#perhaps with a gentle sweeping motion

[plusultraetc]

number one cosplay takeaway of the day is that if I had Hawks’ quirk I would primarily use the wings to fly but their secondary function would be creating personal space

[earthlybeam]

Hello, I absolutely love how you write! I'd like to suggest mortal reader who takes a liking to some of the more intricate elf braids and hairstyles and asks the elves if they could style readers hair for the first time? With Elrond, Thranduil, and who ever else you'd like to include! Thanks!

Thranduil, Elrond version below.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The air in the Woodland Realm is thick with the scent of moss and autumn leaves. The flickering candlelight casts golden hues across the stone chamber where you sit, your heart pounding just a little faster than usual. Across from you, Thranduil reclines in his carved wooden chair, adorned in flowing silks of deep green and silver, his long, pale fingers tracing idle patterns along the stem of his goblet.

He looks ethereal, as he always does—every movement of his as effortless as wind shifting through the trees. His hair, impossibly smooth and woven into elaborate braids, catches the dim light like spun starlight. You’ve always admired it. More than once, your fingers have itched to touch those braids, to understand their intricate weaves. And now, sitting before him, you find yourself speaking before you can rethink it. “My lord,” you begin hesitantly, voice softer than intended. “Would you… braid my hair?”

There’s a pause. A long one. His silver-blue eyes flick to yours, unreadable. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve overstepped. Then, slowly, he sets his goblet aside. “You wish for me to braid your hair?” His tone carries neither mockery nor warmth, just the cool, deliberate cadence of someone weighing a request with great care. You nod. “I’ve always admired Elven braids. But I’ve never had someone weave them into my hair.”

Another pause. Thranduil studies you as if unraveling some hidden meaning behind your words. Then, wordlessly, he extends a hand, fingers curling just slightly—a silent summons. Your breath catches as you move closer, kneeling before him. He shifts, his long, elegant fingers sweeping through your hair in a slow, methodical motion. The touch sends a shiver down your spine—not cold, not warm, just… aware. “Your hair is softer than I expected,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

His fingers move with practiced ease, sectioning your hair, twisting and weaving in a rhythm both foreign and hypnotic. You can feel his breath against the back of your neck, steady and composed. There’s something almost reverent in the way he handles each strand, as if the act itself holds meaning beyond simple aesthetics. “Elven braids carry purpose,” he says quietly, his voice close to your ear. “They mark kinship, allegiance, history. A warrior’s braid is not the same as a royal one. A lover’s braid… differs still.”

Your throat tightens. You want to ask what kind of braid he’s weaving into your hair, but the words catch behind your lips. He finishes with a final, gentle tug, securing the plait with an unseen motion. His hands linger for a moment, fingertips ghosting against your skin, before he finally leans back. “There,” he says, his voice softer now.

You reach up, fingers brushing over the intricate work. It feels unlike anything you’ve ever worn before, elegant and precise. Somehow, though you cannot see it, you know it is not just any braid. It is something his hands crafted, something deliberately chosen. “It suits you,” Thranduil remarks, and when you turn back to him, there’s something in his gaze that wasn’t there before. Something thoughtful. Something unreadable. You don’t know what it means yet. But you think, perhaps, he does.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

The halls of Rivendell shimmered in the golden light of the afternoon, casting long, delicate shadows across the carved archways and polished stone. You sat upon a cushioned bench in one of the balconies overlooking a waterfall, watching the cascading mist drift into the air. The elves of Elrond’s house moved gracefully through the corridors, their hair adorned with intricate braids, woven like silver and gold filigree.

You had always admired their artistry—the way their hands wove strands together as if crafting something sacred, something eternal. And so, in a quiet moment, you turned to Elrond, who sat beside you, immersed in a book. “Elrond,” you asked softly, hesitant yet eager. “Would you braid my hair?”

He lifted his gaze from the pages, dark brows rising slightly in surprise. A small, knowing smile played at his lips. “You wish for an elven braid?” You nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I see the others wearing them, and they seem… intricate, beautiful. I would like to know what it feels like.”

For a moment, Elrond regarded you, as though measuring the weight of such a request. Then, with a gentle incline of his head, he set his book aside and gestured for you to turn. “Sit before me,” he instructed, his voice low and smooth, carrying an age-old patience. As you obeyed, he reached forward, his hands threading through your hair with a touch so light it sent a shiver down your spine. His fingers were warm, deliberate, and precise—his movements slow, as if memorizing each strand.

“You have fine hair,” he murmured, his tone contemplative. “Soft… different from that of my kind, but no less lovely.” A comfortable silence settled between you as he worked, gathering sections with practiced ease. The occasional brush of his knuckles against the nape of your neck sent warmth curling through your chest. The sound of the waterfall faded into the background, the moment narrowing down to the steady rhythm of his fingers and the quiet hum of his breath.

“I have braided the hair of my children before,” he admitted after a time, his voice almost wistful. “Arwen, when she was young, would sit just as you are now, though she often wriggled away before I was finished.” You smiled at the thought. “And did you let her?” A soft chuckle rumbled from him. “Not once.”

You felt the final strands being woven into place before his hands stilled. He ran his fingers over the braid, ensuring its hold, before securing it with a delicate silver clasp. Then, with a reverent slowness, he traced the length of his work. “There,” he said, his voice quieter now, as though reluctant to break the moment. “A braid worthy of the elves.”

You reached up, fingers brushing over the intricate weave. It was flawless—each strand woven with such precision and care that it felt less like a hairstyle and more like a piece of art. Turning back to him, you met his gaze, and for a fleeting moment, there was something unreadable in his expression—something softened, something ancient and knowing.

“Thank you,” you murmured. He inclined his head, but his eyes lingered on yours, unreadable depths of wisdom and quiet understanding. “It suits you,” he said at last. And the way he said it—so simple, so certain—made your heart flutter like the rustling leaves in the wind.

[fastcardotmp3]

athena + maddie; 1k words

"Did Bobby ever tell you much about my brother Daniel?"

Athena looks up, a flicker of a thing, before her gaze trains back on the pot of coffee she pours out into two matching mugs.

"I know he passed when you were young," Athena says, sliding one of the mugs across the island to where Maddie sits on a stool, but staying standing on her side as she lifts her own to her lips. "I know Buck didn't know about him until a few years ago."

Maddie wraps her hands around her mug and watches the steam, nods as though centering herself, and offers a melancholy smile as she lifts her eyes.

"My parents didn't want to talk about him after he died," she says. "They didn't want me to bring him up."

"That must have been very difficult."

Athena has known Maddie Buckley for quite some time, now. She has seen her through terrible things and Maddie's voice has been the guiding force to see Athena through the same.

She's a tough woman, but a woman whose toughness presents much differently than Athena's own. Maddie is unapologetically emotional in ways Athena has always been terrified of being, worried for the sort of weakness with which it would mark her.

They are both resourceful women, Athena knows this, but the resources into which they dip when they need to support themselves through the pull of a vitriolic gravity are simply different.

A For Sale sign sits in the front yard of this house built from ash and Maddie Buckley sits at the counter because she just felt like stopping by but Athena isn't sure she's ready for Maddie's version of strength. Not sure if she's ready to abandon her own.

"It was difficult," Maddie admits like a simpler thing than Athena knows it to be. "I wasn't allowed to grieve my brother. They would get-- If I even hinted at trying to talk about him, they would get so upset and I would feel so guilty for it."

"It's a lot for a child to carry," Athena breathes, because she has known Maddie for many years, and even the version of this woman she knew still on the run feels nearly childlike compared to the one she looks at before her now.

"It's a lot for anyone to carry," Maddie tells her: pointed, but gentle.

If nothing else, it drags a dry chuckle out of Athena's lungs.

If nothing else, it creates the illusion of laughter.

"I knew you weren't just stopping by for my coffee," she smiles at Maddie with a sidelong look over the lip of her mug.

Maddie shrugs. "It's good coffee either way," she says. "But you're right. I do have a point."

A faux sheepishness to it that Athena can see right through, that Maddie doesn't seem bothered by the transparency of. She's not ashamed to be here, poking at Athena's grief.

There's something refreshing about that, in spite of the rest which her presence brings to the front.

"Go on ahead," Athena motions broadly with a sweep of her hand and Maddie leans further into the counter, closing some of the distance between them.

"I know that I can't begin to understand what you're going through and I know I'm probably the last person you ever want to try and relate to with how everything played out," Maddie speaks aloud that which has been crumbling away bit by bit, with each passing day that a group photo--family photo-- has sat on the side table in an empty, echoing living room.

She is Chimney's wife, this woman. She, perhaps, was served more than anyone in Bobby's sacrifice.

Athena has been angry at Chimney. She has looked at him and seen everything she lost. She has resented him for living when Bobby didn't.

But Maddie?

Maddie has been a source of something Athena hasn't known much of in her life. Jealousy.

Her partner came home to her. She gets to go home to her partner, still.

She's right, really, that Athena does not care to relate to her, even as she's finding her stumbling way out of that pit of despair and rage which this blossoming young family instills within her.

"But I also know..." Maddie continues, all that emotion right on her face, "I know that no one wants to speak his name around you right now. I know it probably feels like playing a game of taboo, that if you talk about him, you'll only make them all feel guilty. But, Athena, what if that's the trick? I already feel guilty."

A burst of something wet and hurting bubbles out of Athena, teary like a sob but sharp like a laugh. Maddie pushes onwards with the kind of pull at her lips which somehow encompasses all the complexity of feeling in the kitchen with them. Big, brown eyes like reflections of the unspoken parts of this conversation.

"I didn't start healing from losing Daniel until I was an adult because I wasn't given the space to. My parents still haven't, I don't think, because they don't want that space," she says hoarsely. "And I don't want that for you. I want you to have the chance to feel it out loud without feeling like a burden. I don't want you to feel like you have to hide from it for our sake."

"So you'd rather I make it your burden, then?" Athena asks, coffee long forgotten and something about the tension, the release of it, making the room feel warmer than it has since that last morning when it held him. Not in an entirely pleasant way, but not the opposite either.

And Maddie Buckley is tough. She has been through the wringer.

She takes it all on board differently that Athena does, but she takes it.

"Athena," she breathes, "Whether you let me help you or not, I already am. At least make it worth something."

Tears claw their way down Athena's cheeks.

Perhaps they can share in this show of strength.

[stellar-skyy]

hello dear <3 i was thinking an iced hibiscus tea for arlecchino, perhaps? feel free to decide the specifics and details on this one hehe

���i have an order ready for arlecchino! an iced hibiscus tea, for arlecchino!”

☆ — if you're craving a drink, make sure to stop by the teashop!

i. SUMMARY: Arlecchino's child is struggling, but she is there to reassure them. ii. CWS & NOTES: no warnings applicable. platonic arlecchino & gn!reader. house of the hearth!reader. angst & hurt/comfort. 1.5k words. iii. A/N: the way i ran to get this order done- THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME THE OPPORTUNITY TO WRITE THIS ILY /p

It was a cold day in the House of the Hearth when Arlecchino called upon one of her children for nothing more than a simple chat.

One of the unspoken rules of the House was that the most leisurely of discussions were only a preface to something deeper; layers of ulterior motives hidden underneath an innocent invite for tea. Some children had never glimpsed the privilege of being summoned to her office, while others found themselves carving a dent into her seat cushions with the number of times they sat in them. But one thing remained unchanging with every visit: their Father would send for them with a purpose, and they would not leave until it was fulfilled.

When [Name] received word that they were to visit Arlecchino’s office at 7:00pm sharp, their first instinct was dread; for the dozens of possible reasons for them being the one to be called upon. Musing upon the ‘why’s shifted their mood from the dull thrum of anxiety to sweeping waves of confusion. As far as they were concerned, they had no due cause for such a meeting with the Director herself; no failed missions to be reprimanded over, no shady plots of subterfuge to be exposed. They weren’t any rowdier or more troublesome than any other of the children, so the list of matters that would merit a visit was short.

Still, they knew better than to avoid the call. 7:00pm, they stood outside the office, hand poised over the door. They closed their eyes, knocking on it sharply and wincing at the echo that reverberated off the walls.

Three short raps. A smooth, calm voice, from inside the room: “Come in.”

The doorhandle creaked loudly as it turned. The door was old, and rather heavy, so it took a gentle shove to push it fully open to reveal the neat, cozy office inside.

“Ah, [Name], you’ve arrived.” Arlecchino greeted them as they entered. She was seated behind her desk as she usually was, with a full tea-set in front of her. As they slowly approached, she motioned towards the plush chairs opposite her. “Please, take a seat. I have been waiting for you.”

They quickly settled into the closest chair, hands folded in their lap. The room was quiet and cold; enough to send an uncomfortable prickle down their spine. Arlecchino paid no mind to their uneasiness; her hands were busy deftly arranging the teacups on the tray. Once she was satisfied with their placement, she then moved to pick up the teapot.

“I have some new tea from Liyue,” she hummed, gently tipping the teapot to let the dark red drink fill one cup, then two. Steam rose from each, cutting through the chill of her office. “Hibiscus. It’s quite sour, but I have added a spoonful of honey and sugar to the brew to sweeten it.”

She held one of the teacups out, and they clasped both hands around it with a murmured thanks. As they moved to take it from her, the side of their palm brushed against her fingers—icy cold, enough to make them shiver with a single touch.

“Your night has been well, I am assuming?” Arlecchino asked, taking a sip from her cup.

“Yes,” they murmur, bringing the tea to their lips. It was hot, but just enough not to burn their tongue. The honey she had added did little to mask the sour taste of the hibiscus, but it created a lightly sweet aftertaste that was pleasant enough to warrant a second sip.

“And your days, how have they been?”

They frowned, scanning her expression for any hint of what she wanted. She was clearly speaking to them in search of something, even if she didn’t say it aloud. A mission report, perhaps? They had already submitted the paper copy to her desk, but if she had missed it, or it had gotten lost with the rest of the paperwork handed in that day, she could be waiting for them to recount the mission directly.

“I returned from the mission you sent me on,” they blurted out. “I… it was a success, mostly. No casualties. Minimal injuries. And I also—”

“No need for a summary, I’ve read your report.” Arlecchino cut them off smoothly. “I want to know how you are, not how your mission went.”

They almost choked on their tea. Arlecchino raised an eyebrow at their sudden lack of composure, and they hurriedly covered it up with a half-hearted cough. “S-Sorry… you want to know how I have been… feeling?”

“That is correct.”

The air was thick with silence and the bitter smell of hibiscus, until they blurted out a quick “Fine! I’ve been fine, thank you.”

“Fine?”

“Fine, yes.”

“Interesting. I have been hearing curious things,” Arlecchino said casually. “Some of your siblings seem to have noticed a change in your behaviour. You aren’t sleeping as well, your mood has been significantly worse, you haven’t been joining during social activities. There is clearly something wrong.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” they said weakly. Their feeble attempt at normalcy was nowhere near convincing enough to fool her, and they knew it. They were a passable liar in the best of circumstances, but she was the one person who would always be able to see right through them.

“Are you sure about that?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

They couldn’t look at her. One look into those sharp eyes, one wrong word and they would crumble right there in her office. They had to keep it together for as long as it took to convince Arlecchino they were alright and be dismissed from her office. They only needed to hold back the burning behind their eyes until they were far away from Arlecchino and her pressing words and bitter tea, and could quietly fall apart.

She was waiting for an answer, but they could hardly breathe through the lump in their throat, let alone formulate a response. If she stopped now, saw them for what they were—a lost cause—and gave up, it would be fine. But instead:

“What’s wrong?” she asked gently, and something inside them snapped.

Tears burst from their eyes, spilling over their cheeks and down their face. They gasped, choking back a cry, holding a fist to their mouth to stop the hiccupping and wheezing breaths.

“I’m sorry,” they sniffled, rather pathetically. They kept their head ducked down low, unable to bring themself to look up into her undeniable face of disapproval. If they were any stronger, they could grit their teeth and make up a spiel about how they would do better next time, but instead they had to cry.

Now, not only were they going to be reprimanded for letting their emotions affect their work, they would be scolded for crying as well.

“Now, there is no need for crying.” Arlecchino stood, scraping her chair against the floor. They flinched away from the jarring sound, shrinking inwards with their tear-streaked face hidden in their hands. As much as they tried to stop them, the tears kept flowing into their palms. The walls were shifting closer with each second, and the thick scent of the tea filled their lungs until it choked them with that cloyingly bittersweet scent—

They jumped, as something cold touched their fingers. Their hands were carefully pried away from their face, revealing Arlecchino kneeling in front of them, with an unusually concerned expression on her face.

“I’m not upset with you, dear.” She said gently. “If that is why you are apologising.”

“You’re not?” they asked slowly. It had to have been a lie, but with how softly she said it, a part of them couldn’t help but wish it was true.

“Of course I’m not. But do you know why I’m not upset with you?” she asked. Hesitantly, they shook their head. “I’m not upset in the slightest, because I know whatever is clouding you is something that you will work through. You will emerge the victor of this battle, no matter what it is.”

They made a strangled sound, and felt a new wave of tears form. Arlecchino sighed, pulling them to their feet and against her chest.

“You are strong,” she said softly, carding her fingers through their hair. “You are capable. You are able to overcome whatever hardships you are facing, no matter how much they wear on you.”

She kissed their temple, her cool lips feeling almost warm pressed to their skin. While she lingered there, she whispered to them, softer than a mother’s touch. “You are strong enough to face this on your own, but even if you aren’t you will always have me here behind you.”

Their hands stretched out to grab the back of her jacket, shuddering out a breath. If Arlecchino minded their teary face being pressed against the front of her clothing, she didn’t comment on it; she only murmured more reassurances as she held them close.

“Just breathe, dear.” She whispered. “You’re going to be okay.”

reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡

[hoiststowline]

_thundercracker x reader

[a/n: giving writing for thundercracker a shot, hopefully this is not too ooc! also, ty @rabotimagines , for the idea to do a small/mindless touches scenario!]

midnight air moves in short motions, poking at the unkept grass that stirs against exposed skin. it hadn't arrived to the point of an miserable breeze, though it was brisk enough to bring to question just how late of an hour the evening had seeped into.

it didn't make sense to spend any amount of effort to dwell on it, evidently very content by the simplest of actions and displays. though, somewhere in the back of your mind nags the idea that perhaps he was required to be somewhere else, just on the brink of asking to break an almost perfect silence.

immediately, an exhausted gaze catches the way his hand moves across the grass. it had previously come to rest nearby at your left, yourself tucked underneath thundercracker's arm as he reclines on his back. he's studying the sky, possibly navigating a map of stars but offers no inkling to what is actually on his mind. providing no words, his hand skates up the top of your thigh and lands in your lap, unceremoniously to boot.

now effectively trapped by his arm, any and all ideas suggesting he had responsibilities to attend to elsewhere are thrown to the very back of your thoughts, rightfully returned. knowing him, he wouldn't have done that, taciturnly asking you to stay without even looking your way.

effortlessly, you glance upward to survey his expression, yet thundercracker evidently has other plans. his optics are now closed, his unoccupied servo tucked beneath his helm for support against the stiff ground.

your mouth part to inquire just what he was up to, but in return your question goes unanswered as he scoops up one of your hands, gentle but unyielding. what comes to rest within your palm is his thumb, somewhat cool to the touch but easily present. unable to wrangle yourself free to catch his face, you freeze as his digit glides across the soft skin there, a short sweeping motion.

placidness arises familiarly in moments like these, and at least to you, thundercracker was well known for small touches such as the indicated. it's almost as if he doesn't quite realize it, subconsciously inching closer until he's within reach to get what he wants.

a breathy laugh escapes you, even after a futile effort to stifle it if only to preserve the moment. at the noise, thundercracker halts his caressing, though leaves his servo exactly where it landed. catching on that he's staring at you, you peer upward to find he's looking down your way in a confused and lazy manner.

"Yes?" thundercracker rumbles, unmistakably nonchalant but still curious as to what you find so amusing.

teeth sinking to some degree into your bottom lip, you offer a smile in apology before shrugging your shoulders. as if to say 'I don't know,'.

"Clearly something is amusing,"

you gasp as he moves to free his hand, though at your pleas and small tugs to stay he obliges. so you weren't laughing at that then, a reassurance that he wasn't doing something wrong.

"Do you realize you do that?" you extend, as means of intimate conversation.

now, having grasped his full attention in a manner of seconds, thundercracker sits up a little more, maneuvering slightly so all of his weight is placed on his other hand behind him. "Do I realize that I do what?"

at the feeling of your tiny fingers skating over his outer plating, something akin to a shiver runs up and over shoulders. without fail, that happens every single time you do that, and he can't quite ever bring himself to suppress the action. if you notice it, that's beyond his knowledge, but he wouldn't care if you did.

when you don't promptly respond, thundercracker's thumb swipes across your palm once more, a nudge to get your attention that only makes you smile stupidly.

"That," you hum, embracing his digit around your fingers as if it was a hand to hold.

at your dance around the subject, thundercracker raises his brow, vastly perplexed as to why you couldn't outright say it. grumbling faintly, he repeats the gesture a third time to push all of the puzzle pieces together, to answer his own query.

when you nod twice, he remains stumped. "I think so."

"Oh." however, you're still beaming with a delighted demeanor. "I like it."

while it wasn't always a conscious action, you didn't need to know that. if it made you happy, it would straightaway be added to the list of things that make you smile.

what he doesn't expect is for you to lean forward, carefully depositing a string of muted kisses up the length of his hand. after such an observation, thundercracker catches the yawn that you try your absolute best to restrain, though fail in the very end.

it remains heavily disappointing to say it, he still provides the statement if only for your wellbeing. "You're tired," he moves to sit up straight, though prohibited from going far as your fingers still linger over his plating, adamantly unwilling to forcibly tug himself free. "It's time to return home."

thundercracker can't resist you when you look at him like that, staring up at him with something of a pout on your lips. "Ten more minutes? Please?"

he huffs, but settles back against the grass. "Five."

very aware of the way your cheek gingerly rests against his upper torso and how everything freely falls back into place, he ex-vents silently to himself. after a moment, his thumb moves back across your hand, to which thundercracker can hear how your heart moderately picks up pace, happy.

[basset-babe]

five times: the fourth.

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

warnings: emotinal distress, tears, vulnerability

word count: 6.1k+

a/n: can't believe i'm writing this to a t. swift song lol let's just say miss y/n is in her lover girl era (as she always has been duh!) apologies for the loooong delay, here is the fourth! enjoy! ciao raga!

five times series: the first. the one point five. the second. the third. the three point five. the fourth. at last.

pattern banner from @cafekitsune thank you!

the fourth.

A gentle knock echoed at the door as Grandmama stood at the threshold of my study. "I shall be with you shortly, Your Grace. I merely need to finalize these accounts for our subjects," I replied softly my nose buried deep in papers, my voice perhaps subdued as I tallied the month's expenses.

"Y/N dear, I am merely here to check on your well-being," she remarked, gracefully lowering herself onto the velvet chair by my desk. The soft rustle of her gown accompanied the taps of her cane with her movement. "This laborious work should be left to our stewards. The task of accounting is their duty, after all. I have compensated them generously, for I can no longer endure the perplexity of these numbers," she continued waving her hand, and her tone a blend of authority and genteel exasperation. The flickering candles' light cast a warm glow across the room, highlighting the rich wood paneling and the intricate embroidery of her attire.

I chuckled softly at her remark and looked up from my work. "I understand, Grandmama. While we do employ capable estate managers, surely it is prudent to review our accounts ourselves from time to time," I responded, but gave her a quizzical look as she is dressed for the night. "But I see you are dressed quite elegantly. Is there an occasion I am unaware of? Am I amiss of something?"

Grandmama's eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief as she responded. "Ah, my dear, have you forgotten? The Bridgerton Masquerade Ball is tonight. I rather suspected you might need a reminder," she said, a teasing smile playing on her lips as she adjusted the folds of her gown. "It appears you have been quite forgetful of late, given how much you’ve been gallivanting about recently."

I scoffed as I placed my quill down. "Me? Gallivanting? Whatever gives you the idea that I have been gallivanting, Your Grace?"

"You may be the season's paragon, Y/N, but you are my blood, and I know you well," Grandmama replied, rising with a regal air, her cane tapping the wooden floor of the study with a soft but firm rhythm. "And you are under my roof. Best to remember that nothing escapes my notice in my own home."

I felt a flush of embarrassment rise to my cheeks. Her knowing gaze left me momentarily speechless as she stood to close the door.

"Dear, you may not consider me one to meddle or delve into the ton’s gossip sheet—Whistledone or whatever it is called, I do not pay mind—I am quite aware of the mention it made of you and your suitor, Mr. Bridgerton, on the past week." she said tinged with concern. She sat on the nearest couch and motioned I join her by sitting beside. "Amazingly, it has blown over. You know how the ton moves from one gossip to another but I couldn't not help but wonder how you are doing."

"Grandmama, how did you really know?" I moved towards her, the weight of last week's events pressing heavily upon me. Her calm demeanor offered a comforting invitation to discuss what I wished to forget but could not.

"Ah, Deborah told me. Our servants talk, you know."

"This is all part of the courting, isn't it? The season is not yet concluded, yet none of the other suitors compare to the connection I feel with Benedict, Grandmama." Some steamy connection by ivy tendrils we have then, I thought.

Her Grace regarded me with a gentle but concerned expression, her voice carrying the weight of years of experience and care. "My dear, courtship is a wondrous journey filled with emotions that can sweep one off their feet. Your connection with Benedict is undoubtedly special, and I can see the joy it brings you." She paused, a hint of sadness touching her eyes. "But remember, my darling, our world can be both beautiful and unforgiving. While love is a treasure, marriage brings not only joy but also stability and the assurance of a secure future."

Her hand gently rested on mine, a gesture of comfort and guidance. "The ton's expectations and the passing of time are relentless. I hope you find someone who cherishes you and our family's legacy as much as Benedict seems to do. Your happiness and our honor depend on it. Unfortunately, we both are all but women."

"Grandmama," I began, my voice almost amiss on what to say, "I know the importance of our family’s legacy, and I am grateful for your guidance. But I can't ignore the small voice within me that longs for something more than just duty."

"Benedict is… admirable, and perhaps he does see you for who you are," Grandmama says softly, her gaze piercing as ever. "But I wonder—can he truly grasp the dreams that live inside you, the ones that defy the walls society builds around us? Or would those dreams wither in a life governed solely by duty and honor?"

With that, she turns toward the door, her graceful movements echoing her own years of mastering the role she now urges me to consider. I watch her, words slipping from my grasp, feeling almost foolish as I stand there in silence. I know her intentions are good; she has always devoted herself to guiding me, preparing me to inherit our family legacy. After all, she is my Grandmama, a Viscountess—and a formidable one at that.

Pausing briefly at the doorway, she casts me one last knowing glance. "Well, then," she says, her voice light yet layered with meaning, "do make haste if you intend to be charmed by any particular prince at tonight’s ball. I daresay the heir to your heart might be waiting… if only you’re brave enough to seize him."

And with that, she sweeps out, leaving me alone with the delicate ache of her words—an ache that lingers as I consider just what I desire beyond the expectations of our world. Her departure stirs something restless within me, a longing that stretches beyond gilded halls and fine silk gowns, reaching for something I cannot quite name.

But I do know this: tonight, at the masquerade ball, I owe a certain prince charming at least one dance, or all the dances of the night.

The carriage rattled gently as it wound its way through the cobblestone streets, its lanterns casting flickering shadows on the elegant facades of London’s finest houses. I leaned back against the plush seat, my gloved hands clutching the sapphire-encrusted mask Grandmama had insisted I wear. Her words lingered in my mind, an intricate web of wisdom and caution.

Was she right? Could Benedict truly grasp the essence of my dreams, the ones that extended far beyond the season’s fleeting amusements and whispered promises?

The thought clung to me like ivy as the carriage slowed, its wheels crunching softly over the gravel of the Bridgerton estate. From the windows, I could see the golden glow spilling from the ballroom’s tall windows, accompanied by the faint strains of music.

“You’ve arrived, milady,” the footman announced as he opened the door. I smoothed the folds of my gown, its deep sapphire fabric shimmering like a calm sea under moonlight, and took his offered hand to step down.

The scene was dazzling, even from the courtyard. Carriages lined the drive, and figures adorned in silks and masks ascended the grand staircase in pairs and clusters. Laughter mingled with anticipation in the crisp night air, and my heartbeat quickened.

I adjusted my mask as I reached the top of the steps, the intricate design both concealing and amplifying my identity. Tonight, I could be someone else, if only for a moment. Someone bold, someone unencumbered by the weight of my family’s legacy.

The footman at the entrance nodded, his white-gloved hand pulling open the door to reveal a world of light and color. The ballroom was alive with movement, the guests spinning like constellations against a backdrop of gilded grandeur. Chandelier crystals glittered like stars, and the scent of roses and honeyed wine lingered in the air.

I stepped inside, my entrance drawing a few curious glances that quickly melted into polite nods. My late arrival had not gone unnoticed, but the anonymity of the masquerade granted me a somewhat reprieve.

Across the room, I spotted Grandmama near the far wall, her crimson gown a beacon amidst the swirling crowd. Her discerning gaze met mine for a brief moment, and though she did not approach, her slight nod spoke volumes. It was a moonlit night, and the crisp air of London's season hummed with anticipation. The Bridgerton estate had outdone itself, hosting a grand masquerade ball to celebrate the close of yet another bustling social season. The manor glared with golden light, spilling from tall windows, and masked guests moved like wraiths of silk and jewels across the polished floors. The air buzzed with murmurs and laughter, and the melodic strains of a string quartet.

As I descended the marble steps into the heart of the ballroom, a hush seemed to ripple through the crowd. It was subtle, a shift in the air that only those attuned to the nuances of the ton would notice. The Season’s Paragon, as they so often called me, had arrived.

I felt the weight of their gazes—curious, admiring, envious—all fixed upon me. The soft rustle of my gown against the polished floor was the only sound I registered amidst the symphony of murmurs and the faint strains of the orchestra. The sapphire hue of my dress, paired with the glittering mask, seemed to catch the light in just the right way, casting a glow that matched the chandeliers above.

Whispers followed me like shadows.

"Is that Lady Y/N?"

"She always knows how to make an entrance, doesn’t she?"

"Late, but worth the wait," another murmured, their voice tinged with awe.

I held my head high, my mask granting me the confidence to ignore the flutter of nerves in my chest. Tonight, I was not just the dutiful granddaughter or the heiress to a noble title—I was a mystery, a dream wrapped in silk and jewels.

At the base of the stairs, a figure stepped forward. His tall frame was unmistakable, his presence commanding despite the anonymity of his own mask. Benedict Bridgerton. His gaze locked onto mine, and I swore the air between us grew warmer, charged with an electricity neither of us could deny.

"Lady Y/N," he greeted, his voice a low timbre that sent a shiver down my spine. He bowed slightly, the movement elegant and deliberate. "Fashionably late, as always. You have the uncanny ability to steal the room’s attention, even when you try not to."

"And yet, Mr. Bridgerton, I find myself wondering if you waited just long enough to see it," I replied, a playful lilt to my tone.

His lips curved into a smile, one that reached his eyes. "You wound me, my lady. Would you deny me the pleasure of the first dance after such a dramatic entrance?"

The orchestra struck up a waltz, the perfect cue for his outstretched hand. I hesitated for only a moment before placing my gloved hand in his. His grip was firm yet gentle, and as he led me to the center of the floor, the crowd parted like waves for us, their murmurs fading into the background.

The music swelled, and we began to move. Benedict’s hand rested lightly at my waist, guiding me effortlessly through the steps. The world around us blurred, the other dancers mere apparitions as our movements synchronized in perfect harmony.

"You’ve been avoiding me," he said softly, his voice low enough for only me to hear.

"I’ve been busy," I replied, though the words sounded hollow even to my own ears.

"Busy," Benedict repeated, a bitter edge creeping into his tone, though his lips curved into a faint, rueful smile. "I suppose that’s one way to phrase it. But tell me, Lady Y/N, is it the kind of busy that fills your day… or the kind that keeps your heart at bay?"

His words hung in the air between us, the waltz carrying us effortlessly across the floor. His hand on my waist tightened just enough for me to notice, a silent plea he couldn’t quite mask.

"You presume too much," I replied, keeping my voice light and measured, though I refused to meet his gaze directly. The truth there—his yearning, his ache—was too much, and I dared not confront it here, under the eyes of the entire ton.

"You think me a fool," he murmured, his breath warm against my cheek as he leaned in closer under the guise of guiding our dance. "But I see it in your eyes, Lady Y/N. You feel it too. What we shared that night—after the party—it wasn’t fleeting. It wasn’t nothing."

The memory of that night rushed back unbidden: the laughter and daring beneath ivy-covered arches, the sharp taste of wine and sweeter whispers in the shadows, his hand brushing mine in a way that left my skin alight with a thrill I hadn’t felt before—or since.

"And what would you have me do, Mr. Bridgerton?" I asked, my voice laced with feigned indifference. "Shout my secrets to the rafters? Proclaim to all that I—," I caught myself, pulling back from the edge of an admission I wasn’t ready to make. Instead, I tilted my head, my lips curving into a soft, disarming smile. "You misunderstand me, sir. Whatever you think you know of me… you do not."

He faltered for a beat, his step out of sync with the music, but quickly recovered. His jaw clenched, and I felt his frustration simmering beneath his otherwise composed exterior.

"You’re wrong," he said after a moment, his voice strained with an emotion I could not name. "I know you better than you think. Better, perhaps, than you know yourself."

The final strains of the waltz swelled, and with it, the tension between us reached its breaking point. As the applause of the crowd erupted, I curtsied, the movement graceful and deliberate, before he could press me further.

"Thank you for the dance, Mr. Bridgerton," I said, my tone polite but distant, an unspoken barrier erected between us.

"Lady Y/N, wait," he said, reaching out as if to stop me, his voice now raw and almost pleading. "There’s something I must ask you—something I’ve carried since that night…"

But I didn’t give him the chance. "Another time, perhaps," I interjected smoothly, retreating a step with a faint smile. "I find I am in need of some air."

Before he could protest, I turned on my heel and glided toward the terrace doors, the cool promise of the garden beckoning me away from his questions, his gaze, his unrelenting presence.

The night air was crisp against my skin as I stepped into the garden, the distant murmur of the ballroom fading into a hushed symphony of rustling leaves and the gentle trickle of a fountain. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my gloved hands gripping the stone balustrade as I gazed into the moonlit expanse.

The wisterias surrounded me like cascading waves of lavender, their delicate blooms swaying in the cool breeze. I sank onto the bench at the center of the hedge maze, my chest tightening with each unsteady breath. My gloves, damp from the heat of my frustration, slipped from my fingers onto the ground. I didn’t bother picking them up. Instead, I reached for my mask, undoing its clasp with trembling hands, and set it beside me as tears finally spilled over.

I tried to steady myself, inhaling deeply and exhaling shakily, but the ache inside me only seemed to grow stronger. My thoughts swirled, tangled like the vines above me. I couldn’t ignore the pull Benedict had on me any longer, no matter how hard I had tried. It was maddening. Every time I pushed him away, every time I told myself I could avoid him, the universe conspired to prove me wrong.

My heart felt like it might burst from my chest, the weight of it all pressing down on me. How could he stir something in me that I didn’t even understand? It wasn’t fair.

“Y/N.”

I froze, my name a soft plea carried on the night air.

I looked up, startled. Through blurry eyes, I saw him standing there, framed by the moonlight and the wisterias. His expression twisted something deep inside me—concern, longing, and something I couldn’t quite place.

Before I could gather my words, he was in front of me. He knelt down, his hands reaching for mine, but then he did something that undid me completely—he pulled me into his arms.

His warmth enveloped me, and the tears I had fought so hard to control came pouring out. My sobs shook me, muffled against his shoulder, and his arms only tightened around me as if to shield me from the world.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured, his voice gentle, yet filled with a quiet strength that seemed to wrap around me like a comforting embrace. “I’m here with you, and I won’t leave you, I promise.”

I clung to him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. For a moment, I allowed myself to rest in his embrace, to feel the steadiness of his heartbeat against mine. But the storm inside me refused to quiet.

I pulled back slightly, enough to look at him. “Could you truly grasp the essence of my dreams, Benedict?” My voice trembled as I spoke. “The ones that extend far beyond the season’s fleeting amusements and whispered promises?”

His brows furrowed, and he looked at me with a tenderness that made my breath hitch. “Tell me,” he said softly. “Let me understand.”

I hesitated, searching his face for any sign of ridicule or dismissal, but all I found was a quiet intensity. Taking a shuddering breath, I let the words spill out.

“I can’t live a life bound by society’s expectations,” I admitted. “I don’t want to be confined to the role of a dutiful wife, expected only to bear heirs and keep a perfect household. That can’t be all there is for me. I need more, Benedict. I want more. I want to be more.”

Tears welled in my eyes again, and I turned my head away, ashamed of the vulnerability I’d just laid bare. “I don’t know if you could ever understand that,” I whispered.

To my surprise, he gently cupped my face, his touch warm and steady as he turned me back to him. His thumb brushed away a tear, and he leaned closer, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made my heart stutter.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low and sure, “I would never ask you to give up your dreams. Whatever it is you desire, whatever you want to become, I want to be the one who stands beside you, not the one who holds you back.”

I stared at him, his words sinking into the cracks of my guarded heart.

“You are so much more than what society expects,” he continued. “And if that means defying every rule to let the world see you for who you truly are, then I’ll defy them with you. Every step of the way.”

A soft sob escaped me, this one born of something other than despair. I reached up, my hand resting against his cheek, feeling the warmth of him under my touch. “Benedict…” I whispered, my voice breaking.

“I mean it,” he said, leaning into my hand. “Whatever it takes. You’re not alone in this.”

His words hung in the air like a charged current, his eyes never leaving mine as I absorbed the weight of what he was offering. The moonlight bathed him in a soft glow, making him look almost ethereal—yet it was his sincerity that struck me with full force.

“Marry me,” Benedict’s voice was quiet but filled with an urgency that left me breathless. He cupped my face more firmly, his touch tender yet desperate, as if the words had been long buried in his heart, waiting for the right moment.

I blinked, unable to process what I had just heard. "Marry you?" My voice was a whisper, torn between disbelief and an ache I hadn’t known how to name until now.

He nodded, his expression unwavering. “Yes. Marry me, Y/N.”

I took a shaky breath, my chest tightening. "But... Benedict, you don't understand. I—"

He interrupted, his gaze deepening, searching mine for the truth behind my hesitation. "I do understand. More than you think. You are not just a duty, or a responsibility, or a future mother of heirs. You're more than that, and I will show you a life beyond the confines of this society. A life where we are not defined by titles or traditions but by the love we choose to share."

I looked at him, still stunned by his words, his declaration. How could he, the second son of the Bridgerton family, one of the most influential houses in London, be asking me to step away from all that? I was nothing more than a girl with dreams too vast for the world to contain. I couldn't fathom a future where I wasn't bound by duty—duty to my family, to society, to expectations.

“You—You’re not the perfect cut of the ton either,” I whispered, my voice trembling with confusion. “Why would you choose this life? To be tied to someone like me, someone who defies the very order of things?”

Benedict’s lips curled into a small, understanding smile. “Because I’m not perfect,” he said, his voice full of warmth and certainty. “And neither are you, Y/N. But I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. I love you, truly. Not because you fit some mold or role society has set for you. I love you for the woman you are—brave, passionate, and unapologetically yourself. More than duty, more than heirs, more than any expectation of this world.”

I stood frozen, my heart thundering in my chest. Could I believe him? Could I step into a world that was not constrained by the suffocating rules of society? A world where Benedict was willing to offer me his love—freely, unconditionally?

He reached out and gently took my hand in his, his thumb tracing over the delicate skin of my wrist as he looked into my eyes, unwavering. “Y/N, marry me. And let me show you a life where we are free to live as we choose. A life where you are more than just a dutiful wife. You are the woman I love. The woman I will fight for.”

Tears welled up in my eyes again, but this time, they were different. They weren’t born of fear or confusion, but of hope, of a possibility I had never dared to imagine. Could I really leave behind everything I had known, everything I had been taught to accept, and walk beside him into a future of our own making?

“Benedict…” I whispered again, my voice trembling with something deeper now—emotion, desire, and the pull of a future that seemed too perfect to be true.

His fingers gently cupped my chin, bringing me closer to him as his lips hovered just above mine. "Marry me, Y/N. I promise you, it will be a life beyond your wildest dreams. A life we build together, without the restrictions of duty, of society’s gaze. I will give you everything I have."

I looked up at him, my heart in my throat. Could I take this leap? Could I trust him with my dreams, with my heart?

For the first time in my life, I felt the weight of all the impossible choices fade, replaced by the pull of a love that felt like freedom.

“Yes,” I whispered, the word slipping from my lips like a prayer. “Yes, I will marry you.”

The moment the words left my mouth, he smiled, his face lighting up with a joy that mirrored my own. He leaned in, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that was soft, yet full of promises too vast for words. In that kiss, I felt everything—the weight of the world lifting, the chains of expectation falling away, and the undeniable truth that no matter what the future held, we would face it together, free.

Benedict pulled away slightly, his smile softening as he looked down at me. His thumb brushed against my cheek, wiping away the last of the tears that had slipped from my eyes, leaving a gentle warmth in its wake. I felt as if I had just woken from some long, foggy dream, but his presence anchored me firmly in reality.

“You know,” he said, his voice teasing but still filled with that underlying warmth, “as much as I would love to stay here with you, I’m afraid someone might notice we’ve been gone a little too long.”

I blinked, the seriousness of the moment dissipating like fog in the morning sun. “Oh, goodness. You’re right,” I replied, suddenly feeling aware of the late hour, the whispered chatter inside the ballroom that I knew must be continuing without us. A small laugh escaped my lips, light and almost a bit incredulous. “What would they think of us? Disappearing into the maze in the middle of the night?”

Benedict grinned, his eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and affection. “They’d think we were off having some forbidden tryst, of course.” He winked. “And I’m sure some of the older chaperones would have a lot to say about that.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, the sound of it carrying through the night air, easing away the tension that had lingered in my chest. The weight of everything—of dreams, of responsibilities—seemed lighter now, like a distant memory. Benedict had a way of grounding me, of bringing me back to the moment, and this was one of those rare moments when the chaos of the world outside felt far removed from us.

“Well, we certainly wouldn’t want to give anyone any ideas,” I said, my lips curving into a playful smile.

Benedict's eyes softened again, his hand brushing against mine. “Of course not,” he said with mock seriousness. “But, truly, before anyone thinks we’ve become completely lost in here, I think it’s time to rejoin the festivities.” He looked around, almost as though the garden itself was a labyrinth of endless possibility, and then returned his gaze to me, his voice low and full of affection. “Though, I’d much rather stay here with you. But duty calls, doesn’t it?”

“Always,” I replied with a mock sigh, suddenly feeling a little lighter. His easy way of handling everything, his ability to turn the most serious of moments into something that didn’t feel so heavy, was something I found myself increasingly drawn to.

He took my hand, guiding me gently to my feet. “Come now, before someone notices we’ve been gone for too long. Let’s slip back inside before anyone becomes too suspicious.”

I nodded, allowing him to pull me along as we made our way out of the maze, the soft scent of wisteria still lingering in the cool night air. As we neared the garden’s edge, the lights from the ballroom grew brighter, and the sounds of laughter and music filled the air once again.

We paused for a moment, standing just beyond the hedge, our hands still intertwined. Benedict turned to me, his smile warm and full of promise.

“You know, the moment we step back in there, I’ll have to return to being that dashing, perfect gentleman everyone expects me to be,” he said, his voice light and teasing. “But right now, in this moment, it’s just us. And that’s all that matters.”

I chuckled softly, squeezing his hand. “Let’s keep it our little secret, shall we? The world inside can wait.”

“Agreed,” he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Now, let’s go before your Grandmama sends someone to find you. I believe she has a particular fondness for making sure you never miss the next waltz.”

I laughed again, a full, genuine sound that felt like music in my own chest. “You know, I think you may be right,” I said. “Let’s not give her any reason to worry about her wayward granddaughter.”

Together, we emerged from the maze, our laughter still echoing softly through the night, as the path ahead opened up into the grand, glittering ballroom. For a moment, it felt as though the world had paused—just for us.

But as we entered the ballroom, the illusion of time caught up with us, and with a final, lingering glance, Benedict let go of my hand, the flickering lights and polished floors once again drawing us back into the well-practiced dance of the ton.

Yet, something had changed. A shift, subtle yet undeniable. For the first time in a long while, I felt as though the masks we wore were no longer just a way to hide our true selves, but perhaps the first step toward revealing something far more real, far more powerful than any of us had known before.

The ballroom was in full swing, the grand chandeliers casting a warm glow over the guests as the music swelled and twirled, just like the dancers on the floor. The air was thick with conversation and laughter, the weight of the evening’s festivities almost palpable. My Grandmama was engaged in lively conversation with the Dowager Viscountess, Lady Violet Bridgerton, as we stood near the drinks table, offering polite nods and smiles to various acquaintances who came and went.

“Lady Y/N, my dear,” Grandmama’s voice broke through the chatter, drawing my attention. “The last dance of the season is fast approaching. You simply must accept a few more dances tonight to close out the evening, and, of course, the season.”

I stifled a sigh, but I knew better than to argue. It was tradition, after all. And though I wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of dancing with every eligible bachelor in the room, I knew it was expected. I gave Grandmama a reassuring smile, nodding in agreement.

“Of course, Grandmama,” I replied, my voice a touch too bright, as though I hadn’t just spent the evening contemplating everything that had transpired between me and Benedict in the hedge maze. “I’ll be sure to take part in the dances. It wouldn’t do to disappoint anyone, would it?”

She chuckled softly, her sharp gaze sweeping over the ballroom as if already measuring the gentlemen who would soon approach. “Good girl. You’re much too proper for your own good, but I do hope you’ll choose a dance partner wisely.” Her eyes flickered briefly over the room, as if weighing her options.

I, however, had already begun to scan my own dance card in my hand, taking it out and glancing at the names already written across the night’s list. As I scanned the page, I couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, my heart fluttering slightly at the sight.

Benedict. Benedict. Benedict. His name was written on every single line. My gaze lingered on the flowing script, feeling an odd sense of warmth bubble up in my chest. It was both absurd and endearing that he had taken the liberty of filling out my entire card. A few quiet chuckles escaped me as I lifted my gaze to meet his across the ballroom.

As if on cue, Benedict’s eyes met mine, and for a brief moment, the entire room seemed to fade away. The crowded dance floor, the lively chatter, the twinkling lights—all of it dissolved, leaving just the two of us locked in a gaze that spoke volumes without a single word being exchanged.

He grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes, before nodding to me in acknowledgment. I could feel my pulse quicken, and for a moment, the absurdity of the situation—a card entirely filled with his name—seemed to wrap itself around me like a cocoon, softening the edges of everything else.

After a moment, Benedict began to make his way across the room, cutting through the sea of people with an easy confidence that somehow drew every eye. I couldn’t help but smile softly to myself as I watched him approach, his stride purposeful yet somehow still casual.

The ladies, including Grandmama and the Dowager Viscountess, watched him with a certain knowing air, no doubt having seen many a flirtation and polite request for a dance in their time. I could sense their amusement, though they said nothing aloud.

When Benedict reached us, he stopped just in front of me, his eyes flickering down to my dance card before meeting my gaze once more.

“I do believe I’ve taken the liberty of filling in every line of your card for the evening, my lady,” he said, his voice soft but teasing, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I was rather hoping you might allow me the honor of the last dance of the night.”

I raised an eyebrow, the corner of my mouth twitching into a smile. “You seem to have been rather ambitious in your choices, Mr. Bridgerton,” I replied, my voice light, though I felt my heart flutter at the prospect of a final dance with him. “But I suppose it’s only fitting, isn’t it? You’ve already danced your way across my card without even asking.”

Benedict laughed softly, a rich sound that filled the space between us. “Well, I couldn’t very well leave it to chance, could I?” he said, his grin widening as he glanced at the amused looks of the other ladies in the group. “So, will you grant me the last dance of the night, Lady Y/N?”

My gaze flickered down to my card again, then back to him. There was no escaping it now, not that I wanted to. His presence, his warmth, had become an undeniable part of the evening, as though fate itself had decided we belonged in each other’s orbit for just a little longer.

With a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, I gave in. “I suppose it’s already been decided,” I said with a teasing smile. “You may have the last dance, Mr. Bridgerton.”

His smile widened at my acceptance, and without missing a beat, he offered me his arm. “Then, it’s a promise.”

I accepted his arm, the weight of the evening and all its emotions fading away in that simple gesture. The music swelled again, the air light and filled with promise. The moment I had been dreading—the end of the season—suddenly didn’t seem so dreadful after all.

The last dance of the night arrived with a soft swell of music, the orchestra’s strings and woodwinds weaving a melody that seemed to capture the very spirit of the evening. Benedict’s hand found mine, steady and warm, as he led me onto the floor, the crowd parting just enough to allow us a space among the final few dancers.

The soft glow of the chandelier above bathed us in golden light, the flickering shadows from the flames reflecting in his eyes. Our steps were fluid, effortless, as though we had danced this same dance a hundred times before, though it was only the second time our bodies had moved together like this. Benedict’s hand rested at the small of my back, his touch gentle but certain, guiding me with a confidence that made me feel as though the world outside the ballroom no longer existed.

I could feel the subtle sway of his movements, the rhythm of his heart beating in time with mine. He didn’t speak, not yet, but there was a quiet understanding between us, a connection that seemed to transcend the formality of the dance and go deeper—into something more personal, more fragile, than anything I had ever known.

As we glided across the floor, I found my breath in rhythm with his, each step carrying me further into the moment, away from the expectations of society, away from the responsibilities of my family, away from the constraints I had long believed I must carry. The dance had become a metaphor for everything I had feared and hoped for—freedom and belonging, duty and desire, all wrapped into a single movement, a single step.

For the briefest moment, I forgot about the future, about the weight of family legacy and expectations. I forgot about the mask I had worn all evening, the one I had placed so carefully on my face. In his presence, there was no need for pretense. It was just him and me, two souls caught in the fleeting moment of something pure.

And yet, even as we danced, my heart fluttered with the memory of the words Benedict had spoken not long before, his proposal hanging between us like an unspoken vow. “Marry me,” he had said, his voice steady but full of emotion. And I, without hesitation, had said yes. It wasn’t a decision made out of duty, but out of something deeper, something undeniable that had been growing between us since that first secret meeting at the party. I knew then that I didn’t just want him—I needed him, just as he seemed to need me.

As the final notes of the music echoed through the room, Benedict pulled me closer, his arms strong and secure around me. We finished the dance with a slow, graceful spin, our eyes locking in a silent promise. The crowd clapped, but the applause felt distant, almost irrelevant. All that mattered in that moment was the quiet between us, the shared understanding, the knowledge that the season had come to an end, but perhaps, this was only the beginning of something far more significant.

When the music stopped, Benedict didn’t immediately release me. Instead, he held me for just a moment longer, his face a mix of affection and determination.

"Until next time," he whispered, his breath warm against my ear.

I nodded, my heart racing, but my smile soft, certain. "Until next time."

As the crowd resumed its chatter and the last notes of the orchestra faded, we walked together off the dance floor, our steps in sync, neither of us yet ready to face what lay ahead—but knowing, with the smallest flicker of hope, that whatever the future held, we would meet it side by side.

And so, the evening closed, the final dance of the season over, but the possibilities of what came next lingering in the air like a soft, sweet promise.

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[cyborg-franky]

Fixing their clothes before they leave the house

Sabo x GN Reader Mihawk x GN Reader SFW

Your boyfriend was a grubby goblin of a man dressed in the finest clothes you’d ever seen. It still baffled you that someone as unhinged as Sabo, the thing of marines nightmares could wear such a soft and sweet angelic smile and a cravat. Who has ever been scared of a man in a cravat? 

At least he pulled it off, somehow. 

He was getting ready for a mission, he was off with Koala again and you had your own duties to attend to. He brushed out his wavy hair and set his hat on top of his head, hands on his hips as he looked at his reflection. This was another thing that always presented a conflicting image of Sabo. The way he fussed over his appearance but cared so little about what people thought of him, just focused on making the world a better place.

You didn’t make a big deal of it though, you liked he felt confident to wear whatever he liked, sometimes it made you jealous, and you wished you had the nerve to go out into the world in just whatever you felt like.

Sabo slipped on his gloves and you watched him preen, ensuring his waistcoat was buttoned properly and his coat smoothed down. You noticed something when he turned around to show himself off to you, okay, maybe he did care about what some people thought about him.

“So? Looking good?” He asked as you walked over.

You tip-toed and kissed him on the lips, soft and gentle, he moved closer chasing the kiss and wanting more but you chuckled, a coy smile forming as you reached up. Sabo blinked when you started to fuss with his cravat, sorting out the bunched area and making the outfit look complete.

“Perfect,” You hummed and kissed him again, wrapping arms around his neck this time.

Flawless and fierce were just a few words you’d use to describe him. No one looked more elegant and breathtaking with such ease. His wardrobe was that of a vampire you had been so sure of it. If you didn’t notice wrinkles every so often you would be convinced he was a vampire. 

That and he enjoyed garlic in his food way too much to be an actual member of the undead. You watched him walking towards you, his coat billowing out behind him, each step was measured, a sharp yet casual urgency in every click his boots made on the stone floor.

You almost forgot to breathe by the time he reached you, eyes fixed on you, expression neutral as he waited for you to say something, lost in the stammering mess he still even after years of being a couple was able to make you. The shadow of a smirk on his lips as he waited for you to get your breath back, blink a few times, and let him know you were in there after all.

“Going out?” You asked, he chuckled at how silly the question was. He had his sword strapped to his back and looked ready to take on the world with one sweeping motion. “Perhaps,” he drawled, his humor as dry as a desert, though you knew he meant it in jest.

“Wait, hang on one second,” You motioned for him to lean in closer to you, you reached up and adjusted the plume of feathers that trailed from his hat, you pulled a single speck of something that shouldn’t have been there before making sure it cascaded down his back gracefully.

“Thank you love,” His voice was soft as he kissed your forehead. You smiled glad you could be of help to him.

[utterlyotterlyx]

A Ballad of Storm and Shadow

Azriel x F!Reader

Part Four

Summary - Rhys had been content in taking the darkest secret of his family to the grave, but when the threat of Hybern increases, he has no choice but to send a message to another world and pray to the Mother that his call is answered.

Warnings - fluff, mentions of war, Feysand 🫶🏻, bit of a filler to build relationships but worth it, mentions of loss and grief

Part One Part Two Part Three

This is a crossover series, some aspects will differ from that in the books. Physical attributes are described in this fic, it is essential to the storyline of the character

The day after her return had proven to be Velaris' brightest day yet. The sun beat down upon the city, causing the citizens to close up the shops until the evening and descend upon the fields and streams to bask in the heavenly glow and gentle breezes that danced throughout the city.

"Do you think this is linked?" Feyre had asked, finger idly drawing circles in her fresh teacup as she peered up at the sky.

Rhys came up behind her, kissing the bare patch of skin on her shoulder he had made from pushing her robe to the side slightly, "Perhaps," he mumbled against her neck, "I did say that the city has missed her."

"I thought you were just being nice," she pondered, thoughts drifting to y/n soaring over the roaring mountains only hours before.

Chuckling deeply with a throat of morning, Rhys spoke, "No, darling. I was telling the truth," he motioned to the cloudless skies and beaming sun with a faint smile, "My sister is home. The lost princess of Velaris is home. And the universe knows it."

Craning her head to the side, Feyre placed a kiss atop Rhys' lips and sighed, "You know that she cannot stay, my love," she brushed her nose along the bridge of his own and settled into his arms.

"I know. But that doesn't mean we can't make the most out of it."

Sipping her tea, Feyre turned to her mate, twisting in his arms and draping her hand over his shoulder, "Did she settle in to the House of Wind alright?"

"Yes," he cast his mind back to the early hours of the morning when his sister had curtly locked him out of her mind for prodding her too hard, "I suppose she'd like to see the city today." Despite the need discuss the looming war, Rhys could spare one day to show his sister the city in which she was born.

A knowing glint sparkled in Feyre's eye and he craned his head back with inquisition, "Well," she began, sipping her tea and placing the teacup on the nearest table, "Azriel already asked her, and she agreed. Eagerly."

A singular bubble of annoyance grasped Rhys' heart, but it went as quickly as it appeared, and he found himself sighing, "I swear to the Mother, if Az starts to pine after my sister like he did with Mor, I will lose it."

Humming, Feyre draped her arms over her mates shoulders, looping them around his neck with eyes glittering in the sunlight, "You will do no such thing, husband," she told him with a smirk, "Considering they may both be dead in a week, shouldn't they know the magic of what we have for themselves?"

With his resolve crumbling, Rhys dipped his head to meet her lips, feeling the bond between them sing in reply, "Fine, but I'm going with them. She's my sister before his obsession." Noticing her lids hood into sultry, Rhys threw his head back and laughed, sweeping her off of her feet in one fell motion and carrying her over to the bed, "I'll find them after I'm done with you."

A gentle knock at the door pulled y/n's lost gaze away from the clear skies, she had awoken drowsy, probably due to the more than plush comforter she had bundled herself into the night before. It had taken y/n only minutes to drift away after Azriel had walked her to the door of her temporary chambers, leaving her alone with a soft smile and orbs gleaming with the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

The knock sounded again, dragging her from the memory, and y/n adjusted the ties of her robe as she padded toward the door, wings rustling at her back and fingers wrapping around the ornate handle of solid gold, pulling the door open in a single motion.

On the other side stood Mor, dresses hanging from her fingers and a grin slapped upon her red tinted lips, "Good morning, princess," she drawled, pushing past her cousin and smirking at the violet eyes rolling in their sockets, "It's a beautiful day," Mor approached the freshly made bed, sprawling the garments along the comforter and turning to face the raven haired princess still lingering in the doorway. "Close the door and come here."

Blinking, y/n asked, "Excuse me?" Upon meeting Mor's deadpan stare, y/n caved and closed the door with a gentle click, facing her cousin with her arms folded over her chest.

"I thought you might need some clothes considering your little date with Azriel today." Mor caught the blush that she was attempting to conceal and smiled to herself, mostly because the mask of the Fae Queen was dissolving right before her very eyes, and it was a refreshing thing to witness in a world full of deception.

Fumbling with her fingers behind her back, y/n took a dancing step forward with toes skimming against the carpet, "It's not a date," she muttered, eyes scanning over the dresses that Mor had brought with her now spread across the bedspread, "They're very pretty."

"A few of them are mine, some are from Feyre's closet but don't tell Rhys that I took them," Mor told y/n with a playful nudge. She reached across the bed, grasping a hanger in her rouge painted fingers, holding it up to her cousin's figure with a contemplative look, "I knew it wouldn't work but you had me questioning myself," she tossed the tight orange garment to the floor not long after.

The next hour was spent with Mor fussing, ordering y/n to try on various dresses and then pulling at the hair that fell effortlessly down to her waist, tugging it into intricate braids and updos with a frown. "This last one has to be it," stepping over the mounds of clothes thrown upon the floor to hand y/n the last dress in the collection.

Holding it up against the light, y/n smiled at the shimmer that blew straight through the sheer fabric, atop the sheer taupe sat a forest of silver vines and dainty leaves, enough that would keep certain parts of her body hidden but that would also give anyone who looked at her the gift of imagination.

It was beautiful.

With a sparkling glare, y/n disappeared behind the folding screen once more, sliding from the robe and into the dress that seemed to be made for her as it hugged every inch of her skin on its ascent up her body. Smoothing her hands over the skirt, y/n stepped from the screen and found Mor perched upon the edge of the bed, leg folded over the other with lips curled into a smirk. "Azriel is going struggle to even speak when he sees you in that."

"It's not a date," y/n insisted, fingers raking through her hair so that is fell in perfect waves down her spine. Mor appeared behind her with a mischievous glint in her eye.

Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.

"Shoes," Mor hummed, ticking her tongue and gliding her gaze downward to y/n's feet. Bending down, Mor unclasped her own shoes and kicked them along the floor, "They're my favourites. Don't ruin them."

Then she was gone, sauntering from the room and leaving the door open, a silent order for y/n to follow, which, after one last glance in the mirror, she did.

Y/N didn't really have the energy to inspect the House of Wind the night prior, already comforted by the lost familiarity of it, but as she wandered down the hall wrapped around the dimming scent of Mor, did she take a moment to scan the walls, namely of the portrait of the man who had her eyes and the same raven hair.

Her father.

It was astounding really how much she looked like him, the eyes, the nose, the hair and skin, but her her lips and high cheekbones would always belong to her mother, as well as the darkness that curled between them. She wished that she could remember her last interaction with him, or anything about him, but her mind struggled with the 500 years of distance.

"Mother above. Did Velaris throw up on you?" A gruff voice called from the end of the hall, y/n craned her head to the side to see a smirking Cassian approaching her, skin now clearing of the bruises she had littered upon it.

Cassian came to a stop beside her, "It was Mor actually," she spoke softly, eyes drifting back to the portrait to which Cassian's own followed, and his demeanour softened infinitely as he shuffled closer to her so that their shoulders grazed with each exhale, "What was he like?"

Struggling to find the words and not wanting to lie to her, Cassian simply muttered, "He was a prick," he caught her bewildered stare, "But he cared, in his own odd way."

"Would Rhys say the same?"

"Yes. So would Azriel." Cassian turned his body to her, a body so large that it eclipsed the sunlight flowing through the window at the end of the hall, "But he loved you. That I know without a doubt."

"How?"

Cassian barely heard her whisper as her eyes continued to scan the face of her father, measuring their similarities and differences, "Because if he didn't then he never would have sent you away, he would have kept you and abused your power until the day he died. But he sent you to your mother because he believed in what you could be, and he was right."

Despite the longing to return to her homeland over the last 500 years, y/n's father had been right to send her away, he had made her into a weapon that Erilea would be lost without, he had made her into a queen.

Moving her burning gaze from the face of her father, y/n smiled upward at Cassian, it was one full of meaning and kindness, "Thank you."

The Lord of Bloodshed shrugged, leaning into her and saying, "Anything for my sister," laughing at her pointed glare, "Don't fight it. It's who you are now."

Making his way down the hall after rounding her figure, he turned back, beckoning her with his hand and she fell into step with him as they paced down the stairs side by side, both salivating at the scents of sugar, honey, and fresh pastries that lined the kitchen counter which pulled them both in instantly. The pair of them took their time adding delicacies to their plates, some more neatly than others, and entered the intimate dining room bickering between themselves.

Cassian stuck his middle finger up at y/n before splitting away from her with a grin on his lips, and y/n scowled as she found a place at the table nestled between Mor and Nesta, and opposite Azriel who hadn't said a word since y/n entered the room with his brother at her side.

With a knowing look, Mor caught Azriel's eyes and wiggled her eyebrows at him whilst passing a strawberry through her lips, as if to say you're welcome, and Azriel held back his deep chuckle of reply, turning his attention back toward the pastries and cured meats on his plate. He had gone into the city as early as he could before the stores decided on their closure to grab everything they would need to make y/n's morning as welcoming as possible, and he was glad to see the effort pay off when a decadent smile appeared on her lips after chewing on a certain honey and vanilla crème pastry for a few seconds.

"I see that you've made yourself at home," a dark voice spoke from behind y/n, a hand reaching over to pluck a vine of grapes from her plate on his way around to what y/n presumed to be his usual seat with Feyre in tow, "I take it you slept well after your flight around the city?"

Rhys leaned back in his seat, eyes scanning over her appreciatively at how well she had fallen into the Night Court fashions. "I did actually. The entire morning was going perfectly until you took food off my plate."

"It was a grape, y/n."

Whistling low, y/n widened her eyes, "I cannot wait for you to meet Lorcan. You wouldn't dare to do that if he was here."

"I am a High Lord-"

"And I am his blood-sworn Queen. What you are will mean nothing to him," y/n smiled at the glass that was filled with orange juice which appeared before her.

"Blood sworn?"

Clearing her throat, y/n explained simply, "My blood runs through his and Aedion's veins. They took the blood oath after the war, after I killed my mother and ascended the throne. Lorcan and Aedion would die for me even without the bond, but it is of the highest honour to be given it in our world. Our lives and souls are tied for eternity, even when we're nothing but a whisper of dust between the stars."

It was a consuming notion, to be so bound to another soul not even romantically that it meant that eternities would be spent together, ones long after death.

Nesta seemed taken by the motion, her orbs of silver flame casting over the queen beside her, "Do you have a family name?"

Cutting her gaze to the eldest Archeron sister, y/n's features faltered, tightening with sadness and grief, "Yes," she nearly choked, "I didn't used to, I was just Princess Y/N of Doranelle, but," she drifted, fingernails digging into the surface of the table, "The male who cared for raised me died during the war, he sacrificed himself to save his son," y/n swallowed harshly, "I took his name so that he would always be with me. I'm Queen Y/N Gavriel of Doranelle now."

In a rare moment of softness, Nesta smiled sadly, "I'm sorry that you lost him."

Matching her action, y/n replied, "So am I."

Rhys hadn't realised what his sister had lost, through their story swapping she had never mentioned him, and it was clear to see why when he noted the despair in her eyes. The loss was still fresh for her, and she carried it with her daily.

Wanting y/n to feel the wonder of Velaris that had began to darken in harmony with her sadness, Azriel leaned forward, catching her eye and asking, "Are you ready to see your city?"

With skies clearing, y/n nodded eagerly, pushing her still full plate away from her as they both rose to their feet from opposite sides of the table. Rhys, noticing that she was wearing one of his mother's dresses, choked back his emotion, "We'll come and find you later."

Azriel moved to y/n, using his hand at the small of her back to guide her to a place where they could both stretch their wings and descend upon the city, leaving Feyre caressing Rhys' hand in knowing as his gaze slid to Mor, "That was the dress my mother made for her, she had always wanted to see her grown up. Where did you find it?"

"A cousin never shares their secrets."

The City of Starlight was more magnificent than the place y/n had often dreamt of.

Despite everyone gazing at her like she was the most brilliant jewel in the pile, y/n didn't feel under inspection or threatened, she felt safe and happy, and when children chasing ribbons ran around her legs did she let out the most angelic laugh Azriel had ever heard.

"They love you," he told her after yet another citizen, a old lady with silver hair and waning blue eyes, told y/n of her happiness that the Princess had returned.

Rhys had lifted the veil of illusion the moment she had soared into the city, allowing Velaris to remember what they had lost 500 years ago. It was the least he could do, and luckily the city had been understanding of it, it was to protect the existence of y/n and her power from the rest of the world and those who would seek to harness her. They were overjoyed to put it in simply terms.

"They love the idea of me," she told the Shadowsinger plainly, picking daisies from the grass and twiddling the stalks in her fingers, "They love the power I can offer to protect them. They don't know me enough to love me."

Azriel hummed, "I think you forget that you did spend two years here, that's more than enough time for anyone to fall in love."

They had walked through the city for most of the afternoon, Azriel pointing out bookshops and bakeries that she'd love before leading her down to the Sidra and finding a place to sit along the cobbled shores.

"I was a baby, Azriel," she told him with a faint roll of the eye before the bubbling waters caught her attention as they glided over the rocks.

"A beautiful one if their words are anything to go by," Azriel leant back on his elbows, hair glistening in the sun and chin nodding to the small group of fae across the water, whispering and glancing in their direction.

Smirking, y/n tore her gaze away from the eyes swarming her and turned to Azriel, scanning him in his loose silken shirt and matching black briefs, "Are you calling me beautiful?"

Eyes widening, Azriel's lips parted as his throat fumbled, and it took him a moment to control himself, "You are beautiful," he cocked his head to the side, eyes lazily dragging down her figure causing a blush the creep upon her cheeks, "But you already knew that."

"Smooth recovery," she averted his gaze, missing the grin that tugged at his lips whilst his shadows slithered along the grass toward her, leaping up to graze at the bottom curve of her wings.

The sun was falling in the sky, and the faint sparkle of stars began to litter canvas above which was turning from blue to orange to purple. Citizens had began to gather their things and return to their homes and shops long ago, and Azriel and y/n had watched silently as they did, idly watching the world go by and forgetting what bloodshed loomed for them in the nearby future.

Scraping stones begged their attention from behind, and the shadow of wings cast itself over their close forms. Peering upward, she found Rhys gazing down upon her, and he silently offered her a hand to bring her to her feet, glancing between her and Azriel who had moved closer to her.

"I was thinking that we could go for dinner. Everyone else is already at the restaurant," he folded her hand into the crook of his elbow, "Who knows what tomorrow may bring?"

"I suppose we have to make the most of every moment we have," she smiled into Rhys' embrace as he pressed his lips into her hairline.

And, Azriel couldn't help but linger back, not wanting to get between the eclectic adoration that flowed between them as Rhys led her through the winding streets of the city, laughing and doting on her as much as he could during the short walk.

Stopping at the steps of the restaurant, Rhys ushered her inside, watching her from his space as her face lit up at the sight of his family bickering around a large stone table surrounded by candles. Then he turned, eyes scanning Azriel's face which was directed toward her, and when Azriel caught his eyes he felt relief at the slight nod given to him, not one of thanks or understanding.

But one of approval.

Author's Note

I'm really loving writing this so far - sorry if it feels a little slow, just trying to establish all the love and relationships 🥺🫶🏻

Also still not able to properly tag some people, how do I fix this 😭😭

Taglist

@userxs-blog @riorgail @fandomarchiveilyd @booksandbud4me @acourtofbatboydreams @sidthedollface2 @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @tenshis-cake @rcarbo1 @doodlebugg16-blog @snoopyspace @superspideyparker @wolvesnravens @acourtofbooksandshadows @i-am-infinite @hannzoaks @evergreenlark @quinzzelx @fuckingsimp4azriel @laurzwrites @astrxbabx @michellexgriffey @just-here-reading @cherry-cin @jesskidding3 @yearninglustfully @nerdyalmondlawyerauthor

[thegreeks]

Part Two: Ink and Affection

Read Part 1 Here

April 12th, 1812 Pemberley

The carriage jolted against the rutted track, its wheels groaning in protest. Though a discomfort long familiar, after weeks of Longbourn’s tranquil stillness, the motion felt particularly jarring. You clutched a small leather-bound volume of sonnets, Fitzwilliam's letters tucked safely between its pages, and gazed out at the passing landscape.

The view was one of welcome familiarity, yet transformed in the delicate light of early spring. The budding trees stretched forth their limbs, as though to embrace the season, and the sky painted a brilliant canvas of dawn’s first blush. Your thoughts, however, were far from the scenery before you. They lingered upon the last letter you had received, the words of which you had committed to memory as a devotional, a promise of affection written to you alone. Each phrase, each tender sentiment, was a new stroke upon a portrait, capturing the essence of a man you knew, and yet, found yourself discovering anew with every passing moment.

Two weeks had passed since you had penned your last reply, a letter more akin to whispered confessions than mere correspondence. The anticipation of seeing Fitzwilliam again was almost unbearable. In your mind’s eye, you pictured him standing at the grand entrance of Pemberley tall and proud, his eyes, those deep, intelligent pools, seeking yours with an intensity that left you breathless.

The carriage’s wheels creaked as they rolled over the gravel drive, the familiar façade of Pemberley coming into view. A wave of emotion swept over you– a mixture of anticipation, relief, and perhaps, the fluttering of nervousness. You adjusted your bonnet, smoothing the unruly wisps of hair that had escaped during the journey. Though it had only been two fortnights since your departure, the sight of Pemberley stirred feelings as though you had been absent for years. The gardens, with sprawling blooms, the stately columns, and the comforting warmth of its walls, brought a rush of warmth to your heart.

Leaning slightly from the carriage window, your gaze sweeping over the grounds. The roses had just begun to bloom, their vibrant petals nodding gently in the breeze, as if welcoming you home. Then, standing at the entrance, a figure—tall, dignified, and unmistakable even at a distance. There he stood, your Fitzwilliam, as handsome and composed as ever, only his eyes beheld a softness reserved solely for your own.

As the carriage came to a halt, you arose swiftly, feet scarcely grazing the earth before he was before you. His eyes met yours with such tenderness that your breath caught. Without a word, he took your hand, fingers gently closing about yours in a grasp that spoke both of tender support and affection so firm, it seemed to resist relinquishing its hold even once you were upon firm ground.

For a moment, the world faded, the moment still. The grand view of Pemberley, the bustle of servants, and the distant sound of birdsong vanished, leaving only Fitzwilliam before you. A small, knowing smile touched his lips as he began, his voice deep and rich.

"Y/N," he uttered, a tremor of emotion in his tone that sent a rush of feeling through your heart.

"Fitzwilliam," you replied, your voice soft, as though speaking too loudly might break the spell that had settled between you.

“How was your journey, my dear?” He asked, his voice a low murmur, still holding your gaze, “And how does Elizabeth fare?"

"The journey, though long, was quite tolerable," you said, thumbs idly tracing the back of his hand, "And Elizabeth, thank heaven, is much improved. I believe she would be quite delighted to hear that the gardens here have yet to see their full bloom."

A smile tugged at his lips, followed by a gentle chuckle. "Then perhaps a walk will be in order later this afternoon," he mused, before taking on a softer note, "My beloved, I have missed you more than words can say, these last weeks have seemed an eternity."

Heat rose to your cheeks, and with a small, shy smile, you answered, “I, too, have missed you, Fitzwilliam.”

You stood there for a moment, lost in the stillness of his gaze. The unspoken words of your letters hung in the air, tangible, real, and overwhelmingly precious. It was a simple moment, a quiet exchange, but it was enough. Your return to Pemberley, to his side, was all that mattered.

“You are home,” he said softly, voice heavy with the weight of both longing and relief.

“And how I have missed it,” you replied, your voice catching slightly as you met his gaze.

His expression softened in a way that was reserved solely and entirely for you. “And I, you,” he murmured. “Each day without you felt endless, and now, having you here, I find my world whole once more.”

In the warmth of his presence, with the steadiness of his hand upon yours, and the quiet intensity of his gaze enveloping you, the weight of the time you had spent apart dissolved. The letters, though deeply cherished, could never compare to the profound joy of standing by his side once more.

He led you inside, through the familiar, grand hallways of Pemberley, the house itself feeling at once magnificent and comforting. The housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, greeted you warmly, and the servants bustled about, but it was Fitzwilliam’s presence that anchored you, his hand lingered gently upon your back as he guided you forward.

When at last you reached a drawing room, he turned to you, expression thoughtful. “I have something for you,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of quiet excitement. From a nearby table, he retrieved a small, beautifully wrapped box and handed it to you.

Curious, you opened it, revealing a delicate gold locket. In it was a miniature painting of Pemberley on one side and, on the other, a small sprig of pressed lavender.

“To remind you,” he said, voice low, “that no matter where you may be, Pemberley—and I—shall always await your return.”

A swell of emotion rose within you, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you traced the locket’s delicate surface. “Fitzwilliam,” you whispered, meeting his gaze. “You always know how to make me feel so cherished.”

“And you, my love,” he said, his voice steady with earnestness, “have made me the happiest of men.”

Without a word more, you closed the distance between you, wrapping your arms around him as he drew you close. In his embrace, the weight of your time apart dissolved, replaced by the certainty of the future you would share.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the gardens in a golden glow, you strolled hand in hand through the grounds. The air was sweet with the scent of blooming flowers, and the stars began to dot the sky, their light reflected upon the gentle ripples of the lake.

Pemberley had never felt more like home, and in Fitzwilliam’s arms, you knew you had found your forever

[whimsicalwordsmith53-library]

A Promise is Timeless

Chapter One: Prologue

Word Count: 1,405/8,505 characters

Reading Time: 5 minutes, 7 seconds

Speaking Time: 7 minutes, 49 seconds

———————————————————————

*July 17th, 1955*

The grand opening of Disneyland had drawn crowds from far and wide, and amidst the festivities, the infamous Captain Hook found himself reflecting on the surreal nature of it all. As he stood near the Sleeping Beauty Castle: a beacon of Walt Disney's imagination turned reality, Hook's thoughts were interrupted by the approach of the man himself—Walt Disney.

"Walt," Hook greeted with a respectful nod, adjusting his hat as he acknowledged the visionary responsible for bringing so much magic to life.

Walt Disney smiled warmly, his eyes twinkling with pride and exhaustion. "Captain Hook," he replied, extending a hand. "Quite a day, isn't it? How are you finding the park?"

Hook hesitated, momentarily taken aback by the genuine interest in Walt's voice, and gently shakes the king’s hand. "It's... quite something," he admitted gruffly, his gaze sweeping over the bustling crowds and meticulously crafted attractions.

Walt chuckled, sensing Hook's mixed feelings. "I imagine it must be strange for you," he remarked, his tone gentle yet probing. "Seeing your world, your story, come to life in such a way."

Hook shifted uncomfortably, the weight of Walt's words sinking in. "Aye, strange indeed," he conceded, a hint of vulnerability in his voice. "To think we villains, born of ink and imagination, now walk among your guests."

Walt nodded thoughtfully. "You're a part of our stories now, Captain Hook," he said earnestly. "And this park is for everyone—heroes, villains, and everything in between. It's about bringing joy and wonder to all who visit."

Hook glanced down at the pocket watch hanging from his coat, a gift from Walt himself symbolizing their shared commitment to storytelling and imagination. "Thank you, Walt," he murmured sincerely. "For this park, for believing in us villains, and for making dreams a reality."

Walt smiled warmly, his fatigue momentarily lifted by Hook's gratitude. "It's my pleasure, Captain. Disneyland is for dreamers of all kinds, and you, my friend, are most welcome here."

As they stood together, watching families embark on their own adventures through the enchanted lands of Disneyland, Hook felt a sense of belonging he hadn't expected. In that moment, amidst the magic and the memories, he understood that Walt Disney's dream was indeed a powerful one—one that bridged the gap between fantasy and reality, bringing joy and inspiration to generations to come.

As Captain Hook and Walt Disney continued their conversation amidst the grandeur of Disneyland's opening day, a sudden cough interrupted Walt's silence. Hook, ever observant despite his pirate demeanor, turned to the visionary with concern etched on his face.

"Walt," Hook said gruffly, motioning towards a nearby bench. "Perhaps we should sit down for a moment."

Walt nodded gratefully, accepting Hook's gesture and easing himself onto the bench. His usual vigor seemed momentarily subdued, replaced by a hint of fatigue and vulnerability.

"I'm fine, Hook, I’m fine," Walt reassured, though his voice betrayed a touch of uncertainty as he rubs his neck. "Just a tickle in my throat. Lillian has been after me to cut back on the smoking."

Hook raised an eyebrow, settling beside Walt with a nod of understanding. "Aye, even kings must heed the concerns of their queens," he remarked, though his tone softened with genuine concern. "You've been pushing yourself hard, Walt. The park, the films, everything."

Walt sighed, a faint smile playing on his lips. "It's all worth it, Hook. To see this dream come true," he replied, gesturing towards the joyful chaos unfolding around them. "But perhaps Lillian is right. I ought to take better care."

Hook nodded in agreement, casting a thoughtful glance at the bustling park. "Aye, Walt. You've created something extraordinary here. Take the time to enjoy it."

Walt chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling with warmth. "You're right, Hook. We should all take a moment to appreciate the magic."

As they sat together, a quiet camaraderie formed between them—two men from different worlds, united by a shared vision and a mutual respect for the power of imagination. In that brief respite, amidst the whirlwind of Disneyland's opening day, Hook realized the depth of Walt Disney's passion and the impact of his dream on everyone who crossed its threshold.

And as the sounds of laughter and adventure echoed around them, Hook knew that this day would forever be etched in the annals of history—a testament to Walt Disney's unwavering belief in the power of dreams and the enduring legacy of Disneyland.

The afternoon sun cast a golden hue over Disneyland, Walt Disney's words carried a weight that Hook couldn't ignore. The conversation had taken a solemn turn, and Hook sensed the gravity of Walt's behavior.

"Hook," Walt began, his voice earnest and tinged with a hint of urgency. "Promise me something."

Hook nodded attentively, his gaze steady as he awaited Walt's words.

"When I'm gone," Walt continued, his eyes searching Hook's face for reassurance, "promise me you'll protect the villains. Maleficent, Queen Grimhilde, all of them. They're part of our stories, our world. Promise me you'll keep them safe."

Hook felt a lump form in his throat, understanding the trust and responsibility Walt was placing upon him. "I promise," Hook replied solemnly, his voice unwavering despite the emotions stirring within him. "With my life, I'll protect them. And the ones I love will guide me in that duty."

Walt nodded, a sense of relief washing over his features. "Thank you, Hook," he said gratefully. "I know I can trust you. You understand what it means to believe in something bigger than yourself."

Hook nodded in agreement, his gaze drifting towards the bustling crowds and the gleaming spires of the park. "Aye, Walt. This place is more than just bricks and mortar. It's a beacon of imagination, of dreams realized."

Walt smiled, a fatherly warmth in his eyes. "And you, Hook, are a part of that magic now. Never forget that."

As they sat in companionable silence, surrounded by the laughter and wonder of Disneyland's first guests, Hook felt a profound sense of purpose settle upon him. Walt Disney's dream had become his responsibility—a promise to safeguard the villains and preserve the stories that defined them.

And as the day continued to unfold, Hook knew that this pledge would endure long after the crowds had gone and the park lights dimmed—a testament to the enduring power of Walt Disney's vision and the bond forged between a visionary and a pirate.

*Present Time*

Captain Hook walked through the bustling streets of Disneytopia, his steps heavy with emotion as he recalled the memories of Walt and Lillian Disney. Their presence, once so vibrant and inspiring, now lingered in the shadows of the park they had built together. Tears threatened to spill from Hook's eyes, a rare display of emotion from the hardened pirate.

Gently, Hook retrieved the pocket watch from his coat, the familiar weight comforting in his hand. With a flick of his hook, he opened it, revealing two sides of significance. On one side, a locket held a precious picture of Walt and Lillian Disney, captured in a moment of joy and unity. Hook stared at the photograph, memories of their conversations and shared dreams flooding his mind.

"And now they're gone," Hook murmured quietly to himself, his voice betraying a mixture of sadness and reverence. "Their legacy lives on, but they are gone."

Turning the watch over, Hook noted the frozen time: 7:53. A poignant reminder of the moment frozen in time, just as Walt and Lillian would forever remain in the hearts and memories of those they touched.

"The sons carry on," Hook whispered softly, his eyes tracing the engraved initials on the watch; J.H&W.D. "Mickey and Oswald. The legacy of dreams and magic."

As he closed the pocket watch, Hook felt a renewed sense of purpose. His promise to Walt Disney, to protect the villains and uphold the spirit of imagination, burned brighter than ever. With a determined stride, Hook continued through the park’s mimic, where laughter and joy mingled with the echoes of a timeless dream—one that had shaped not only a company but a world of enchantment.

And as he walked, the pocket watch nestled close to his heart, Captain Hook knew that Walt and Lillian Disney's legacy would endure, carried forward by the magic they had created and the promise he had made.

———————————————————————

Chapter Two release date: August. More information on this AU lore will be explained in the next chapter. Hope you like this segment and hope to see you next month!

[n0tamused]

"Glorfindel the Reckless"

A/N: Requested by @stormchaser819 ! I hope you enjoy <3 I love Glorfindel so much, I hope I did him justice. Please let me know what you think! If anyone wants to be on my elf tag-list let me know, and mention which character you'd like to be tagged for if you want to be tagged for anyone in particular

Contents: Glorfindel x Elf!Reader, GN reader, fluff. Elvish translations at the bottom

Words: 1448 I Ko-Fi

Sunsets in Gondolin have always been a sight worthy of gazing upon. They never lost their beauty nor their charm and served well in comforting the hearts of many after all the dark news that reached them, be it by word or by letter. It almost caught you unawares now as the same sunset painted the marbled floor in glittering spots of gold and orange around you. 'Has it been so long already?'

Glorfindel sat quietly for once, observing you through tender eyes as you wrapped his injured arm in new dressings, the last of his wounds. Although he had no lack of love in Gondolin, nor the lack of people worried for him, his heart squeezed at the sight of your face when it wrinkled with worry, the tight frown on your lips and the way your teeth marked your lips. His intentions were to shield you, comfort you, but he knew he wouldn’t be doing any of it by sending you away or offering you empty words in hopes to sweep the topic of wounds away. 

“You’re healing quickly..” your words snapped him out of his internal musings, and he blinked once, twice as if your face was only now coming into his vision, cleared away of fog and distance. His lips pull upward at the corners slightly, searching your eyes for something.

“And that is much relief, but also to be expected when I have you tending to all that wishes to ail me” His words were a warm timbre, as gentle as the hearth fire in dusky winter nights. “I have much to thank you for,” he added as he watched you tuck away the excess wrapping, securing it tightly before patting the palm of your hand around the side of his forearm, the motion gentle. 

“The healers have done their due as well, I am not a great healer, but I know how to dress a wound” you told him as you looked up at him after finishing your task, exhaling softly through your nose. Elven blood was enduring, persevering, yet not even that was able to make you feel any less tired, or look the part. For too long did Glorfindel linger outside of your eyes and out of your reach, fighting battles and doing deeds worthy of the praise he got, and more. For too long he left you without a word. All of which you understood, yet it did little to comfort you of his safety. Had you any skill with a sword as he did, perhaps you would have taken a place by his side in the battles. But your weapon was a quill, rather than a blade.

“The healers have gotten their due praise and my gratitude, but you ought not to discredit yourself simply because you do not bear the title of theirs” Glorfindel said, his tone laced with subtle interwoven notes of concern. His head absentmindedly titled to one side, hoping to catch your suddenly fallen gaze. 

Your eyes flickered to his own for a heartbeat before you busied yourself with sorting away the excess wound dressing, ointments and herbs and tools and all else you brought in your healer’s bag. For a healing wound of his, this was much unnecessary. “I am not discrediting myself” you replied, your voice dropping lower despite your efforts to keep sturdy. Secrets were a distant thing between you and Glorfindel, almost as if there was an external force stripping you both bare, feeling so natural yet, at times like these, embarrassing. 

“I only worry you’ll allow the reputation everyone pins on you to get the better of your wits one day”  It was a harmless bite, a proof of your worry you knew not how to express in any other way.

Glorfindel huffed out a laugh, breathing in a good mouthful as his lips quirked upwards as if greatly amused by your words. He sighed as he shook his head slowly, his gaze leaving you for a moment as he took in the sight of the great bedchamber around him. The gold lances of the sun shone through still, slowly transitioning from gold to pale purples and pinks. “Surely, you do not worry yourself to exhaustion because of this?” he looked back to you, “Must I remind you that I am not as reckless as you may think?” he offers gently.

Your eyes met his gaze, noticing the hint of mischief but also.. worry. He may not show it, but you could see it, feel it when his fingers brushed your hand in a silent quest of comfort for both of your hearts. 

“No.. I.. I am fully aware of your skill, Glorfindel” you made yourself chuckle, lips pulling upward in a smile to ease yourself into the sentence. “I just.. hate to see you hurt, surely you understand that I am not exactly myself when I see you like this?” you take his good hand in yours and give a squeeze which he gladly returned. “It pains me to see you off wherever you go to battle, any battle, and to be sure sometimes my heart makes a beast out of a fly, but I.. I just worry for you, melda”

“I know… as do I for you..” he smiles at you again, and his hand slips the clasp of yours to find its way up. His fingers touched the line of your jaw tenderly at first, feather light, before his palm slipped onto your cheek to hold it. Seeing you lean into it made Glorfindel sit up and draw closer to you. His lips found yours in a lingering kiss. He was warm, warm as always, warm as fire and he held yours like nothing else mattered in the world but this very moment. 

After he had pulled back he made slow, sweet motions that brushed the tip of his nose against yours and then pressed your foreheads together.  “Elin nin.. you can have my word that I would never cast aside all the wisdom I have just so another song may be sung about me, not when I know you’d eat yourself from within if I were to do something so stupid” His tone had dropped to a whisper, shared strictly within this small bubble the two of you created. 

“Recklessness does not suit me, as you always love to remind me, and I do not care to try it out again any time soon” he chuckled, sparking a small chain reaction that ended with you chuckling along with him. Your hand found its way over his, holding him glued to you. 

“You said I look like a fool when I am too hasty” he continued, fueling the moment for what it was, so it may melt away the tension.

“Foolish behaviour is not fit for a lord of the house of the Golden Flower” you told him, shuffling closer to him. 

Glorfindel nodded, “Precisely. And I’d be an even bigger fool not to listen to you, Meleth nîn. There’d be many songs sung about Glorfindel the Fool by now.. Hah, I can almost imagine the verses. ‘Glorfindel charged with a mighty shout, but tripped on a rock and his long cape right out’!” 

It was hard to resist laughter, and it all bubbled up to your mouth and shook your shoulders as Glorfindel came up with verses on the spot. 

“ ‘His sword slipped from his hand, stuck in a tree so high, he wondered whether he might just wish it goodbye’ “ 

He did not stop until you slapped him on the shoulder, cheeks dusted with pink from laughter. “Oh, stop! You got your point across, no need to make me suffer any more with these verses of yours” you complained as you doubled over, the top of your head pressing into his shoulder as to hide away the mirth in your face.

“Ecthellion knows how to write and sing better than I, but I am not so bad myself at weaving a rhyme or two” he replied, letting you lean into him while one arm went around you, his good arm pressing you further into him. His chest was shaking with humble chuckles. “Melin ceni hin lîn síla i ‘eladhach! Don’t hide from me” He told you after swallowing a breath and you took courage to face the golden haired lord with all your flushed-face might. 

“There you are” he added and cupped the back of your nape with his hand. “Has my recklessness frightened you?”

“No, but it might annoy me if you mention it any more” you straightened up and kissed his cheek, reveling in the way he glowed when he smiled. 

melda - beloved

Elin nin - my star

Meleth nîn - my love

Melin ceni hin lîn síla i ‘eladhach -I love to see your eyes shine when you laugh

Ⓒ n0tamused/jarttavia_. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[tinyshyteacup]

Tw: Cussing, sexual comments

Part 2

Gilded Façade - Part 3

"Loki," Frigga said softly, approaching her son who stood rigid by the window, staring out at the golden gardens with thinly veiled contempt.

The corridor around them hummed with distant activity as servants rushed to prepare for the evening's banquet.

Torches flickered along the ornate walls, casting dancing shadows across the polished marble floor as mother and son paused in their procession toward the great hall.

The ceremonial feast awaited them—She placed a gentle hand on his arm, feeling the tension beneath the leather and metal of his formal attire as the sounds of laughter and music drifted toward them.

"I know this arrangement was not your choosing, but I have glimpsed threads of possibility between you and this Midgardian. There is potential for something genuine, if only you would allow it." She searched his face, recognizing the mask of indifference he wore so perfectly, yet seeing beneath it to the turmoil he tried to conceal.

"Remember, my son, that sometimes the most powerful magic comes from unexpected places."

Loki's jaw tightened, though he did not pull away from his mother's touch. "You ask me to play the willing bridegroom to a mewling waif from midgard who will wither and die in what amounts to a heartbeat by our standards," he replied, his voice low and controlled.

"Tell me, Mother, what purpose does this serve beyond—Odin's political machinations?" Frigga smiled knowingly, her eyes reflecting ancient wisdom that even Loki could not dismiss.

"Your father sees alliances and power, as is his way. But I see a soul that might understand yours in ways none in Asgard have managed. You have always been different, Loki—perhaps what you need is someone equally out of place." She touched his cheek, turning his face toward hers.

"Make an effort, not for Odin, not for Asgard, but for yourself. You have spent centuries building walls— I merely suggest you create a single door."

The grand hall is a tapestry of light and noise—soaring columns of carved marble's, draped with silken banners in gold, reds, greens all the colours of the royal households of Asgard.

Torches flicker with enchantment, casting ethereal shadows that dance across the high ceiling. Laughter rings like chimes from the gathered nobility, their attire shining with embroidery and gems that look like stars set in velvet.

You sit near the end of the high table, amongst golden chalices and towering platters of Asgardian cuisine. The gown Frigga helped you chose is beautiful but heavy, the bodice tight against your ribs, making each breath feel shallow.

The platter before you holds unfamiliar delicacies—glowing fruits, slices of deep violet meat, a spiral of something iridescent that twitches faintly when your fork nears.

You hesitate, is that pudding —shit, is that alive ?

From across the table, a voice cuts through the hum of conversation. Smooth. Teasing.

“If it wriggles, it’s perhaps best not to poke at it.”

You look up sharply.

Loki, lounging in the next chair, has turned just enough to address you. He’s in ceremonial robes—deep green with intricate gold trim, his raven-black hair pulled half-back with an emerald clasp. His expression is wry, one brow arched.

You blink at him. "Pardon?"

He sighs—too dramatically—and rises, sweeping behind you. His movements are liquid, effortless, drawing only a few curious glances as he leans close enough for only you to hear.

“You’re meant to eat that one with the pale sauce,” he murmurs, gesturing gracefully. “Neutralizes the sting.”

You glance at the shimmering pool of sauce and then back at him.

“Sting?”

He smiles, sharp and mischievous.

“Only mild paralysis.”

You freeze.

He chuckles—softly, almost to himself.

“I jest,” he assures. “Mostly.”

Then, more gently than expected, he slides the correct items to your plate, adjusting the arrangement. A practiced motion. Like he’s done this before—for someone younger, maybe. Or someone he used to care about.

You whisper, “Thank you.”

He doesn’t respond. Not aloud. But his eyes flick toward you, unreadable—and he returns to his seat with a flourish of robes.

Midway through the evening, you reach for one of the crystal goblets filled with something that shimmers with a faint, swirling light.

Before the rim touches your lips, a hand closes gently—firmly—around your wrist.

Loki again.

His tone is quieter this time. Less mocking.

“That would be unwise.”

You blink at him.

“It’s wine, isn’t it?”

His gaze sharpens. “It’s Asgardian wine.”

You glance around—others are drinking it, laughing easily.

“Why—?”

“Because what one drop does to your kind,” he says, voice just above a whisper, “takes down soldiers twice your size. And because I would rather not have to carry you back to your chambers.”

He doesn’t let go until you lower the goblet. Even then, his hand lingers a second too long.

The corridor outside your chambers is quieter now. Moonlight filters through latticework windows, painting pale shapes along the marble.

You walk slowly beside Loki, who somehow ended up accompanying you after the banquet. You’re not sure why. He hasn’t said much. But he hasn’t left either.

You glance up at him. He’s staring forward, expression unreadable.

“Can I… ask you something?” you say softly.

He makes a vague noise of assent.

You look down at your hands. Then back at him.

“Your magic,” you begin. “Is it always offensive?”

He stops walking.

You do too, heart fluttering. You wish you hadn’t asked.

Loki’s jaw tightens. He turns his head slightly, but doesn’t face you fully. The torchlight throws half of his face into shadow.

“No,” he says at last. His voice is low, and this time, unguarded. “But pain… is what they remember.”

He turns to look at you now. Something flashes in his eyes—not anger. Not sarcasm.

Regret.

“I learned long ago that illusion is safer than sincerity. That power gets attention. Fear, respect—whatever you want to call it.”

He exhales through his nose.

“I could conjure flowers, tame fire to dance for children… and no one would notice. But one dagger—” he makes a subtle gesture, conjuring a flash of silver at his palm, “and suddenly, they see me.”

The blade vanishes.

You don’t speak. You just watch him.

Loki’s eyes lower to you.

The long corridor is dim and quiet, lined with heavy velvet drapery and flickering sconces. You walk beside Loki in thoughtful silence, your hands folded in front of you, clutching the soft fabric of your dress.

He strides with his usual grace—shoulders back, posture fluid—but there’s something almost subdued in the way he keeps pace with you, not ahead.

You hesitate before speaking. Your voice is soft.

“My Prince… why do the servants seem afraid of you?”

His step falters, so minutely you might’ve missed it.

He doesn’t answer immediately.

You continue, words tumbling out, fingers fidgeting nervously. “Liva… the one who helps me, she won’t even look you in the eye. She speaks kindly to me, but when she talks about you, there’s… fear. Like she expects you to… turn her into something.”

He scoffs, but it’s quiet—half-hearted.

“They choose to fear me,” he murmurs, eyes forward. “It’s easier than understanding what they don’t know.”

You stop walking. Loki takes one more step, then pauses and turns halfway to you. His silhouette cuts sharply against the light spilling from an open doorway down the hall.

“I don’t fear you,” you whisper. “Not exactly. But I’m more scared of—”

You swallow.

“The whole— Night of Convergence, thing.”

That gets his full attention. He turns to face you completely, dark brows arching. His expression shifts subtly from cool detachment to something softer. Cautious.

“I beg your pardon?” he asks, in that smooth, careful voice.

You look at the floor, cheeks warming. “Frigga said it’s part of the tradition. That the servants will prepare the bedchamber and… stand outside… after the wedding. To make sure it’s… done properly.”

Your voice fades to near silence.

“I’m not—” you shake your head, gripping your sleeves tighter, “its not like we know each other, I just dont want to—”

“Stop,” he says gently. His voice is lower now. “You don’t need to finish that.”

When you finally look up, Loki’s eyes are on you. Unreadable, yes—but not cruel. There’s no mockery there. Only a deep, guarded stillness. You realize he’s not angry.

He’s startled.

And before he can answer—before he can say something that might have shifted everything—

“Brother!”

The hallway echoes with the sudden boom of Thor’s voice, followed by the rowdy laughter of the Warriors Three.

You flinch at the sheer volume. Loki visibly stiffens.

From the far end of the corridor, Thor barrels toward you, arms open, a goblet already in hand. Fandral, Volstagg, and Hogun trail behind, flushed with drink and boisterous energy.

“There you are!” Thor grins, clapping a hand on Loki’s shoulder hard enough to jostle him. Loki scowls. “We’ve been wondering where you’ve hidden the lady bride!”

You blink. “I— not—yet—”

“But you will be!” Volstagg bellows with a jovial laugh, already swinging an arm around your shoulders. “And that means you must drink with us! A proper send-off!”

Fandral winks. “It is tradition, after all.”

Loki steps slightly between you and them—not obviously, but enough that you notice. He places a hand on your lower back, almost absentmindedly, like a tether.

His face is a mask of politeness, but you can feel tension radiating off him.

“She doesn’t drink,” Loki says evenly. “Asgardian spirits are a touch… overwhelming for her constitution.”

“Then we’ll water them down!” Thor declares, already ushering the group back down the corridor. “Come, Sister-to-be! You’ll sit beside me and tell me all the horrible things my brother has done to terrify you.”

Your heart skips at the way they all laugh again, unaware of how your nerves twist.

You glance up at Loki. He meets your gaze—his hand still resting lightly at your back.

“I’ll stay with you,” he murmurs quietly, so only you can hear. “If you wish.”

You nod.

The golden hall is alive.

Torchlight dances along high-vaulted ceilings, catching the gleam of silver goblets and polished armor. The scent of roasted game, honeyed mead, and spiced wine thickens the air. Laughter bursts and echoes off the marble columns like rolling thunder.

You sit— quiet, and composed—at a table too wide, beside men too loud.

Thor slams a goblet in front of you with a hearty laugh. “Drink up, Sister! It’s not a celebration without fire in your veins!”

You pick up the goblet cautiously, the ornate cup too large for your hand. The amber liquid inside glows faintly—ominous, heady.

Loki, seated beside you with his ever-watchful calm, catches your hesitation. Without a word, he leans toward you, long fingers brushing the edge of your cup. A shimmer of green magic dances along his hand—subtle, elegant.

The liquid darkens a moment, then clears.

"What did you do to it?" You ask eyeing it somewhat suspiciously

“It’s as potent as water now,” he says softly, his voice for your ears alone. “Drink without fear.”

You offer a timid nod, murmuring, ��Thank you… My Prince.”

But the flicker of unease remains. The magic was beautiful, yes—but seeing it so close again, watching it alter something so effortlessly… your stomach knots. It didn’t hurt. But maybe it could have. You sip carefully, grateful—and still a little wary.

Loki sits back, his lips pressed in a faint line.

He noticed your reaction.

Thor throws an arm around Hogun and howls with laughter. Volstagg bites into a haunch of roast and talks with his mouth full. Fandral, ever the dashing fool, turns his full attention toward you.

“So,” he says, leaning in with a too-charming smile, “tell me, lady bride—what enchantment did you use to snare our elusive prince? Or was it a well-aimed apple to the head?”

“I—I didn’t—”

He chuckles. “Ah, modesty. Irresistible on Midgardian women. Truly, you must teach me the secret. Do you always blush so easily? Or is it simply the company?”

You blink, not quite understanding. “I’m not enchanted, I—I think I just fell asleep.”

“Fell asleep, she says!” Fandral grins, turning to the others. “So the little bird didn't ensnare him!”

Laughter erupts around the table. Your fingers tighten on your goblet, unsure if they’re laughing at you.

You glance at Loki.

His eyes narrow—not quite angry, but sharp. A quiet warning glints behind them. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn't join in.

Instead, he leans in close, resting his arm behind your chair as if casually.

“She doesn’t speak your language of idiocy, Fandral,” Loki says silkily. “Try not to confuse her kindness for consent.”

The table hushes for a beat. Thor breaks the tension with a loud bark of laughter, clapping Fandral on the back.

“Careful, old friend—my brother guards his prize well!”

You feel your stomach twist at that word Prize? You definitely don’t like that.

You try to follow the conversation, but the noise is overwhelming. Toasts are shouted, jugs are slammed, stories are boasted with grand hand gestures. You're dizzy from the scents, the flickering lights, the overlapping voices.

Volstagg leans across the table. “Tell us, Lady—how do Midgardians treat their wedding nights? Do you hunt first, or just surrender?”

You choke on your drink. "What on ear—"

Loki rises sharply. Not enough to draw attention from the whole hall—but enough that his presence cools the immediate air around your corner of the table.

“That’s enough.”

Volstagg raises his hands, still chuckling. “I meant no offense!”

“I’m certain you didn’t,” Loki replies, voice smooth and cold. “And yet here we are.”

He turns to you.

“Would you care for some air?”

You nod, grateful. Loki rises, extending a hand. You take it, your fingers disappearing into his long, cool grasp.

He helps you from the table with all the ceremony of a royal escort—but there's a protective tension in his arm now, a barely leashed restraint.

The halls of the palace are quiet this late in the evening, echoing with the soft tap of your shoes against polished stone. The marble walls, etched in gold and starlight, feel too tall, too grand. You walk beside Loki, his long strides shortened—barely noticeably—to match your pace.

You don’t know what to say. The silence stretches, awkward and heavy. Your hands are folded in front of you, fiddling with the edge of one sleeve.

In two days, you are to be married to a god who controls magic, whose own palace servants flinch from him.

You can’t picture what your dress looks like. You don’t know what flowers were chosen.

You don’t even know who planned it. You hadn’t dared ask Frigga after she mentioned the "convergence" with a serene, expectant smile.

The words tumble out before you can stop them, soft and halting. “I still… don’t know anything about the wedding.”

Loki hums quietly beside you, the sound deep in his throat.

“You needn’t concern yourself with the details,” he says at last, his tone even. “It’s being handled. All you must do is arrive.”

You nod, eyes cast downward. " and the convergence?”

Something sharp flashes in his eyes. Displeasure. Perhaps not at you—but at the topic.

“I will take care of it,” he says, his voice clipped, final.

There’s a pause.

“That sounds…” you murmur, fingers twisting nervously, “ominous.”

He stops walking. You halt with him, blinking up at his profile in the golden torchlight.

His jaw flexes. Then, quietly, “Yes. I imagine it does.”

You expect him to explain. He doesn’t.

Instead, he turns, offering his hand with a courtly gesture. “Come. I've seen enough marble for a lifetime.”

The garden opens like a breath of relief—lush, silent, moon-soaked.

The night air smells of night-blooming silverroses and deep green things. The paths wind through manicured hedges and ancient trees draped in ethereal moss, glowing faintly under the stars.

Here, Loki walks with more ease. His shoulders loosen. His voice drops in pitch, more gentle than aloof.

“You may prefer this part of the palace” he says, glancing sideways at you. “It doesn’t ask anything of you.”

You offer a small, grateful smile. “It’s beautiful.”

He watches you as you speak, like he’s measuring your honesty. Then—with a flick of his wrist—something green sparks at his fingertips.

You flinch before you can help it.

He notices.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his hand and holds it palm-up, as if asking permission.

You swallow and nod.

The light returns—gentler this time. It swirls upward from his hand like steam from a teacup, curling into the air until it blooms into a cluster of glowing butterflies.

Their wings shimmer like frost on glass as they flit around you, weightless and warm.

Your lips part in awe. One lands on your shoulder, vanishing with a sparkle as you turn to look.

Loki watches your reaction more than the illusion itself. There’s a softness in his expression now—guarded, but real.

“It doesn’t only harm,” he says quietly. “My magic.”

You glance at him.

“It can,” he admits. “When I choose. When I must. But… it also does this.” He lifts a hand, and the illusion shifts—now a tiny silver fox chasing its own tail in the grass, yipping silently, glowing at the edges.

You let out a small, surprised laugh. He glances at you, lips twitching faintly upward.

“I didn’t know it could be… gentle,” you whisper.

“No one ever asks if it can.”

[ceo-of-sloppy-women]

No grave can hold my body down; I'll crawl home to her

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

CW: lesbian smutt :3

read on ao3

Smut begins at the line-break! The first half of the chapter is relatively smutt free.

“Don’t look now,” Grayson says, catching you in her arms after a twirl.

“What?”

“Sevika’s on her way; if you want this to work, you can’t let on that you know she’s watching us.” There’s a mischievous glint in Grayson’s eyes that causes you to do a double-take, staring up at the strong woman still leading you confidently through a dance number.

“You… knew?”

“I knew from the start,” she chuckles as if it were obvious. “The two of you are good for each other; you fill in each other’s gaps and I have never seen her happier. It may not appear to you that way, but she hasn’t picked a fight with anyone since she brought you back or spent all of her nights at the Last Drop. It has been a major improvement for public safety. Unfortunately, she’s stubborn, so I figured I’d help you out with a little nudge in the right direction –“ she locks eyes with you – “Unless I’ve read this wrong and you’ve been chasing my tail all this time.”

“Grayson, I – you’re an absolute delight, but –“

“I thought as much. Don’t worry, see that woman over my shoulder, the one with the red curls?” You steal a glance, and your eyebrows shoot up as you spot the gorgeous young woman at the edge of the barn watching Grayson like a Hawke, nearly as green as her dress with jealousy. “We’re helping each other out.”

Her giggle of mischief sounds gut-wrenchingly youthful. For the briefest of moments, whatever was festering between the two of you burns in your chest for the last time. Fizzling out with a gentle, surrendering sigh.

“I was so worried you’d be upset that I was using you to make Sevika jealous. It wasn’t my intention at the start – you’ve become a dear friend. But after a while, I was hoping if Sevika felt the same way, she’d see us like this and do something,” you admit sheepishly, trying to keep time with the dance whilst having this important conversation. You nearly collide on accident with another dancer!

“A younger me, perhaps. In another life, I might even have stolen you for myself –“ she winks mischievously – “However, I’m old enough to see how happy you and Sevika make each other – I’m not going to steal that away from either of you. Though, I do hope we can remain friends after this; you are delightful company.”

“As are you!” You beam up at her, seeing her in a newfound light.

Until she sweeps you into another twirl and you land with your back against her chest, staring out into the crowd. Grayson definitely angled the twirl with intention as you come face to face, across a sea of people, with Sevika. There’s a starving hunger snarling behind her eyes as she stalks the edge of the dance floor, glaring over your shoulder at Grayson, like a wolf waiting to strike. Warning bells go off in the logical, rational part of your brain, screaming at you that this should be raising all sorts of red flags, but all you can focus on is how obscenely hot Sevika is when she’s jealous. To be the apex of her desire is carving a starving pit in your stomach that propels you into motion as you begin to let yourself hope this one-sided infatuation isn’t entirely one-sided.

You lock eyes with Sevika just long enough for her to notice before spinning yourself back around to face Grayson. Conveying indifference to Sevika’s jealousy as best you can. Your emboldened dancing nearly catches Grayson off guard as you throw yourself into seeming as interested in her as possible. Barely a hairsbreadth of space remains between the two of you as Grayson chuckles quietly, silently going along with your plan.

The world melts away into little more than background static underneath the soundtrack of the band. Nothing else matters but Grayson’s hands trying to hold your swaying hips steady as if you are the only two women left in the world and she yearns to keep you all to herself.  

Until a calloused hand rests on your shoulder. You barely have a moment to realize what’s happening as the two of you are pulled apart by jealousy. Lithe hands slip under yours, forcing them off Grayson’s shoulders as the hand on your shoulder spins you to face Sevika. You barely get a glimpse of Grayson being redirected into the arms of that redhead from the side of the barn.

Sevika looks pissed, her hand wrapped around your waist, thumb pressing against your ribs and fingers splayed across your back.

“I thought you don’t dance,” you say coldly, setting your hands on her shoulders in an effort to maintain indifference (as if you aren’t internally freaking out over how quickly Sevika stole you back).

“I don’t,” she grunts, stumbling over her footing.

“Then why are you here? I was just fine dancing with Grayson.” You can’t even look her in the eyes right now, instead opting to stare over her shoulder. Even if your heart desperately yearns to let the world melt away as the two of you drift through an uneven rhythm, you can’t allow it. This feels too much like she’s still stringing you along, the notion cutting you like a hot knife.

“I wanted to talk. You stormed off before I could even –“

“Out with it then,” you spit before you can stop yourself, fixing her with a glare.

She shrinks back, wilting under your gaze. You swallow thickly, guilt curdling in your gut. You hadn’t meant it to sound so hostile, yet the built up frustration of your ever-thickening tension demanded it.

“Just one moment somewhere quieter, please? That’s all I ask – after that, I’ll understand if you want to go back to dancing. I’ve been an ass, just let me explain myself. Please?”

The utter desperation that racks her voice reaches deep into your heart and rekindles the dying flame that had been festering in its ashes. The least you can do for yourself is hear her out – to finally know why she’s been doing this to you (even if she ends up admitting it was unintentional).

You sigh heavily: “Okay, I’ll hear you out.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, guiding you to the edge of the dance floor.

You follow her out of the barn, feeling like a fool. You should have just stayed inside and left this heartbreak for tomorrow. You should have just left well enough alone. It’s quiet outside as most people are inside, giving you false privacy as she stops alongside the barn, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. A long, deafening moment stretches between the two of you as you lean against the barn, arms crossed over your chest to guard your heart.

You expect her to flat-out reject you – to tell you that you’re not her type, or you're just friends, or someone she was using to warm her bed without intending to lead on. You do not expect her to start with:

“I don’t deserve you.”

So, when you balk back a stunned, inelegant: “What?” You’re forced to forgive yourself.

“I don’t deserve you,” she repeats, finally meeting your eyes. The welling tears sink your wilted heart to your feet, unwilling to see a sorrowful expression painted across her face. “I am not a good woman – I am mean, I am angry, I push people away for no good reason because everyone who has ever been close to me has only ended up hurt. I can’t even protect myself, for God’s sake! I thought that if I pushed you away, it wouldn’t happen to you, either. I have ruined so many people – I have failed at every second chance I have ever gotten! All I wanted was for you to find someone better, someone who deserved you, and have a good life in this shit-show of a world. But I can’t even do that right. Every time I stand on the sidelines and watch you be happy with another woman, jealousy eats me alive. I want to kiss you so bad it hurts –“ she lifts her hand to your face in a thundering moment, yet drops her hand back down as if burnt – “But I can’t because you deserve better than the fuck-up I’ve always been.”

Lifting your hands, you cradle her face as if she were made of fragile China – as if one wrong move would scare her away. She averts your gaze, focusing on your shoulder as tears trickle down her cheeks.

“Sevika, you’re not a fuck-up. You’re the best thing that has happened to me in this goddamned apocalypse; I am alive because of you. Please, don’t push me away just because you think you don’t deserve me. You don’t get to make that call – I do, and from where I’m standing, you're pretty damn worthy.”

“You’re a fool,” Sevika scoffs, tears slipping past her desperate grip over her self-control.  

“Call me something worse,” you scoff, brushing her tears away.

“Honey,” she tests, stepping toward you.

“Worse,” you whisper, letting your back press against the barn.

“Sweetheart,” she rasps, her hand mere inches away from your cheek.

“Worse,” you encourage her, tipping your head until it’s flush with her palm.

“Lover,” she barely chokes out, pressed flush against you, shaking in your hands from so much all at once.

It sounds like heaven on her tongue.

“Worse.”

She answers not with her words but still with her mouth. Lips pressed against yours in a desperate, starving kiss that you only pull her deeper into as if the two of you were lost halves of a whole, forcing yourselves back together.

“Mine,” she whispers desperately against your lips, that starving, animalistic hunger raging to the surface once more.

 Her hand drops from your face, ghosting its way down your side until she’s kneading your buttocks. You moan into her mouth, encouraging her – her broad grin presses into the corners of your mouth as she grabs your thigh, hoisting you upwards. You scramble to wrap your legs around her waist as she holds you firmly, fingers digging into your thigh.

“I promise I’m better at dancin’ in the sheets if you’ll let me take you home,” Sevika murmurs as she mouths her way down your neck.

You gasp out: “Finally! God, yes.”   

She chuckles – the rumble vibrating against your chest as she steps back from the barn. In a flash, you’re slung over her shoulder, her hand wrapped around your lower back. Even if you’re mostly obscured from the view of anyone inside the barn, there are still people outside and on patrol. Not to mention, she’ll have to walk through Zaun to get back to her house!

“Sevika! I can walk!” you squeak in protest.

She merely grunts, shifting your weight to carry your better. The idea to wiggle out of her grasp barely crosses your mind before she plants a tender kiss on your side. “Shut up and let me do this for you.”

Who are you to argue with her? (You most definitely should, but when else are you going to get the chance to have a smoking hot butch woman carry you cave-man style to her bed?)

~~~///~~~

Sevika doesn’t put you down until she reaches her bed. You land splayed out underneath her, your skirt having flown up to pool on your lap, exposing your upper thighs as your chest pillows out of the top of your dress. She stands between your legs, thumb massaging circles onto your inner thigh as she drinks you in with that same predatory stare. She looks moments away from devouring you, tongue draggled slowly over her chapped lips. A hot shiver runs up your spine as your thigh flexes under her hand.

“Sevika, please,” you whine, already desperate for her touch.

“Shush, give me a moment, sweetheart; I only get to see this for the first time once. Wanna see you like this every time I close my eyes.”

You give her a moment.

Only a moment.

Before you get too impatient and fed up with squirming under her gaze. You want to taste her, and you’re fucking tired of waiting for her to make the first move.

Wrapping one leg around her waist, you flip her onto the bed, straddling her lap. It’s by no means an easy feat, but oh so worth it to bear witness to the dazed expression struck across her face. Your skirt is splayed out across her lap like the petals of a flower, spilt gold dripping onto the sheets beneath you as you press your wet cunt against her stomach. Before she has a moment to process where you’re headed with this, you’re already kissing down her neck; hands pushed under her shirt to coax it over her head. She gasps as you nip at her collarbone, squirming under you to help tug off her shirt. It’s discarded onto the floor somewhere behind you, neither of you truly caring. Scars litter her body, deep purple veins from where she’d been bitten; infection left its permanent mark behind despite her immunity. There are smaller scars as well, from knives and other melee weapons – people who had come too close to killing her. You desperately wish to trace each scar with your lips, to memorize each moment the world had almost lost her. A task for another today; tonight, you’re chasing this moment far too feverishly.

Her chest is bare, breasts pooling on top of her ribs, spilling over the sides slightly. Stooping low, you take a nipple into her mouth and feel her gasp ricochet through her body. Your other hand plays with her other breast, kneading it under your hand, thumbing over the nipple. You swirl your tongue over the sensitive bud, earning you a soft moan that repeats over and over in your head, echoing off the walls of your brain.

Yet, her hand stays firmly clenched around the sheets. You want her to take the pleasure she deserves – rather than passively letting you give what you want. She deserves to be greedy, to think she’s worth her wants being met, not just her needs.

So, you continue kissing down her torso, nipping at her ribs and leaving behind hickeys in the wake of your teeth. She groans with each bite, arching into your mouth. You hum against her skin, whispering soft words of encouragement far too quiet for her to actually hear. Too afraid she won’t take kindly to them if she were to hear, yet not afraid enough to keep your mouth shut. Love drunk on the bitten-off moans hissing past her teeth.

Your fingers finally reach her pants, fumbling with the button until you can shove them down and off with her underwear. Her thighs are strong and thick around your waist as she lifts her hips to allow you to undress her. A thick patch of hair is nestled between her legs, with a soft happy trail of hair leading down from her belly button. You grin at her as you trace your fingers through it, trying your best to show her how attractive she is to you. You leave a hickey just above her mons pubis, kissing it as you pull your head back in hopes of conveying the desire lodged deep within your heart. Sevika groans, her voice low and husky as her hips chase after your face, her body desperately trying to beg you for what she’s too stubborn to use words for.

You get the message.   

Slowly sinking to the edge of the bed, you pull her off with you until you’re sat on the floor. Her legs frame either side of your head as you come face to face with her glistening pussy. It twitches as you press a kiss to her inner thigh, as if Sevika is willing herself not to clamp her thighs around your face and pull you exactly where she needs you. That just won’t do. You lean forward, one hand resting across her stomach, your thumb pressing gently against the skin at the base of her clit to pull its hood back. Her breath hitches as you lean closer, attention fixed solely on you with blown pupils. She smells like heaven – musky and heady, with slick dribbling down the curve of her ass, trying to beg you closer.

A hairsbreadth away from wrapping your lips around her cunt, you whisper: “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

It’s not much – it’s barely enough words to even begin to convey the utter reverence that has settled in your chest. Yet, it’s enough that Sevika curls her legs around you, feet pressing against your back to pull your face flush with her cunt. You moan your approval against her folds, tongue darting out to lap at her slick core. She groans, tipping her head back as you push your tongue into her. Her pussy tastes like heaven – slightly salty with a hint of sweetness and an earthy undertone indicative of humanity. Of animalistic need. Of desire. You lose yourself so thoroughly whilst lapping at her wellspring that you forget to breathe, air becoming a thing of the past until your lungs are screaming at you to pull back.

It takes three solid gasps to prevent yourself from passing out – just enough for Sevika to grow concerned. As she opens her mouth to check on you, you snap back into attention, lurching forward and wrapping your lips around her clit. She moans loudly, arching her hips against your mouth, far more sensitive with the little hood pulled back, exposing as many nerves as you can. Your other hand, which had previously been pulling her thighs closer, snakes under your jaw to press against her sopping core. Light, teasing touches as you curl your tongue to stroke it back and forth across her clit, cradling it in wet heat.

“Please!” Sevika gasps, her hand finally twining into your hair to pull you closer to her.

Begging never sounded sweeter. You oblige happily, pushing your finger inside and another when she asks for more. Doing your darndest to oblige her every whim as she moans and squirms on the bed, rocking her hips against your mouth. You can tell she’s getting closer with each lap of your tongue as you curl your fingers inside her, searching. Yet, it isn’t until you flex your fingers against that spongy spot inside her that her thighs squeeze around your head, nearly snapping your neck. Her back arches off the bed so far you could lay underneath her, eyes crossed as she rocks against your mouth in desperation.

When she finally lets you pull back for air, she must love what she sees because you’re pulled up into a sloppy kiss mere moments later. Your slick chin rubs against hers, spreading her spend across both of your faces until you pull back, panting.

“Fuck, Sev’. Holy fuck – you taste like heaven.” It’s all your pussy-drunk brain can muster up. Thankfully, it’s more than satisfactory as Sevika’s face lights up, pulling you into another heady kiss.

This time, you let Sevika maneuver you until you’re laid out on your back, slowly pulling your dress up and off. She kisses down your chest just as you had for her, paying special attention to each movement that makes you gasp and writhe until she finally reaches your underwear. Her fingers hook under the hem, pulling them off slowly as she’s transfixed on the apex of your thighs. You try not to squirm under her gaze as she drags two fingers across your slick hole, bringing them up to her mouth and unabashedly licking them clean.

“I’m gonna fuck you till you see stars,” she states matter-of-factly.

“Okay,” you whimper, nodding your head rapidly. You’re not even sure what she means, but you’ll take whatever she’s willing to offer.

She pulls one of your thighs over her hip, pressing your cunts together, and the little pieces in your brain click together just before she starts moving. You see stars, eyes rolling back in your head as she rocks against your cunt, rubbing your clits together. You can feel them bump and smudge past each other, smearing your mixed slick across both of your inner thighs. She bends low, pressing your knee into your chest as she pulls you into a searing kiss. It feels like she’s trying to meld your disjointed souls back together, to recreate the whole your cleaved souls used to be. Gods, she’d only need to ask; you’d let her do anything to you right now. The idea of being intertwined together for eternity sounds like heaven.

Unfortunately, scissoring is as close as you’ll ever come. Your own slice of paradise as Sevika rocks her hips against you, a heady groan slipping from her lips.

“I love you,” you say entirely too fast, muffled against your lips.

“I…” Sevika starts and trails off, her hand gripping your hip. You can feel the stutter of her hips – the nerves building up in place of lust.

Cupping her cheek to guide her gaze to meet your eyes, you reassure her: “You don’t have to say it back. I’ve loved you for weeks, Sevika. It’s okay if you haven’t – but I won’t hide my feelings from you any longer.”

She meets your eyes, steeling herself as she reasserts her thrusting pattern. “I love you too, it’s just… I don’t say it often. Don’t like to. People used to say it was too much – that I moved too fast and got too possessive too quickly. Don’t want to scare you away too…”

“You’re stuck with me, hot stuff. Practically ruined me for everyone else; no one’s ever going to taste as good as your pussy does,” you ramble, trying to compliment her yet coming off as slightly awkward.

Lucky for you, Sevika only chuckles and kisses you softly. As if you’ve lifted a weight off of her shoulders with how quickly you rush into love. You wrap your arms around her shoulders, pulling her closer with your hands splayed across her back greedily. Together, your hips rock against each other, intertwined in the moment rather than chasing pleasure. Letting your orgasms sneak up on you until they crash into you unexpectedly, catching both of you off-guard. You moan against her lips, hips canting against hers to chase the last dregs of pleasure before it all becomes far too much.

You pull apart, panting. Sevika crashes onto the bed next to you, trying not to crush you, her chest heaving. You roll over, nuzzling yourself against her side. She grins, pulling you closer with her fingers digging into the meat of your side.

“I love you,” she repeats, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“I love you too,” you echo, kissing her shoulder.

[scyllas-revenge]

↻ FLIP FLOP !! Girl you know I HAVE to ask you for Boromir's POV in THAT scene from chapter 32 of Burn Like Cold Iron. Hehe good luck

I should've seen this ask coming 😂 It was fun to get into Boromir's head for this one lol, although I’m not sure I did it justice. When you haven’t written much in a while, it’s hard to tell if a scene turned out ok or not, but this is as good as it’s gonna get for now.

But anyway, here you go! Boromir's rambling perspective of the only one bed scene (most of which is the Massage Incident, poor man).

Boromir gritted his teeth as Beatrice’s slender hand traced down his chest. She shifted next to him on the dilapidated bed frame, leaning closer to wrap the cloth bandages around his shoulder. Swallowing hard, he shut his eyes against her. 

“Is this…” How intimate her voice was, whispered into the crook of his neck. “Does this feel secure, or should I wrap it here again?” Her trembling fingertips brushed over his ribcage, demonstrating. 

“Again.” Boromir’s voice was desperate even to his own ears. “Please."

His sorceress nodded and obeyed, leaning closer than ever. The heat of her breath ghosted over his ear and he spasmed, narrowly stopping himself from grasping her waist and pulling her roughly against him. 

She felt the movement; she could have done little else, near as she was to him. “Does this hurt?” she asked quickly.

“No,” he whispered. “No. Your hands are gentle.” Gentle? Perhaps they were, though they tormented him all the more for it.

All too soon, Beatrice drew back, her work done. Boromir tried to be glad of it. 

“There now,” he blurted, as though he might cool the fire under his skin with a few lighthearted words. “The healers of Minas Tirith could not have done a better job, I should think.” 

Reflexively, he rolled his shoulders back, then winced. He’d half-forgotten his injury in the intimacy of her work, but the sting of physical pain brought him abruptly back to his own body. He repeated the motion mulishly, half-hoping he might banish his discomfort through sheer force of will. If anything, the pain only worsened, and he snarled impatiently.

He had no time for such physical weakness, not when his people had need of him! How long would his body betray him so? 

“It still hurts, doesn’t it?” Beatrice’s eyes were still on him, concern twisting her features. He waved her question away, half-fearing a second attempt to tend to his bandages. But it seemed he had underestimated her once again, for without warning she was kneeling behind him on the threadbare mattress, her hands like fire on his bare shoulders, her intention clear. 

Anticipation, unbearable and all-consuming, seized him. “Beatrice!” he choked. “It is only a slight discomfort, it will pass!” 

But of course she would not be dissuaded—his sorceress cared for her companions far too much, and for propriety not at all. Boromir opened his mouth to argue, but she began to knead his shoulders, her hands deft and warm, and his protests died on his tongue.

“Valar save me,” he breathed, before hanging his head in surrender.

Had anyone ever touched him like this before? One of the healers of Minas Tirith had massaged his sore back once, years ago, after he’d been thrown from his horse and dislocated his shoulder. But it had not felt like this—it had not affected him like this. It had not been Beatrice.

She must have done this before, he thought distantly, a warm haze overtaking his mind, for she knew just how to touch him to smooth away the aches of prolonged travel and the strain of battle. What might it be like, he wondered, to return her favor—to touch her just as she touched him? To hear her sigh and moan as she melted under his hands? He swallowed hard, his imagination determined to torment him. To end each evening occupied thus, though on a bed far grander than this one, and his sorceress clad in a nightgown of silk, rather than her riding dress…a nightgown he might sweep from her shoulder as he massaged her, bowing his head to part his lips against her bare skin…

His limbs trembled—her movements faltered. “Do you want me to stop?” she whispered.

A foolish question, asked far too late. “No.”  Boromir’s voice was helpless, almost soundless. He wanted her to stop, he wanted her to continue, oh, Valar, he wanted—

He took a long breath, then another. He must control himself. He must, for his sake and hers. She was from a faraway world, intent on returning home, an errand he himself had sworn to help her complete. To pursue Beatrice would be to turn her from her homeland, her family, her people—it would be unthinkable. Unforgivable. She must return. 

She must return, and he must remain.

How often had he lectured himself thus in recent days? Yet the words were true as ever.

Perhaps if he pretended Beatrice was an aide in the healing houses, or a medic on the battlefield, nothing more, then he might withstand this. Practical, reasonable; a soldier’s mindset. Yes, he could achieve this.

For a moment, perhaps two, he succeeded. But as her warm fingers pressed just below his shoulder blade, he moaned aloud—moaned as though she were offering him a far different form of pleasure. 

Beatrice froze. Boromir froze as well, mortification warring with his desire, which had heightened anew at her touch. Had she realized at last the effect she was having on him? If so, it did not daunt her, for she continued to massage him, her breath warm on his naked back. And despite himself, he began to slip back into a trance, heady and drunken and warm.

“Do you have any of that medicine for your bruises? The stuff the doctor was using in Edoras?” 

He fumbled for the tin of ointment and pressed it into her hand without thought. But as she slid off the bed to kneel before him and tend to his broken ribs, he sucked in a sharp breath of panic. His desire was threatening to overwhelm him at last, and he feared his body would soon betray him in more ways than one. Her soft hands massaging his stomach and chest, her warm breath tickling his skin, her heavy-lidded gaze glinting in the low firelight…he was but a mortal man, after all, though he would defy even an elf to remain unaffected by his sorceress for long. 

His breaths were coming more quickly, more raggedly, his chest rising and falling like a bellows under Beatrice’s hands as he tried vainly to calm himself. Her thumb lingered over the raised scar just under his ribs, earned by an errant orc blade years ago, and he jolted at the touch. He had never been ashamed of his scars—they were won in service of his people, and he carried each with pride—but he had never imagined that a woman might touch them with such tenderness, such devotion. But perhaps he should not have been surprised, for rarely had he ever met a more compassionate soul than Beatrice. Always she surprised him, overwhelmed him, tormented him—

She stroked the scarred flesh again, and another moan slipped from his lips.

Beatrice’s eyes fixed on him. Valar, Valar, he could now scarcely recall his reasons for holding himself back from her—surely no reason on earth could prevail against the desire darkening her gaze. He stared down at his sorceress in the dim light, his knuckles whitening at his sides, his arousal beginning to strain at his trousers, her lips so torturously close to his own—

He wrenched himself to his feet, stammering he knew not what, and fled the cabin.

What a fool he was. What a damned fool! He tore at his hair, gritting his teeth against the desire still rising within him as he stormed back and forth under the black sky. What had possessed her to touch him so—and what had possessed him to allow it? Beatrice, Beatrice, you will drive me to madness!

Perhaps he was half-mad already, for with a growl of impatience he stormed to the well and doused his face with a splash of frigid water.

The night was cold, the water colder still, and clarity returned to him at last. With his good hand, he pushed his sopping hair from his eyes and took a long breath. There now. He was himself again—or close to it.

Sobered and newly mortified, Boromir reentered the little cabin and dressed himself, before sheepishly wringing his hair dry before the fire. Beatrice lingered at the far end of the cabin, fidgeting with her braid and looking anywhere but at him. 

At last they climbed into the little bed for the night, still determinedly avoiding eye contact. Boromir reclined on his back, trying not to dwell on how close she lay to him. Still, the recent whirlwind of his desire, panic, and shame had given way to sheer exhaustion, and he succumbed to it with relief.

Sleep already overtaking him, he rolled clumsily onto his side, testing his body weight against his injured shoulder. No good. Who knew when he’d be able to put such weight on his right side again? He huffed and rolled the other way—and his breath hitched as he found himself mere inches from Beatrice’s face. She offered him a startled smile, her lips slightly parted, her fingers curling into the blankets between them.

He mumbled an apology for disturbing her, though she waved his words away. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would apologize in earnest for his foolish behavior. Tomorrow, he would have to recall his promise to help her return to her home—starting tomorrow, he would have to keep her at arm's length.

But tonight, Boromir knew he would dream of her.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 93

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 93: Once in grief, heart of black but forced in green I

AO3 - Masterlist

15k words.

Aemond slipped the light undershirt over his head, the fabric settling smoothly around his torso. He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling it free from beneath the collar, and then tucked the hem of the shirt neatly into his trousers. As he adjusted his appearance in the floor-length mirror, he caught a glimpse of movement behind him. The door to his chambers creaked open, and the faint shuffle of footsteps echoed across the stone floor, signaling someone’s approach.

“Mother,” Aemond greeted, his tone flat yet gentle. He studied her reflection in the mirror with a wary glance as the door clicked shut behind her and she glided further into the room. His fingers fumbled with the ties at the neck of his shirt, his depth perception making the task cumbersome as he struggled to secure the knot. 

His mother entered with a soft frown etched on her face, her lips slightly pursed in a blend of concern and caution. Her hair was elegantly styled, adorned with a tiara of gold and emeralds that marked her regal status as Queen Mother. She wore one of her finest gowns, the luxurious fabric sweeping the floor with each step she took towards him, the beads woven into the embroidery gleaming in the sunlight that streamed in through the tall windows of his chambers.

“You make a fine groom,” she remarked with a soft hum. “Here, let me help you with that.”

Aemond turned to face his mother, allowing her fingers to deftly take over the task. He watched her with a cautious eye, his own features etched with a slight frown as he studied her tentative expression. He sensed the weight of her visit, though he chose not to address it directly, preferring to wait for her to reveal her purpose on her own. 

“I remember when you were but a babe,” she began, her voice soft and reflective. “Though you were but half your brother's size, you were twice as fierce.” A gentle, sorrowful smile touched her lips, her eyes beseeching as she looked up at him. “Even then, you were so perceptive–so attuned to the world around you. Out of all of your siblings, you were the one who grasped our position most clearly. You were the one I could trust to understand and uphold your duties.”

She finished the knot with a practiced motion, then took a step back as if to appraise him–there was a trace of disapproval in her gaze, a sentiment that seemed to linger between them ever since his return from Storm’s End. Perhaps this sense of disappointment had begun even earlier than that when he had insisted on marrying Daenera–when he had gone against her word and had already married her.

This thread of discontent now threaded through all their interactions, a silent, strained tension that pulled taut in the space between them. Aemond felt the sting of that disappointment now, the invisible wedge it drove between them as her eyes, though soft, betrayed that disapproval. It needled at him. 

With a fluid motion, she reached for the doublet that hung over the back of a chair, unfolding it before holding it out for him. Her voice was a gentle hum, “Here.”

Aemond turned, letting her help him into the garment, guiding his arms into the sleeves of the doublet. He allowed the heavy fabric to drape over him, its weight settling comfortably–it was not one of the leather doublets Aemond typically favored, but a garment crafted from thick, dark green fabric, structured to project a commanding presence with its sharp, meticulously tailored shoulders. On his chest, two dragons were embroidered in silver thread, their forms accentuated by black beads that glinted subtly amidst the dark green embroidery.

“You knew the weight of honor, duty, and sacrifice,” Alicent said softly, guiding him into the garment. Her touch was careful, her eyes trailing over her form as she adjusted the shoulders of the doublet to ensure it was perfectly aligned. Her hands glided through his hair, carefully extracting it from beneath the collar to let it flow freely down his back. “Yet, your willfulness outshone even your brothers’. You would defy my commands and brave the perils of the dragonpit, venturing deep into its shadows to find a dragon.”

 Then, with a gentle nudge at his shoulders, she turned him to face her directly. Her attention remained fixed on the doublet as she made further adjustments, meticulously smoothing the fabric. Yet, she avoided his gaze, which bore down on her with a measured curiosity. As she continued to fuss over his attire, the silence stretched between them, filled only by the subtle rustling of fabric and the unspoken questions hanging in the air. 

Her gaze then finally lifted to meet his, a note of reproach weaving through her expression, “You’ve always been headstrong, willing to risk everything to achieve your aims. You sneaked off at Driftmark and claimed Vhagar,” she said, her hand reaching up to gently cup his face. Her eyes, wide and filled with sadness, were clouded with a deep, lingering shame–the same he knew she carried with her for being unable to give him the justice he deserved. “And you paid dearly for that decision.”

As her thumb brushed over his scar, Aemond felt a sharp stab of pain surged through it, as though her touch had burrowed deep into his flesh, into his bones, to wrack around in his skull. He clenched his teeth, enduring the familiar, searing discomfort that seemed to have become a constant companion ever since Storm’s End. 

"It was my hope that you would outgrow such stubbornness," she said, her hand resting on his chest, her expression pleading as she searched his face. "that in time, you would soften your willful nature and heed reason."

Aemond regarded her calmly, his eyes sharp as he removed her hand from his face, “Is that why you’re here–to persuade me to see reason?”

Her face fell as she sighed. 

“The marriage is a reasonable decision, Mother,” Aemond answered, his voice carrying a hint of irritation as she stepped away from her. Annoyance flickered within him as he continued, “It will secure her to our cause and sow discord among our enemies.”

Alicent’s expression hardened, her voice firm as she countered, “It will sow discord among us. You could marry any noble lady,” she insisted, her voice tense as she exhaled sharply, the weight of her frustration evident. “You could choose a lady from a great house and become a ruling lord in your own right. Your children would inherit lands and titles–you’d have a legacy, Aemond.” Her words were not just a suggestion but a plea, underscored by a deep desire for her son to choose a path that would grant him honor and a lasting heritage. “It’s not too late to reconsider this–”

“It is,” Aemond interjected, his annoyance burning within him, simmering just beneath his skin. He shook his head resolutely. “We are already wed; this is just a formality, as you well know.”

With a shake of her head, Alicent turned her gaze upward, as though seeking a moment to compose herself amidst the rising tension. After a brief pause, her eyes settled on him again. She took a step closer, her hands once again reaching toward his chest, they hovered there, as if she were unsure. Her lips pressed together, and she swallowed before placing her hands on his chest once more, bridging the distance between them as she prepared to make another plea. “Please, Aemond, just see reason.” Her gaze lifted to meet his with a soft but accusing edge. “You killed her brother.”

“It was justice,” Aemond replied sharply, stepping back with a dismissive scoff. He knew it was more than that, but he would never admit to losing control–that Vhagar had acted on his rage, that she had defied his commands. Acknowledging such a truth would reveal a vulnerability he refused to expose. It was far preferable to be feared and branded as a kinslayer than to be perceived as weak, judged for his inability to control his own dragon–a dragon he sacrificed his eye for to that same bastard.

“It was murder, Aemond,” his mother said sharply, the condemnation in her reproach needling at him. 

He didn’t need the reminder of what he had done; the weight of it was ever-present. From the early morning hours to the moment he finally fell asleep, the burden was a constant companion–as the pain was. The damned boy haunted his dreams, a ghostly reminder of his guilt. Every time Aemond stepped outside his chambers, he felt the sting of judgment—condemning glances and hushed whispers shadowed his every move. The memory of Daenera with a knife held to her throat, pleading with him to end her life–the look in her eyes haunted him. These moments were a ceaseless reminder of his actions and the heavy consequences that accompanied them.

“You took his life–you murdered him, and she will kill you for it.”

Aemond’s thoughts hardened in response. She cannot, he reflected and he turned away from his mother and walked to the flagon of water on a nearby table. She has tried. He poured himself a cup and lifted it to his lips, but the water did little to cleanse the bitterness lingering on his tongue. Her words were like needles, piercing his skin and burrowing deep, the scorn searing between his ribs and the condemnation twisting cruelly. It seemed to be all she could see of him now–this image of him, tainted by his actions.

“Do not do this,” she urged, her voice firm and resolute.

Aemond gritted his teeth, a fierce indignation burning within his chest as he struggled to contain his anger. The fact that his mother would question his decision–implying that she did not trust his judgment–infuriated him. Had he not fulfilled his duties throughout his entire life? Had he not brought Aegon back to claim the throne, and defended and protected his family at every turn? 

He placed the cup of water aside and turned to face his mother again. His expression was carefully neutral, the mask of composure settling on him as naturally as a second skin–a mask of ice and steel, the measured calm of the eye of the storm. “I am doing this for us, Mother. We need her on our side–”

“Then let someone else marry her,” Alicent cut in, her face tight with indignation. “Let Gwayne marry her instead.”

A sneer twisted Aemond’s lips, a flicker of irritation breaking through his carefully maintained composure. He turned his gaze away from his mother, his jaw clenched tight as he leaned over and seized the back of a nearby chair. His grip was so forceful that he feared for a moment the chair might splinter beneath his hands. He licked his lips absentmindedly, trying to moisten them as he struggled to contain the surge of anger her suggestion had sparked within him. The possessive anger of the beast that dwelled beside his heart clawed fiercely at his chest, its teeth bared. “She is my wife–”

“She is a curse upon us all!” Alicent sneered, her voice rising. Her brows knitted together in frustration as she shook her head and moved closer, gripping his arm with an urgent intensity. “She has cursed us all–she has cursed me, your brother, and you.”

Aemond watched his mother with wary silence, his expression guarded as her grip on his arm tightened, growing more insistent, her eyes burning with fear and frustration, brow set in a firm line. 

“Lady Mertha saw her,” Alicent continued, her voice wavering slightly despite her attempt to maintain a firm tone. The indignation in her voice was now laced with a thread of trepidation, as if the weight of her words bore down on her. “She saw her curse each of us. She seeks to destroy us, Aemond.”

His gaze lingered on her for a long moment, eye narrowing slightly as his chest tightened with a flutter of emotion. A sardonic chuckle broke through the heavy silence that had settled between them. “Of course she would. I am already cursed. It hardly matters if I am cursed twice over.”

The thought of Daenera invoking such curses did not surprise him. Instead, he felt a twisted sense of pride, as if his own darkness had found a distorted reflection in hers. This notion of further damnation was oddly comforting, knitting a sinister thread of intimacy through their fateful intertwining, as if their souls were bound by the same shadowy fate.

“I did not take you for superstitious, Mother,” he remarked, his voice laced with ironic amusement. 

Alicent’s expression hardened, her lips pressing into a thin line, the corners twisting downward in clear frustration. “I am not concerned without reason. My worry lies with her intentions–what if this curse does not act swiftly enough to satisfy her need for vengeance? What if she takes matters into her own hands? Aren’t you concerned about the lengths she might go to? Already she has cursed us; what else is she capable of?”

A derisive scoff escaped Aemond’s lips in response. “Daenera would never allow herself to become a kinslayer.”

If Daenera were to kill them all, she would be branded not only a kinslayer but also a kingslayer. Such an act would seal her fate–she would face execution, and her name would be forever condemned, as his was. Her mother would have no choice but to have her executed, and even then, her mother’s reputation would be tarnished. 

Aemond did not believe she was heartless or desperate enough to pursue such a path. Despite her bitterness and the fierce flame of resentment that burned within her, he was certain she would not willingly become a kinslayer. Her spitefulness was not self-destructive enough for that; she would not sully herself by becoming the very thing she loathed–a kinslayer, like him. 

If anything, the curse Daenera cast was indicative of her calculated restraint; her furious words were less threats and more so a dark invocation, weaving her desire into the fabric of fate, hoping it would accomplish what she herself could not. In this way, there would be no blood on her hands–she would avoid the stain of being labeled a kinslayer.

If Daenera were ever to take matters into her own hands, Aemond knew she would do so subtly, biding her time and pulling the strings from the shadows, allowing the world around her to become a weapon. She would weave the circumstances of their downfall, and let the circumstances be what draws blood. 

“How can you be so certain?” Alicent implored, shaking her head in frustration. “Please, Aemond, see reason. You would be at war within your own marriage. Your enemy would be your own wife. I do not want that for you.”

Her grip on his arm slackened, her eyes dropping momentarily as she licked her lips, struggling to maintain her composure. When she looked up at him again, her expression was both sincere and soft, a blend of maternal concern and deep sadness. She continued, her voice trembling slightly, “This stubbornness of yours, in pursuing this marriage, it will only bring you misery. The path you’re choosing, Aemond, fills me with dread. I fear it will only lead to your ruin.”

His gaze narrowed as he spoke, his voice carrying a subdued but piercing edge. The frustration simmering in his chest was barely contained as he challenged her. “Have I not always fulfilled my duty to you and to Aegon?” His eyes, steely and resolute, betrayed the depth of his irritation. “Have I not met every expectation placed upon me, never faltering in my loyalty or commitment? I am well aware of my responsibilities, and I will deal with my wife accordingly.”

He stood with an air of barely restrained tension, the weight of his mother’s disapproval pressing heavily upon him, his posture, rigid and unyielding, anger simmering just beneath the surface. 

“And what if that duty requires the sacrifice of your wife?” She challenged, her voice trembling with the weight of her plea. She studied his guarded expression, her head tilted slightly, as if trying to decipher the emotions hidden behind his icy, steel-like facade. The mask he wore was firm, unyielding, as he stood resolute in the soft light that filtered through the tall windows. 

“This path you’ve set yourself upon, Aemond,” Alicent spoke, her voice calm yet unforgiving. “It will force a choice upon you–one between your family and her. You will be required to make a sacrifice, and you will have to bear the weight of it. While I trust you’ll choose rightly,” her hand settled on his shoulder, as though attempting to soothe the sting of her words, “I wish to spare you this torment. End this, now, and the choice need not be made.”

The question lingered in the air between them. Aemond felt it burrow deep beneath his skin, etching its chilling implications into his very bones. He averted his gaze, his teeth clenched tightly as he felt the familiar pain in his scar flared intensely. It drilled into the scarred flesh around his eye socket, penetrating deeper into his skull. Inside him, the beast of duty and obligation writhed, clawing at the very notion of having to possibly sacrifice his wife for the sake of his family–a duty ingrained in him since birth, the relentless drive to protect his family and see them prevail in the war. 

But what would such duty demand? Would he truly be forced to bear the blood of his wife on his hands? In the haunting solitude of his dreams, he had driven the blade through her; he had cradled her in his arms, the warmth of her blood sticky against his skin. He had watched the life fade from her eyes, wide with betrayal and fear–wet with sadness. Would he be forced to make it true?

Should he thrust his sword through her heart, it would be as though he sliced open his own chest, wrenching out his heart to lay it to rest beside hers in the cold earth. Such a deed would leave him a shell, haunted by the ghost of his own humanity, eternally entwined with the tragedy of their shared fate–he would truly become the monster then, devoid of any remaining vulnerability. 

A wretched, cold part of him wished he could spare himself the agonizing wait–wished he could seized the blade and end it now, stripping away that final shred of humanity, that last vulnerability. The sacrifice would render him indestructible, but the price was a steep one. Despite the grim allure of such an escape, he had been unable to slice the blade along the fragile skin of her neck. He could not bring himself to follow through, not when a sliver of hope remained that he might avoid such a dire sacrifice.

Aemond shut his eye, drawing a deep, shuddering breath as he grappled with the grim demands of duty. He understood the sacrifice that might be required of him, but he vowed not to make it until it was absolutely unavoidable. Daenera was his wife–she belonged to him. He would only tear out his own heart the day hers ceased to beat within his chest. He could not bear the thought of letting her slip through his grasp to another, nor would he relinquish her to another’s care. He would endure the torment of her resentment for as long as she remained his–protecting and cherishing her until the harsh dictates of duty compelled him otherwise.

“I will do my duty, Mother, as I always have,” Aemond answered, his voice steady despite the turmoil roiling within him. He met her gaze, his resolve hardening–he would shoulder the burden when it was placed upon him. “I will do what is asked of me when the time comes.”

Yet, deep within, he harbored a fierce determination to circumvent the heart-wrenching decision between his wife and his family. He would exhaust every option, deploy every strategy at his disposal to avoid having to make that sacrifice.

Once, when Daenera was a child, a renowned storyteller from the distant Qohor graced the Red Keep with a puppet play. Seated among her peers at the front of the small theater, Daenera had watched intently as the puppets brought to life the tale of the Age of Darkness. 

As the storyteller commenced his tale, the shadows flickered and danced behind the screen, brought to life by the dim, wavering light of a candle. The world, he wove with his words, was enveloped in a darkness so profound that even the sun’s rays could not penetrate the relentless gloom. The shadows danced in eerie patterns, following the storyteller’s haunting tale of an everlasting night that left the land barren, stripped of life, as crops failed and the gnawing grip of famine laid waste to everything. 

And from this long night emerged a sinister force–its icy touch spreading desolation and despair, a merciless harbinger of death.  

The background of the puppet theater was a gossamer screen where shadows mingled with light, gradually engulfing the stage as they spun a shadowy narrative into the puppet show. The storyteller then introduced the hero of the tale, Azor Ahai. The puppet that represented him made a dramatic entrance, its hair was tied back from a face modeled from a thin porcelain mask, delicately painted with the finest strokes. And clutched in the doll's hand was a hammer. 

Behind the puppet, a flickering fire cast ominous shadows onto the screen, creating the illusion of Azor Ahai standing in his forge, laboring intensely at a furnace. 

As the smith, Azor Ahai, fell for a woman named Nissa Nissa. She was said to have been a rare beauty–a solitary flower blooming amidst the pervasive darkness. Her presence was a radiant beacon of light and warmth for the man who loved her–and her love for him shone just as brightly. Together, they stood against darkness that threatened their world. the world around them descended further into shadow. 

Azor Ahai was determined to craft a sword capable of defeating the darkness and bringing light back into the world. He toiled relentlessly for thirty days and thirty nights at the sacred flames of a temple, striving to forge the finest blade he had ever envisioned. Throughout this arduous labor, Nissa Nissa remained steadfastly by his side, dabbing the sweat from his brow as he hammered the steel, and tending to the flames.

After thirty days and thirty nights, Azor Ahai plunged the newly forged sword into the water to temper the steel. However, the sword could not withstand the shock; it shattered and broke. 

Unwilling to yield to defeat, Azor Ahai set about crafting a new sword, dedicating fifty days and fifty nights to his labor. Throughout this, Nissa Nissa remained by his side, dapping the sweat from his brow and tending the flames. 

This sword, he believed, was destined to be superior–more refined and stronger than the first. 

Determined to ensure its success, Azor Ahai captured a majestic white lion. He plunged the sword into the beast’s heart, seeking to temper the steel with the lion’s strength. Yet, despite his efforts and hopes, the sword met the same fate as its predecessor. The steel, once again, shattered.

Teetering on the brink of defeat, Azor Ahai realized what he must do to forge the sword that would banish the darkness. He labored with unyielding determination for a hundred days and a hundred nights, his beloved wife, Nissa Nissa, at his side, tending to him with the same devotion he poured into the creation of the blade. 

With the blade finally completed and a heavy heart weighing upon him, he turned to his wife and beseeched her, ‘Bare your breast, and know that I love you above all that is in this world. You are the fire that forged this blade, and you are the heart that beats in my chest.’ 

He pressed his lips to hers one final time, savoring the taste of life, love, and the fiery spirit within her. Then, in an act of profound love and sacrifice, he drove the sword into her living heart. It is believed that with Nissa Nissa’s sacrifice imbued the steel with her blood and her soul, and her strength and her courage, granting it the power it needed to conquer the darkness. 

And so, Lightbringer was forged, the Red Sword of Heros. Azor Ahai had sacrificed his beloved wife, Nissa Nissa, in order to defeat the darkness that swept across the land, threatening to extinguish all life. The blade was said to retrain the warmth of his wife, and in the heat of battle, it blazed with an intense, white-hot flame. 

With Lightbringer in hand, Azor Ahai did not fight alone. He rallied a host of brave and virtuous warriors, leading them with unwavering resolve. Together with these courageous warriors, Azor Ahai pushed back against the encroaching darkness, bringing an end to the Age of Darkness and restoring light to the world. 

As Daenera had watched the puppet show unfold, her gaze had been drawn to the strings–silk thread of different colors–that danced and twisted in the flickering light. She had traced their path up to the two puppeteers perched on ladders at the sides of the puppet theater. They moved the strings with meticulous grace, orchestrating the puppets’ every move as though they were gods guiding their creations. 

The tale before her was a tragic one–a story of love and sacrifice, each act unfolding with a preordained inevitability. And yet it was the craft of its telling that ensnared her thoughts–how the puppets were bound to their preordained paths, their choices as fixed as the stars, the story told even before it played out. 

She wondered if her own life, too, was but a dance of strings in the theater of the gods, her narrative spun for their divine amusement. Were they all but puppets in the grasp of the gods, their fates preordained and their struggles mere entertainment for the gods? Was choice but an illusion, a fleeting shadow on the wall as they were led to their end? 

After the puppet show had concluded, Daenera and Aemond slipped quietly into the now-empty room where the performance had taken place, the muffled sounds of the ongoing celebration seeping through the crack beneath the door. They moved quietly through the darkness, circling the small puppet stage that still stood in the center of the room.

They approached the table where the puppets lay resting on pillows of straw, arranged with care. Intriguingly, some of the puppets were faceless, their expressions removed and stored separately. Nearby, a small box held their faces, each one turned outward, displaying a variety of emotions–some joyous, others sorrowful, all painted with delicate strokes that gave them a semblance of life even in their stillness.

Daenera and Aemond exchanged glances, a spark of mischief flickering between them, a wide grin forming on their faces. Her curiosity had been more drawn towards the art of puppeteering than the masks themselves–the faces of these dolls. She reached into the box and carefully lifted the puppet of Nissa Nissa out, her fingers brushing through its dark strands of hair–real hair. The puppet’s face bore a soft expression, with large, gentle eyes and lips painted a vivid red. She grasped the carved wooden handles at the end of the strings, allowing the puppet to dangle lifelessly from its colorful threads as she tried to bring it to life with the same effortless grace she had observed earlier. 

While she moved the strings of the puppet, Aemond had picked up one of the masks resting on the velvet pillow. He chose one that wore a wide smile, its eyes imbued with a softness that spoke of love and happiness. 

With a sense of playful experimentation, Daenera plucked the puppet's strings, coaxing it to lift an arm and then a leg. Each movement was unsteady, reflecting her novice touch, yet she was intrigued by the puppet's response to her tentative guidance. In this fleeting moment, she became the weaver of fate, delighting in the power she held over the strings–she could be a merciful god and save her from having a sword plunged through her heart. 

Daenera mused that it was better her hands leading her own fate than anyone else's. She did not wish to be a puppet–she did not wish to be the amusement of the gods. 

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and the storyteller reentered the room. Daenera’s heart skipped a beat as she fumbled, letting the puppet tumble into a tangled mess of strings and limbs. Aemond, startled, let go of the mask he had been examining. It fell to the floor with a sharp crack, its porcelain surface fracturing in a jagged line that ran from the top of her forehead, through its eye, and down the cheek. 

Her gaze had then fallen to the shattered mask and the disarrayed puppet. At her feet–a broken mask and a heap of strings–felt like a disruption of fate, as if the strings of destiny had slipped from her grasp.

Daenera stood elevated on a small dias, her demeanor almost detached from the bustling world around her. The chamber was alive with the soft symphony of servants at work–the clinking of combs, the rustling of fabric, and the occasional murmurs of direction as they meticulously prepared her for her wedding.

Earlier that morning, they had meticulously washed and scrubbed her, ensuring that every part of her was clean and soft–the bathwater infused with one of her perfumes of cranesbills, violet and rose, with raspberry and saffron, the scent lingered on her skin. Her hair, washed and prepped the night before, was now secured with delicate silk ribbons and pins, tied up while the servants dressed her.

Light streamed through the tall, arched windows, flooding the room with a warm glow. The sunlight seemed almost tangible, as if Daenera could stretch out her hand and grasp it. Golden rays streamed through the tall windows, slicing through the air with a radiant clarity. Dust motes danced and swirled in the beams, their delicate, floating patterns shifting in rhythm with the servants' bustling movements.

The semi-circle of mirrors reflected her frown from every angle. She felt little more than a doll–a puppet with invisible strings pulling her into this meticulously orchestrated spectacle. The reflection staring back at her seemed to mock her sense of autonomy, embodying an elaborate fantasy that she had little control over.

“Arms up,�� Mertha directed crisply, her voice cutting through the soft din. And as though she had pulled one of the invisible strings, Daenera obediently raised her arms. The servants, with nimble fingers, eased a silken shift over her head. The fabric, as fine as gossamer, kissed her skin with a coolness that contrasted with the warmth of the room. 

The underdress that followed had been dyed in a soft golden hue that seemed to capture and reflect the sunlight itself. The fabric was both heavy and luxurious, and enveloped Daenera in its opulence, its skirts meant to add volume to the wedding dress itself. 

With utmost care, the servants presented the wedding dress, lifting it with deliberate precision and guiding it over Daenera’s head. As the heavy fabric began to drape over her, she slipped her arms through the sleeves, allowing the gown to cascade down and envelop her. The weight of the dress pressed heavily against her–a weight settling on her heart. 

Daenera inhaled deeply, her breath trembling as she fought to suppress the tumultuous emotions threatening to surge from within. She swallowed hard, the effort making her throat feel tight and strained. She focused on burying her feelings under the oppressive weight of the gown, pushing them down with each labored breath.

Mertha moved with practiced efficiency, circling Daenera as she expertly began to tighten the laces at the back of the dress. Each tug drew the fabric closer, cinching it with an almost imperceptible but relentless pressure. The gown clung to Daenera’s form, gradually closing in around her with a suffocating intensity, like a gilded cage. The constriction seemed to embody the sense of confinement she felt–trapped in the role she was expected to play, enveloped in the grandeur of a wedding she did not want.

There had once been a time where this had been a frivolous dream, but a dream nonetheless–a time where she had imagined herself as the radiant bride, eager and willing to marry him. Back then, she had envisioned a future where she would have walked down the aisle with genuine joy, where no role was forced upon her and no strings pulled her in directions she hadn’t chosen.

Now, however, those dreams lay in ruins. As Daenera stood amidst the remnants of a love that had once felt true, she could feel the weight of her present circumstances pressing down on her–could feel the stain of his touch on her, as though his touch had stained her soul as well. The dress, though beautifully crafted, felt like an elaborate cage, each tug of the laces tightening its hold around her like a noose. 

The strings that bound her were not mere threads of fabric but invisible chains, drawing tighter with every pull, constricting her freedom and drawing her closer to a fate she had never willingly chosen. 

Yet, Daenera found herself questioning whether she had ever truly possessed a choice in loving him, or if the notion of choice was merely an illusion—a shadow flickering on the wall, elusive and deceptive. If indeed they were all mere puppets in the hands of the gods, then surely the gods must find cruel amusement in the tapestry of her misfortune.

Daenera’s fingers lightly traced the bodice of her dress, absorbing its intricate texture beneath her touch. The gown was undeniably beautiful, its wide, delicate neckline resting precariously on her shoulders as if it might slip away with the slightest movement. This delicate design lent her an air of fragility, as if she were a porcelain doll poised on the brink of breaking.

The neckline was adorned with intricate embroidery of intertwining vines. Green silk thread wove in elaborate patterns, spiraling around her and converging at her sternum before cascading down the center of the dress. Interspersed among these vines were delicate strands of silver and gold, catching the light with a subtle, shimmering brilliance. Tiny glass beads were interwoven into the embroidery, glinting and sparkling like drops of dew on a morning leaf. Pearls were scattered like berries among the vines.

The thought of the yew berries, hidden yet close at hand, stirred within Daenera a sense of comfort in their familiarity–and yet, this comfort was shadowed by a growing sense of dread. Her heart thrummed heavily against her ribcage. 

The intricate embroidery of green, gold, and silver vines continued down the long sleeves of her dress, trailing all the way to the floor. The sleeves, heavy with their opulent adornments, weighed down her arms. The inner lining of the sleeves were the same ivory of the dress, while the soft golden hue of the underdress contrasted with the delicate embroidery that adorned them. 

And among all the vines, small dragons had been embroidered with silver thread, no bigger than dragonflies. 

Mertha, still focused on her task, grumbled as she tightened the laces. “What have you been eating today? It’s noticeably tighter than it was just a few days ago.”

“No more than what you’ve provided,” Daenera replied tersely, trying to mask her discomfort. She winced at the rough tug Mertha gave the lace, nearly causing her to stumble off the dias. 

“Has Edelin been sneaking you cake?” Mertha accused, her tone sharp and disapproving. Daenera could see the old hag through the mirror and how she glowered at Edelin, who returned her gaze with a mix of innocence and unease. 

“You look beautiful,” came a gentle voice, drawing the attention of the bustling servants. They paused their tasks and bowed deeply as Helaena entered the room. The Queen’s entrance caused a moment of stillness, and Helaena’s brow furrowed slightly, a hint of discomfort crossing her features as she hesitated at the show of deference.

Daenera turned her gaze towards Helaena through the mirror, her voice carrying a note of restrained sarcasm. “One would certainly hope so, Lady Mertha has put in a great deal of effort in making me presentable, the tailors have labored tirelessly, from dusk till dawn to finish the dress in time for the wedding.”

As she spoke, she observed Helaena’s initial unease dissolve like morning mist. Her expression softened as she moved closer, regaining her composure with each step. She smiled delicately, “I suppose you had to wear it while they tailored it?”

“Indeed,” Daenera answered, “My feet were pounding by the end of the day.” 

“It is a beautiful dress.”

“It is,” Daenera begrudgingly agreed, hand brushing over the fabric of the gown. It draped over her form in a way that made her appear delicate and soft–made her appear almost fragile. 

“I thought you might like some company,” Helaena said as she approached one of the mirrors, the light streaming in and catching the silver and gold in her hair, illuminating it. She offered a warm smile to Daenera and extended her hands, revealing a small cage with a tiny, chirping creature inside. “I’ve brought you a wedding gift–for good luck and prosperity.”

Daenera reached out, the fabric of her sleeve rustling softly as she took the cage with a bewildered, half-amused frown on her brow. She peered through the delicate bars at the small insect within. “A cricket?”

“Do you like him?”

“The cricket?”

Helaena nodded enthusiastically, her broad smile radiating warmth–blue eyes shining and present. 

“He’s a very fine cricket,” Daenera answered with an amused smile, her eyes settling back on the little creature in the cage–the cricket spread its wings and let them flutter for a moment, stamping the ground in annoyance at being contained. “Thank you.”

As she acknowledged the gift with a courteous smile, her gratitude was tempered by the reflection she caught in the mirror. A disapproving frown curled Mertha’s expression, her thin lips tightly pursed, yet she remained quiet, keeping her opinions to herself for once. 

“You’re finished here, Princess,” Mertha announced, her tone brisk as she gestured for Daenera to step down. “Let’s get started on your hair.”

Descending from the dias, Daenera’s every movement was accompanied by the whispering rustle of her gown. As she reached the dressing table, Mertha seated her in front of the mirror, promptly setting to work on loosening the silk ties binding her hair. Meanwhile, Daenera placed the tiny cage on the surface of the table; inside, the cricket buzzed briefly against its confines, its wings emitting a soft hiss before quieting. 

Helaena took a seat beside the dressing table, facing Daenera though her gaze remained drawn to the tiny creature. Leaning forward, she traced her finger along the delicate curve of the bars on the cage. The cage itself was minuscule, clearly crafted with precision for this specific purpose, and bore a resemblance to the traditional birdcages, though much smaller in scale. 

“It’s a tight fit for the little creature, isn’t it?” Daenera remarked softly, her fingers brushing over the bottom of the cage, turning it so that the cricket faced her. Its beady eyes seemed to peer up at her, and she wondered what chaos she’d let loose if she released it. 

Helaena’s head tilted slightly as she hummed in a reflective tone. “It is,” she agreed, her eyes lingering on the cricket as it fluttered its wings again angrily. “But it serves as a reminder–sometimes, even the smallest cage can be a place of comfort if it’s all one has ever known…” Her eyes shifted from the cage back to Daenera. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate a bird in a cage–I feel there are too many birds in cages already, don’t you think?” A gentle frown etched itself into her face as though something dawned on her, her gaze returning to the small enclosure. “But… perhaps it was misguided of me to bring anything that was caged at all…”

A peculiar tightness enveloped Daenera’s chest as she regarded the caged cricket, feeling an unexpected kinship with the trapped creature–a sentiment she knew Helaena shared. Despite this, she recognized Helaena’s gesture as an attempt to provide comfort, to offer a distraction from the encroaching walls of her own constraints. With a gentle motion, Daenera reached out, giving Helaena’s hand a grateful squeeze.

“It’s perfect, thank you,” she said, her smile broad and sincere.

Helaena's eyes sparkled with delight as she returned the smile. “I must admit, the cage is smaller than the ones my other crickets have,” she commented, lowering herself until she was almost reclining across the table, her foot tucked under her on the chair. She rested her chin on her arm, her gaze fixed intently on the cricket–an awkward and somewhat strange pose, but typical for Helaena, there was an unabashed ease to it. Daenera found this quirky, unguarded moment rather endearing.

“He’s quite determined to escape,” Helaena hummed, “he’s escaped more times than any other.”

Daenera let out a chuckle. “I’m sure he gives your handmaid's quite a scare.”

Helaena’s smile broadened, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Indeed, he does. The last time he escaped, Jaehaera caught him climbing Lady Rosyn Wylde’s skirts–her screams certainly startled everyone.” Her fingers danced lightly between the bars, gently nudging the cricket as it chirped. “He’s the loudest of them all, though I think the others don’t quite appreciate him, which is rather sad. They’re bred and raised under the same conditions, but he’s unique–it's rare for a cricket to remain albino, they usually gain color after molting. I think he really wants their affection, which is probably why he sings so loudly.” Her head tilted slightly, lips curving into a soft smile. “The only one who seems to enjoy his company is my black cricket… I’d loathe to separate them; I fear they’d be lonely without each other.”

As the tension in Daenera’s chest lightened, she struggled to suppress an amused smile, feeling it tug at the corners of her lips. “I know nothing about caring for a cricket. I would be grateful if you’d look after him for me.”

Helaena lifted her chin from her arm and met Daenera’s gaze with a coy smile, as if she had anticipated the request. Her words carried a gentle teasing tone as she answered. “I mean, I’d be happy to. He’s still yours, though.” 

She tucked a loose strand of silvery hair behind her ear before reaching out to the cage once more, her gaze fixed intently on the cricket as it stretched its tiny legs between the bars. “You should name him.”

“The cricket?”

“Yes,” Helaena nodded firmly. “Everyone should have a name, shouldn’t they?”

“Even crickets?” Daenera raised an eyebrow, her amusement growing–a welcome diversion as Mertha released the final braid of hair, allowing the curls to cascade freely around her shoulders, softly brushing against the bare skin. Mertha then reached for the comb and began to work her way through her hair.

Helaena nodded again. 

“Hmm,” Daenera hummed thoughtfully. “Can’t its name just be Cricket?”

“Cricket isn’t a name; it’s a species,” Helaena countered with a slight laugh, waving off the suggestion. 

Daenera’s gaze returned to the cricket, watching as it moved within its small cage, its white body bright against the brass. Its antennae probed the bars, tracing their curves as it searched for a route of escape. Every so often, it chirped softly, its wings fluttering in futile attempts at freedom. If there was something to be said about it, it was that it was persistent. 

“How about Aemond?” She suggested, lifting her eyes to meet Helaena’s amused gaze. Her tone carried a subtle undertone: if she were to endure confinement like the cricket, she’d prefer her husband shared the same experience–even if it was only in the form of naming this cricket after him. 

“Absolutely not,” Mertha cut in sharply, her voice laden with disapproval as she briskly combed through Daenera’s hair. “You cannot name an insect after your husband.”

“Why not?” Daenera pressed, a mischievous glint in her eye as she sensed Mertha’s patience thinning–if there had been much to begin with. “Do you fear I might release him and set him upon you? Or perhaps you worry he’ll take offense to his namesake being in a cage?” 

“He already is,” Helaena mused with a frown, brushing a finger along the curve of the cage, eyes set on the cricket. 

“It’s a matter of respect,” Mertha replied sternly, her tone final.

A sharp inhalation drew between Daenera’s lips as Mertha yanked on her hair, her head tilting roughly with the pull. The sting of the tug pricked against her scalp, a deliberate punishment meant to admonish her. Mertha feigned it a mere mishap, pretending that the comb had merely become entangled in a curl as she brushed it through her hair again, this time with ease. 

Through the reflection in the mirror, Daenera’s eyes narrowed into a glare at Mertha, her resentment barely concealed.

“Lady Mertha,” Helaena’s voice cut through the tension, soft but laced with a string of reproach, “You should take care to handle her with more gentleness.” Her brow furrowed slightly in disapproval as she continued to chide her as though she were a child. “We ought to treat each other with kindness, I should think. And remember our station and the courtesy it demands…” She paused, then added in a soft, distant tone, “Or else, heads might be lost…”

Uncertainty flickered in Helaena’s reproach, yet she stood her ground, meeting Mertha’s gaze despite the slight quiver in her eyes, betraying her wish to look away. Mertha’s expression twisted in surprise, her eyes widening in shock at the reprimand, seemingly never expecting it and much less from Helaena. After a moment, she pressed her lips into a tight line, averting her gaze and bowing her head in a gesture of reluctant submission. 

“Yes, Your Grace, I apologize,” Mertha said, her voice barely more than a whisper. 

Helaena dismissed the apology with a wave of her hand, her gaze shifting to the small cricket that made a futile attempt at escaping between the bars. “Do not seek my forgiveness; it is not my hair you’ve been yanking on.” 

Daenera tilted her head, a smirk playing on her lips as she locked eyes with Mertha. Her expression was expectant, silently challenging, even though she knew such defiance would cost her later in privacy, where no witnesses could intervene. 

“Forgive me, Princess,” Mertha muttered through clenched teeth as she resumed arranging Daenera’s hair, her tone heavy with reluctance. “Your hair is just so… unruly.”

The word ‘unruly’ was spoken as though it were an insult, and Daenera was sure that it was meant as such–unruly bastard hair. Nevertheless, the smirk remained on her face as she answered her with words that carried no true offer of forgiveness, only a veiled sense of triumph. “You are forgiven, Lady Mertha.”

At that moment, Helaena, seemingly lost in thought, spoke up again, “I like the name Aemond. It’s a strong name, though I fear it may not be remembered with much fondness.”

“Aemond the Cricket it is, then,” Daenera agreed with a light laugh, the room resonating with the melodious chirping of the cricket as Mertha diligently styled her hair. Her dark hair was elegantly swept away from her face and woven into two thick braids. The braids were then intricately pinned up to frame her face, their ends merging at the back of her head, woven into the fall of curls and waves that cascaded down her back. 

From the hair falling down her back, two substantial sections of her hair were split and draped over her shoulders, cascading down the front of her chest. These strands were adorned with three golden clamps set with shimmering emeralds, adding a decorative weight to the flowing hair. 

A delicate silver circlet adorned Daenera’s head, elegantly tracing the contours of her hairline as it was intricately woven into her hair. The circlet was graced with three gold roses in full bloom, the circlets silver and gold surfaces catching the sunlight with a radiant gleam. Simple gold earrings, each set with an emerald dangled just below her ears, occasionally brushing against her neck.

Lastly, a delicate veil was arranged around her, secured by two gold rose pins. The veil flowed down her back, its soft ivory fabric curving gently around her shoulders. Almost sheer, the veil was trimmed with threads of silver and gold, and its patterned surface caught the light in a mesmerizing way. Small beads embedded in the fabric sparked like dew catching the morning light. 

“There, you’re all set,” Mertha declared, stepping back to apprise Daenera’s appearance with a look of satisfied approval. “Stay here; I’ll let the procession know that we’re ready.”

Daenera swallowed hard, her breath catching as if her ribs were constricting. Her hands smoothed over the bodice of her gown, stomach churning with a mix of nerves–whether it was apprehension or fear, she couldn’t say. Amid these feelings, a strange flutter stirred within her, one which she desperately wished to quell.

She managed to suppress those feelings and mustered a brave, though wistful, smile towards Helaena. “How do I look?”

“Beautiful, like a moth,” Helaena responded, her smile warm and reassuring. She reached out and took Daenera’s hand, holding it with a firm, comforting grip. “Do you remember what I once told you about moths?”

A frown creased Daenera’s brow as she paused, momentarily confused by the question. She shook her head slightly, her breath coming in short, uneven exhales. 

“Some moths survive by imitating their predators,” Helaena answered, her voice carrying a soft, musing drawl–one Daenera had come to recognize. “They do this to avoid becoming prey themselves.”

“You said it was a tragic fate,” Daenera recalled, her voice tinged with the effort of remembering. “That they had to pretend in order to survive.”

“And you said that moths might not see their pretense as tragic–that it’s merely their natural instinct,” Helaena continued, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the table’s surface, her face set in a thoughtful expression. “People are a lot like moths in that way, I think. We don masks to survive, to avoid appearing weak–to avoid becoming prey. It’s tragic, really, how naturally we wear these masks to shield ourselves. The pretense becomes second nature. And sometimes, I fear we become lost behind them… Sometimes, I think, the mask conceals us even from ourselves.”

Her gaze lifted to meet Daenera’s, eyes earnest. “Yet, I also think there is something beautiful in the effort to look beyond the mask, to see the person underneath–even if it leaves us vulnerable. I think sometimes it is all we really want.”

Daenera’s voice trembled slightly as she posed her question, her chest tightening as if her ribs were constricting around her heart. “What if there's nothing beneath the mask?” she asked, the worry clear in her eyes. “What if all that exists is the mask itself? What if we become so entwined with our pretense that there’s nothing left beyond it–that the mask becomes our true selves?”

Helaena’s brow furrowed slightly as she seemed to consider Daenera’s question, lips pursing slightly as her head tilted in thought, “While we may cling to our disguises, like moths, we never truly become what we pretend to be–a moth disguised as a leaf remains a moth.”

Her expression grew more intense, as if she was struggling to translate her thoughts into something palpable for Daenera. “Some moths disguise themselves against the cruelty of life, while disguise themselves in an act of deception, devouring all in their path–carving their mark upon the world, leaving naught but hollows in their wake, often dooming the tree that gave them life. There are moths born without mouths, existing only to perpetuate the next generation. And then there are those whose lives are fleeting, consumed by their very existence.”

Daenera’s gaze drifted to the candle flickering beside the chest of jewelry on the dressing table, casting a warm glow upon the bouquet of flowers that awaited to be carried down the aisle. Her voice emerged as a contemplative murmur, trailing into the quiet of the room. “And there are those who venture too close to the flame, seeking that which means to destroy us…”

She felt like a moth irresistibly drawn to the warm, inviting glow of a flame, only to have her wings ignite, the fire consuming her as she plummeted. The light that had once seemed so alluring now enveloped her in a scorching embrace, sealing her fate. Had she truly believed that Aemond would not burn her, that he wouldn’t bring about her ruin? How naive she had been. 

“You are not the only one drawn to the allure of an open flame,” Helaena said softly, her gaze understanding and perceptive. “You too are as a flame, and he but a moth drawn to your light.”

Helaena reached out once again, placing her hand gently atop Daenera’s, her touch soft and reassuring. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to add to your burdens.”

Daenera offered a small, grateful smile in response, feeling the warmth in Helaena’s intentions. “I understand, thank you. But perhaps, just for a change, could share a tale about butterflies? Something lighter than the fate of moths.”

A sparkle of mischief gleamed within Helaena’s blue eyes as a playful grin spread across her face. “Well, I could always compare you to a dung beetle.”

Laughter bubbled up from Daenera’s chest, breaking through the somber mood–a much-needed respite. “You better not compare me to a dung beetle!”

“Why not? Helaena retorted playfully. “They’re incredibly resilient creatures, after all. They pair up and roll their ball of shit around together.”

Daenera’s laughter rang out, a genuine and heartfelt sound that, momentarily, eased the tension within her. Her laughter was mirrored in the soft, melodic laughter of Helaena, a wide smile on her face. As the laughter subsided, a gentle silence settled over the room. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Daenera noticed movement and turned her gaze towards the mirror. Her smile faltered as Alicent entered the chamber, her presence casting an immediate chill over the space. Mertha lingered in the background, a silent, watchful figure. 

“You look beautiful as a bride should be,” Alicent remarked, her voice calm and steady, her hands folded neatly in front of her as she surveyed Daenera with a composed, yet scrutinizing, gaze. 

“Thank you, I believe I resemble a beautiful moth,” Daenera responded, her eyes briefly meeting Helaena’s, who offered a wide, bright smile in return. Turning back to Alicent, she continued, “Your efforts have certainly paid off; I look the part you wanted me to.”

A slight tightening of Alicent’s lips was the only hint of her reaction. “Helaena, could you give us a moment?”

Helaena’s gaze shifted between her mother and Daenera, her expression softening as she gave Daenera’s hand a reassuring squeeze. Rising from her seat, Helaena moved towards the door before turning back around again, reaching for the small cage housing Aemond the Cricket, which chirped and fluttered its wings as the cage began to move. Daenera watched through the mirror as Helaena departed, followed closely by Mertha.

Once they left, Daenera’s gaze met Alicent’s in the mirror.

Slowly, Alicent approached Daenera, closing the distance to stand directly behind her. Her dark eyes scrutinized Daenera’s reflection, as though she were searching for flaws–as though she wished to needle beneath her composure.

“I cannot fathom what my son sees in you that blinds him so completely,” she began, her voice edged with frustration. “I never wanted this for him. I advised against this marriage–against you. But he refused my counsel.” 

She shook her head, her earrings swaying with the movement. “Aemond is determined to follow this path, and I must ensure it does not lead to his ruin,” Alicent continued, her voice steady and resolute. “This is why you must understand your role clearly.” She placed her hands firmly on Daenera’s shoulders, their weight heavy and commanding. “I fear your mother has not prepared you adequately–that you’ve inherited her obstinate and immoral nature. You have not been taught what it means to be a proper wife.”

To Daenera, the term ‘proper’ was nothing more than a tool. One wielded by men to confine women. One to allow other women to judge and shame another who do not follow those strict standards. She clenched her teeth, feeling as though the walls of her cage closed in  around her, the threads of expectation wrapping around her neck. 

“Your moral failings in your first marriage will not be tolerated here,” Alicent said, each word tightening around Daenera like an invisible noose. “I trust that Lady Mertha has instructed you on your duties as a wife, and what is expected of you. The gods themselves watch over this union, and they will judge you should you stray from your duties.”

The frown on Daenera’s face deepened into a scowl as she answered, her voice tinged with defiance. “Do you worry that I might make a cuckold of your son?”

Alicent’s grip tightened on Daenera’s shoulders, her fingers pressing with calculated force–firm but careful not to leave any physical marks. Her voice was low and laden with warning, “I will not allow you to tarnish my son’s honor.” 

“There’s no need for me to tarnish his honor; he has managed that well enough on his own.”

Alicent responded, her tone blending reprimand with an air of imperious counsel, “Be that as it may, as his wife, it is your duty not to perpetuate such perceptions but to uplift and better his reputation.” She moved with deliberate elegance, her hands gliding beneath Daenera’s veil and under her hair with a soothing touch that belied her stern words. “As his wife, you must embody the virtues of the Mother–mercy, fertility, and compassion,” Alicent continued, as she carefully draped a golden necklace around her neck, fastening the clasp at the back. Suspended from the chain was a seven-pointed star, with a deep emerald set in its center. “This is the duty bestowed upon you, and you must uphold it to honor your husband and your place within this family.”

As the necklace settled against Daenera’s sternum, just below her collarbones, she felt its weight bearing down on her, a symbolic reminder of the expectations and burdens now placed upon her. Her hands settled once more onto Daenera’s shoulders, her presence bearing down on her as she stood behind her. Her eyes were unyielding and cold as it met Daenera’s own through the reflection in the mirror. 

“And do not fool yourself into thinking his affection for you would supersede his obligations,” she added, her voice carrying a steely edge, “Should the need arise, he would sacrifice even you if it meant securing the lives and future of his family. He is a man of duty, and he would not hesitate to put the needs of his house above yours if required.”

The look in Alicent’s eyes was reminiscent of a time long past, a fierce and unrelenting expression that brought to mind the memory of her demand for retribution–a moment of brutality when she had wielded Viserys’s blade and sought justice for her son, demanding an eye in return. 

With a finality in her gesture, Alicent released her grip from Daenera’s shoulders, clasping her hands together in front of her as she stepped back. Her voice, authoritative yet dismissive, carried through the room, “Come, the litter has been prepared.” 

Daenera’s gaze remained fixed on her reflection, her eyes tracing the delicate lines and subtle fractures in her composure, as if she were peering upon a cracked mask–her eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears that threatened to break through and trail down her cheeks. She felt a growing need to mend these fissures, swallowing thickly and drawing in a deep, steadying breath as she tired to push down the emotions that threatened to rise to the surface and pour through the cracks in her composure. Rising from the chair with a measured grace, she reached for the bouquet of flowers resting on the dressing table. Her fingers closed around the tightly bound stems, feeling the reassuring solidity of the arrangement in her grasp.

As she followed Alicent down the hall, each step was accompanied by the soft, rhythmic rustle of her skirts brushing against the smooth stone floor. The weight of the gown seemed to amplify her every movement, each rustle a reminder of the scrutiny she was under and the expectations that loomed over her. The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly before her, the stairs threatening to let her plunge to the bottom. 

As Daenera made it out of the arched doors of Maegor’s Holdfast, a joyful shout pierced the air.

“Aunty Dae!” Jaehaerys’s voice rang out clear and vibrant. At the base of the steps leading to the Holdfast, Helaena stood with the children, their faces alight with excitement as they were allowed for the first time to attend such grand affair. Jaehaerys disregarded his nursemaid’s call for caution as he scrambled up the steps with gleeful abandon. Each step echoed his hurried ascent as his small feet pounded against the stone, bringing him closer to Daenera. 

Sunlight bathed him in a warm, golden glow, turning his hair into curls of spun gold, the strands shimmering in the day’s brilliance. Today, his hair was free from its usual restraints, framing his beaming face. He wore his finest green doublet, embellished with a golden, three-headed dragon stitched proudly across his chest, marking the occasion with regal splendor. 

Daenera forced a warm smile as Jaehaerys bound up the steps and eagerly extended his hand towards her expectantly. She took it, her own fingers enveloped in his tiny grasp. Amusement danced in her eyes as the boy lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles with a ceremonious flourish reminiscent of the knights he admired so much. 

“You look beautiful–” he started with all the earnestness of a knight, but his compliment was swiftly interrupted by his sister’s enthusiastic voice at the base of the stairs.

“You look like a real princess!” Jaehaera called out, her face gaslight with a wistful smile, cheeks blushing red. She, too, had loose hair set with a small tiara of emeralds, strands like spun gold around her face. 

Jaehaerys turned towards his sister, a touch of reproach in his tone. “She is a princess.”

“But she looks like a true princess,” Jaehaera insisted, her eyes sparkling with admiration. “Like the ones in the stories!”

Alicent approached, a gentle hand resting on her grandson’s shoulder. With a soft, guiding touch, she led him back down the steps. “Come along now, the litter is ready.”

Daenera carefully lifted the hem of her skirts as she descended the steps, her movements careful. As she reached the bottom, Mertha approached her, reaching to assist with the heavy folds of the dress. The litter that carried the Queen, the Queen Mother, and the twins was already gliding away, replaced by another that pulled up to receive Daenera. 

With practiced hands, Mertha and Edelin attended to her, their hands deftly gathering Daenera’s skirts to keep them from trailing on the ground. Edelin carefully gathered the long veil in her arms, ensuring that it did not get in the way. Together, they guided Daenera up the steps and into the new litter. 

Her hands gripped the frame of the litter door firmly as she made the final step up. Her skirts rustled softly over the litter’s interior floor, the sound mingling with the gentle hum of conversation outside. She carefully placed the bouquet of flowers on the seat beside her before settling down, Edelin finally releasing her hold on the veil, allowing it to cascade softly around Daenera’s shoulders. 

A frown tugged at Daenera’s lips, her breath coming in ragged, labored bursts as she drew in air through her nose and exhaled through parted lips. The tightness in her chest was a constant, unwelcome pressure as Edelin worked diligently, making the final adjustments to Daenera’s attire, smoothing the rich fabric of her skirts and adjusting the long sleeves of her dress with meticulous care. 

As Edelin ensured every detail was perfect, she offered a soft, encouraging whisper. “You make a stunning bride,” she murmured, her fingers deftly turning one of Daenera’s chair clamps so that the emerald setting caught the light just right. “The streets are packed with people eager to see the Princess of Flowers.” 

With a final nod, Edelin stepped out of the litter, her movement swift and purposeful as she closed and locked the door behind her. The soft click of the latch seemed to echo in the small, dimly lit space as Daenera was left alone inside.

She closed her eyes and sank back against the cushioned interior, the back of her head making contact with the velvet-lined wall. Her hand rested on her stomach, which churned and roiled with apprehension–and something else she did not wish to acknowledge. Her breaths were shallow, catching unevenly in her throat, each inhale a struggle.

In the quiet solitude of the litter, Daenera felt overwhelmingly small. The confined space of the litter felt suffocating, its rounded walls enclosing her like the bars of a cage. The windows, adorned with intricately carved shutters, only heightened her sense of confinement, their ornate patterns casting delicate shadows that seemed to close in around her–enclosed, much like the cricket in his cage. 

Unlike the cricket that fought against its confinement, she offered no resistance; she knew there was no escape. 

The shadows danced across its interior, shifting with the rhythm of the wheels rolling down the road as the litter jolsted into motion. It moved through the courtyards, gliding towards the bronze gate. Once through, it merged seamlessly onto the bustling city streets, the outside clamor faintly penetrating the confines of the litter, hinting at the world beyond its secluded space.

Daenera pressed her eyes shut even tighter, struggling to master the swell of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Once, this moment had been a dream–a fervent hope, a heartfelt wish even. She had even harbored thoughts of pleading with her mother to let her marry the man she loved. How naïve she had been–how foolish.

Her thoughts drifted to him–the boy with the stars in his eyes–feeling a pang of heartache that cut deeply, as though her very heart were being sliced by the blade of his love. She recalled the witch’s foretelling: Your first marriage will be loveless, your second cloaked in betrayal. The boy with the stars in his eyes will capture your heart, but be wary of the danger that he represents. Twin flames, one soul. This is the love that awaits you.

Despite the prophecy that had once seemed so distant, here she was, ensnared by fate. She wondered if she had even resisted or merely walked the path that had been laid out for her, oblivious and foolish. 

Daenera’s mind replayed the moments of her past. She had tried to resist, hadn’t she? When she first recognized the depths in his gaze–when she learned of the stars it held–she had fled King’s Landing, seeking solace in the familiarity of home. If only she had stayed away–if only she had never returned. But return she did, only to find him there, waiting with his gaze full of stars and a mouth full of pointed teeth ready to devour her whole.  

She had married Boris, as duty demanded. She had endeavored to fulfill the role expected of her, to mold herself to his desires and meet his every expectation. She had made the effort, hadn’t she? Yet, deep down, she knew she had never truly given their marriage a chance. 

Since the night of the wedding, Daenera had subtly added poison to Boris’s cup, playing her role of wife with meticulous diligence while biding her time until she could free herself from it. The marriage had been doomed from the start–from the moment the letter of inquiry was sent to Storm’s End. Perhaps her first marriage had been doomed long before that–Your first marriage will be loveless.

Yet, she had not anticipated the affair–the thread of fate pulling her towards the boy with the stars in his eyes. How long had she deceived herself into thinking it was merely a fleeting attraction? How long had she stubbornly refused to admit how deeply he had embedded himself into her heart? 

She had even contemplated marrying him–no, she had married him.

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open, and she watched as slivers of golden sunlight pierced through the small, curved openings of the shuttered windows. The rays sliced through the dim interior. Her eyes traced the scar on her palm, a curving mark still faintly pink with a pale center. This scar was longer and neater than the others scattered across her hands–it had been deliberate. The other scars ranged from bright pink scrapes to deeper cuts that had required stitches. Each scar was a reminder of the pain inflicted by this cursed love, a tangible testament to the suffering it had caused her. 

She should have fought harder. She should have buried any lingering feelings the moment she realized that Aemond was the boy with the stars in his eyes, the one whose fate was entwined with hers–and who was destined to betray her. But could she have ever truly defied fate?

It felt to her as if they were all mere puppets, dancing on strings controlled by the gods. Each of them played their parts in a story woven with threads of tragedy and betrayal, a tale spun for the gods’ own amusement.

The suffocating pressure on her chest intensified as she neared the brink of despair, the noose of her fate tightening ever so slowly around her neck as she was driven towards the precipice, its threads threatening to suffocate her once she fell over the ledge. Her hand moved instinctively upwards, her lungs struggling against the constriction of her ribs, as if her breath was trapped in the back of her throat, stifled by the tears she fought to hold back. Her fingers touched the bare skin of her chest, feeling the frantic thud of her heart beneath, the beat harsh and unrelenting. As her had moved slightly, her fingertips brushed against the cool metal resting against her sternum. 

Daenera’s fingers trembled slightly as she reached behind the curtain of hair to unfasten the clasp of the necklace. With a soft click, she let it slacken and then gently removed it, allowing the chain to fall into her palm. The small, seven-pointed star, emblem of the Fait, glimmered in her hand, it seemed more a symbol of her confinement than anything else. 

As she stared down at the pendant, a wave of resentment surged within her. She cursed the gods–these gods who had watched indifferently as her brother was torn from the sky and consumed by vengeance. They seemed to revel in their own malevolence, like cruel children setting fire to an anthill with a shard of glass, delighting in the destruction they caused. These were the same gods who had cruelly endowed her with a heart that betrayed her–a heart that pulled her towards doom even as she struggled against it. 

If these gods hadn’t abandoned her before, they were soon to. 

Daenera lifted the hem of her skirts, reaching deep into the pocket sewn into her underdress. Her fingers brushed against the golden fabric as she searched for the small pouch of lavender tucked inside. Once found, she let her skirts drop heavily to the floor, the sound muffled by the thick material. She untied the pouch and carefully tipped it over, spilling a few white berries onto her palm amid the fragrant, dried lavender. The sweet aroma of the herbs subtly filled the air around her.

Daenera contemplated eating the berries and propping herself up against the door of the litter so that when it opened, she would tumble out in a cascade of ivory silk and sheer veil–dead and a spectacle for all to see. The smallfolk would revolt, and she imagined that her mother and Daemon would rain fire and blood down upon the Hightowers in retribution. 

Yet, as she weighed this grim possibility, she recoiled from the thought. She was not ready to surrender to death, nor would she add another child to the toll taken from her mother. 

Carefully, Daenera returned the berries to the pouch, slipping it back into the deep pocket of her underdress. Her heart pounded against her ribs, beating against will and reason, as if it were seeking to flee her ribcage as the cricket sought to flee his cage. Dread weighed heavily in her stomach like molten lead, a foreboding sense of what was to come–of the path she had chosen. 

Against her own reason, she whispered a silent prayer to any gods willing to listen, any gods beyond the Seven, seeking forgiveness for the actions she was about to undertake, though she knew she didn’t deserve such mercy. She knew she needed to be free of the sword hanging over her head, held there by the Hightowers and their willingness to kill those she cared for. 

Daenera edged closer to the window, the pungent aroma of the city seeping through the intricately carved shutters. With a spiteful defiance, she pushed the necklace through the narrow opening, letting it hang momentarily before releasing it. She heard a soft clink of metal skittering down the side of the litter, eventually vanishing beneath the wheelhouse, destined to be trampled underfoot and lost in the mud. 

As the wagon clattered over the cobblestone streets, the clamor outside the litter intensified, each jolt rattling her confined space. Peering through the small openings in the shutters, Daenera could see the crowds of smallfolk lining the streets, their eager faces glimpsed briefly as they were held back by gold cloaks maintaining order. 

She couldn't shake the feeling that she was nothing more than a conquest being paraded through the streets, a captive beast displayed in a gilded cage for all to gawk at. The grandeur of her confinement only underscored her isolation, making her feel more alone than ever before. A painful tightness gripped her throat, and a sharp pang of longing pierced her heart. She ached for her mother, for the comfort of home–wishing desperately to escape this gilded prison and return to a place where she truly belonged.

Daenera turned back to the confined space of the litter, a sense of restlessness crawling beneath her skin as they neared the Sept. Reaching for the bouquet of flowers resting beside her, she grasped it firmly, savoring the sweet fragrance that filled the small space. The bouquet, the only choice she had made for herself in regards to the wedding, consisted of red and purple roses, crocuses, violets, irises, lilies, and larkspur. Her fingers gently caressed the delicate petals of a crocus. She marveled at how they managed to obtain them out of season, but she cherished their beauty and the fleeting joy they brought her. 

Drawing in a deep breath, she tried to piece together her composure. She swallowed down the swelling of emotion threatening to overwhelm her, burying it beneath a mask of porcelain–calm, composed, and cold. 

As the litter came to an abrupt stop, the rattle of the wheels ceased, the silence inside the confined space seemed to echo, punctuated only by the pounding of her own heart against her ribs. The clamor of the outside world grew louder, filling the air with shouts and cheers of the smallfolk eagerly awaiting her appearance. The sound seeped through the shutters and crept under the door, amplifying the sense of trepidation in the small, oppressive space.  

The lock on the door clicked with a sharp finality, and the door swung open, flooding the dim interior with a blinding flood of light. Daenera blinked rapidly against the sudden brightness, a sharp pang of pain stabbing through her head. She rose from her seat, the soft rustle of fabric echoing with each movement, the beads stitched onto her sleeves brushing against the curved seats as she reached for the doorframe to steady herself. 

As she stepped into the light, the clamor of the crowd intensified, their voices swelling like a surging tide. Gold cloaks stationed around the litter barked orders, attempting to maintain order amidst the growing chaos as people clamored to get a look at her. Daenera stood at the threshold, her heart pounding within her ears, a relentless sound of crashing waves. 

In that moment, a hand appeared in her line of sight. She focused on it for a fleeting heartbeat before following the arm up to meet the soft, reassuring smile of Gwayne Hightower. 

“Princess,” Gwayne greeted warmly. Daenera gratefully accepted his extended hand, using his firm grip to stabilize herself as she stepped down from the litter. He was clad in his City Watch armor, his golden cloak pinned to his shoulders, catching the sunlight and fluttering elegantly behind him as she took her final step onto the ground. 

“Thank you,” Daenera murmured, her voice wavering slightly. She withdrew her hand and clutched her bouquet of flowers tightly, gathering herself for the moments ahead. 

The plaza before Great Sept stretched out expansively, dominated by the fountain at its center, gushing with water that sparkled in the sunlight. Gold Cloaks had cleaved a path through the throng of onlookers, their presence creating a narrow corridor amidst the sea of eager faces that had gathered to witness the royal procession–that had gathered to witness her marry her brother’s murderer. 

Daenera’s smile was a practiced curve as she moved forward, her head held high and shoulders squared. With every step towards the steps of the sept, she maintained a composed facade, even as her heart raced beneath the surface. The bustling crowd’s anticipation and the splashing of the fountain’s water seemed to blend into a distant murmur as she made her way through the plaza. 

Flowers rained down in her path, petals fluttering through the air as the crowd vyed to get her attention. Cheers and chants echoed around her, extolling her as the ‘Princess of Flowers.’ Voices called out blessings, one distinctly ringing above the rest: “The Mother bless you, Princess!”

The smile upon her face never wavered, her steps remained measured and unyielding, each footfall pressing the flowers into the cobblestones. Her gaze was drawn towards the grand structure of the Great Sept, rising before her with imposing grace–it was as much a cage as the litter had been, as the Red Keep was. The Great Sept stood only a third of the size of the Dragonpit, though its scale was still awe-inspiring and significantly larger than the Royal Sept where her first wedding had taken place. 

She felt much the same girl she had been then, yet at the same time, she was far removed from the girl she’d been. Back then, she had fulfilled her duty by marrying a man for whom she felt no affection and saw no future with. Now, she’d find herself once again walking towards a matrimonial future that felt nothing more than a cage. 

The scar on her hand seemed to throb with a bitter heat. It wasn’t a cage then; it had been a dream–a dream of a foolish girl whose heart had let her astray, whose heart had shattered into pieces. Now, that same heart lay in ruins, bearing the weight of unfulfilled dreams and broken hopes–and still it beat. 

Daenera felt it before she fully understood it, a murmur in the depths of her consciousness–a voice as cold and sharp as the edge of a blade. Princess of Poison. Your first marriage will be loveless. Princess of Curses. Your second, cloaked in betrayal. Princess of Blood. You shall not marry again. The words slithered through her mind, chilling her to the core.

Her heart lurched, a tremor rippling through her chest as her gaze darted frantically around, searching for the owner of the voice. A tingling sensation crept over her skin, as if the air itself had turned against her. The tightening grip of fear coiled around her heart, threatening to suffocate her.

The crowd surged around her, clawing hands and desperate faces pressing against the barrier of the gold cloaks that surrounded her. Their voices, once a throng of pleas and shouts, faded into a dull roar as her eyes locked onto a pair of dark, inscrutable ones. The witch.

The woman stood just beyond the grasping hands, her gaze piercing and knowing. A slow, unsettling smile spread across her lips as she lifted a single finger, a silent reminder of the unasked question that lingered between them. “You’ve yet to learn how to ask,” the witch’s voice echoed in Daenera’s mind, a taunt more than a statement.

And then, as swiftly as she had appeared, the witch vanished, leaving no trace of her presence. It was as if she had been nothing more than a phantom, a figment of Daenera’s imagination–as though she had never been there at all.

Her breath caught in her throat as she fought to swallow the rising tide of nausea. It clawed at her insides, threatening to overwhelm her. She forced it down, her trembling hands clenched around the bouquet of flowers, determined not to let the witch’s words take root in her heart. But the chill of the voice lingered, a shadow that would not be easily shaken.

She gripped the folds of her heavy skirt tightly as she started her ascent up the steps, careful to avoid stumbling over the billowing fabric or her trailing sleeves. Each step demanded her full attention, her gaze fixed steadily on the stone ahead as she reached the first landing, then turned and headed up the final flight of steps, nearing the top. 

“You seem anxious, dear niece,” A voice suddenly remarked, jolting Daenera from her thoughts. Her gaze snapped upwards, meeting Aegon’s eyes as he sauntered towards her, an amused and somewhat malevolent smile playing on his lips. She expected that he was inside of the sept, waiting with the rest of them.

Her eyes narrowed as she warily stared at him, halting on the steps. Despite the elegance of his attire–a green doublet richly embroidered with a golden dragon whose wings spread majestically across his chest and whose head lay over his heart–he bore an air of perverse disquiet. And perched atop his head, almost mockingly, was the crown of Aegon the Conqueror.

Daenera chose to remain silent. She focused intently on suppressing the urge to vomit at Aegon’s feet, finding it impossible to muster up a sharp retort. Her evident discomfort seemed to entertain him, his smile growing broad as he extended a hand towards her, saying with a reassuring tone that bordered on a command, “Take my hand.”

With barely concealed irritation, Daenera placed her hand in Aegon’s, allowing him to guide her up the final steps to the landing. His grip was firm and determined as he steered her towards the banister overlooking the plaza. The air was filled with a cacophony of shouts and cheers: “Hail King Aegon!” and “Gods bless you, Princess!”

“Smile and wave,” Aegon instructed, his voice carrying an edge of mockery. He released her hand and placed his own at the small of her back, while he raised his other hand in a grand wave to the assembled crowd. “One might think we’re dragging you to the altar against your will.”

Daenera forced a bright smile, lifting her other hand to wave at the throng below. Her voice was barely audible as she murmured stiffly, “What are you doing here?”

Aegon’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “I am graciously attending my brother’s wedding.”

“No,” Daenera said, her smile barely concealing her irritation, “I mean, why are you here?”

Aegon shifted his gaze to her, the sunlight catching in his hair and lighting up the strands of spun gold and silver. His blue eyes sparkled with unmasked amusement as he regarded her. “I am here to escort my favorite niece down the aisle, given the circumstances…” He said, his tone laced with a sardonic charm. 

His brows furrowed slightly in mock contemplation, his smile twisting into a smug frown. “Since your father is dead,” he continued, “and your other father is also dead… And your stepfather and all your other male relatives are traitors to the crown.” He paused, allowing a smirk to spread across his lips. “I thought it fitting to give you the honor of being led down the aisle by your king.”

Aegon extended his arm towards her, offering the crook for her to slip her hand into. 

Her gaze briefly dropped from his face to his arm then back up again, meeting his eyes. She managed to mask her displeasure, though a slight narrowing of her eyes betrayed her feelings. Despite her irritation, she had little choice but to comply. Reluctantly, she placed her hand in the crook of his arm, gripping her bouquet tightly with the other as he gave her a small tug closer. Her voice, though edged with sarcasm, carried a faint tremor of resignation. “How very gracious of you.”

“Indeed,” Aegon replied with a hum of satisfaction, his gaze sweeping over the crowd once more. He raised his free hand in a final, grand wave before steering them towards the sept, turning their back on the crowd. “I strive to be a gracious and benevolent king to all my subjects.”

The sun bore down warmly, its heat more intense than on the previous cloud-covered days when the city had ensured sporadic rain showers. As they approached the Great Sept, its vast shadow loomed over them, the towering doors appearing large enough to admit a giant. Daenera might have marveled at the grandeur, but today, her focus was consumed by the effort to calm her racing heart. Having Aegon by her side did little to ease the lightheadedness creeping over her. 

“And to think,” Aegon remarked with a hint of amusement in his voice, “if my mother had only seen things differently, we might have been married ourselves.”

“It would have been an unhappy and unsatisfying marriage,” Daenera stated plainly, her gaze fixed on the imposing doors as they drew nearer with each step, each one seeming to add a weight to her limbs. She shook her head slightly, a scoff escaping her lips as she continued, “I would have endured the disgrace of your whore-mongering, as I did with my first husband. The two of you are similar in that regard. We both would have been miserable–me especially, having to suffer your attentions in the marriage bed.”

Aegon’s voice toon on a teasing tone as he responded, “I think you’d quite enjoy my attentions in the marriage bed.” She could feel his gaze linger on her, its unsettling heat starting from the bare skin of her chest, tracing up the curve of her collarbone, and up her neck to settle on her face. “I have considerably more experience than my dear brother. I could show you what it really means to be well-satisfied. And unlike Aemond, I don’t have your brother’s blood on my hands…”

They came to a halt just before the steps leading down to the Great Sept’s grand doors. Daenera gritted her teeth, the sting of unshed tears pressing against the back of her throat. Her fingers gripped the bouquet of flowers so tightly that the stems creaked under the pressure.

Aegon closed the minimal distance between them, leaning in so closely that she instinctively leaned back, arching her back away from him. The scent of soap mixed with the faint hint of wine on his breath, the scent cloying and turning her stomach. An amused and slightly lascivious smile curved his lips as he murmured, his voice low and suggestive, “Should you ever grow bored and find yourself yearning for something more… exhilarating that the tedium my brother provides, know that I am always ready and willing to offer my… assistance.”

A frown darkened Daenera’s features as she glared at Aegon, her voice sharp with indignation. “I will be your brother’s wife. Do you intend to make a cuckold of him?”

“As you did with your first husband,” Aegon drawled, his gaze piercing as he studied her face. There was a dark amusement twinkling in his blue eyes, hinting at his enjoyment of the provocation. He then shrugged nonchalantly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “My brother is the embodiment of duty. Even if I were to take his wife to my bed, he would remain true to his obligations, such is his nature. He is as loyal and obedient as a hound.”

Daenera’s voice wavered slightly, despite her effort to remain composed. “I think you misjudge the extent of your brother’s dutifulness. Few men wound tolerate the indignity of being made a cuckold, much less by his brother. Even a loyal hound will bite its master’s hand if provoked enough.”

Aegon pulled back slightly, head tilting as his gaze lingering on her with a thoughtful intensity. “He had a choice, you know.”

Her frown deepened in confusion.

“He could have let me go,” Aegon continued, his free hand encircling hers where it rested on his arm, the warmth of his skin enveloping her fingers. “He could have let me disappear–I could have gone anywhere, and the throne would have been his for the taking. But he chose duty over ambition.”

Daenera recoiled slightly as Aegon lifted his hand, ostensibly to brush a non-existent strand of hair from her face, his fingers trailing down her cheek with feigned gentleness that made her skin crawl. His gaze lingered on her–something within the sea of deep blue, she couldn’t understand. Her chest tightened, her stomach turning in response to his unwanted attention. 

“I made it clear to him,” Aegon continued in a soft murmur, “that if he brought me back, I would ensure that you shared in my misery.”

Daenera leaned away from his touch, her expression set in a heavy frown. “And here I thought you were relishing your new role as king. You certainly seem to be enjoying it.”

“A king should honor his promises, don’t you think?” Aegon asked, his brow arching slightly, and the corners of his mouth dipped into a sardonic smile as his head tilted, seemingly acknowledging her remark with a half-shrug. “At the very least, I should have some fun with it and make him suffer a bit longer.”

“Do as you wish, but leave me out of it.”

“The truth of the matter, sweet niece,” Aegon said with a tone of measured amusement, “is that you are his greatest weakness.”

“You overestimate my significance to him,” Daenera interjected, her voice laced with bitterness. She shifted uneasily, feeling as if her ribs were constricting around her lungs, each breath growing more shallow and caught in her throat.

Aegon clicked with his tongue, head shaking slightly as she continued, “My brother is not one to reveal his frailties; he buries his emotions beneath a facade of icy resolve. Yet you, you’ve pierced through that armor, uncovering a vulnerability he seldom shows. I never thought to see my dutiful brother cuntstruck, but here we are.”

The throb of Daenera’s pulse echoed in her ears, the steady rush of blood quickening in her veins. Her fingers gripped the bouquet of flowers with increasing intensity, her nails digging into the stems until the delicate flesh of the blooms began to tear under the pressure, breaking off under her nails. 

“You–”

“Aegon,” Daenera said through clenched teeth, her voice strained as she opened her eyes again to meet his gaze directly. Her heart seemed to writhe within her chest as she fought to keep her composure. “If you don’t stop speaking right now, I swear I will make us both miserable by vomiting the meager breakfast I’ve had all over you.”

Something in Daenera’s expression must have conveyed her determination, for Aegon’s amusement quickly faltered, giving way to an expression of surprise and then concern. His eyes widened slightly, lips parting in disbelief. “Please don’t.”

Bile burned within her chest, threatening to spill out–onto him if he pushed further. It would make them both miserable, neither of them desire this outcome. Daenera swallowed thickly, forcing herself to focus on the imposing doors before her. 

Aegon gestured subtly to the guards stationed on either side of the massive doors. Responding to his cue, they pushed the doors open, the hinges emitting a resonant creak. As the doors swung wide, Aegon leaned closer to Daenera, his breath brushing her ear as he whispered sardonically, “Be a good puppet, and smile.”

Drawing a deep breath, Daenera adopted a mask of composed serenity, her face settling into a sweet, gentle smile that concealed the bitter anguish that lay in the ruins within her heart. As she stepped forward, a fleeting thought crossed her mind–had Nissa Nissa forseen her end? Had she felt the sting of betrayal as her husband had plunged the sword into her heart, and despite it all, had she continued to love him? Did she forgive him as her breath had left her, or was there nothing to forgive?

**Red Roses-True love, Bashful Love Purple roses-Love of first sight; enchantment Crocuses-Love, abuse not Violets-Faithfulness, watchfulness, I'll always be true Irises-Eloquence, good news, light, faith, valor, wisdom, friendship Lilies-Purity, sweetness Larkspur-Levity, lightness, fickleness, haughtiness, an open hear Here we gooooo!!! The wedding has started!! I really really loved the scene with Helaena, and we'll definitely see the return of Aemond the Cricket. Was there prophecies/foreshadowing in their conversation? Yes. Also, her taking about the moths can be linked so a lot of different characters. Anyway, next chapter will be the ceremony and the feast--I am currently finished with the ceremony scene and have started the feast, but I can't promise I'll manage to get it done before next Friday. These chapters are really long, 15k takes a long time to write and life has thrown me a little curveball in my granddad on my father's side death. He will be buried Thursday and that'll take up that day of writing + I have another or two days of writing taken my other stuff. I will try to make it till Friday but I can't promise anything. And it's likely this will continue until season 1 of the story is finished and I take a little hiatus to write some chapters to have ready so I won't stress so much--a hiatus would be a month or a month an a half, no more. That much I can promise!

[blackjackkent]

Prompt fill for @marigoldbaker from this ask meme: Light and Dark Metaphors Hector/Karlach - "radiant smile" Some Act 3 Heclach fluff/angst for your reading pleasure. <3 Hope you enjoy! Ty for the prompt. :3

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Hector feels the mattress creak under him, the gentle shift of the covers along his skin. He cracks one eye open and squints around the inn bedroom. It's still dark, the outline of the bedposts a barely-visible grey on grey. 

“Where're you going?” he mumbles. 

"Shhh. Don't worry, Soldier." Karlach is sitting up on the edge of the bed, leaned forward a little with her elbows on her knees. "I'm right here."

He rolls over drowsily, resting a hand on her bare back. She twitches slightly at the unexpected touch, then relaxes at once and leans subtly back against his palm. 

"It's early yet," he says softly. "We don't have to go. Not for a little while..." He's still comfortably warm, half-asleep, floating on the memories of the previous night. It's the first time they've had a place to themselves, not even in the same inn as the others, and if he lies still enough, perhaps he can avoid jarring the illusion that it could last forever. 

"I know," she answers. "Not going anywhere. I just... wanted to watch the sun come up."

"Oh." He opens his other eye, and then pushes up on one elbow to look past her shoulder. Sure enough, the window next to the bed faces east, and he can see the slim line of red slipping over the horizon.

With a soft grunt, he sits up and scoots sideways on the bed to sit behind her. She leans back against him at once, pillowing her head into his shoulder and neck with the peculiar little twist of motion - now habit after a number of months - necessary to avoid sticking her broken horn into his cheek. He lets out a soft sigh of contentment and wraps his arms around her waist. "Comfortable?" he asks.

"Mm. Perfect," she agrees. There's still a touch of drowsy thickness in her voice, and she snuggles back tight into his arms without taking her eyes off the window. "Used to get up early, mornings before the Hells," she goes on after a little while. "Just to see the lightshow over the roofs. Drove Fytz crazy when we roomed together a while. She hated being up before noon."

Hector idly presses slow a kiss under her jaw. "You would have made a good monk," he says teasingly. "Vigils at strange hours..."

"Hah." He feels her shake gently with the laugh. "Gods, can you imagine? I think I'd've gotten thrown out in a week. Never could sit still."

Another kiss against her neck just over her collarbone. "Mmm. What if we'd met in the monastery and had a torrid love affair?" he asks, mock-dramatically.

She pretends to think it over. "Guess maybe that could have kept me around. Although I think, more likely, I'd’ve seduced you right out of that library and into my bed. Massive monk scandal.”

“I like the sound of this,” he murmurs in her ear, and she shivers pleasantly against him. “You could make me do anything, you know…”

“Remind me to test that theory later…” She reaches back to run her hand slowly along his thigh. “Get you to clean my tent of all the mud it picked up in Rivington…” She trails off and tilts her head, looking back towards the window again. “Gods, look at that…”

He follows her gaze. The sun is breaking properly over the horizon now, throwing the silhouettes of the buildings down the hill into sharp relief against a rising wave of brilliant red and gold. The city sleeps, bathed in the flame-colored light; for a moment it feels as if they are the only two people awake in the whole world, watching Lathander’s touch sweep between rooftops and over cobblestones.

Hector turns his head, watching Karlach watching the dawn. There is a small smile on her face, brilliant as the rising sun itself but… cautious, as if she fears that too much joy might shatter the moment apart and send it careening back out of her reach.

It makes his heart ache in his chest to see it. Karlach was made to be loud and joyful and wild, but the world has taught her that such things do not last. If he were able, he would give her everything it has tried to take away from her and more so, and see to it that she never had to fear again. But he cannot, because he too is acutely aware that time is ticking implacably away from them, and all they have are these brief moments, these brief touches, this brief love.

“It’s beautiful,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, unable to tear her eyes from the view. “No city like it. Not anywhere.”

“I believe you,” he says.

A long pause. She breathes out heavily and leans back against his chest. He presses his face into her hair and holds her close, feeling the slow rhythm of her breathing, the familiar whump-whump pulses of heat under her skin. And together they sit, unmoving, skin against skin, until the sun climbs fully into view and the brilliant colors begin to fade into more subtle daylight.

Then Karlach shifts, turns her face into his neck and presses a kiss under his ear. “All right. Back to bed with you, Soldier,” she says softly. “We’ve got a little time left, thank the gods.”