressed nearly every inch of her body, his fingers tracing her curves just as hers traced his muscles. 

She was on fire, alight with life and love, aglow in her lover’s arms. 

He took her into his mouth and she moaned, desperate for more, to never be parted from him, to feel his tongue inside her again and again. 

She cried out when she came, clutching at his hair. Her body was taut, yet relaxed, and she felt calm though her heart was racing, her core pulsing with her climax. 

He kissed her once more, smiling, and lifted her from the bed into his arms effortlessly. His lips were at her neck and ear, his arms so strong as he adjusted their position. 

“Alina, my Alina,” he murmured as he entered her. 

“Aleksander,” she replied, breathless, feeling so full, so whole, so complete. 

She cried out once more as he moved within her, clinging to him, savoring the sensations. 

They came together, his arms around her, their bodies entwined. They collapsed to the bed after, still holding each other, the world contained to their arms, their love. 

The world would wait until the morning. The night was theirs, to explore as they explored each other, the darkness giving way to the dawn just as his shadows would dissipate before her sunlight. 

The sun would be shadowed in eclipse, yet reign eternal forever more, one soul bound to another.

[zutarasecrettunnel]

Chapter 3 of “Your Face, I See” is Up!

The next entry into my “short fic idea I wanted to write for ZK week” turned saga is up on Ao3! (It’s been a really long time, ya’ll, and for all one or two of you who might have been invested in this, I’m sorry)

Check it out!

Story Summary:

“The war is over for everyone but Katara, who keeps seeing the scarred face of the boy who sacrificed himself for her and for the world everywhere she looks. When she finds out why she is experiencing these so-called hallucinations, she may be led right into a trap centuries in the making.“

Excerpt from Chapter 3 under the cut:

The threads of her garments weaved into the inky cloth of the night that fell over the Fire Nation. Torchlight flickered into the shadows she hugged as she slunk toward her mission end. It was the same dance she had conducted so many nights before,  but this time the final step would be different.  

The capitol was uncharacteristically cold as the Winter Solstice approached for the four nations. The late hour clung to her plain black outfit like determination clung to her furtive footsteps. These were the same clothes she had worn the last time she had intended to face a monster, the same clothes she had worn as she had snuck into the Fire Sages' inner chambers to read more about the spirit world for the last five weeks. They were the same clothes she had worn the last time she was doing something her brother and friends would disapprove of.  The unassuming garments, and the feelings they came with, were well lived in by now.

Katara pressed on, deftly avoiding palace guards like she was back near Whaletail Island. As she approached her destination, she laid out an apology in her head. It would be many days before she would need it, if she needed it at all, but she wanted it ready either way. Her thoughts raced. How to begin, and who to begin with? Would it be Sokka or Aang who got to her first once they found out what she had done? Should she start with the actions she took or the secrets that motivated them?

If she was successful in her mission, perhaps she wouldn't need an apology at all. Hope had always been her guiding star, and even in the uncertain darkness, the star of success shone like a beacon in her mind.

Finally, the door to her destination loomed before her. A barn door, a simple object made imposing by its royal proximity and the task ahead of her. The waterbender stopped, leaning her forehead and outstretched palm on the dewy, finely carved wood. She allowed her lungs to fill to capacity with midnight air before letting out a sigh. Eyes closed, she pushed the door hard.

A familiar hill of fur snored in front of her, nestled comfortably in a den of warm straw and a lavish palace quilt. She laid a sheepish hand on his voluminous fluff, attempting to awaken her friend without startling him.

"Hey Appa," she stroked his fur softly, voice barely above a whisper "sorry to wake you, but I really need your help."

The bison stirred, offering a soft, low groan in response. Katara tried again.

"Hey buddy, wake up." Her second attempt was a bit louder. A big brown eye popped open, and soon the enormous animal rose to greet his ally with a yawn as tall as she stood.

"Appa, I'm sorry," she reiterated her apology to the now fully awake creature, "but we need to go somewhere."

The sky bison appeared unimpressed. The waterbender watched his eyes as he tried to locate his airbender, but found nothing.

"Aang's not here. He's. . .not coming," she admitted. Appa snorted.

"But it's to help. . .a friend," she tried explaining herself to the wooly creature, "and as soon as I get to where I'm going you can fly right back here to Aang."

The creature blankly faced the waterbender, large eyelashes wafting gently up and down as he blinked, unmoved.

"Appa, please," Katara coaxed, biting her lip before continuing. "It's for Zuko. I. . .we have to help him."

[sleepylixie]

Only Fools Rush In

Crown Prince! Jeongin X fem! Reader

Fantasy AU, Loose retelling of Sleeping Beauty.

7k words, Platonic pairing, Beware of non-graphic mentions of death( only mentions, with respect to curses and dark magical behaviour ), slight violence in fight scenes (not explicit at all), NO mentions of blood.

Songs: Can’t Help Falling in Love(DARK) - Tommee Profitt // Tomorrow We Fight - Tommee Profitt ft. Svrcina

|| Prologue ||

A/N: @magicbehindwords ​ hello, Carolyn! Tis me, your Secret Santa!! Man, you have the chillest vibes, I really enjoyed figuring out this fic for you! I had something entirely different planned, but you saying you enjoyed a good high fantasy read ended with me happily derailing and plunging into the Fantasy Woods instead xD I hope you enjoy this offering(I know it’s really late hhh I’m vv sorry T^T) 

There will be one more fic joining my pair of Christmas gift fics! As a part of @hanflix​ With Love, Chistmas holiday collab, I will be posting a Jisung fic soon! Anyways, onto the fic!! Do let me know what you think, my ask box is open! ~

Drop me an Ask! || Masterlist

It’s been very rare to have known you, very strange and wonderful. - F. Scott Fitzgerald

1-JEONGIN

“.....Crown Princess of the Western Isles.”

An elegantly dressed young lady stood before Jeongin, her hair falling over her shoulders as she sank into a neat curtsy. He cursed himself for not catching her name during her herald. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Highness,” her voice was a smooth serenade, the words rising and falling in an unfamiliar accent . Her eyes didn’t flit away from his gaze or widen in flirtation, but maintained a steady gaze akin to his own. Jeongin’s brow arched slightly- she was brazen, playfully so.

“The pleasure is all mine, my lady.” He bowed back slightly, suppressing a sigh at the repeated action he was forced to perform. He had been meeting the multitude of ladies Ataloria had to offer for what felt like time immemorial.  It was the same old thing, over and over again- bow, exchange pleasantries, have them whisked away by the herald before speaking about anything of consequence. The hall was abuzz with quiet laughter and chatter, the excitement palpable for the biggest celebration the kingdom had seen in centuries- The Rose Gala. 

Ataloria was a kingdom ruled by women ever since it’s conception- queens of enormous power, wealth and cunning who turned the once tiny valley town into the biggest empire of its confederation. While a queen could rule Ataloria solo, a royal son would require a woman in wedlock to rule with him, cementing his place on the throne for him. To make sure their kingdom’s prince found a suitable wife before his coronation, the tradition of The Rose Gala was born. 

In the son’s 18th year,  a celebration would be held in Ataloria inviting ladies from every corner of the kingdom to the Rose Palace(his home) for a chance at the Crown Prince’s hand. Such was the fairness of the bygone queens- they believed that nobility was a reflection of character, not blood. 

“May I have this dance, Your Highness?” Jeongin met the princess’ eyes, surprised- none of the previous ladies he’d met had yet to ask him for a dance, but here was this princess, her twinkling eyes matching her smile as she held her gloved hand out. A smile pulled up the side of his lips as he accepted her hand, leading her into the centre of the dance floor. She was bold, playfully so- he liked it. 

The band picked up a soulful waltz piece as Jeongin swept the princess into his arms, the two of them melting naturally against each other as they began to move. She was well- trained, Jeongin noted, because she moved with fluid ease, balancing her movements with his despite this being their first dance together.

“How has the Gala been so far, Your Highness?” Her accent was less pronounced than it was before, but Jeonign shrugged it off. It was likely because he was getting accustomed to it. “It has been quite an interesting affair, my lady. I hope the preparations for your arrival and living have been up to your standards.”

“You live in a beautiful city, Your Highness” she giggled lightly as Jeongin twirled her out and back into his arms, unfaltering in their motions. “Yes, the capital of Ataloria has lived up to the many expectations that us outlanders had of it… But I wonder, Are you always this formal?” He allowed a smile of his own to creep up his face- her stubbornly casual behaviour intrigued him more than he’d like to admit. “If you insist on thinking me formal, I must insist that you address me by my chosen name and not by my title… your name, my lady?”

An amused grin lit up the princess’ face, her hand tightening almost infinitesimally on his shoulder as the music crescendoed to a high.

“Y/N, Your Highness. My name is Y/N.”

//

2-JEONGIN

The moon was creeping higher in the sky when Jeongin slipped into the highest tower in the north wing. It had been a struggle to slip away from The Rose Gala, a faked headache finally allowing him to rush back to his chambers and gather up his belongings so he could sneak his way to the North Tower.

His previous princely outfit had been exchanged to lighter, more rugged garments of the darkest black, embroidered with threads of silver. A snicker bubbled to his lips at the thought of the ladies in the Rose Hall, of how they’d react if they saw their sweet yet aloof prince like this- scratching a pentagram onto the stone floor with an air of familiarity he hadn’t exhibited to them. 

Spellcasting had been a guilty passion for Jeongin ever since he sat in on his mother’s meeting with the silver-eyed spellcaster coven that resided just outside Ataloria’s borders, thoroughly intrigued by how they wove enchantment into words and items like it was second nature. He was forbidden from interacting with them, however. His mother told him that some knowledge was beyond the ears of an ordinary mortal and such boundaries must be respected without error. 

However, curiosity had driven him to swipe a few books from the coven elders, fascinated by all the information that lay between the covers. It became a habit to steal some of the spellcasters’ books during their visits, replicate them as soon as possible and return them to their original resting place in the coven’s temporary living chambers.

Over time and innumerable incidents of trial and error, he learnt to wield the energy that thrummed in the world around him. Starting from simple levitation, he worked his way through more and more complex spells as his capabilities expanded. Not a single soul knew about the prince’s penchant for spellcasting- it was a secret he guarded fiercely, for fear that he would be frowned upon and misunderstood for communing with dark spirits. 

Sitting back on his haunches, Jeongin admired his handiwork- purple candles decorating the cardinal directions on the pentagram, the flames flickering a warm yellow. 5 crystals lay in a circle in the center of the pentagram, all identical in shape but unique in shade. Sigils of protection, enhancement and power decorated the edges and also littered the floor in a circle around him. 

Since most of his arcane knowledge came more from reading than practicing, he’d spent months in this very tower room, mouthing the incantations until he was fluent in the foreign language and practicing drawing the sigils until he could draw them in his sleep. There was too much at stake with this spell to get something wrong- the safety of Ataloria, to be specific.

Saying the first words of the incantation out loud stirred something wild in his veins, instantly feeling every wave of energy throbbing around him. It was darker, stronger, almost turbulent in nature, unlike the freely flowing, easily shaped energy he’d always encountered before. But he would endure, because this spell was not a question of just his capabilities, but also the country he’d one day rule.

This Winter Solstice night, he would cast the biggest spell of his short life as a spellcaster.

This Winter Solstice night, he would cast a warding spell around the Atalorian borders.

If everything went perfectly, the warding spell would need no renewal- it would transcend the life of the caster and instead be latched to the power of the kingdom’s crown.

Shivers of cold anticipation slid over his body as the energy began to swirl around the pentagram, his focus honed to a razor sharp edge as his words began to bend it to his will. It was time.

//

3-JEONGIN

Jeongin knew that something was wrong the second he stepped out of the tower. The Rose Gala wasn’t the quietest affair; the muted sounds of string instruments and chatter had rung through the walls until he cast a sound-dampening spell around the North Tower. Now, despite lifting the spell and stepping out… an eerie silence hung in the air, heavy and stifling. There was none of the merry-making that he’d heard before. 

Keeping to the shadows, he crept down the corridor towards the main staircase and stopped short. The guards posted near the sliding doors of the north wing were fast asleep, leaning against the wall and slumped onto the floor. A shiver slithered down Jeongin’s spine. This wasn’t normal. The guards in the palace were nowhere close to lax in security, especially during nights of revelry.

Catching hold of one guard’s shoulder, he shook him hard, hoping that the jostling would wake him up. But he only crumpled to the floor, completely unaware of the world. Almost like he was….no, He couldn’t be. Jeongin fell to his knees before the man, scrabbling for a pulse at the man’s wrist- no, he was alive. Very much so.  The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he got to his feet, warily scanning the top of the main staircase on the other side of the sliding doors. The silence was almost deafening as he made his way towards the staircase, looking down at the main lobby of the castle- 

Everybody was asleep.

It was almost like a wave of sleep had taken over every guard, guest and staff in the palace, rendering them silent and slumped on the floor the second they encountered it. A maid was leant against a pillar, a tray of champagne lying toppled next to her. A herald lay on the floor, curled up next to the skirts of a slumbering lady in red silk.

Stumbling away from the bannister, he collapsed on the top stair, a rush of panic overwhelming him- was he at fault for this? Surely he wasn’t… But what if he was? What had he done wrong? Was the timing off? How was he to fix this?? What was he going to do-

That was when he heard it.

Cutting through the thick silence was a husky, haunting melody, singing words that tore through his mind, bringing back faded childhood memories. He remembered being afraid first, finding solace next in the voice and its wistful song. As he grew up, his slumber came faster and deeper, rendering him unable to listen to the walls’ song. But he didn’t forget the words. He never did.

However, the voice didn’t echo from the walls the way he remembered- this time, it was coming from the very hall The Rose Gala was held in.

“Wise men say only fools rush in...

But I can’t help falling in love with you…”

The voice continued singing the same lines as Jeongin hurried down the staircase and towards the hall, the open doors spilling the chandeliers’ lights into the modestly candle lit corridor. The marble floor of the hall was laden with ladies’ skirts and gentlemen’s capes and cloaks, every single person including his dear parents and family fast asleep- except for one.

Y/N.

Jeongin watched as she sang to herself, her arms held out almost as if she was… she was waltzing with somebody. There was something so haunting about the sight to Jeongin- maybe it was the song that spilled so easily from her lips or the way she danced with nobody but the air to accompany her. Her skirts clutched in one hand, she swept back and forth in front of one of the windows, the only person awake amongst a sea of sleeping people. 

“Wise men say only fools rush in...

But I can’t help falling in love with you…”

“You can come in, Your Highness.” her voice lacked the Isle accent he heard before-if anything, she had the exact same accent as his own. “This is, after all, your palace.”

So much for staying hidden. Jeongin cautiously stepped into the hall, eyes narrow as he marked her every movement. But she was calm as she dropped her arms to her sides, turning to face him from across the hall, her smile the exact same as before- brazen, confident, playful.

“Do you have something to do with this, Y/N?” He demanded, his voice quivering with the pent-up panic he was struggling to control. “Oh no, Your Highness,” Y/N responded,  beginning to pick her way across the sleeping people towards him. “That’s the question I must ask you. What did you do to my home?”

Jeongin instantly stiffened, one hand going to his belt for his dagger and the other, encompassed in ice-cold hoarfrost. There was no point in hiding his powers, especially if he was alone with…. Whoever she was. To his shock, her eyes lit up in joyous surprise. “Oh, I see you’ve learnt to conjure the elements. You’ve come far in your spellcasting studies, Your Highness.”

“Greetings, Your Highness. I am Y/N, the guardian of the Rose Palace.” 

“Oh, this sweet girl?” she raised her arm before brushing back her intricately curled hair with an uncaring flick of her hand. “ Her name is Yelina. She asked me to… assist her in courting you. I assure you, Your Highness, I’m not from the Western Isles nor do I have the need to spy on you.”

“Assist? Yelin- What are you going on about?” Jeongin’s temper finally reached a fever pitch, his voice raising in frustration. “I expect a straight answer from you, whatever your name is. Who are you, and do you have anything to do with this?”

The young lady in front of him dipped into a bow- it wasn’t the neat curtsy he’d seen at the beginning of the night. This was a deep, sweeping bow, almost mocking in nature as she nearly knelt to the floor and rose in one fluid motion. 

Her eyes were silver when they met his, a stark contrast from the dark eyes that had peered out of her face before. “And you, young prince, have just caused trouble you might not be able to mend.”

“How do you know that, Y/N?” Jeongin’s voice was as cold as the ice wreathing his fingers, his jaw tightening as he struggled to keep his rising anger in check. “Do the Western Isles dare to spy on its future monarch?”

Just as Jeongin began to advance toward her, his eyes blazing with fury at her twisted answers, a velvet soft laugh from the doors cut through his haze of anger. He caught the way Y/N’s face paled, her demeanour stiffening as she caught sight of who stood behind him. Whirling around, he saw a man walk into the hall, his plump lips pulled back in a satisfied smirk.

“How very quaint of you, guardian.”

His voice was dark, almost sensual in it’s smoothness, a terrible age ringing in every syllable. His hair was a deep purple, drizzled with streaks of white that hung inelegantly over his eyes.  A dark cloak fastened at one shoulder fluttered around his feet as he moved further into the hall. There was something wrong with this man, Jeongin realized as his grip tightened on his dagger. The energy in the room had taken a nosedive with his arrival, leaving him with barely a few strands to hold onto. 

“Nobody nor the stars give a damn about your opinion, Chris.”

Jeongin started at Y/N’s cold voice ringing from next to him, her eyes narrowed in derision as she stared down the purple-haired man. However, the man wasn’t fazed in the least, his smile only widening in response. “Is that any way to talk to your elder, young one?”

That was when Jeongin noticed the flash of quicksilver in Chris’ eyes- identical to Y/N’s.

Spellcasters.

//

4- Y/N

“You’re no more my elder than that band of heathens you used to lead.” you spit,  stepping in front of Jeongin. You could sense his surprise as he watched your form change- hair turning white, your forehead wreathed with icy blue flames. It probably must be quite overwhelming for him, but you couldn’t spare that much throught- Chris was not to touch a single strand of his hair, stars be damned. 

“You’re not welcome here, Chris. Begone.”

“When has that ever stopped me, little one?” Chris’ silver eyes narrowed in a sardonic smile- only, it wasn’t a smile but a soulless show of teeth. “Besides,the intention of my visit was only to extend a hand of gratitude to the crown prince behind you.”

To his credit, Jeongin didn’t so much as flinch, matching Chris’s stare for icy stare. “From the guardian’s stance, I presume your hand of gratitude isn’t one to clamour for.” A rueful smile dragged your lips upward; Jeongin had never been the type to mince his words.

“I must insist, Your Majesty,” Chris’ very stance glittered with the stench of malice, your magic tingling unpleasantly around you. “Or must I call you Jeongin, for you will not remain a royal much longer?”

“I’ll stop you right there.” You growled, fists clenching as blue flames sparked alive in your hands again. “Do not speak of the crown prince that way.”

“Or what, little one?” Chris laughed aloud. “Will your sweet crown prince run his country to doom yet again?”

“W-What-” Jeongin spluttered behind you, confused and bewildered. Chris cut through his stammered sentence, his words carrying over Jeongin’s. “Your spell backfired, princeling. Instead of protecting your kingdom, you sent them all to the one place where they���d never be harmed- their sleep. If only you knew the nuances of spellcasting. Stolen knowledge can only do so much, you know. I allowed you to steal the books, foolish mortal boy. Did you really think you were sneaky enough to swipe from spellcasters??” Chris snarled mockingly at you and Jeongin. You could sense the terror rippling off your prince; taste it like copper on your tongue.

“ Your kingdom will fall to death soon, all because you couldn’t keep your sticky mortal hands to yourself and mess with power you don’t deserve to know, princeling. All of this,” he exclaimed, throwing his arms out wide in sinful exultation, “Will belong to the heathens Y/N spoke about-” And a spear of fire threw him off his feet, sending him flying and crumpling against the far wall.

Stalking towards his prone figure, you pulled him up and slammed him against the wall, your hands clutching his cloak. A line of blue blood trickled down from his hairline to your sick satisfaction, his lips pulled back in a pained snarl. A snake of your flames bound his arms together as you stared him down, silver for silver.

“This kingdom has never been yours, neither will it ever be.” Your voice was soft, icy, pointed. “It belongs to Ataloria now and stars be damned if I don’t make sure it stays that way.” 

“You’re a traitor to your own kind, Y/N.” Chris spat in your face, struggling against the flames around his wrists. “Do what you wish to stop this. You and I both know this curse will be fulfilled by that foolish mortal you protect. You’ll get your comeuppance when your princeling’s folly renders this kingdom obsolete,little one. That’s a promise.”

With those final jarring words, he disappeared in a plume of red smoke, leaving you alone with a shell-shocked Jeongin and Ataloria’s sleeping citizens.

//

5- Y/N

“The land that Ataloria stands on is home to a lot more history than you know, Your Highness.” You bustled into the basement kitchen with the prince at your heels. Jeongin slumped in a chair at the wooden table, his head hidden in his hands. You couldn’t recognize if it was fear, regret or anger, because the only thing you could sense from the prince was a mixture of emotions too complex to gauge.

The both of you had spent the last couple of hours placing temporary warding charms over the entirety of Ataloria- If your brother could break in, god knows what else could. It was no mean feat, especially for two spellcasters and a vast country. But Jeongin rose to the task, his brow furrowed with concentration as he burned perfectly drawn sigils onto the map and spoke incantations with a clear, soulless tongue. The sun rose as you worked on the warding charms- it was bordering early afternoon by the time you led him to the kitchen. It fascinated you how easily the craft came to him; it wasn’t natural for a mortal with no magic in his veins.

“I don’t want to hear it, Y/N.” He sounded small, exhausted, shattered. The night must have been extremely overwhelming for him, you realized. The pressure of being responsible for an entire kingdom’s destruction must not be the easiest weight to carry. “If you’re guardian of this palace, then why didn’t you do something to stop me?” You could hear the blame, the self-loathing in every sentence, but you let him speak. “All these years, you watched me through the walls, sang me lullabies, but didn’t bother to stop me from digging myself a spellcaster grave.”

You gulped, pulling yourself together as you took a seat next to Jeongin. This was not going to be an easy story.

“Your Highness-”

“Call me Jeongin.”

“This story possibly holds the key to righting the wrongs of the night past. Do yourself the favour of listening, Jeongin.” A wave of his hand and straightened posture signalled you to speak, the only response you received.

“The entirety of the Southern Sphere was ruled by spellcasters, their power much greater than those of the spellcasters in your country. Then, this area was called Erus Nox. The spellcasters ruled with great pride and fairness- mortal and Spellcaster coexisting amongst each other with great peace. The capital was not too far from what you now call the Western Isles. Over the centuries, corruption began to take root as it did in any great empire. Many spellcasters did not believe that mortals deserved rights equal to their own, that mortals were the inferior race because of the magic their veins couldn’t hold.

“Soon enough, there were mortal killings in the bowels of the city.News reached my- the Spellcaster King and he ordered his cavalry to round up the perpetrators and have them publicly sentenced to the gallows for breaking the peace. That decision didn’t sit well with the spellcaster nobility, who were now driven to believe that the King.. our king favoured the mortals more than his own blood. Rumors were circulated that the royal family were weak beings, pandering to the whims of their mortal population...it wasn’t true. None of it was. But it spread like wildfire, and suddenly there were mass killings in the suburban areas and the noble circle every other day.”

“Wait, how do you know so much about this?” Jeongin asked you suspiciously, his eyes narrowed. “This clearly isn’t common information. Were you.. Were you one of the rebel forces?!”

“No, you impatient brat.” You bit out, your clenched fists creasing crescent shaped indents into your palms as Jeongin stopped short at your unfamiliar, condescending tone. “If you absolutely must know, I was the crown princess of Erus Nox. Don’t interrupt me, or I will freeze your mouth shut.” A glimmer of amusement flashed past Jeongin eyes at the barely-veiled threat, aware of how different you sounded from barely minutes ago.  He nodded at you to continue, so you did.

“My father and I were particularly outspoken against the heathens ravaging the country. We did everything in our power to curb the nonsense, the fanaticism of the rabid spellcaster rebellion. Towards the final days of the… the era, my family and I rallied the mortals and sent them to the closest mortal-dominated towns in the country. By the time the last human group left, it was too late.

“The rebels broke down the wards and- and sent nearly my entire family to the darkness. My father and I fought until we were forcibly subdued. I was made to watch as my father breathed his last, strung up to the throne I was meant to inherit.”

“From his last dying breaths, my father cursed the entire kingdom to fall apart the second he passed. He cursed the land to only cater to a mortal queen when the right lady stepped up, and continue to have only queens in power- may the masses be ruled by the very race they considered inferior. But before he could complete his incantation, he passed into the darkness.”

“Because of the holes his incomplete incantation left behind, the rebel forces brought in Chris to lighten the weight of the curse.- my trusted advisor and confidant,” You shook your head bitterly, the betrayal still ice in your spine. “He was my trusted advisor and confidant, a spellcaster inferior in power only to my family.

“He had no choice but to let the mortal queens part run its course- but he wrote into existence that one day, a mortal prince with a penchant for spellcasting would be born. When he came of age, he would prick himself on the sharp edge that is the art of spellcasting and bring down disaster upon the kingdom as he knows it. At which point, the crown-less kingdom would be ripe for the spellcasters’ picking, heralding the royal son’s folly as a reason for the mortals’ inability to rule- Erus Nox would be restored in all it’s bloody glory for these savage, power-drunk hordes.”

“As for me, well,” You let out a bitter laugh. “Chris had other plans for me. He had resented being my subordinate all along, and took the opportunity to even out his petty grudge. He bound my soul to the castle that was meant to become my home after my coronation, forcing me to watch Erus Nox’s destruction from what was meant to be my chosen headquarters.”

You sighed as you struggled to keep your voice steady, bluntly ignoring the glance of pity that Jeongin sent to you. “He magically sewed my lips shut, forbade me from speaking about the curse and the crusade to anybody, destroying most of my magic reserve and reducing me to.. Well, Guardian of the Rose Palace. But it seems,” you grinned wickedly, your demeanour switching instantly from forlorn to...wild and wicked. “Chris has always had a chronic problem of underestimating me, despite having to trail after my skirts for decades on end.  He weakened his curse on me in the heat of the moment back in the hall, when he told me to do what I wish to stop him.” Jeongin’s eyes widened, his jaw dropping in surprise.

“S-So, you’re free?”

“Well,” you cocked your head in thought. “As free as I can be, without a body to inhabit. This young lady’s body is already quite tired out from the exertion I put her through…. But that’s besides the point.” Your eyes glittered in thinly veiled joy, tinged with malice. “This time, he’s truly going to get what’s coming for him.”

//

6- JEONGIN

“Chris left a glaring loophole in his incantation. It was a possibility he didn’t entertain, because it was a sheer impossibility in his eyes.” Jeongin listened closely as Y/N laid out the information she’d gathered over the years, and the conclusions she’d arrived at from it. The two of them were still sitting at the table where Y/N told him about the story of Erus Nox. His heart was heavy from the pain he felt from her words- being a prisoner in the same castle you were meant to rule from must have been the worst kind of pain to bear.

“..He did not consider the possibility of the mortal prince being alive to right the wrong he had committed.”

Jeongin gasped, sitting up straight in surprise. “That seems like a stupid possibility to overlook.”

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Jeongin.” You chuckled. “It was quite by chance that I noticed the discrepancy, but yes. Chris’ curse will be obsolete if you undo the spell you wrongly cast.”

He shrugged, leaning back against the chair. “How do you propose we do that?”

Y/N’s fingertips pressed against each other, her elbows balanced on the table edge. “That warding spell you tried to cast- show me what you did. If we were to find out where you went wrong and undo it, Ataloria must likely be revived.”

Jeongin rubbed the back of his neck in thought, processing Y/N’s words. “How long will it take for you to find my errors?”

“Depends on how long the incantation is. ”

“Then what are we waiting for? You know where the North Tower is.”

“Stars above, Chris is a nasty hellhound for letting you swipe this book,” Y/N cursed, carefully taking the book from him and flipping it open. “This book contains incantations that even the most seasoned spellcasters of the current age can’t cast right.” Jeongin’s shoulders slumped as he took a seat on the floor next to her kneeling form.

Stepping carefully over the throngs of peacefully slumbering people, Jeongin led Y/N up to the North Tower. The room was as he’d left it- chalk smudges and bits of purple wax dotting the floor. Pulling open a dusty drawer, Jeongin picked out the book he’d taken the incantation from. 

“I really should have kept my nose out of spellcasting. “He muttered softly, watching her turn the brittle browned pages carefully. “Would have saved the world a lot of trouble.”

“You’re such a self-absorbed little thing,” Y/N quipped, still absorbed in the pages of the spellbook. “This was your destiny, one that Chris wrote for you. You’d have come across spellcasting and fallen in love with its craft in one way or another. Besides, you’re in the presence of a master spellcaster- Oh, is it this one?” Y/N pointed at the page in front of her.

Jeongin nodded miserably. “Yes, that’s the one. This is the modification I came up with.” He pulled out a dog-eared, heavily scribbled piece of paper from between the book’s leaves, handing it to her.

“You’ve got some balls trying this incantation without any formal training, that too with modifications!!” Y/N exclaimed, scanning the pages of the incantation. “I’m surprised that an eternal sleep is all you caused after ruining it.If you had cast this right, it would have completely removed the possibility of a siege on Ataloria’s borders ever again.”

“I know. That was why I took the risk of casting it. It would have been ideal to protect the borders.”

“No, you don’t get it.” She spared him a glance laden with calculated curiosity, “This spell is extremely volatile, because of the number of variables it includes- even more so with your changes.  It’s strong enough to ward away any mortal or spellcaster who isn’t welcome within its borders. This could decimate the spellcaster siege,  if you recast it right. It’s… It’s genius. You’re better than I anticipated.”

“It was all for naught, I ruined it regardless,” Jeongin sighed. “If you’re that good of a spellcaster, can you undo and recast the spell instead?”

“I am still a spirit, so the doors to these kinds of spellcasting are closed to me.” You frowned. “It will take me a long time and power I am yet to find to cast a body for myself, so the fastest way to revive Ataloria would be for you to undo the spell with my guidance.”

An iceberg lodged itself into Jeongin’s heart at the thought of having to cast a spell again. He swallowed thickly, the fear turning his thoughts slow and sluggish. “I’m not sure that is a good idea. I’m clearly not meant to dabble in spellcasting, I’m but a mortal-”

“Does spellcasting make your blood sing, Jeongin?”

It only took Jeongin a split- second’s thought to answer her question. “Yes.”

“Then why must you be scared of failure?” Y/N’s eyebrow arched. “Even spellcasters make mistakes. That doesn’t stop us from pursuing the craft, does it? Also..you’re not alone now, Jeongin.” She placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “ This craft was never meant to be exclusive. I knew mortal spellcasters who bent energy to their will much better than many spellcasters by blood. You’re a natural at this. I believe in you.”

Jeongin’s face crumpled as a few tears escaped his eyes unbidden. The idea of pursuing spellcasting beyond a hidden passion sent a thrill through his body despite the havoc his previous attempt had caused. The possibility of failure, as daunting as it was, only pushed him to practice more, be better- He wiped the tears away. If not for himself, at least for the good of Ataloria...

“Are you certain that this spell could protect Ataloria from future harm?”

“Absolutely. I’m sure of it.” she sounded confident; Jeongin had no reason to distrust her.

“You truly believe that I can undo the spell ?”

Y/N stood up, the book in one hand as she held out the other for him to take. “I do. Are you up for the challenge, Your Highness?” She used the title like a teasing nickname, her eyes creasing into a smile as Jeongin took her hand, hauling himself to his feet.

“As much as I’ll ever be.” 

7-JEONGIN

//

“Do you remember everything I told you?” Y/N leaned against the door of the North Tower, watching closely as Jeongin went through the same preparations as last night. The pentagram and sigils drawn, the crystals and candles laid out, Y/N’s paper of corrections and developments on the new spell clutched in Jeongin’s hand.

“Yes, I think so.” He huffed out a breath, the air fogging in front of him. The sun had set, giving way to the twilight darkness. This night was eerily similar to the night before- the sun was high in the sky, the stars against the cloudless sky. But tonight, his kingdom’s fate hung in the balance, because a group of magical elitists couldn’t admit defeat. 

“Thank you, Y/N.” His gratitude clearly caught Y/N off-guard, judging from her widened eyes and parted lips. “Oh- I-”

His thoughts wandered to the people that lay deep in slumber around the castle and the kingdom- his people. Their fate and safety lay in his untrained novice spellcaster hands. Jeongin’s jaw tightened, his resolve strengthened. He would do everything right this time around, no matter what it took. For his people.

Before she could answer, a resounding boom ripped through the tower, shaking the floor under their feet. Amidst the pebbles and tiles falling from the ceiling, Jeongin saw Y/N hurry to the window in the tower wall, her expression shifting from confusion to fury.

“Chris realized his mistake.” The words sent a chill down Jeongin’s spine. The energy-sucking feeling he’d felt in Chris’ presence was one he did not wish to encounter again-

“I’ll hold him off,” Y/N’s brow and wrists blazed in the same icy blue fire he’d seen that morning, her silver eyes flashing dangerously. “No matter what, don’t step out of the room, do you understand?”

That was when Jeongin saw the silver line etched at the entrance of the door, a flare of silvery energy encompassing the entire room around him- A forcefield. Y/N stood on the other side, her voice loud yet muffled as another explosion rocked the foundations of the tower. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND, JEONGIN??”

The energy that picked up around him was as wild as he remembered, a hurricane almost throwing him off his feet from the time he uttered the first words. If anything, it was almost chaotic, the wind screaming in his ears as he struggled to keep the incantation running. It was almost like the energy did not wish to be undone, rebelling against his attempts to right the wrong.

“YES, YES I DO!” He yelled, lunging for the spellbook that had fallen to the floor. He had no time to spare, maybe if he worked the incantation fast enough no harm would befall Y/N or his people, there were his people in the castle, he couldn’t mess up-

He could hear the distant crackle of fire and the screech of metal outside the forcefield- Y/N was making good on her word. It would only be fitting if he did the same. 

8- Y/N

//

You dodged another arrow of ice, a hiss slipping through your teeth as you pulled yourself to your feet. “Tired already little one?” Chris called out, his fists ablaze with red-tinted ice. His eyes blazed a bright silver, almost white as he advanced towards you.

“You wish, blood traitor,” You snarled back, tossing a wave of  shadow energy at Chris, but he only danced out of range. “It seems to be so!” He cackled, another gust of energy pushing you backwards on the smooth marble. 

The two of you stood at the entrance to the North Tower, right outside the forcefield you’d left around Jeongin. You could only hope that he was doing everything you told him to do. You gritted your teeth, rallying what was left of your magic. Yelina’s body was strong, but she wasn’t a spellcaster. The constant magic use was taking a toll on her while the stress of inhabiting a mortal body taking a toll on you. Your magic wasn’t made to inhabit a mortal body for too long-you could only hope that the two of you held out long enough to give Jeongin the time he needed…It was time for some old-fashioned trickery.

“You can’t get through the forcefield I put around him even if you get past me, Chris. It’s beyond your capabilities.” You grinned at the way Chris’ eyes narrowed. You’d hit the right nerve. “I know for a fact you’re too proud to bring any of your heathens with you,” you taunted further, revelling in his clenched fists. “Keep your nasty tongue to yourself, Y/N-”

“You were embarrassed by the loophole you left, weren’t you?” the mocking sweetness in your tone had a growl ripping out of Chris’ throat, an angry vine of energy flying towards you. You ducked, allowing it to break through the plaster and cement of the wall behind you, a raucous laugh bubbling up your throat. Keep him occupied, keep him occupied until Jeongin completes the incantation-

“You came here alone to fix it. You’re just as I remember, Courtesan,” you exclaimed, dancing out of the way of Chris’ attacks, until one flash of lightning caught you unawares, slamming you against the wall. Chris’s purple hair was almost black in the darkness as he materialized in front of you, his snarl showing pulled back teeth ready to pounce. His hand tightened around your neck, squeezing slowly. “I should have killed you that day in the throne room-”

“ Social climbing, greedy, proud,” you choked on the little remaining air you had left in your lungs,  defiantly staring Chris down. “Always overshadowed, can’t do a single thing right-”

“You little-”

Your eyes screwed shut, waiting for the final blow- which never came.

//

9-JEONGIN

“You- There’s no way you reversed the spell-” Chris screamed, his silvery bright eyes almost white in the moonlight darkness. He could feel Chris’ magic rebel against his own, the intensity almost enough to make Jeongin see stars, but he held on. His magic’s grip tightened on Chris, who choked and spluttered to silence.

“You’re not welcome here, Chris.” Jeongin’s voice was louder than he thought, bolts of magic bodily pulling him away from Y/N. She slumped to the ground, coughing and spluttering, but his attention was speared upon the thrashing man in the clutches of Jeongin’s roiling magic.

“Y/N told me you had a chronic problem of underestimating people.” He sounded calm, almost conversational to his own ears. How was he so calm?

“I must agree for tonight, a foolish mortal boy will be the reason for your downfall. I hope your entire association remembers that before ever thinking of laying siege upon my kingdom again. Leave, Chris. And never return.”

“I would not lay my bets on that, mortal scum.” Chris snarled, finally finding his tongue before dissolving into thin air, Jeongin’s magic letting him leave. The castle was alive yet again, with faint murmurs and loud screams. He could hear the sound of life everywhere- and it finally hit him. He succeeded.

An incredulous laugh spilled from his throat, almost instinctively moving towards Y/N as his grin grew wider. He’d succeeded, he saved them, he did it all by himself-

He knelt before her, gently helping her sit up and open her eyes.. Dark eyes that were decidedly not the silver he’d gotten accustomed to. It was Yelina that stared back at him, not Y/N- her eyes narrowed in exhaustion, the previous injuries inflicted by the fight against Chris nowhere to be seen.

“Y-Your Highness?” Yelina’s Isles accent was back in full force, and it was all he could do to school his face into a mask of bland relief. His tongue instantly cooked up a suitable lie for their location while his mind raced- where was Y/N? Why did she disappear ? Did he do something wrong again?

Until he heard it.

A husky, haunting melody that seemed to echo from within the walls of the castle, the sad melody sounding unmistakably joyous to his ears. Y/N hadn’t left, he realized. She was right here, as she always was. Her curse was weakened, she’d said- not broken. She was still a prisoner of The Rose Palace.

Jeongin smiled a secret smile to himself as he led Yelina back into the castle, a quiet promise made between him and the moon- one day soon, he’d break the curse on Y/N. And that day would come very, very soon.

Wise men say, only fools rush in

Thank you for reading! :)

But I can’t help falling in love with you..

///

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​Do let me know what you think! - Elliana.

[eternalstrigoii]

I'd really like an Udo x reader, please! He deserves more love!

Udo x human!Reader with a heavy dose of pining and the promise that Udo and Guin are getting a full-fledged fic.

                                        Your mother was going to have to help you straighten your hair again soon.

Technically, she didn’t have to. You were a grown woman; you could do it by yourself, though it would be far easier to ensure every last strand was as smooth as it ought to be when you had help. Your mother’s help. No one else had ever touched your hair, and rightfully so, in your opinion (until earlier that day). Until Udo reached out, as though instinctively, and brushed back your hair from the shell of your ear. The temperance of his skin was not what jolted you into alertness – though you had not corrected him when he believed it to be – but the gentility of his touch.

It put all manner of thoughts in your head that had no business being there.

You allowed your brush to pause mid-stroke. It was perfectly natural to be lonely. Richard had been gone for nearly a year; the love of your family was unconditional, infallible, and always present to ward off the worst of your yearnings, but it was not the same as having your hand held by someone who loved you. Watching a gaggle of children run throw a meadow of wildflowers, your son among them, and feel at home beside the person at your side. You had only known Udo for a short time, but his daughter was your son’s best friend; you knew him to be a good father, a responsible and devoted caregiver, willing and able to care for children who were not his own.

You just couldn’t decide if you wanted him to love you.

Or, worse still, if you could even acknowledge your feelings in return.

You did not hear the breath of your bedroom door opening, nor the brush of Udo’s wings against the frame as he leaned in to tell you, “The children are asleep.”

You startled. Dropping your brush, you made sure your dressing gown was closed over your nightdress – it was one thing to sit around thinking about him, another entirely to sit in your bedroom, practically bare, when he was a guest in your home.

“I am so sorry,” you began, standing from the bench you’d set before your dressing-table.

The corners of his lips quirked, but did not fully upturn. “You did not hear me?”

“No.” And you should not have gone about dressing for bed until he’d left. What kind of a fool were you? “I should’ve. I don’t know why I’d forgotten you were here—”

“Guinevere,” he cut you off gently, “you are allowed to be comfortable in your own home.”

No, you admitted by way of breathing out rather harshly, you were not. There were standards – rules of propriety, let alone laws of etiquette that you’d miraculously failed to adhere to. A small handful of months under new reign, peace and prosperity and political alliances with entirely new races of fey and you’d forgotten a lifetime of court lessons (many of which had been engrained in shame under Queen Ingrith’s perpetual disapproval). You were not allowed to undress while a male acquaintance resided in your home unless you were chaperoned, which you were most certainly not. Never mind entertain thoughts of courtship with said male acquaintance. Not in the position you were in.

“Aspen and Rojan decided to stay in Arthur’s room. Violet, Dawn and Aya will sleep in your mother’s.” It was only fair, as six children could hardly be asked to share one bed.

You nodded, though the result of that conclusion did not strike you fully until Udo opened the door a bit more as if to enter.

The children occupied every other bed in your home. Which left him with nowhere else to sleep but in your room, with you.

There were alternatives, of course. You could politely relinquish your bed and go sleep with the girls, if there was room. He was your guest; courtesy dictated that you would sleep on the floor if that was what you must do in order to make your guests comfortable, regardless of whether or not said guest understood or acknowledged the social rules that had been engrained into you since childhood.

“Is the front door bolted?” you asked, though the smallness of your voice betrayed you. A moment’s extra time would not buy you much in the way of thought, but—

“It is,” he replied.

Damn. Maybe he knew more than you gave him credit for.

Maybe you shouldn’t have had that thought, lest you start entertaining the idea that the children were filling up every bed in the house and Udo knew what sharing a bed with you would mean to an observant, human outsider. Like your mother, if she returned from the palace earlier tomorrow than she said she would.

“The candles are extinguished,” he left the door open, though, which you could not bring yourself to protest. If the children needed you, it was the easiest way for them to reach you, but it also afforded some sense of lacking privacy – some persistent reminder that you were not hiding away in a love-nest somewhere, and you could be walked in upon at any time, so there was no reason to entertain the idea of being held by him while you slept. Caressing the length of one of his long feathers to see if they were really as soft as they looked. No, you absolutely could not do that.

“Except yours.”

The blue of his eyes was as clear and bright as the winter’s midday sky. . It was not the first time they’d caused you to lose your train of thought (nor the softness in his angular features or the grace in his approach). He joined you, only a pace away from the wool blankets that still lingered atop your bed for those cold, late-spring nights.

What would it feel like to be pressed against him under them?

“My what?”

His bright eyes glimmered. Surely, your voice must’ve betrayed you.

Your face warmed. You had to resist the impulse to pull your sleeves lower so you could fuss with the loose thread on your inner sleeve – it was not ladylike to pull at your clothing, or divert your gaze when someone spoke to you.

“Your candle.” His wing extended as though he gestured with the patterned end of his long feathers.

Yes. That would make sense. If he had truly put everyone to bed and extinguished the other candles – even checked the door to ensure your safety – your candle would be the last one to remain lit, would it not?

“Oh.” Very eloquent. You could almost feel the sting of a silver teaspoon across your knuckles.

“Are you ready to sleep?” He lowered his head ever so slightly toward you. Though some part of you knew that he would be searching your eyes for a response (or, perhaps because of it), yours lifted to the points of his horns, as though expecting them to lower near enough to touch the top of your own head. Never mind that they were another head above the advantage in height he already had.

“I suppose.” You tore your eyes away. Fetched your brush off the dressing table and placed it, bristles-down, in one of the topmost drawers of your chest-of-drawers. Tomorrow’s gown awaited you on the back of your dressing screen, and though it did not necessarily please you to imagine waking early to ensure you had time enough to dress before he joined you, you supposed it was only one morning. Perhaps, after sleeping, tomorrow would not be as awkward as it seemed tonight.

Udo gestured for you to take to your bed. He must’ve wanted you to do as you always did, though he must’ve known you deliberately would not; the opposite side of the bed was your usual sleeping-area, and you made sure to remain as near to the edge as comfortably possible lest he not have enough room for himself and his wings. (Surely, he wouldn’t, but you could no more control that than you could control the lack of adequate sleeping space for two adults and six children in a house meant for three.)

He extinguished the candle with a soft breath.

Yet, even in the darkness of a house at night, you saw the whiteness of his robes. The brightness of his hair. You watched him unwind his topmost layer from around his wings, and relieve himself of it in a folded square like the cloak of a formal coat. It was placed gingerly upon your dressing-table, as though he was uncertain as to whether or not it would be allowed there.

You had the nagging feeling he knew you could still see him.

His underclothes fit to his body more closely than you imagined they might.

You had no business thinking about his underclothes. Even if they were not underclothes in the sense you knew underclothes to be. Clothes under a coat. That kind of underclothes, not….Lord in Heaven, do not lie there wondering if he wears underclothes beneath what he already has on.

He drew his wings close to him before he lay down. He did not draw back the wool blanket that you had crawled beneath, and you did not realize he might see the flicker of unwarranted hurt that crossed your face.

“Would you like a blanket of your own?” you murmured.

“No.” He settled atop his wings, flexing them only a bit, and interlaced his hands carefully atop his stomach. “Thank you. This is a much warmer climate than my own.”

Oh. Of course.

Everything was perfectly reasonable, in the end. You shared a bed because there was no other reasonable alternative. Your children were friends, nothing more, and you often participated in such awkward exchanges because you were still culturally uncertain with one another, nothing more.

You had to force yourself to turn away. “Goodnight, Udo.”

You could only hide so much from someone who lay beside you. Udo watched the tension in your shoulders ease. Listened to your breath begin to deepen. Nervous as you were, the weight of his body beside yours did not disrupt your peace. In fact, he waited until he believed you were past the cusp of sleep to murmur, as if he believed you would not hear, “Goodnight, Guinevere.”

                                               ----------------------

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[theharellan]

Written for Stories of Thedas Volume II. Pairing: Solas & Cole (platonic) Prompt: Library

Masks upon masks. The Winter Palace is strange to Cole, who attends at the Inquisitor's bidding and finds himself at a loss for how to help. Solas comes upon him with ideas for how to cope with the deadly Game.

Read on AO3.

Couples spin on the dance floor, turning and turning, going nowhere and everywhere at once. Their heads fill with daydreams, one gazes into her partner’s eyes through their masks, imagining the hidden corners they could lose themselves in. Another, all he sees is the faint outline of a knife in his companion’s skirts, so all-consuming he almost forgets the steps. A third, their eyes bore holes into the other’s heads, hate springs from love eternal. His eyes dart from one couple to the next, glimpses into minds fraught with thoughts of a Game no one ever really wins.

He breathes in and feels the air catch in his throat. Honeyed words mask the taste of poison, cold compassion, they understand only so they can hurt. It isn’t right, it isn’t fair, it isn’t–

In the blink of an eye he’s in the library, surrounded by pages that whisper the words of yesterday. Not so sharp against his skin. Below, a dead man in the shape of a Warden pretends to stare at a plaque, praying no one will look at him twice, fearing they might see his valourous wings are clipped. It’s still a hurt, a tangle, but he’s trying to help. Cruelty does not become him. He lets out a breath he forgot he was holding, hands coming together to pull at his sleeves.

Oh.

He had forgotten about the uniform. The fabric doesn’t come away at his touch, no matter how hard he tugs.

And he misses his hat.

Cole wonders how long he will wait here, alone with his panic clawing at his throat. In the Spire he spent months isolated, forgotten by all save the one who no longer cares to know him. Suddenly the soft, inviting lights which illuminate the halls of the Winter Palace seem as cold as the dark cells they had kept Rhys in, clapped in irons for crimes Cole committed. Anxiety squeezes every inch of him. He counts the beats of the music that drifts from the distant dance hall, just to assure himself only minutes have passed since he came here.

A door opens behind him, and he nearly jumps into shadow, the Veil waiting to envelop him, drawing him from prying eyes, but a familiar face waits on the other side. “Solas!” he gasps, relieved and ashamed that he had doubted, but grateful most of all.

Solas shuts the door behind him, turning the handle so the latch doesn’t make a sound. “I thought I might find you here.”

That gives Cole pause. He hadn’t known he would find himself here, until it happened. “But I don’t read.” The books here are newer than those kept in the Pit, some hum with the occult, others recount poems about the shape of a woman’s hips, but he still doesn’t read. There isn’t a question in his tone, but Solas hears it, all the same.

“This place can be overwhelming for anyone, even without accounting for your abilities. Books carry meaning, but without eyes upon them those meanings are static. Far easier to take in,” he answers as he walks towards him, gait stiffer than usual. His feet had forgotten what it was like to wear shoes. Solas has been quiet that evening, quieter than usual, the stem of a glass glued between his fingers, bottomless. He lets his hat do his talking for him, the Drasca’s dissent lived on atop his head. He stops beside Cole, leaning upon the marble rail, gloved hands bearing weight. His eyes turn upon him, no brimmed hat to hide behind. “Are you all right?”

He pulls on his sleeves, this time he thinks he feels a thread come loose. “Yes... No? There are two faces for every person.” The Left Hand smiles and laughs, she comes alive, but inside it’s cold and cruel. The rose withers upon the vine. He finds the thread with his finger and pulls, but it doesn’t break. It unravels, further and further, if he keeps going his whole sleeve will be an unspooled mess on the floor. “I don’t know which to look at. I-I don’t know how to help.”

Solas reaches out, subduing his worrying hands with a single, steady touch. A gentle gesture, despite the blood which stains them. Sometimes they do not seem so different from his own, they remember the bodies because forgetting would be worse. Killer’s hands, but there is no deceit in their tenderness. Solas wraps the thread around his finger, string bright white against his brown glove, and he tugs. It snaps, suddenly brittle, and falls to the floor to be swept away by a servant who will never know they were here. A comforting hand is placed deliberately on his shoulder blade, and Cole stills. He inhales, eyes snapping from the abandoned thread to Solas. There is kindness in his eyes, quiet assurance. He has seen this all before and he will make it easier to bear. So many tricks just to make it through a day, an evening, an hour. “You will not find much compassion in these affairs, any help you offer will be perceived as duplicitous, a means to get what it is you desire.”

“Then I… shouldn’t help?”

He hesitates, delaying his answer with a moment’s deliberation. “The choice is ultimately yours, but their comfort should not come at the cost of your peace of mind.” His hand slowly falls from his back as Cole turns his advice around in his head. “While we are waiting for the Inquisitor to call upon us, rather than mend the missing pieces in strangers’ lives, perhaps I may help you.”

“Help me?” He searches Solas’ eyes for answers, compassion seeking solace in pride. They are quiet, revealing only as much as intended. Cole chips at the cracks in the rock and hopes for water to spring forth, but he guards his sorrows like a wolf guards her den.

“Would you care to learn how to dance?”

A dozen thoughts pile into the spirit’s head, most too quick to catch, but he grasps one by the tail. “Do spirits dance?”

Solas claims spirits are people, and each day that belief is realer in Cole’s own mind, reinforced by the Herald and Solas himself. He need not change to be loved, or understood, he need only be himself. But if he is a person, then he is not a person the way Varric is, or Cassandra, or even Solas. There’s a touch of sadness in the corner of his smile, as though he is sorry the question needs to be asked. “I suppose it falls to us to answer together,” he replies patiently with an offered palm.

Uncertain how it will help, but ready to trust that it can, he takes Solas’ hand.

“Listen closely,” he says, but he declines to speak again. Cole’s instruction takes a different turn, a manicured glimpse through a window into Solas’ soul.

“Delicate hand folded like a paper crane between my shoulders, her eyes shine like the gold she deals in when I take to the dance.” Josephine had poured so much into tonight, all her smiles and favours, anything that will see the Inquisition prevail. “She didn’t think you would be asked to dance, but she was afraid if you didn’t learn, someone would.”

“Her time was likely better spent elsewhere,” he agrees, “though nothing would have given me more pleasure tonight than refusing one of Celene’s court. Listen again, parse the thoughts which cloud the memory and see how we move.” Cole nods, and concentrates. He remembers the palm tucked in the valley between Solas’ shoulders, and he moves his there. His feet, too, he moves in line with his hips. It’s strange, focusing upon his own body and the space it takes up in the world. Lighter now that he has chosen compassion, but still very much real, empty only in the seconds the air rushes from the chambers of his lungs.

He feels eyes upon him, questioning, searching for confirmation before the music dares move them. “I’m ready.”

When Solas steps forward, Cole steps back, like they’re two puppets on the same musical string. He clips his strides, travelling farther faster than Solas can hope to without magic to carry him there. Awkward at first, but with each beat he feels him join with the dance that exists in his head. Old melodies, half-remembered, play in distant memories. Like the sky he knew it, once, but made himself forget. Dancing wasn’t always this way, was it?

Solas remembers. Feet too full of motion to keep his thoughts safe in his head, they spill onto the fabric of the world where Cole breathes them like his own. Memories of moving on a dancefloor to a familiar tune, swaying with the stars themselves, spinning until they parted from the earth. He swells with pride, a beast alive beneath his ribcage, it thrives and fights and inspires. When they dance the heavens and the earth move, and an empire holds its breath. It fears what dread the dawn will bring, but his People find freedom in the impromptu steps.

“What are you two doing here?” A voice snaps the string. Halamshiral looks different than it did heartbeats ago, all the magic hidden in dark corners (all the elves, too). When Cole turns to see the servant who disturbed them, he’s surprised to see a bare face behind her plain mask, and a second later cannot recall why.

With silver eyes she stares at him, unblinking. “She can see me.”

“A consequence of our dance, I believe.” Yes, he can feel it. Solas fades with each passing second, growing distant as his hand falls from his waist. “It will fade in a moment.” He speaks as though she is not there, but he’s waiting. It’s another dance, only it’s Cole’s turn to lead.

Cut loose, he turns his attention to the woman. Fear flows through her veins, the dagger beneath her sleeve is ready to open theirs. Beneath the steel, her heart wavers. Stranded between duty and love. “I’m warning you-”

“There’s still time,” he says. “She waits for you beside the fountain where you wished away Your Lady’s collection.” There were wiser things to do with gold, but oh how they’d laughed with every dream plunged into the water.

Cole steps forward and she braces, but not fast enough. “Forget.”

Time is unmade behind her eyes, and she slips the mask from her face to rub the last place she’d been kissed. Gone as quickly as she came, with new purpose in her step.

“It seems you found a way to help someone, after all,” Solas remarks after the library door has shut behind her. “You never fail to impress.”

Something in him shines brighter, bolstered by his pride. “Thank you.” He falters, looking down at his feet, curling his toes inside their boots. “I’d like to try another dance, if you think there’s time.”

A laugh coloured wine red parts Solas’ lips, punctuated by a snort that makes Blackwall down below look around for its source. “I believe there is time for one more,” he says, outstretched palm seeking Cole’s hand. “Since you have devised a way to put off intruders, I daresay we have all the time in the world.”

It isn’t a lie, but neither is it true. Like the golden caprice coins that shine beneath the lovers’ reunion, Solas’ words glow like wishes.

[pixielix]

୭̥⋆*｡ royal christmas!au felix

pairing: prince!felix + gn journalist!reader genre: fluff, slight enemies-to-lovers word count: 1.7k warnings: none ― @districtninewriters​’ winter fic exchange for the lovely @freckledberries​

a/n: hey jules :] i’m so happy i could write this for u. ur someone who’s been so sweet to me since the very start, i’m so grateful for u !! i hope u have a merry christmas n happy holidays <3 love, angie

it’s infuriating that the prince still looks as good as he does in the world’s ugliest christmas sweater

he meanders through a crowd of thousands carrying a subtle air of grace that catches everyone’s eye and the kind of exuberant warmth that holds their attention

it feels like every movement he makes is filled with an intention to charm 

one example is his habit of pushing back his hair after he bows

fingers weaving back through strands of strawberry blonde that gently frame his freckled cheeks

even you can’t deny he’s almost enchanting to watch

but it doesn’t make it any less excruciating that you’re being paid a mediocre wage to watch him smile and shake hands for hours on end

you don’t hate the prince, or anyone from the royal family really, but you hoped that your first assignment as a real journalist would be something that you’re actually passionate about

and unlike everyone else in the country, you really couldn’t care less about the royals

the feeling’s somewhat mutual

it’s a well-known fact that the royals are ‘indifferent’ to journalists

they say if the king had his way, he’d have banned every news outlet in the country years ago

maybe that’s why felix’s eyes shift to the opposite direction whenever he sees someone with a camera and a bright red press lanyard

so naturally, when you catch him trying to escape his own guards and make an early escape from the winter parade, his first instinct is to put on a charming smile and try to slither his way out of the situation

“your highness?” you find him straddling a wooden fence at the back of the park just as you’re stepping away from the crowded parade to get some air

his lips stretch into a bashful grin, avoiding your eyes as he swings one leg back over the fence and lands on both feet in front of you

“hey uh.. how did you know it was me?”

“the sweater” you point a finger at the the tinsel-covered, burgundy fabric still visible under the hem of his hoodie, unintentionally grimacing at the sight of it

“oh… is it that bad?”

“to be honest, it’s the ugliest thing i’ve ever seen. uh- no offense-” you blurt out, eyebrows knit together apologetically as soon as you realise you just insulted the prince

“none taken” he breathes a soft chuckle, “thank you for your honesty”

you both stand there in a stalemate for a few seconds, feet shuffling awkwardly in the snow as you carefully consider what comes next

felix’s eyes grow increasingly troubled as he realises how screwed he is if you rat him out to the guards, or worse, to the media

as desperate as he was to get away from the crowds and have the day to himself, ‘runaway prince’ wouldn’t be a good look

meanwhile, you have the thrilling realisation that if the prince were to somehow slip away, there’d be no need for you to stick around

sure you’d come back to the boss empty-handed, but at least you could save him and yourself from many more brain-numbing hours of smiling and shaking hands

“go.”

“what?”

“i won’t tell anyone, i promise” you assure him

“really? why should i trust you?” felix quirks his brow in suspicion as he leans back against the fence with arms crossed over his chest

“cause i want to get out of here just as badly as you do”

both of your heads whip around at the sound of footsteps approaching

“go.” you repeat firmly in a hushed tone

before he can argue, a group of his guards falls into view

“your highness, please, come back! just one more question!” you yell, but in the complete opposite direction of the park, diverting their attention and giving felix enough time to jump the fence and hide in the bushes

he peeks out and you turn back towards him with a relieved smile

“merry christmas” you mouth

all he can do is return the smile, watching speechlessly as you turn and walk away

the next time you’re assigned coverage of the prince’s activities is at the annual christmas eve performance of the nutcracker

once again, you find yourself watching from a distance as the prince captivates the crowd

taking the time to greet each of the young performers dressed as snowflakes and dewdrops with an enthusiastic high five

the lights dim as the performance starts and you use it as your chance to take a break from the noise

it doesn’t take long for you to notice a familiar young man in a hoodie walking slowly behind you down the empty corridor

“i’m supposed to be the one following you, you know”

“sorry i didn’t mean to- well i did but i-” felix stutters, frozen in place as you turn towards him

“i’m kidding. can i help you?” you smile with your head tilted and your hand on your hip

he scratches his neck, scrambling to remember the reason why he’d been looking for you in the first place

“um- oh! i uh- i didn’t get to thank you last time”

“for what?”

“helping me escape the parade”

“oh”, you smile and felix can swear he feels his heart start to tremble, “it’s no big deal”

“no really, you saved me, thank you” he bows deeply, only realising how overly courtly he’s being when he catches you stifling a laugh

“sorry” he blushes, “habit.”

without missing a beat, he threads his fingers back through soft tresses of blonde hair and you watch them fall perfectly over his handsome features

he’s even more enchanting up close

a few seconds pass as you both ponder the absurdity of a friendship between a prince and a journalist

but felix breaks the silence with the exact suggestion that you’ve been waiting for

“i’ve seen this performance of the nutcracker about twenty times before so i wasn’t really thinking of sticking around. did you want to…?”

“absolutely” you nod firmly and his eyes light up like stars

you tug the press lanyard from your neck as he holds open the exit door for you

“after you” he grins

“thank you, your highness-”

“felix.”

“thank you, felix”

as you get to know felix on a spontaneous trip to the outskirts of the city, it seems like everything you thought about him was wrong

the warmth and sweetness of his persona as the nation’s beloved ‘fairy prince’ is completely real

and despite only being the second-in-line, he still feels a strong sense of responsibility towards the country, especially to inspire and empower young people

seeing the way his face lights up in excitement when he gushes about all of the organisations that he’s taken up an ambassadorship with, you can’t help but start to admire him

he opens up to you about the struggles of growing up in the public eye and the media storms that almost tore his family apart

it’s no wonder that when felix invites you as his guest to the royal family’s christmas ball, it causes quite a stir

“no journalist has stepped foot inside the palace in the last fifty years, felix” you repeat, pacing frantically in your bedroom as he tries to calm you down over the phone

“you’re not coming as a journalist, you’re coming as my guest.”

“i can’t even dance!”

“i’ll teach you. you know i’ll look out for you, don’t you?”

“i know it’s just- are you sure about this? about me being there?”

“it has to be you.”

you can almost hear the smile in his voice, warm and reassuring

“okay… only if you’re sure”

“i’m sure. a hundred and one percent.”

the whole interior of the palace is more rustic and homely than you’d expected

and the music is lively, so are the laughs

his sisters are the most beautiful, sweetest girls you’ve ever met and your heart instantly feels warm in their presence

along with the hospitality of his parents (besides the occasional side-eye you get from the king)

in a conversation with one of his sisters, who speaks as fondly about felix as everyone else seems to, she mentions hearing about you

“my brother is an affectionate person, but i’ve never seen him gush about anyone as much as he has about you” she beams

flustered, you look over at him, only to find him looking straight back your way

leaning back against a wall with a glass in his hand, almost oblivious to the group of people that are circling him and instead fully focused on you

he hands his drink to one of his friends and proceeds to slowly walk away

but not before tilting his head and giving you a mischievous look that you immediately know the meaning of

let’s get out of here

“this is nothing like i imagined” you breathe shakily, following felix down the stairs as he leads you out of the ballroom

“what were you expecting?”

“chandeliers, statues, maybe a dragon” you laugh

“i wish” he sighs playfully as he nudges open a door to the outdoor courtyard

felix hurries a few steps ahead so that he can extend his hand to you as you step out onto the glacial footpath

but he ends up almost slipping over his own feet in the process, so you interlace arms and cling to each other for dear life

“ah-!” you stifle a squeal, instinctively tightening your grip on the sleeves of his flowy white dress shirt with every step you take

you glide around each other on the frosted concrete for a few seconds trying to regain your balance

“hey look, we’re sort of dancing” felix chuckles, twirling you under his arm with ease as you gently fall forwards and laugh against his chest

“i don’t think this counts”

“then let me teach you properly like i promised”

light snow continues to fall as you find your rhythm, guided by the soft echo of people clapping along to a lively acoustic beat inside the palace

“am i doing this right?” you ask softly as you watch your feet while carefully mirror his steps

“yeah” he whispers against your hair, warm breath tickling your ear, “you’re doing it perfectly”

the distant roaring of crowds indicates that it’s come to that part of the night where the royal family gives their christmas address to the public at the front of the palace

but felix just continues to hold you close, humming blissfully as if to drown out the noise

“i think the whole world’s waiting for you out there...”

he pulls away, just for a second, and looks at you with those doey brown eyes that seem to hold the expanse of the entire sky on the clearest winter night

“the world can wait”

m.list