#river seamstress

[good--merits-accumulated]

(frantically fanning the dying embers of my motivation for the anderperry chocolat au) cmon cmon cmon cmon cmon man

[bookishlyvintage]

A Fire Endless, Rebecca Ross [thoughts]

outfit made by me

[moosesarecute]

December 1st

December masterlist

General masterlist

Feyre and Rhysand had a calm evening at the River House.

The fire was lit, and they were snuggled together on the couch. Nyx had already fallen asleep, and the couple took the opportunity to have some alone time.

“I have a painting from their mating ceremony to Nesta and Cassian, a new cookbook to Elain and a perfume to Mor,” Feyre listed up Winter Solstice gifts she had planned for her family. However, she was missing one. “But I don’t know what to get Az.”

Feyre looked up at her mate and saw how he was deep in thoughts. She lifted her hand and carefully cupped his face. He leaned into her hand. His eyes met hers and she felt his strong emotions. He was filled with both gratitude and love, but also grief.

“You know Az won’t celebrate Winter Solstice with us,” Rhys told his mate.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I can’t get him a present.”

“Yes, it does,” Rhys started. “Az hates Winter Solstice. I’m afraid giving him a gift will only bring back bad memories.”

Feyre sat up on the couch and watch her mate with a careful gaze.

“What happened?” she asked.

She saw how the grief covered Rhys’ face, and she felt how powerful the feeling was. She almost started crying just from that alone. She reached over, held Rhys’ hand and gave it a small squeeze.

Rhysand answered with taking a deep breath and started to explain.

“Y/N was the daughter of my mother’s best friend. She was about two years older than me, but we became friends quickly. She grew up at Windhaven too, but we didn’t see each other often. She was my mother’s apprentice, and therefore also a seamstress. We started to become better and better friends and then Cassian came along, and she became good friends with him too. She ended up moving in with us when she was nineteen, after her mother passed away.

“Y/N was like an older sister. She took care of our injuries after training and did her best to help us with our hangovers, unless her hangover was worse than ours. She was the steady stone that helped all of us through everything. When we lost my mother, or when any of us was scared for whatever reason, she was there. She had the best hugs and made the best stew. Neither Cass or I had ever had a big sister before and neither one of us have ever loved someone that dearly.”

Rhys’ eyes were glistening with tears, but he forced himself to hold it together.

“What about Az? Wasn’t she an older sister to Azriel?” Feyre couldn’t hold back her questions. She had heard a little about Y/N, but never this many details.

“No, she was definitely not a sister to Azriel,” Rhys said with a loving laugh. “They were mates.”

Feyre felt her eyes grow wide. How had nobody told her that Azriel had a mate? However, she soon realized that something must have gone very wrong for her not to know about this before now.

“They spent centuries crushing on each other, but neither one of them dared to admit it. Y/N was in multiple different relationships and Azriel crushed on Mor, but both eventually realized that they were suppressing their real feelings. Their mating bond snapped only weeks before I got stuck Under the Mountain. They were going to have their mating ceremony only days after Amarantha’s party.”

Dread filled Feyre. Amarantha had destroyed so much for so many years and for so many people. She couldn’t imagine spending fifty years under her reign. Feyre had, after all, not even survived three months.

“They decided to be stupid and waited for me to get back before they accepted the bond. They waited for fifty years, just so that the entire family would be there.”

Rhys swallowed in dread and his voice was shaking as he spoke.

“They had their mating ceremony only two days after I returned and then spent a week in their shared apartment. After they returned, I needed Y/N to go on a mission. She needed to use her charm to get some people on our side again after Amarantha. Azriel initially refused to let her go, but eventually Y/N convinced him that it would be okay if they went together. However, they never got to where they were going. They were ambushed and when Azriel woke again after, Y/N was gone. Nobody knows what happened.”

Both Feyre and Rhys had to dry tears at the end.

Feyre hated to be away from Rhys, sometimes even seconds apart was too much. She couldn’t imagine not knowing if he was okay, or if he was alive. Even the thought made her nauseous.

“Y/N loved Winter Solstice. She would decorate the entire Town House and there was always cookies or hot chocolate in the kitchen. Without her, Azriel haven’t been able to enjoy the holiday. Azriel haven’t been the same.”

Dividers by @issysh3ll

[fel-09]

Clothes for a seamstress

In Mirkwood, an air of anticipation filled the silence before the harvest festival. Elves worked tirelessly to adorn the hall for the celebration, but all the royal attire, exquisite and majestic, was the work of a modest seamstress. For years, she had crafted garments for the elves and for the king himself, finding purpose in her craft.

This time, she had poured special care into Thranduil’s attire. Each stitch held her devotion and precision; each element reflected her pride. His cloak, the color of the midnight sky, was embroidered with golden threads that shimmered like starlight, and intricate symbols of his lineage adorned the cuffs. The garment was beautiful, embodying the wisdom and strength of the king of Mirkwood.

On the day of the celebration, all the garments for the elves were ready. She had meticulously arranged the final touches, assisting each of them in donning their finery, adding pearls and brooches with her delicate touch. Despite her modest role, her work was deeply appreciated—each elf expressed gratitude with warm smiles, though many did not even know her name.

The festivities had begun, and joyous music filled the hall, but the seamstress lingered in her workshop. She hadn’t found time to tend to herself, so she wore a simple, modest dress. Though it was a deep shade of blue, it drew little attention, and the narrow belt only accentuated her slight frame.

Eventually, she made her way to the celebration, hoping to remain inconspicuous. The hall gleamed with torchlight and dazzling outfits. She stood against the wall, quietly observing as Thranduil, dressed in her magnificent creation, greeted the guests. Her heart swelled with satisfaction, though he barely glanced her way. She resolved to stay in the shadows, but just then, an advisor approached and conveyed a simple, solemn request:

"The king wants you to come to his room."

A hint of mystery in his tone left her slightly apprehensive. She didn’t know the reason behind the king’s summons, yet she left the hall and followed him, abandoning her hope of remaining unnoticed. Entering his quarters, she found Thranduil standing by the window, deep in thought. His posture was proud, and when he turned to face her, his expression held a calm but intense authority.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice your contribution to this festival?” he began, his gaze meeting hers. “You labor for everyone, yet you come to the celebration in such humble attire, as if you are of no importance.”

She wanted to respond, but the king stepped closer. “You are a master of your craft and deserve honors no less than any guest here,” he said gently, his tone leaving no room for protest. With that, Thranduil produced a gown of purest white from a chest. Unlike her plain dress, it was beautifully embroidered with silver threads, shimmering in the moonlight like milky rivers beneath the stars. “Allow me,” he murmured, helping her into it.

Every movement of his was filled with respect, and she felt her heart quicken as he He began to take off her clothes slowly, her heart skipped another unexpected beat when she was practically naked in front of him, Thranduil tenderly dressed her in her clothes, his fingers expertly tying the knots in her dress , while his eyes looked at her open neck and shoulders with special trepidation.

He didn't dare to speak first, many years had passed since they stopped talking, because... he was still hurt that he pushed you away because of his grief. But now... His fingers gently ran down your back, making you shudder.

"In those moments several centuries ago... I though ..." Stopping, Thranduil did not dare to continue what he wanted to say, but his arms wrapped around your waist, pressing your back to his chest, burying his nose in your neck.

"I miss you," he whispered, leaving a timid kiss on your shoulder.It was necessary for him...and for you as well, but he wanted to make amends with you.

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Humorous dialogue behind the scenes----->

Link to the post

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[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

FROM MY BLOOD, COME'S YOUR RUIN. ( HOTD x Reader )

author notes: thanks so much for the love! pairing: King Aegon ii Targaryen x Witch! Alys River's Sis! Reader prompt: After the murder of your House, you and your sister Alys Rivers do what you must to survive the Dance of the Dragon's. word count: 1, 000+ words

You were the youngest of your siblings. It was Harwin, Larys, Alys and then you. For a bastard, you were treated well. You were the families seamstress and rumored witch. Of course, it was not real witchcraft. You had learned how to tend to wounds on your own with herbs and years of practice. It was all natural. But, because you were a bastard. Rumors would follow you all over. Twas' Alys that was a true witch. Having visions from the weirwood trees and crafting little potions that drew Daemon Targaryen mad during his time there.

Luckily, those rumors meant to belittle you were a saving grace. During the Fall of House Strong, you were dragged alongside your older sister Alys. When a guard pinned you down to blood soaked cobblestones of the courtyard, attempting to push your skirts up, Alys took no moment to hesitate before clawing at the man's eyes with her nails.

She vowed and spouted out curses, damning the man to a bloody filled fate. That they would die before their sons were of age. All by her witchly power. Instead of following in your sister's path, you were frozen in place, eyes locked onto the hundred cold dead eyes staring back at you. The heads of your kin left in a large stack in the courtyard. Men, women, and children. All just staring back at you.

That fire within her caught Prince Aemond's eye. She spouted out lies, saying you both were witches and would lead him to the Iron Throne. That with both of your lives spared, you would assure that it was Aemond who sat on the Iron Throne instead of his brother.

Once again, those rumors helped you both survive. You were taken as spoils of war. Alys was Aemond's to keep and you would be for his elder brother Aegon, a token of good will. A spy for him, meant to poison his brother's mind for him. If Aegon did not want you, then you would stay in Harrenhal. Meant to be a mockery of the 'strong' House Strong and their attempt of daring to think they could challenge Aemond and his dragon. Or at least that was what Aemond had said to you both.

Standing in the front of the small council, you tried to stop the trembling in your body, still traumatized from the horrors you had seen. Your kin, even if some of them were cruel because of your bastard status, were killed. Their blood still covering you. It was in your hair, dried and knotted deep. It was on the thick linen of your skirts and back, even in your stockings. Looking at Alys, she nods her head softly, a tender glimmer in her eyes telling you that all would be well. You would only hope that she was right.

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you shakily shift your gaze onto each member of the small council. There was a mix of pity, disgust, and horror in their eyes. You probably looked as shitty as you had felt on the inside. Hesitantly looking over to Aegon, he watches you like a predator, his violet eyes looking you over slowly. In another time and place, he would be pretty to gawk at. Soft pouty lips, glimmering violet eyes, wavy Targaryen white locs and a sulky expression on his face. But, right now he looked like a pretty face to bury a knife into.

"She is pretty, for a Strong."

"Yes, well, she has a fucking name." You snap back, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

"Oh, got the tongue on her as well." He chuckles amused.

"Were you dropped on your head as a babe, is that why you keep speaking like that?" You snap back, the anger you had buried bubbling up. "Oh, right, tis' bold of me to say that your Mother even held you."

Watching as his face instantly shifted into a deadly glare, you refuse to back down from him, the look of pride and reassurance from Alys encouraging you. If this was not meant to happen, then she would have given you a look to stop. Resisting the urge to cower as he stands up from his seat, the sound of the wood scraping against the tiled floor fills the air. An grading sound, like a chicken croaking at dawn. Stalking towards you like you were his prey, he slowly circles you, inspecting the dried blood on your gown. Dark maroon ruining the soft gray.

"You're a bastard." He states, almost as if to mock you.

"You know plenty of bastards, don't you?" You counter back, "Your little fleet in Flea Bottom. Soiling your sister-wife's good name and honor."

"You know nothing of-"

"Of how you refused to bed her, having to gorge yourself fat on wine until you could do it? Of how you could not look at her? Or of how you refused to share a bed with her after that? Choosing the whores in Flea Bottom?" You cut him off, watching his face pale.

You did not know this for a fact, you were not blessed with visions like Alys. But courtly gossip left enough to fill in the blanks and the look on his face told you enough. This was your saving grace. Holding your head up high, a strand of hair falls in front of your face, the strand thick with blood. The stench of it making your nose curl up. Who's? It could have been your Great Uncle Simon Strong. Or your nephew. Or it could have been a mix of all of them. Your gaze locked onto him, now he was the prey and you the predator.

"How did you..?" Aegon blubbers, blinking dumbly.

"I saw it, just as I saw the war ending." You lie, looking to Alys for help.

"We both did. Rhaenyra dies, the Realm knows her for generations to come as Maegor with Tits, the Whore of Dragonstone, the Queen of Bastards." Alys cuts in, "We can assure it. If you keep us alive."

"Why would I keep you both?"

"Our visions only can be done with both of us. Surely you know of Visenya using blood magic with Tyanna of the Tower? Magic must be done with another." Alys lies, "Do you wish to lose the war? To watch as Rhaenyra puts your kin's head on pikes?"

Feeling grateful for your older sister's quick thinking, you take a step towards him, a trail of blood footprints left behind. The coldness of the tile almost making you shiver. Had you always been shoeless? Or had it happened during the fall of Harrenhal and you not even notice? Staring him down from the other end of the table, you watch as he cowers backwards into his seat at the head of the table, clearly wanting space between you.

It was clear that Alys's strangeness and your ramblings had shaken him to the core. You could only hope that it would be enough to sway him into keeping the two of you alive. Tilting your head to the side, the feeling of fresh blood trickling down your leg makes the hairs on your arms raise. Had you truly neglected to look at yourself? Or was this Alys's doings? Bending the strings to make you more frightening?

"Do you wish to see your sons head on a pike? What tis' his name, Maelor?" You add, "Or for her to do horrors to your daughter? Mayhaps Rhaenyra will force you to watch as her belly swells with a bastard? After all, she is the Queen of Bastards."

"She wouldn't. Jaehaera is but a girl." Aegon shakes his head, eyes brimming with tears.

"Her son is dead. Her throne stolen. Her name soiled and ruined. What tis' to say that she will not finish what her two assassin's failed to do with your son?" You add, "If you wish to win this war, tis' me and my sister that you need."

---

@lovelykhaleesiii

@fragileheartbeats

@danytar

@nightvers

@zaldritzosrose

[un-lawliet]

“Fit For an Archon”

— in which the Hydro Archon is fascinated by you

a/n- happy pride month to all my wlw, i wrote this for us <3 im sorry for how long it is (gasp)

word count (7.1k)

You are the worst seamstress in Fontaine.

You’re sure of it.

Your hands seem to repel fabric, your needle poisoning the thread in which you clumsily stitch with and leaving you with a truly horrendous looking frock.

Chiori, bless her soul, had hired you as a a request from your Father, who, in Chiori’s defence, was a fantastic tailor, renowned for his intricate stitching and detailed attires- Truly a renaissance for Fontaine fashion.

And so when he left Chioris business, set to start his own amiss the bustling harbours of Liyue, you found yourself tucked away, working in his place for Chiori, who was currently frowning pensivly down at your work, as if it had personally offended her.

“…It’s bad isn’t it?” You state, looking intensely at your boss who chewed on her painted bottom lip, head cocked, wondering how in Tevat you were your Fathers daughter.

“It’s not…Awful” She tries, although not very well, her gaze fixed on the uneven stitching and the deplorable match of colour.

“Better than last time?” You question, a terrible sense of hope clouding your voice, hopeful that maybe, just maybe you were improving-

“No, no, definitely worse.” Chiori mutters, and your face falls.

She sticks a hand out and touches the skirt you had presented her with, lifting it up.

The seams fall and the skirt halves in her grasp, and you cringe silently, eyes closing in embarrassment.

“Hm.” She ponders, turning to stare at you from over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised.

“It’s…Meant to do that?” You try, shoulders raising in contention, only to be silenced again at the shake of her head.

“Take a break Y/N.” Chiori says, tired under attempts to support your terrible creations.

You don’t argue with her, immediately fleeing the boutique as if you were being hunted down by the God King Remus himself.

The bell on the door dings as you exit, waving goodbye to your co-workers who scoff at your exit, whispering words under their breath that you chose not to render.

You just needed to stick this job out until you had enough income to quit.

But- with the state of your designs and the even worse execution of said designs, you doubt you’d ever make enough to follow through with your intentions.

And really…You barely make ends meet as it is.

Oh God.

You kick a stone and watch as it skims across the tarmac, bouncing up and down until skidding to a stop metres before you.

You hate being a seamstress.

Making it to the manufactured river, you slump down, lazily throwing your legs off of the sides, your boots delicately touching the water surface below.

The same way they always did when Chiori sends you away.

How ridiculously boring.

Fontaine’s a-lot quieter in the evening, most people finding themselves at the Opera Epiclese to watch a spectacle, faces tinged red with excitement.

You prefer it when it’s quiet, when the streets are empty. It means you can lie backwards on the hard ground without too much judgement from your fellow citizens.

Your legs still bent down towards the water, with your back on the concrete dock, you allow yourself a breath.

You hear footsteps somewhere off to your right but pay them no mind. After all, passing judgement is only ever passing, and you’re sure whoever it is will waltz past you, giving you a confused once over before immediately forgetting your face.

You stretch one of your legs and break the surface of the river, feeling the tip of your boot soak up the water briefly, before you’re lifting it back out, shaking it gently to dry it off.

Someone cleared their throat behind you and you sign with the frustration of interrupted serenity.

Can you truly not have anything?

Pushing yourself up with your elbows, you turn your face the perpetrator, eyebrows drawn down to a frown.

You were gonna stare them out until they left you to mope at this stupid river, politeness be dammed!

.

.

.

It’s Focalors behind you.

Lady Furina.

Every retort resting on your tongue is swallowed up, getting stuck in the back of your throat and you choke on your words, chest heaving in shock.

The Hydro Archon stares down at you, watching your struggle, her arms crossed over her chest and a smug smile on her lips.

Her hair sways in the breeze, tickling her leg and she seems to be quite fascinated in the dress encasing your figure.

A long ruffly mess of colour and mesh with a corset that one would barely call fitting, you look like a run away mannequin, pathetically thrown together before your God.

“Lady Furina.” You wheeze, propelling yourself to your feet, dropping into a bow, your skirt following comically behind.

Why is she here? Is she not fond of the Opera house? Archons people wait half their lives to meet her and here you are face to face with God through pure circumstance.

She waves a gloved hand in your direction, dismissing your bow entirely, eyes still drawn to the fabric of your gown.

“Your..attire is quite interesting.” She states bluntly, walking two steps to the left to capture your dress from all angles.

Your face flushes, “Thank you Lady Furina, it’s an honour to be complimented by-”

“Were you supposed to be in the opera?” She cuts you off, turning her body in the general direction of the Epiclese.

“What?” You answer before finding your manners, “I mean n-no it’s my….” You sigh, shoulders slumping, “I’m a seamstress.”

Lady Furina pauses, her head lifting you look at your face, studying it with such precision that you feel yourself bite back the desire to look away.

“..A seamstress?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Oh.”

The pair of you look at each other for a moment before she throws her head back and laughs. It echoes around the empty streets of Fontaine and reverberates right into your ears.

“I suspected as much!” She guffaws, clapping her hands together.

You cock your head, confused, “No you didn’t?” You reply, unable to stop the offence in your voice.

Sure you weren’t good at your job but you liked this dress! And you were definitely not apart of any play!

Lady Furina’s laugh trails off and she stares at you, her lip between her teeth, holding back a grin.

“Tell me!” She begins again, and you shudder at the volume of her voice. “Why is it that you look so sad?”

“Huh?” You question, eyes widening in confusion.

Furina smiles, it brightens her face, before pointing at you then back to herself, “As your Archon it is my duty to right the wrongs of Fontaine, and you appeared so gloomy that I had no choice but to journey off my path to check up on you!”

Shame forces its way through your body and you shake your head, holding out your sweaty palms to face her, “Lady Furina you do not need to trouble yourself with my issues, trust me.” And you shiver against her unblinking gaze, “Please, continue on your way..” You awkwardly laugh, gesturing to the street, dying inside.

Furina blinks at you, “You don’t want to share problems for me?”

You take a step back, bashfully shaking your head, “I mean no offence…”

It’s awkward.

Furina tilts her head, studying you, confused.

She is far too use to Fontainians requesting her opinions on trivial matters so much so that the blatant avoidance from you is baffling.

You scratch the back of your hand in the silence.

Lady Furina watches you, dissecting you with her eyes, trying to go over every woe that past Fontainians had brought to her omnipresent ears.

You chuckle, trying to force her gaze off of you before you melt and join the water behind you.

“You’re not watching the play?” You say, gesturing in the general direction of the Epiclese, pleading silently for her to stop looking at you like that.

She shakes her head, closing her eyes, “I’ve seen it before, it gets quite tiresome seeing the same thing over and over again.”

Oh

“Oh”

Lady Furina grins, her opposing eyes still gracing your face as if you were so easy to figure out.

“Do you…Hate your job?”

You gawk at her.

She smirks.

Jack pot.

“I’m right aren’t I? You can save your praise, I know I’m truly otherworldly when it comes to intuition.” She fans her hand up and down at you, throwing her pretty head back dramatically.

“Must be a gift from Celestia then.” You conclude, turning away from her and sitting back down at your river side.

You’re slightly peeved at her reaction and would rather not disrespect an Archon so early in your life, so you do not face her with your glare.

“Come now.” Lady Furina says, strolling over to you, “I only joke.”

The Hydro Archon was now sitting beside you, kicking her feet in the water.

This truly cannot be real.

You sigh.

Well, if she’s asking, you may as well answer.

What’s another sinner to an Archon anyway.

“Do you ever feel trapped by the wishes of another?” You ask, defeat clouding your senses as you speak.

Lady Furina stills, but you do not notice.

“My Father, asked me to keep on his legacy in Fontaine, he’s a brilliant tailor, I mean, it’s like he was born to be one…”

You trail off, and splash your foot into the water, “And I just- I’m terrible at being a seamstress, I can’t even pretend to enjoy it because I am so utterly rubbish at it.”

She’s watching you, you can feel it. It’s as intense as your emotions, you almost shy away.

“Sorry.” You mutter, “I don’t know why I’m asking. It’s not like you have to struggle with these “mortal issues.”

You laugh bitterly in the silence of your confession.

Lady Furina’s hand slightly brushes yours and you wonder if she notices.

The pair of you sit quietly for a moment, your face growing warmer in the seconds.

You’re about to apologise again, your words on the tip of your tongue before she speaks, ripping the pages from your mouth.

“I always find it fascinating to hear how Mortals think.”

“Hm?”

“How they can voice their feelings so freely, it has always struck me.” Her voice is a lot quieter, you almost mistake her for someone else.

You glance, taking in the side of Lady Furina’s face, her soft features seem burdened, you hope silently that you were not the cause of her worries.

“An Archon admiring her subjects…” You say, slicing through the quiet, “That’s quite comforting actually.”

Lady Furina tilts her head, narrowing her dainty eyebrows quizzingly, “Pardon?”

You smile, and hope it reaches both your eyes and hers. “You care. It’s kind.”

She’s watching you again, her chest rising and falling in tandem to the gentle swish of the water.

You place an arm on your knee and rest you head in your palm, feeling bold.

“It must be lonely being a God.”

And her eyes grow wide, for a split second, before she’s blinking and resuming her facade of impassive control.

“What ever do you mean?”

“There’s no higher being to think about you.” You reply, introspection fluctuating in your words before it slaps you back into reality with a cold hand.

“Uh- Pardon me, I don’t mean to call you lonely I just-”

“It’s quite alright.” Lady Furina says, straightening up, her hair brushing your shoulder and her hand moving from yours. “You did not mean any harm.”

She moves to stand, and you watch, perplexed.

“You have the freedom to quit.” She says simply, “There is no higher deity forcing you to stay.” And she smiles, “All will be ok.”

She leaves as fast as she had arrived and you’re left alone to think.

Strange you think.

You hope you didn’t offend her.

—

When it’s not raining, the sun has a habit of overstaying her welcome.

It’s absolutely roasting in Fontaine, and so when Chiori asked if you would stay behind to finish your garment after work hours, you jumped at the opportunity to relish in the cool breeze of the back rooms.

Besides, you feel less embarrassed working by yourself, with nobody around to mock your gowns.

You flinch as you pierce the skin of your finger, watching as a maroon red slides into your palm.

You wipe it on your dress, it clashes with the colour.

“Do you always make a habit of wearing the most..peculiar garments?”

You jump, dropping your needle onto the sickly pink fabric, you wince as it falls, sure to be lost forever.

“L-Lady Furina?” You gasp, turning your body towards her, your dress swishing in your movement as you try pathetically bow your head in her exuberant presence.

“Yes “tis I.” She replies, her arms opening dramatically but her eyes stay focused on your choice of apparel. “Honestly.” She muses, “It’s no wonder they keep you back here…”

Lady Furina glances around your cluttered work room, taking in the flurry of vibrant coloured ribbons dripping out from their boxes, half finished corsets falling apart at their seams and the tatttered fabric unevenly pinned to a mannequin standing just inches away from her.

You step in-front of her, your eyes wide as you try conceal her vision of your failures, a sheepish grimace on your face.

“Um, we’re closed today, it’s only me in- uh how did you get inside-”

“I am the hydro archon.” Furina’s voice booms out, the exaggerated drawl making you cower away from her slightly, “I merely walked in.”

“I thought I had locked the door?” You questioned, taking a step back from her.

“A locked door is no enemy of mine!” She laughs, regarding you with a look oozing with pride, her chest puffed out and head raised.

“Right..” You mumble, picking at the skin on your fingers, nervously swaying back and fourth.

Your fingers are adorned with pricks from your needle, they would bleed should you continue your childish picking, yet you persist, unable to stop your absentminded jittering.

Lady Furina watches your movement, satisfaction appearing to glow in her eyes.

“Now!” She exclaims, wondering over to the only empty surface in the room, an old blue chair, faded with age.

“I need a new ribbon for my hat.” The chair creaks when Furina sits, crossing her legs and staring at you expectantly.

You think the chair isn’t even worthy enough for you to sit on, let alone the God Of Justice.

“I can..Write an order down for a ribbon for when Chiori returns?” Your voice trails off, thwarted by the dull look she regards you with at your suggestion.

“No, no, no!” Furina shakes her head, her actions reminding you of a child, “I want you to make it!”

“I beg you pardon?” Your eyes widen, and you glance around, taking in all your terrible, terrible works of fashion.

“Me?” You breathe, “Lady Furina, if I may- I clearly lack the talent to create anything, let alone something in which an archon should wear.” You hands shake slightly as she stares at you, willing yourself not to blink or look away in her ever present intensity. “You know this.”

“But I demanded it?” She cocks her head, reaching up to take her hat off, outstretching her arms to look at it intently.

Her hair falls down, it cascades down her shoulders like water and you hold yourself back from counting the waves between each strand, instead choosing to look away.

Ribbons are simple, you remind yourself.

You’re not entirely deficient in the art of fashion, you’re just…Well- you’re just you.

“So?” Furina says, her voices drags you from the inner monologue whispering in your ear, she pushes the hat in your direction, twirling it so you can view its simplicity from every angle.

Your clasp your hands together, head tilted like a dog.

“I’m thinking.. here.” Her finger rests on in the space between the crown and the brim, “A blue ribbon thats doesn’t blend in with the rest of the hat but adversely will not stand out…”

You nod, it’s curt, Furina smiles, it stretches her face and she all but glows, cheeks flushed.

“You’ll do it then?”

You scratch your arm, and sigh.

“It will look horrid.”

“It will look like it was made by you.” She replies, sweetly, her voice like the silk in which she adorned, you take a second to truly feel the implications behind her words and suddenly feel yourself become quite bashful.

Your heart ticks within your chest and like clockwork you reach your hands out for her hat, avoiding her gaze.

“A blue that doesn’t blend in but also doesn’t stand out?” Your voice is whispered, trying to act assertive but failing all the same.

“Indeed, a ribbon fit for an archon!” Furina appears to get louder the more she reminds you of her status, you cringe at her volume but turn so she does not see.

“I’ll try my best.” You hum, glancing at the box you pathetically labelled “Ribbons”.

You reach out and touch the cardboard confines, pulling it towards you and shuffling some fabric under your finger tips.

Red, yellow, green…the most hideous shade of pink ever- Dear God did you supply this?

Furina sits, twirling a strand of her hair as she watches you, taking in the chaos of your dress and your work space respectfully.

You really had such a unique flare to you.

Your dress was terribly put together, fabric seemingly falling off the skirt, which, in Furina’s opinion, was much too puffy for an average day at work.

When she leaned closer, she could see how the seams were pathetically stitched together, a bundled mess of experimentation that clearly did not work, the sheer fact she could see the stitching was enough of a sign to tell her that you had made this dress yourself.

Furina raises a hand to cover her the genuine smile that ripped across her features.

You truly were fascinating to observe.

“You chose to stay here then?”

You look back at her, a small frown on your face.

“Yea.” You say simply, “It’s just easier.”

She scoffs.

“What?” You reply, indignantly, “I’m still getting paid.”

“You’re staying for the money?”

“I’m staying to save up the money.” You retort, “As soon as I have enough I am gone, you’ll see.”

Furina laughs, you can help but feel melodic, almost sad.

You don’t know what else to do, so you smile, watching as Furina breaks eye contact immediately, coughing into her glove.

“I hope I do.” You hear her say, and you try to ignore the giddy sensation that seems to course through your veins and into your heart.

—

“Lady Furina what an i-interesting bow.”

“I know, I know! Isn’t it just fabulous.”

“It’s um rather…big?”

“Yes? Is there a problem?”

“N-no! I was merely voicing that-”

“If there is no issue then I must bid you farewell. I have a meeting with a most important diplomat, I assume you have already placed the pastries?”

“Yes Lady Furina…”

“Good.”

—

On days when you aren’t in the boutique, you write to your Father.

You write pages upon pages of frustrated scribbles, voicing your resentment of his craft and the comparison to your own, writing furiously about how much you wish to be freed from your job and allowed to travel with him to nations far and wide.

In the end you send none of it, opting instead to write false truths about how honoured you are to work in the darkest parts of his shadow, and how gracious you are for his talents.

You lick the envelope seal and pop it thru the post office window, smiling softly at the old lady behind the glass.

It’s raining in Fontaine today, dark clouds pulsing in the sky, above you, soaking the fabric of your skirt.

It always seems to rain after a trial.

You shake your head. Damn, you should have brought an umbrella.

When you pass by a group of children you hear their yells, pitiful pleads of; “Hydro dragon, hydro dragon don’t cry!”

And you smile and whisper it under your breath as you look to the sky.

Your thoughts circle back to Furina, you hadn’t seen her as much, especially not with the growing fears of the flood of Fontaine.

You wonder if it’s true, wonder how she’ll solve it.

You have faith in her, you think.

There’s no way you’ll drown before you can leave to travel.

There’s no way Fontaine’s Archon would let you all perish under the power of Hydro when she herself is the embodiment of the element.

You have faith.

—

There’s nothing you truly dread more than presentations to the Archon and her people.

And there’s nothing you hate more than how Champvallon, who was standing in for Chiori due to her endeavours in Inazuma, was currently mumbling under his breath at your choice of dress.

You had been running late, quite literally, the ends of your dress stained with dirt, dying the pale blue fabric brown and green.

“You’ll have to stand in the back girl.” He grumbled, his moustache dipping slightly into his mouth, pushing your shoulders and making you move behind your fellow seamstresses, grey eyes pinched into slits as he chastised you.

You heard one of your coworkers giggle from behind her hand, whispering to another about your ill fashioned garments matching your deplorable creations of fashion.

You bit your tongue and glanced at the wooden floor beneath you.

She isn’t wrong, you think, thank Celestia that your tailoring would never see the light of day.

Lady Furina and her entourage enter the room moments later, you think Furina appears to glow and wonder if your eyes are playing tricks on you, or if this is some strange phenomenon one achieves when becoming an archon.

You shake your head and join your party’s collective bow.

You and Furina had grown closer, although, the margin of closeness was confined between her passing by the boutique window and waving in when she saw you, smiling cheekily as she took in your plethora of dresses that just appeared to get more ridiculous with time.

You had begun to crave these moments of seeing her, positioning yourself closer to the window, as to ensure you did not miss her.

You don’t understand why.

Maybe you just liked to see her smile.

…“Lady Furina, we at Chioriya Boutique thank you for allowing us to present our garments for you today.” Champvallon declares. You cringe at his sickly sweet voice that deepens in tone as he continues his speech.

The man behind Lady Furina is Neuvillette, you’re sure of it. High and mighty, his stature as impressive as his title.

And under your breath you repeat the pronunciation of his name, dragging out the syllables from under your tongue.

Lady Furina allows a moment to pass before she prompts, “Ah yes! Only Fontaines best is suited for your justice party.”

The presentation from the boutique takes hours.

Furina catches your eye a few times, and smiles, it’s subtle enough that you almost believe it’s not aimed at you. Ignoring the flutter of your heart everytime her eyes meet your own.

The final designs are being brought out when suddenly you see a creation that makes your heart drop.

Sitting on a cushion, is a broach.

An ugly, bedazzled broach that you were sure you had thrown out.

And it was being carried over to the justice team by a worker who stares at it confused.

“And here we have a broach for the Archon herself.” Says Champvallon, who is still yet to turn his head to view your horrendous work.

You’re paralysed, hands shaking trying to think of a way you can remove the jewellery without causing a scene.

“We hope you adore it as much as we adored making-” Champvallons voice trails off and he looks at the cushion, his eyes widening as he finally see’s what he’s presenting.

You hear the party behind Furina collectively stop their idle chatter and stare.

Everyone looks.

Nobody says anything.

“And who is behind the creation of this…thing?”

You want to die. Truly.

Your heart is in your throat and feel sick, raising a trembling hand as you step forward, your eyes stuck to the ground.

You’re sweating, palms clammy as you take a breath, preparing to be fired in-front of Lady Furina and her circle. Shame appears to drip off your brow and onto the crevices of your cheeks.

“It was me Sir.” You mumble, your voice weak, “But it was an accident I swear!”

Looking towards Lady Furina, you bow your head, pleading silently for her forgiveness, “I never meant to offend.”

“You foolish, troublesome girl.” Hisses Champvallon, his eyes narrowed as he walks towards you.

You bite your lip, and apologise profusely although you know it will not matter.

“Lady Furina.” Champvallon says as he reaches your side, plastering an ugly smile on his furious face, concealing his bitter dissatisfaction.

“I will send someone immediately to retrieve your actual broach, please, hand that one over to one of the maids, I will dispose of it as soon as possible.”

“No need.” Lady Furina says, halting the conversation instantly with a raise of her glove covered hand.

She glances at the miserable looking broach and then towards you, you hold her gaze for a moment before she smiles, recognition flickering across her decorated eyes, finishing her examination of your face.

“I’d like to keep it.”

“Lady Furina?”

Holding the broach in her hands, she raises it to her face, almost as if fascinated by the shameful stitching and the odd colour scheme.

“Lady Furina.” Champvallon stutters, moving away from you, “Your kindness knows no bounds b-but surely you would prefer something a little more..well pleasing to the eye?”

You stare at the back of his head as he leaves your side, counting the freckles on his neck to steady yourself.

“It’s unique, it’s different, Fontainians are known for their eloquence, and I as the God of Hydro must always be challenging these trends.”

Furina peers over her hands to stare at your boss, a dainty eyebrow raised.

“You wouldn’t dare to challenge an Archons will, would you?”

Champvallon splutters, his face warming to a putrid red, his arms rising up as if pleading to surrender.

“N-No I merely thought that-”

“Then it is settled.” Lady Furina laughs, leaning back in her chair and glancing at you.

In your daze, you barely register the tiny wink she sends you way, eyes too focused on the way you broach was now sitting snug, amongst the fabric of her outfit.

It stuck out like a thorn grips the side of a rose and you grimace.

It was ugly, inarguably so.

Neuvillette clears his throat, eyes sweeping over your trembling figure.

“It was you who made this?” He ponders, head tilted slightly.

Your eyes snap to his, and you nod, it’s clumsy and awkward and you hate yourself.

“Um, yes your Honour, I made it.”

“It’s very interesting.” His voice is light, as if trying to filter out the tension pulling the conversation to a standstill, “The yellow and the pink are an unusual yet unique combination, very bright to the eye.”

You breathe out a small smile, as Lady Furina nods her head. “Yes, yes, indeed.”

“Thank you Monsieur Neuvillette, Lady Furina.”

You’re bowing again, chastising yourself for never taking the time to learn how to properly bow for an Archon, and then you’re leaving, hands still shaking, but head lifted just a little bit higher.

Furina doesn’t see you leave, too busy tracing the colours of her broach, smiling down at the terrible stitching as if it were weaved in silk and gold.

The presentation finishes with an awkward finality, with all eyes subconsciously darting down to look at your broach on Furina chest, wondering what in Fontaine their Archon was thinking.

—

You don’t know how, but Lady Furina had became a regular in your life now.

Always managing to catch your eye when you’re walking the streets of your home land.

Popping up randomly behind you just to greet you before leaving.

It appeared she worked in patterns, as if she was use to working by a routine.

You almost assume she appears there on purpose, it’s always far too convenient for it to be by chance.

“Y/N!” You hear one day, you’re sitting outside enjoying your lunch break as Lady Furina approaches you.

You hear a bustle and suddenly Fontainians are flodding the streets, clamouring over to her, crowding her.

You smile as she appears to soak up the attention, flaunting her hands in every direction, acknowledging everyone, one by one.

The people don’t seem to think about the prophecy when Focalor herself is before them, too busy trusting her with their lives to care.

You catch her gaze after a moment, and she puffs out her chest, as if trying to impress you.

Your heart aches.

You blink.

…That’s a strange feeling.

“Now now, my faithful subjects.” She begins, “I must take my leave now, I have very important business to attend to!”

You hear the groans of her people, as they beg her to stay, but reluctantly they remove themselves from her and walk away.

It’s just you and her now and she gestures for you to follow her.

You grow nervous, knowing there are watchers.

You hear them whisper behind their hands, hear them questioning why the “crazy girl from the boutique was the centre of the Hydro Archons attention.”

You cringe, but follow her anyway, your steps timid under eyes.

You think you’d follow her anywhere, but that could just be your adrenaline talking, your heart thumping within the confines of your chest.

“Lady Furina,” You say when you reach an empty alleyway, away from the eyes of Fontaine.

You pause, taking in the cracked bricks in the surrounding walls. “This is…Well- I’ll be honest it’s creepy.”

“Huh.” She says, turning to face you, “It’s more private no?”

“It’s a dark alleyway.” You deadpan.

Furina laughs, taking your hand in a wild moment of humour.

Dear God you hope you aren’t sweating.

“Never fear!” She declares, “As long as I’m here, nothing can harm you.”

Her words draw out a feeling that you don’t allow yourself to delve into, choosing instead let her hold your shaky hand without pulling away.

“I never got to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

You blush.

“For saving my career the other day.”

You see Furinas eyes move, as if trying to recall.

“Oh! The showing.”

You nod, “Thank you for…being so kind.”

You smile at her, and her eyes drops to your teeth in one fast, graceful motion before travelling back to your eyes.

“Always.” She replies, as if it was the simplest concept to her, like washing your hands or falling asleep.

Your face is on fire.

Gods your hands are definitely sweaty now.

Lady Furina shakes her head, as if pulling herself together.

“Now! I’m inviting you to tea.”

What.

“Sorry?”

“Tea. With me, together.”

“No, no I-I got that.”

She smiles, “So?”

“Why in Teyvat would you want to have tea with me?” You question, hope blooming in your chest, overpowering your habit of avoidance.

Furina stills, her face filled with confusion that you don’t get.

“You don’t want tea with me?” Shadows seem to cover her face, and you pull your hand from hers to frantically wave them in front of you.

“No no! Don’t misunderstand me! I’d love to, oh my God there’s nothing I’d enjoy more it’s just that-”

“Just that what?”

“You’re an archon?”

Furina frowns.

“What does that have to do with anything? I’m asking you to join me as a friend, not as an Archon.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Oh.”

You know of your less than extraordinary appearance, and the simplicity of your life. You know that imagining anything more with an Archon is a fantasy so baffling that it even embarrasses you.

But you still can’t fight the disappointment resonating in your chest at the stupid word “Friend”.

Furina doesn’t seem to notice your deflation, instead probing you for an answer. Her hand reaching up to hold your arm, tugging you closer to her.

There’s a hopeful, cheeky look in her eye that you think could persuade even the most hellish of Demons to stand down.

“Well? You’ll join me?”

You sigh, and try to throw on a smile.

You feel like a puppet, your grin has to be ugly, repulsive, even so, you maintain it with cracked continuity.

“Sure.”

—

What does one wear to a date visit with an Archon?

You hate everything you own.

You almost rip your nails off in frustration after the fourth attempt to dress yourself fails.

This is terrible, everything is terrible.

Archons why do you own such ugly clothes!

You hear a knock at your door, and you jump, lifting your head to see Chiori staring at you, her unwavering gaze filtered with confusion.

“Chiori?” You ask, trying to hide the mess of your room.

Or well, her room, saying you were technically leaching off of her house until you could save up enough money to move.

She raises an eyebrow, a silent question of your antics, and you sigh.

“I have nothing to wear.”

“Hm.” Chiori responds, her lip going between her teeth as she takes in the mess of your clothing.

“And since when do you care what you wear?”

You scoff, offended.

“I always care!”

“Right…”

—

You think Chiori was sent by Celestia.

No really, you do.

Especially now when you’re twirling infront of your mirror, admiring her artistry on your body.

“It’s beautiful Chirori.” You whisper, your finger tracing the delicate stitching, enamoured by the sheer amount of detail on your gown.

“It’s hardly my best.” She replies, batting your hand away to finish the seam, “But all my other work is being used for the Fashion festival.”

You grin.

“I get the leftovers then.” You say cheekily, daring to wink at her.

Chiori shakes her head, “You get what I feel is right for you, and this…” She gestures to your dress, “Does look beautiful on you.”

Thank you Celestia you repeat in your head, Thank you for finally giving me a break.

—

You meet Furina at the Palais Mermonia.

She spots you as you walk in, and beckons you to a room across the hall.

Tiny Melusines greet you, and you smile at them, reaching down to pat their little heads.

Furina stills as she takes you in, fully looking at you.

“You look different.” She states, and you stop your movements entirely.

“You’re dressed…” Furina trails off, and your face warms.

“Nicely?” You finish, a teasing smile on your lips, “For a change?”

She shakes her head.

“You always look nice, it’s just jarring to see you wear something so well fitting.”

Her eyes trail along your figure, and you flush, your mind unable to comprehend your compliment.

Furina suddenly pulls herself out of her trance and smiles, putting out a hand for you to take.

“Never-mind that now!” She beams, “Desert time! Come, come!”

And you’re alone with Furina, your hand in hers.

She leads you over to a table adorned with confectionery to last over a hundred life times.

“Do you drink tea? Or would you rather Fonta?” She asks, turning her head to glance at you, and you rip your eyes away from your conjoined hands.

“Uh, tea, tea is good.”

Lady Furina looks at you, her eyebrow raised, “Alright, sugar?”

“Huh!!?”

“Sugar? As in, do you want sugar?”

“Oh! Yes of course!”

You pause, and Furina continues to look at you.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you taking sugar?”

Dear God, how are you so pathetic?

“Yes please.” You say silently, embarrassment morphing your face, forcing your head to fall to look at the floor.

Furina sets your tea in front of you, before pulling a chair over to sit next to you.

She watches the way your body seems to shrink in on itself, you hand fiddling with the loose fabric of your gown.

You nervous, and Furina scowls.

She doesn’t like this.

“What’s going on hm?” She asks plainly, and you restrain yourself from jumping at her forwardness.

“I-I’m sorry?” You attempt to delay, taking a sip of your tea, burning your mouth.

“You seem..off.” Furina says, her voice slightly drawn out, a frown on her features. “Have I done something?”

“What? No! Absolutely not you haven’t done anything…” You stammer out, a fake laugh breaking the barriers of your teeth as you try to compose yourself.

“Then why-”

Your eyes dart around the table, choosing to make eye contact with the bread than with her.

“It’s just a lot like wow I’m having tea with a God!”

Furina stirs her tea slowly, her eyebrows furrowed.

“I thought we were past this?”

“Sorry?”

“You seeing me as a God?”

You blink, and Furina takes a sip of her tea.

“You..You are a God though, you’re my God?”

Furina thinks the tea turns sour in her mouth.

“Technically, I suppose so, but I believe us to be friends?” She sets her cup down, and looks at you, her cheeks slightly red. “Am I mistaken?”

You clamour to explain yourself, your arms reaching out as if trying to slow time, ignoring the painful tug of your heart at that stupid word again.

“N-No of course we’re friends!” You stammer, “It’s just…Well I-”

“Then there’s no reason for you to be nervous.”

You nod.

And then something happens.

Something switches.

And suddenly Furina isn’t merely looking at you,

She examining you.

“Unless.” She starts, and you feel a truly dreadful sinking feeling within your chest.

“Unless there’s..Something else bothering you?”

And every facial expression you display is analysed before you, every twitch of your eyebrow, the way your eyes widen and the way you seem to stop breathing.

Furina leans forward, an emotion so humanly desperate flickering across her face.

An emotion she is yet to understand.

Your lips part and you truly do not know what to say.

It’s foolish, to ever consider yourself worthy to share a reciprocated love with your God you remind yourself bitterly.

You’re confused, anguished, disheartened by her referral to you as a friend and yet, you do not know what to say.

So you clear your throat.

And breathe in.

“I do not know what you mean Lady Furina.” You whisper, and it’s wrong, wrong, wrong.

And Lady Furina waits only a sheer second, before she’s leaning back in her chair and raising her head.

Somethings off.

“Then let’s us drink together as friends.”

You could swear then, that Lady Furina looked human.

You would stand trial on the fact that you saw her deflate with disappointment in the most mortal like way. You’d swear an oath.

But then you blink and the Hydro Archon blinks back.

And you’re sure you were mistaken.

—

There’s rumours in Fontaine.

There’s rumours everywhere, this isn’t a new concept to you.

But this is different, this rumour makes your blood freeze in your veins.

You heard it after you walked home from the boutique, a group of local Poisson men whispering under their breath.

“Lady Furina isn’t Fontaine’s Archon.”

You pause, turning your head as subtly as you could, creeping closer as to listen to their words.

You’re not a silent stalker and so they see you immediately.

They glare at you as they leave and you’re left confused as they made their way back to Poisson.

The next you hear of them, they’re dead.

Dissolved in the rising water.

You throw up when you see their faces in the paper, along with the heading “Fontaine’s Archon Fails Her People.”

You have faith.

You have faith.

You have faith.

—

Your faith dies with your Archon on the day of her trial.

You don’t go, you never go to trials.

But you know the happenings as if you were there to witness.

You find yourself running towards the Opera Epiclese, tripping over your own feet when the words “Death Penalty” reach your ears.

It’s silent.

Oh so silent.

And then the rain starts, and the tides grow.

And you can’t make it to the staircase of the Epiclese due to the water filling your lungs.

You’re drowning.

Screaming out bubbles of prayers to an Archon that isn’t yours.

Betrayal wrecks through your body and you’re drowning.

You’re drowning.

You’re drowning.

You’re drowning.

—

Furina cries on her watery throne.

Mourning the loss of her people, her home, her facade.

She thinks of you, briefly, thinks of your face, your clothes, your eyes.

Letting herself smile gently, she allows her tears to wash away her role.

It was nice to play a God.

If only she could save them.

—

.

.

.

.

You’re nervous.

You keep pacing back and fourth, pathetically trying to figure out a way in which you can knock on the door of Furina’s house, and speak with her like humans.

After the flood, you found yourself bed bound, your lips tainted blue and breath engulfing you so vigorously that you coughed until your eyes stung red.

The man who saved you kissed your hand when you woke up, crying out that he thought you wouldn’t make it.

You smile at him and thank him.

“I owe you my life.” You had whispered.

Lady Furina was no longer Fontaines Archon.

Gone into a state like hiding from the public, terrified of their outrage.

The nurse that cared for you, informed you of as much, recounting how the Iudex Neuvillette had saved Fontaine, saved you.

And you cried when she left you, tucked up in a hospital bed, weeping over the unknown.

You can’t face her. You conclude.

Not because you didn’t want to but because you had absolutely no idea how to begin.

Would she still regard you with such kindness despite you knowing everything?

How do you convey how you feel for her, when you truly do not know who she even is?

You heart sinks to your stomach and you walk away, hands dropping to your sides. Forcing yourself to move on, and to let fate guide you as far away from Fontaine as it could lead.

You hear a door open, but don’t make the connection until you hear your name being called from behind.

“Y/N!”

You freeze, glancing over your shoulder timidly, staring towards the very God woman you had grown so fond of.

Staring at you humbly on her doorstep.

“Lady-Miss Furina.” You reply, your hands trembling and voice shaking, turning to face her fully.

Her cheeks were flushed as though she made her way to the door in a hurry, eyes narrowed and yet you could not see a trace of annoyance in the depths of her pupils.

“You-” She starts, breathless as if realising that her action of following you would lead to confrontation for the first time, “I saw you.” She pointed up to her arched windows and your face flushes, mortified.

Of course she had.

You say nothing, trying to think of an excuse, anything to dissipate the tension you feel in your bones.

“…You weren’t going to come in?” She questions, her voice small, unbefitting for a woman who use to bellow to the masses with the unfiltered confidence of a Deity.

And you stare, and stare and stare . Your eyes moving over her face, her attire, the stupid bow on her hat.

You’re utterly speechless, profoundly so.

Unable to say anything of value to the woman in which you swore that you-

Furina sighs, her shoulders dropping, hat slipping forward on her head.

Taking your silence for resentment, she accepts your unfettered anger as atonement for her sins.

“I see.” She mumbles plainly, turning to go back inside her house.

And it’s said with such bitter regret and vile disappointment that you find words spilling from the confines of your lips, desperate to call her back.

“I quit.” You frantically say, voice meek.

And Furina stops so you continue.

“Working for Chiori.” You clarify, taking a step forward.

The sun appears to intrude on your conversation, the early morning light presenting itself from behind the brazen buildings of Fontaine, eager to listen.

It makes her complexion golden, the blue strands of her hair, now short, appearing to glow in its wake.

Furina opens her mouth, then closes it, shaking her head defiantly before he’s facing you again, and you’re so close yet so far.

“I needed a change.” You whisper, and she appears to lean closer to hear you, to read the way the words fall from your lips.

You don’t know why this is the first thing you wish to discuss with Furina.

There’s countless other things you could spew, the mirage of questions you have resting in the back of your throat, the confused, recount of events, yet you chose to say none of it for sake of talking about yourself.

You’re selfish, perhaps cruel, but God you just wanted to talk to her.

Furina looks at you, her eyes wide, the sun catches the blue and draws out the sparkle as she looks at you. You drown.

“I’m…I’m glad.” She whispers, “You hated it there.”

“I did.”

You step towards her, keeping your hands still, resting at your sides limp.

“You-” You start, clearing your voice, terrified to overstep, “I mean- Did you hate being an Archon?”

Furina doesn’t move, her cheeks painted rouge with the mention of her role.

Then slowly, subtly, she nods, once up and once down. You almost miss it.

You smile, your eyes crinkling trying to express your endless empathy through one look.

“Then I’m glad you stepped down.”

And Furina wants to kiss you.

She feels it in her mortal soul, amid the beautifully soft way you voice your smile, the desire to be human with you and to make you hers.

She breathes and you watch.

“I’ll miss your silly clothes.” Furina sighs, and you giggle.

“I still wear my silly clothes.” You bite back, and she shakes her head before moving a finger along the underside of your jaw.

“You’re beautiful.” She says, and you take her role of silence, stunned.

Furina lifts her hand, and places it on your cheek, looking down avoiding your eye. “And so boundlessly fascinating.”

“I can’t quite explain it I just-”

You cut her off when you kiss her.

Breathing in her confession and replacing it with your own.

Two mortal souls intertwined as one on her doorstep.

She responds by pulling you closer, trailing her hand to the back of your head and smiling against your lips.

You’re not a seamstress and she’s not an Archon and yet, in this moment that’s okay.

Everything is okay.

feel free to leave a request!

Masterlist <3

artwork credits

A/N- when i say i have been wanting to write this for MONTHS i mean it- i am just so BOUNDLESSLY sick of wlw fics being fetishised and the lack of like a good wlw comfort fic in any character x reader was bothering me ! so thank u to anyone who gives this a try and reads it ! i appreciate you so so so much !!!

ALSO when i say the reader’s fashion is strange or unflattering I HAVE BEEN OBSESSED with insane 19th century dresses so i made a collection of outfits PSA when i say she (the readers) fashion is questionable I MEAN IT <3 i imagine my lovely little failed seamstress makes her own clothes from time to time bc although she’s not good at her job, she still enjoys being creative

if ur interested i made a post of her outfits here :)

thank u so so so much for reading i love u i love u i love u

[babushkatty]

Tranquil SAGAU - Part 2

-> Part 1

-> Part 3

"How does it feel like, to fly?" You asked idly, cuddling into Dvalin's feathered, soft back.

"I could show you," is what you got for an answer.

And so here you were, flying over Mondstadt (the country) and being utterly speechless at how little justice the game did to the utter beauty of it all.

Hills of grass and farmlands (it made so much sense for Mondstadt to be a country of agriculture, of farming, how had you not thought of it before?) rolled lazily wherever the eye could see, stretching well over the horizon.

Forests swayed with the wind as Dvalin flied by, lush crowns blending into one another and protecting the animals underneath.

Lakes and rivers cut through the monotony of greens and browns with a brilliant blue, sparkling in the sun like Edward Cullen.

The mountains of Liyue, so small you had the impulse to grab them into your hands despite how far away they were, were like an extension of Mondstadt -- a slow and steady rise from a mere molehill to a towering behemoth overlooking the vast world.

Dragonspine, instead of playing into the beauty of Mondstadt, seemed to go directly against it. Using it to enhance its' own presence, to have your eye stray and appreciate the cold, ethereal mountain of snow and ice instead. It looked deceptively peaceful from so far away - the nearly permament snow storm looking like a translucent garb shrugged elegantly onto white robes of an indifferent jade beauty, whose mere gaze could freeze you to death.

And Mondstadt (the city) looked like a mere speck of dust in the grand scheme of it all.

"How pretty," you couldn't help but say, head swaying to and fro as you enjoy the view and the gentle winds from where you sat, sprawled out like a starfish on the dragon's back.

You kind of saw a pattern there, but you certaintly weren't complaining.

Dvalin huffs a laugh.

"It is only natural, Teyvat was made by the All-Mother. Anything made by their hand is bound to be beautiful."

You laugh, loud and unrestrained and uncaring, because there was no one to scold you for being yourself anymore, "Indirectly complimenting yourself, are you?"

And Dvalin laughs too, a deep rumble of a laugh that has him dipping in altitude for a moment before he rights himself.

It was nice.

"I'm hungry."

"Then we shall land."

.　 . • ☆ . ° . • ° : . * ₊ ° . ☆

While you ate some fruits that a few adorable squirrels offered to you almost as soon as you landed (which made you melt into a puddle of happiness again, because they were so cute it hurt and they let you pet them a few times before they left), Dvalin made himself comfortable and started speaking. He wove stories like a master seamstress --of Teyvat, of Mondstadt, of Barbatos and of his own past--, giving birth to such vivid imaginery that you almost felt like you were there with him while it all happened.

He was a great storyteller.

The years of friendship between him and Venti probably contributed to it, there is only so long you can go without picking up a few things from an insistent friend after all.

"Durin was a pitiful creature. An artificial existence made by an arrogant Alchemist of Khaenri'ah in a futile attempt to recreate the All-Mother's miracle of creation, wishing for freedom and friendship but unable to attain them."

Dvalin huffs.

"I had to strike him down, for the safety of Mondstadt. And even on his death bed, not once had he blamed me nor Barbatos, merely wishing we had met in better circumstances."

The mood turns somber.

"His heart still beats in Dragonspine," you say after a while.

Dvalin exhales a long and drawn out breath.

"You will be able to put him to rest, once you grow stronger. It is merely a matter of time."

Quiet protests of you not being the All-Mother, of you simple being (Name) and nothing else, are quickly shoved to the back of your mind and ignored.

Instead, you ask why he believed so.

"You have purged me of the Abyssal filth that had tortured me for centuries with your mere presence, despite having descended only recently. That is enough confirmation."

You blink in suprise.

Didn't that mean you were much earlier in the timeline that you thought?

Huh.

Something to think through while you monch on the fruits.

Then again, did it really matter how early into the timeline you transmigrated? You weren't an ambitious person and you didn't crave adventure and excitement. People like you manned the market stalls rather than making a difference.

...you probably jinxed yourself.

☆(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ* ✨ Author Note✨

Countdown to All-Mother dearest jinxing themselves and making a difference - however long it takes me to write the next chapter!

Now, ✨how do I taglist people cuties✨

I am trying to tag someone but the @ can't find them, someone heeeeeeelp I'm poking and fat-fingering everything on their profile but it doesn't work :(

Also, if someone is bored of boring music check out The Kiffness on youtube, I'm having a Kiffness x Goat collab on repeat and it's dope af.

Kookee kookee with a cockatiel is dope too.

And the cat jams.

He has a whole playlist of just cat jams, what more does a coach potat like me need?

[jollyinmadness]

Of Canopies and Twines: Chapter 1, Solas | Azriel x OFC

Pairing: Azriel x Original Female Character

Word Count: 8.3k

Warnings: Minor Azriel x Elain. References to sexual thoughts. Very vague references to a genocide. Cursing.

Summary:

When an unknown curse starts spreading through the Night Court's lands, the Inner Circle is forced to seek help in the wisdom of Day's vast libraries. Among the dusty tomes, they are met with a mysterious female who wields magic that may yet be the key to their problem.

Kira, one of the few surviving Purifiers, will have to leave her reclusiveness on the shores of the Continent and learn what her ancestor's vow really means.

Azriel will be forced to reconcile his follies, step out from his shadows and push against his shortcoming with nothing but the scarred skin of his hands.

After years of lucky breaks, will the Inner Circle succeed one last time? Or will their fate rest in the hands of an outsider who has more to lose than gain in helping them?

Then again, the Cauldron is forever being stirred by the Mother and no one escapes the yarn on the embroidery of their lives.

Azriel’s hands were hidden under his armpits as he walked the empty streets of Velaris. The faelights in the Palace of Thread and Jewels still shone brightly, though many of the shops had their doors shut and signs turned to say ‘closed.’ 

He had just left a seamstress’s shop and regretted not accepting a jacket for the suit Rhysand ordered on his behalf. Despite having many in his closet, Rhysand noted that he only owned outdated ones and needed to, quote, freshen up. After a few adjustments, the seamstress had ushered him into the cold street with a smile, saying she was celebrating tonight and needed to get ready too. 

During the longest night of the year, even this part of the town closed down, its habitants retiring to dining rooms with their families. As Azriel passed by houses that hadn’t closed their blinds, he dared to peek in if even for the smallest moment. More often than not, he saw children running around a table while the adults prepared utensils and plates, scolding the little ones for not being careful enough. It caused the corners of his mouth to lift, seeing these people so free of worry that they didn’t even care to draw their curtains. 

His feet moved on their own accord, walking the familiar paths. Something unsettled and grew restless inside his bones as he thought of the estate he was heading to. This year, his own family was meeting in the River House to celebrate the Winter Solstice and the attendance was bound to be plentiful. 

He had already helped Feyre decorate, while Rhysand looked after little Nyx. This year would mark his first Solstice and everyone was eager to make it the most memorable one. Nyx put up the first decoration on the tree but when he was handed a garland from paper, he had torn it in half which elicited a laugh from Azriel and a gentle scolding from both his parents.

Considering he was Rhysand’s son, he was surely going to be a handful once he learned how to talk back and run away.

During it all, Azriel had noted Cassian’s lack of presence, though his brother was most likely hunting down some last-minute gifts before the shops closed for the evening. And last he heard, his mate was up in the House of Wind, preparing with Emerie and Gwyn. Emerie had been spending the last few days with her and Azriel could tell the Illyrian female felt out of place here even after months of daily training. The priestess, on the other hand, had promised Nesta she would spend the dinner with her, before returning to the Library for the evening service. 

Gwyn had shown so much growth since her arrival to Velaris and after the Rite, after she cut the ribbon, Azriel noted how she looked to the sky with a renowned longing. Some of the fear and reluctance had fallen off and in its place had grown courage and curiosity. Perhaps her trip to the River House was a stepping stone.

His mind shifted to the rest that were bound to be present and Azriel wondered what Elain was up to. Whether she was trying on dresses and picking out the ones Azriel would love to see on the ground of his private quarters. 

He hadn’t seen her since a few days ago when he had walked past the kitchen in the River House and beared witness to her gentle chuckles. Her hands were covered in flour and his two trusted shadow wraiths talked in hushed voices to her. Not even his shadows were quick enough to catch onto what was being said because when the three had noticed him, their words died down just like their laughter. 

Cerridwen and Nuala had sketched a quick bow to Azriel, much to his dismay but Elain only stared at him with those wide, doe-like eyes. It had made the air in the kitchen warmer and as she offered him a soft smile. He had disappeared into the shadows after nodding at her. Nodding. 

What a fool he was, pining after a female who was mated to another male, let alone allowing himself such a visceral reaction to simple things like smiles. Foolish, indeed. 

Feyre had mentioned in passing that Lucien was bound to make an appearance during the night. He didn’t let himself feel insulted. The voice inside his head was telling him that Feyre could see right through him and thought him fragile. He didn’t need to be notified of guests, especially Lucien.

Azriel sighed, blowing a white cloud into the biting air and hoped Rhysand had enough chairs for everyone. 

A shiver ran through him when, at last, the front gate to the River House appeared at the far end of the street. He quickened his pace, hands pushing the gate open. His dress shoes clicked against the stone walkway leading to the front door and before he reached for the knob, he pulled at his suit. His scarred hand ran through his hair, fixing and making sure he looked presentable before tackling the entirety of the Inner Circle. 

The shadows curled around his ear, telling him that everyone was already somewhere in the house except for Amren and Varian, who were Mother-knew where and doing Mother-knew what. Azriel didn’t care enough to know. 

With one last inhale, he braced himself for an eventful evening and opened the door. He followed the sound of chatter and bottles clinging to the decorated family room where everyone was gathered. 

The first person to notice his entrance was Cassian. “Az, brother, there you are!”

He came up to Azriel, stuffing a crystal glass full of aged rum into his hand and wrapping a shoulder around him. Cassian was already inebriated, Azriel could tell as their wings brushed on accident. Nesta sent subtle stares their way from the corner of the room while nursing a cup of grape juice and making sure he was still standing upright. She made some comment to the two Valkyries near her, making them giggle while watching.

Cassian and Nesta were still considered to be newly mated and Azriel avoided the House of Wind with fervor. Especially after Feyre and Rhysand had given it to them as a mating gift. He had been planning on vacating his room and moving to the Townhouse way before that but he dreaded packing all of the trinkets decorating his shelves. He would have missed the silence too hadn’t it been replaced by sounds of rabid fucking. Even the dining table wasn’t safe from their ministrations and a small part of Azriel grew jealous at it.

“You should stop with the drinks if you plan on participating tomorrow,” muttered Azriel, still cheering his glass with Cassian’s.

Cassian laughed, the sound joyous and open. “I will end your winning streak this year, spymaster.”

“No, I think it will mark my two hundredth win,” Azriel remarks absentmindedly, elbow shoving itself into Cassian’s ribs. Cassian didn’t take to that lightly and while balancing his almost empty glass, he put Azriel into a chokehold with a boom of laughter. He ruffled his hair while promising utter devastation come tomorrow morning. 

Cassian’s technique wasn’t sloppy despite being drunk but it took one smooth move for Azriel to free himself and knock back the contents of his glass.

“I would save the energy, Cass,” he told him, unfastening the button on his jacket.

Cassian grinned. “Or I can beat you now and eliminate the competition.” 

Before they could begin to play-wrestle, Feyre cleared her throat, staring them down. “No fighting in front of Nyx,” she reminded them. “Besides, Az just arrived and you’re already wrinkling his suit! Get off of him, Cassian.”

“A suit I paid good money for,” whispered Rhys from beside his mate, his ankle resting atop his knee. The tips of Azriel’s ears went red and once he pushed Cassian off, he heard a soft, female chuckle behind him. 

Without a thought, he turned his head, his shadows scattering at the sight in the doorway. Words escaped him like they always did in Elain’s presence and instead, he stared down at her. 

Her hair was done half-up half-down, decorated with little white flowers she was sure were grown by her own gentle hands. Baby breaths, he recalled her saying. As his face traveled from those brown eyes looking at him with mirth, his breath caught somewhere on its way from his lungs and to his mouth. A light pink dress made of the softest fabric adorned her curves, pooling and shimmering around her feet like a waterfall. The color and the design reminded him of that one time he stayed in the Day Court. Sun had just risen and painted the entire sky a brilliant pink and small puffy white clouds dusted the horizon.

At once, he willed his shadows to enshroud him again and stepped from the doorway, his eyes never leaving hers. His only thought was on that necklace in his breast pocket, still undecided on whether he should give it to her or not. Seeing her, he couldn’t help but notice that the little rose pendant would go perfectly with the dress. There and then, his mind was made. He would put the petite box on the pile later once everyone had gone to sleep. 

Somebody behind her cleared their throat and it was the only reason Azriel noticed the fire-haired male. 

Lucien’s stare softened considerably as the golden eye shifted from Azriel the moment their eyes met. The emissary chose to ignore him, instead put a gentle hand on Elain’s upper back that Azriel traced with his eyes. As they crossed over the threshold, it was all he could do once the scent of their unaccepted mating bond filled the room. 

Sometimes, Azriel thought to himself, the Mother had a cruel sense of humor. 

Azriel leaned against the wall, letting the murmur of his shadows take the attention from Elain and Lucien. He listened, ignoring questioning stares from Rhysand and focusing on the sauntering female making her way to the family room. 

He turned his head just in time to be met with Mor’s profile appearing in the doorway. She was holding a bottle of wine and smiling, love filling her eyes as they went over everyone present. The familiar faces and the new. Azriel noticed how she took a while to look at the Illyrian female next to Nesta and he noticed Emerie staring right back. He bit back the small smirk fighting to be shown. Though once she had her fill, the last person whom she graced with her glance was Azriel. 

They shared a knowing look and at last, it was void of any tension or anxiety. “Hey, Az,” she said, a gentle smile on her lips. 

He dipped his chin. “Mor.”

He saw a flurry of brown hair before a muffled “Mor!” was exclaimed into the female’s chest. Mor recoiled due to the impact and suddenly, Feyre was hugging the Morrigan, not caring for propriety in front of guests. 

Rhysand’s cousin had been spending more time in Vallahan than in the Night Court, forging alliances and still not succeeding in convincing the Queen to sign the peace treaty. She tried to visit as much as she could and sent many letters through Azriel’s spies concerning the foreign kingdom. He worried for her, hearing just how proud the people in Vallahan were and the schemes the court was prone to. 

“Feyre, please, don’t crush me before I can make it through the doorway.”

“I’m so glad you could make it for the dinner,” she murmurs into her chest before pulling away and taking in the red gown Mor had put on. It earned a hum of approval from her High Lady and Mor wiggled her eyebrows, whispering something into Feyre’s ear and making her laugh. 

Azriel stepped away, moving further inside the room though the wall was his preferred place. Feyre had handed off Nyx to Elain, who was rocking the baby on her hip while conversing with the Valkyries. Gwyn was wearing her usual priestess robes and cooed at the small Illyrian. The middle Archeron sister was smiling unabashedly, sending something warm trickling down Azriel’s chest. 

“Brother,” Rhysand greeted, breaking him out of the reverie and lifting a bottle to fill his glass. With a cocked brow, Rhysand poured the liquor and walked away from Azriel without another word, leaving the shadowsinger hanging in the air.

Rhysand stopped in front of his mate, kissing her temple without sparing Azriel another second of his attention after filling his glass. It left an unsure feeling behind but he brushed it off, convincing himself to have misread the slippage of his brother’s mask. 

— ✾ —

It was only after an hour filled with Mor’s complaining about being hungry and Cassian’s grunts of approval that Varian and Amren arrived. Azriel knew the moment Rhysand’s second had walked through the front door of the River House and his shadows notified him that Amren’s lipstick was smudged, and Varian was rubbing a handkerchief along his face.

It made Azriel swear up the Cauldron as he began rethinking his decision to come to this particular family dinner. It wasn’t often that he chose to, rather opting for eating by his lonesome in the House of Wind. The smell of people’s scents mixed in the aftermath of sex was something akin to strangulation and Azriel liked to enjoy his meals without the sensation.

Rhysand turned away from Amren and Varian, clasping his hands together and announcing, “It’s time we feast!”

Cassian whooped alongside of Mor, and they were the first ones on Rhysand’s heels. At the left-hand side of the family room were double doors, too, decorated with garlands and ribbons. Rhysand pushed down on each handle, leading the grand entrance to a refurbished dining room. 

Azriel’s shadows skittered around him as they watched everyone enter. In hushed voices, they began counting those walking through the threshold and Azriel fought the urge to roll his eyes. 

As much as everyone assumed he had complete control over his little shadows, they were sentient creatures fascinated by the simplest things. It wasn’t a coincidence that shadowsingers were oftentimes spies, because while the shadows liked talking, they adored observing and reporting everything to their master whose job was to pick out the important information. 

And so, Azriel had to ignore his shadows gushing about a new table that could now fit not ten people but twelve! Once they were sure their master knew of the fact his shadows returned to counting. 

There’s four, five, six. Seven. Eight, nine, ten and eleven, and twelve. 

Amren had taken the head of the table, leading Varian to sit next to her with their intertwined hands.

Mor chose to be the mediator between Lucien and Elain and ignored all the sideways glances the emissary sent her way as she laid a hand on the back of the chair. The little smile she sent Elain did not escape Azriel either. While everyone had chosen their seats, Azriel entered last, closing the door behind him with his back to the group. 

There’s the thirteenth. Such a lucky number. 

In all his years spent in Velaris, Azriel failed to remember a time when a dining room was this full. The new table added two extra seats and dwarfed the room in comparison to how it used to be. Everyone made themselves comfortable, shucking off jackets and laying them across the backs of their chairs. 

Azriel hadn’t had the chance to pick where he wanted to sit and as he turned to the room, he had come to realize with an odd mix of relief and disdain that his seat was between Nesta and Varian. Pick of the litter, then. 

The seats have been specially altered to accommodate winged individuals and while Azriel settled into his chair, he was at least grateful that his closest companions lacked any membranous monstrosities protruding from their backs. Were he sat next to inebriated Cassian, he’d have to focus his attention there and leave his shadows with filling up the blanks. 

As food started appearing one plate after another, Azriel took in where the rest of the people were sat. He was facing Feyre and Rhysand, Nyx placed into a tiny chair between theirs. Cassian was occupying the other head of the table and already spoke to Elain in hushed tones to the best of his abilities. To the General’s other side was Gwyn, then Emerie and Nesta. One of his newer shadows notified him that Emerie couldn’t take her eyes from Rhysand’s cousin and that she blushed when their eyes met. 

A table of this size offered a lot of variety and where there was space between statement pieces, candelabras and flowers, there was food or drink. Once the sound of cutlery filled the room, the conversation fell off and comments about the food were exchanged. The feast, as Rhysand called it, was truly one for the books. 

Oh, the beef. It’s delicious. 

Could you hand me more of the potatoes, Lucien? 

Is there any more wine on your end of the table?

We should do this more often. 

The exchanges appeared awkward to Azriel and the small talk he had to endure from Varian made him want to retreat further into his shadows. All throughout the main course he felt Rhysand’s eyes on him but when he went to meet his High Lord’s stare, he had already turned away. 

As the food dwindled and the fae lights dimmed down to a comfortable glow, many different conversations were going on. Feyre talked to Lucien while letting Rhysand feed their son and the Valkyries were explaining their training to Mor, who had been unaware of all the progress the priestesses had made. 

Gwyn was in the middle of explaining the new technique that she discovered while helping Merill with her research when she offhandedly mentioned a thing that elicited a groan from Nesta and Emerie.

Cassian, dragged out from his conversation with Elain, drew back. “What? What happened?” he questioned, brows drawn together in confusion. 

“It’s the long-lost kingdom again,” explained Nesta and Cassian ah’d with some recognition, nodding along.

Gwyn blushed a deep crimson. "I promised Nesta not to talk about it," she sent a glare to the mentioned female over Emerie's head. "So I won't."

Nesta rolled her eyes but it couldn't be taken seriously because as she looked down, one corner of her mouth was lifted up.

"To talk about what?" asked Feyre from the other end of the table, cutting her conversation with Lucien short. The male was already tilting his body towards the priestess, eyes straying to his mate before focusing wholeheartedly back on Gwyn. 

Gwyn met Feyre's kind gaze. "I've finally started my own research and these three hear too much about it."

Something struck Azriel's chest on the left-hand side as he realized he was not included in the explanation. His shadows stilled and watched Gwyn. 

"Oh?" mused Feyre back. She settled her chin on the heel of her palm, smiling gently at the priestess. “What is it about?"

Almost taken aback by the attention she was getting from her High Lady, it had taken her a moment to get the words out. "It's this extinct nation– or at least many think it's extinct. They just about fell off the face of this world five hundred years ago."

There were more blank faces around the table as even Amren drew her unsettling gaze to Gwyn. Now, everyone was listening to her and even Elain let her gentle and encouraging eyes rest on her small form.

What a kindness she thinks she’s offering, one shadow hissed and coiled around his ear. 

Gwyn’s hand reached up to play with a strand of coppery hair, continuing, "Truly, there are barely any records on its fall, some books on its existence and even less on their emergence."

"You do love a challenge, Gwyn," muttered Nesta, earning a gleaming smile from Gwyn. 

"That I do," she responded, almost sheepish. "The last scriptures go back to a few decades before the War. It's unheard of that a kingdom from the continent is not mentioned in writing."

Mor shuffled in her seat, holding the glass of wine in front of her with both hands and offering an inquisitive look to Gwyn. "Is it Severín, by any chance?" 

"Yes," she breathed out, the realization that many of them are as old as five hundred dawning over her. "You fought in the War, didn't you?" she asked, this time with more gentleness. She looked to Cassian who was pushing his food around and nodding lightly, the tone of the conversation still easygoing, edging on clinical.

"We all did," stated Mor, her mood growing more serious with each sip she took. "I went there once but decades after it had fallen to aid an old friend."

"You were there for the liberation of Black Land?" she inquired, earning a nod and a small smile from Mor. She had connected the dots fast enough that it pleased her. 

"I offered my help to Drakon and Myriam, yes. I would not be wrong to suggest you know who they were." 

The use of past tense didn’t escape Azriel.

"Could I—" she started but faltered before she got too ahead of herself. But before she could find better words or consider a better timing, Mor lifted a gentle hand. 

"You can ask any questions you want. I'll come to the library tomorrow for a few hours and I'll make sure to find you."

For a moment, Gwyn was left speechless before she stammered out a quick, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she uttered, before looking around the table. "We wouldn't want to bore these people with the recounting of ancient history."

"I, for one," said Feyre pointedly while fixing Nyx's clothes, "would love to hear more about this fallen kingdom. I don't get to read as much anymore."

Nesta bit back a grin, turning to her sister with a goodhearted smile. "Anymore? You were illiterate a few years ago."

A few reluctant giggles escaped the present and even Azriel had to hide his smile. Feyre gasped, resting her palms on the table and looking in feigned disbelief at her oldest sister. Rhysand looked to his wife, a smile splitting his face in half. "And whose fault is that?"

This broke the hesitance, light laughter echoing around the room and even Amren cracked a smirk.

Feyre hummed, letting her chin rest against her palm again. "But about the Black Land... Is it not the same as what Mor said? Severing, or something?"

"Severín, my lady," corrected gently Gwyn, letting Feyre copy the hard r's in her own time. She gave her an encouraging smile once she got it right. "But they're not the same, though they existed in the same place within Rask."

“I think I've seen it on one of the older maps, near where the Wall would be," wondered aloud Feyre and her mate gave her a nod, confirming her guess. "Is it close to that mountain range with a river? The northern one."

"Yes, the Vistula River,” she nodded at Feyre. “There’s a legend involving the Severínians and the river delta. Supposedly, before they ever settled in Rask’s territory, the region was surrounded by a desert and there was no vegetation unless you were close to the seashore. And even then it was only rocky ridges, not fit for cultivating crops.”

“But something changed,” muttered Feyre playfully, enchanted by the story Gwyn was gladly unraveling for her. 

“Something did change. ‘When the Severínians finally decided to settle, rivers sprang from the mountains and created a cradle for a new kingdom to rise from.’ It’s a quote from a diary of a Raskan traveler. The name ‘Vistula’ actually means to flow slowly and its roots are in the Severínian language.”

Feyre smiled at the little tidbit of information. “Do we know what urged them to settle there? If there was no life there, it must have been a hard decision to make.”

“I asked myself the same thing! We do know that they were a nomadic people, that their archetypal features were feathered wings. Individuals with pale hair were denoted to have powers. That actually created a new branching in the classification of magic. I saw some scholars give them the title of ‘purifiers.’”

Mor nodded along with the explanation as if everything that came out of Gwyn’s mouth was just confirmation of something she had already known.

“They had a so-called affinity for ‘life’ and it was sought after by many rulers at that time. They could grow crops within a few hours which would otherwise take months under normal circumstances. They made for very good healers and menders and no one had ever described them as violent. Actually, they were quite a docile people. One of their saying was something along the lines of ‘to live is to be gifted and to serve is to protect.’”

“Do you think they had never settled before because someone would have come to take their freedom away—simply because of what they possessed?” asked Feyre again with a thoughtful expression. 

“Perhaps,” agreed Gwyn calmly and judging by her change of expression, the silence around the table came to her with a force of a thousand bricks. Alarmed, she looked around at the present and realized that everyone, including Amren, was fully focused on what she was saying. Shadows notified Azriel that Varian on his right had sent Gwyn a smile before saying that he had never known anything about this kingdom. 

“Rask had never taken lightly to someone encroaching on their territory.  They might be the reason why this kingdom has been ‘wiped’ from the collective memory,” offered Rhysand. 

Mor scoffed, agreeing with her cousin. “Especially if they offered refuge to humans who could have been a workforce in their salt mines instead.”

“Refuge?” Feyre turned her attention to Mor, brows furrowed. “What do you mean by refuge?”

The blonde female looked to her High Lady, skillfully avoiding Lucien’s whirring gold eye. “Before their fall and before Rask had turned it into Black Land, they allowed humans to live side by side with them and even earn their keep. It was unheard of at that time since most of the Courts even in Prythian considered humans slaves.”

“The talks of human rights were nothing but murmurs within chosen circles,” concluded Rhysand, swirling the wine in his cup. “Shame, Severín could have made for good allies during the War.”

“They would not have fought,” spoke up Amren all of a sudden, surprising even Rhysand into stumped silence. 

He frowned, facing his second and declared, “You are right. They wouldn’t have but they were the only example of Fae and mortals living in peace together. That could have made a difference.”

“The fools were so in love with peace, they wouldn’t have sided with foreigners even if it cost them their lives. Which it did anyway.”

Azriel thought to himself that it was perhaps the biggest reaction Amren had given in the past year and since the day she crawled out of the Cauldron. It wasn’t often that this ancient female chose to speak her mind but something had grated against her at the mention of this long-lost kingdom. 

“Rask is a nation of conquerors,” said Amren, her hand playing with a ruby necklace adorning her collarbone. It twinkled in the candlelight of the table and the danger of her eyes. “They wouldn’t have given in where they didn’t have to.”

Mor sucked on the inside of her cheek before responding, “So they chose to sack a peaceful people?”

“Their feud wasn’t just some baseless thing, dusted over by centuries of anger. Those Severínians,” she had spat out the name like spoiled food, “had settled in Raskan territory, knowing damn well where they were.”

“They were the ones who created life there, not Rask,” argued Mor.

Amren’s ageless gaze moved sideways. “So the legend goes.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

She sat up, leaning on her elbows and zeroing in on Mor with a poise of a predator. “What I mean, Morrigan, is that not everything written in those books and scriptures is fact. It takes one desperate generation to rewrite what has truly happened.”

“Are you insinuating that those people deserved getting slaughtered?”

Amren bared her teeth. “All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t let someone with that magic anywhere near me. It’s not of this world and trust my word, I would know.”

Azriel’s shadows had stilled with the exchange, murmurs of questions and curiosity filling his ears. He just watched on as Mor and Amren exchanged heated glances, bared their teeth. Between them, Feyre massaged the space between her brows and when Rhysand laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, she had shook it off. 

“Please,” said Feyre, gaze still downturned. “Don’t argue. Not tonight and not over something meaningless.” 

Within the plead was hiding something more. It wasn’t often that Feyre could just sit down and dine with all of her close friends. She had a child to take care of, she taught children in the city how to paint and see the beauty of the world through the medium of the brush and when she came home, she was still a mother and a High Lady with obligations. The last thing she wished for was an argument—on her birthday, nonetheless.

On her other side, even Lucien had sent worrying glances her way. 

“I’m sorry, Feyre,” murmured Mor, though Amren remained silent. Azriel supposed that it was the biggest apology they would get from her, considering she had never once explained herself to anyone. All she deigned herself to do was meet Feyre’s eyes and nod as if she was heeding a command from her High Lady.

The Inner Circles and the rest had grown quiet, their eyes as if stuck to their plates. Only Azriel was still looking up and around, noticing how awkward it had gotten and wishing it was socially acceptable to winnow from this room. 

From the other end of the table, Cassian cleared his throat and said, “Varian, do you think I could visit this summer? I swear not to shatter another building.”

The laugh from Varian was a little choked and aware of the diversion Cassian had tried to make. “I don’t know if my cousin has lifted your ban.”

“Not even after everything?”

“I’m afraid not,” he sighed. “But Cresseida and I will put in good word for you.”

With a wink from Varian, Cassian laughed, exclaiming, “Atta boy!”

Elain, from Cassian’s side, leaned in and asked with a small voice meant for him only, “How did you get banned from the Summer Court?”

Those who already knew laughed along as Cassian dived into a dramatized retelling of that fateful day in Adriata. 

— ✾ —

The River House had finally fallen quiet after the eventful Winter Solstice dinner and the following party. The faelights had been dimmed to cast little pools of gold amid the deep shadows of the longest night of the year. 

Amren, Mor and Varian had finally gone to bed but Azriel found himself still lingering downstairs. 

He knew he should get some sleep. He would need it come dawn for the snowball battle at the cabin. After everyone had retired back to the family room, Cassian had mentioned no less than six times that he had a secret plan regarding his so-called impending victory. Azriel had let his brother boast, especially since he had been planning his own win for a year now.

Cassian wouldn’t know what was coming for him. And Azriel planned on capitalizing on the fact that Nesta likely wouldn’t let Cassian sleep much tonight. 

Azriel snickered to himself and the ever-restless shadows around him stirred, gazing out to the family room. 

Sleep, they had whispered in his ear and a sense of deep-set exhaustion crawled over his bones again. 

I wish I could, he comforted them silently. But sleep rarely found him these days. 

Too many razor-sharp thoughts sliced any time he grew still long enough for them to strike. Too many wants and needs left his skin overheated as it pulled taut over his muscles. And so he chose to sleep only when his body gave out, and even then only for a few hours.

Azriel surveyed the empty room from the hallway, the presents under the tree and the ribbons littering the furniture. There were two dirty glasses on the mantel of the fireplace, smeared lipstick on one and nothing on the other. 

Nesta and Cassian hadn’t reappeared in the house, though that came as no surprise. They were among the first ones to leave and Azriel’s shadows had notified him of his brother carrying Nesta to the House of Wind mere minutes after Rhysand had winnowed her friends out. 

He was elated for him and yet Azriel was never able to stop it—the green envy in his chest of Cassian, of Rhys. Cauldron, even of Amren. He knew he would be swallowed by that never-ending despair if he went to his bedroom, and so he chose to remain down here by the dying light in the fireplace. 

The room lacked the bustle and laughter it had enshrined for the last couple of hours. Now the silence grew heavy and the stillness of his bedroom began crawling between the walls and into the family room. He clutched his fingers around the jacket on his forearm, letting it dissolve into shadows.

Azriel removed himself from the doorway, entering the hall and walking soundlessly to the foyer. 

Soft steps padded from the stair archway and there she was.

The faelights gilded across Elain’s unbound hair, making her glow like the sun at dawn. Again, the image from the Day Court had appeared before his eyes and as she halted, her breath caught in her throat.

“I…” He watched her swallow. She clutched her fingers around a small box. “I was coming to leave this on your pile of presents. I forgot to put it there earlier.”

A lie. At least the second part was a lie. He didn’t need his shadows to read her tone, the slight tightening of her face. She had waited until everyone was asleep before venturing back down, where she would leave her gift among his other, unopened presents. Subtle and unnoticed, she wanted him to find it in the morning and after the snowball battle. Perhaps she had hoped he would pocket the little box, open it in the privacy of his room and away from the prying eyes of his family.

Elain closed the distance and her breathing quickened as she paused a scant foot away. “No trouble in giving it to you now, I guess. Here.” She extended the wrapped gift, her hand trembling. 

Azriel fought hard not to look at his scarred fingers as they took the gift. She hadn’t bought her mate a present, he recalled. When his shadows went over the gifts, they had divulged this precious detail to him. He hadn’t gotten one this year nor last but she went through the trouble of buying something for him. She had given Azriel a headache powder a year ago which he kept on his nightstand at the House of Wind. Not to use but just to look at. Something he had done every night he had slept there—or rather attempted to sleep there. 

Azriel unwrapped the box, glancing at the card that merely said, You might find these useful at the House these days. -Elain, and then opened the lid. 

Two small, bean-shaped fabric blobs lay within. Elain murmured, "You put them in your ears, and they block any sound. With Nesta and Cassian living there with you..." 

He hadn’t had the heart to tell he was going to move from the House soon and so unable to suppress his impulse, he just chuckled. “You wouldn’t want me to open this in front of everyone.”

Elain’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Nesta wouldn’t appreciate the joke.”

As he closed the box and stuffed it into the pocket of his trousers, he returned her smile. “I wasn’t sure if I should give you your present…” 

He had left the rest unspoken as he reached into his shadows. Her mate was here, sleeping only a level above them and he had been present all throughout the evening, not once leaving the room before Elain had retired for the night. The scent of their mating bond had filled Azriel’s lungs and even if he had positioned himself to a far corner, it would still reach his nostrils, tickling something wicked that called for unfairness. 

Though tonight, here in the dark and silence, there was only the two of them and he supposed it was fair at last to give her this one thing. Despite wanting to give much more.

He pulled the velvet box out, letting his shadows open it for her. Once revealed, they scattered to the back of his neck in a moment’s time. 

Elain sucked in a soft breath that whispered over his skin and his shadow retreated even further, almost completely disappearing. They and their murmurs had always been prone to vanish when she was around and so did his voice of reason. 

The golden chain was unremarkable and the amulet tiny enough to be dismissed as an everyday charm. Weeks ago, he had escaped the House of Wind and found himself walking through the Palace of Thread and Jewel. A vendor had waved him over from the crowd, choosing Azriel to present his newest invention. When he told him to hold it up to the sun, Azriel was rendered speechless once the true depth of colors became visible and it reminded him of her. It was a thing of secret, lovely beauty, just like the female before him. 

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Azriel watched her face tentatively as she lifted the necklace from the box. The fae lights shone through the little glass facets, setting the charm aglow with hues of red, pink, white and green. 

Azriel let his shadow swallow the box as she said softly, “Put it on me?”

The everlasting murmurs in his head slowed to a still. But he took the necklace, opening the clasp as she exposed her back, sweeping her hair up in one hand to bare her neck. 

He knew it was wrong but there he was, sliding the necklace around her. He let his scarred fingers touch her unmarred skin, letting them brush the side of her throat, savoring the velvet-soft texture. Elain shivered, and he took his sweet time fastening the clasp.

Azriel's hand lingered at her nape, atop the first knob of her spine. Slowly, Elain pivoted into his touch, until his palm lay flat against her neck. 

It had never gone this far. They'd exchanged looks, the occasional brush of their fingers but never this. Never blatant, unrestricted touching. 

Wrong—it was so wrong. The murmurs returned with fervor but he didn’t care. 

He needed to know what the skin of her neck felt like. What those lips tasted like, her breasts, her sex. He needed her coming on his tongue—

The fabric of Azriel’s pants began straining against his will. It ached so fiercely he could only pray she didn’t peer down. Pray she didn’t understand the shift in his scent. 

He would only allow himself these thoughts in the dead of night, when everyone had fallen asleep and when no one, not even his shadows, could bear witness to his selfishness. 

Elain bit her lower lip and it took every ounce of Azriel’s restraint not to free it with his own. 

“I should go,” Elain said but made no move to leave. She was still peering up at him with those big eyes.

“Yes,” he said, his thumb sweeping long strokes along the side of her neck. The gentle brush sent a shiver down Elain’s spine and as her arousal drifted up to him, his eyes nearly fell shut. If he could, he would drop to his knees in front of her, asking her to let him worship her body. But Azriel settled for stroking her neck. For now. 

She shuddered, drifting closer. So close, one deep breath would brush up her chest again his upper stomach. She was looking up at him, face so open and unafraid as if he could deliver her to the lands of milk and honey. Azriel wouldn’t put it past himself to try. 

Still, her naivety hadn’t escaped those incessant murmurs of his own. They scratched their talons against his reserve, reminding him that the hand brushing her neck had done unspeakable things. Who was he to touch her like this?

It should be a sacrilege for his rough, scarred fingers to rest on her skin, to taint her with his presence. 

He could have this, right?

Azriel wouldn’t admit it to anyone ever but he was a selfish bastard and he would allow himself to have this one moment of reverie. If only to drive away his curiosity. But afterward, he promised himself to keep a hold on himself, he would go back to restraint. This single occasion would be it for him. Something to keep, something to remember during those long, dark and lonesome hours.

“Yes," Elain breathed like she read the decision. Just this taste in the dead of the longest night of the year, where only the Mother might witness them. 

Azriel's hand slid up her neck, burying in her thick hair. Tilting her face the way he wanted it. Elain's mouth parted slightly, her eyes scanning his before fluttering shut. 

Offer and permission. He nearly sighed in relief as he lowered his head toward hers. 

Azriel.

Rhysand’s voice thundered through him, halting him mere inches from Elain’s sweet and awaiting mouth.

Azriel.

The unrelenting command was an undercurrent to his name and Azriel looked up. Atop the staircase, Rhysand stood with a clenched jaw and a glower pointed at him and only him. 

My office. Now.

Rhysand vanished into thin air and Azriel was left standing there, the prickle of being watched and observed still skipping along his skin. Elain who stood before him was still awaiting his lips on hers. His stomach twisted as he pulled his hand from her hair and stepped back so their breaths would mix no longer. 

He forced himself to say, “This was a mistake.”

Something had his throat in a vice, whether it was a need or the shame at being called on like a dog, he didn’t know. He was only aware of the strained sentence coming out and Elain opening her eyes. They widened, filling with hurt and confusion before she whispered a single, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t– Don’t apologize,” he managed to say. “Never apologize, it’s I who should…” He shook his head, unable to stand the bleakness in her face that he was the reason for. “Goodnight.”

Azriel winnowed himself into shadows before he could hear what she had to say if anything. He appeared only a heartbeat later in front of Rhysand’s study. His shadows whispered in his ear that Elain was already retreating upstairs. Shame washed over him and he ran a hand over his face. 

He pushed the dark, heavy door to reveal Rhysand at his desk, fury a moonless night across his face. 

He asked softly and only once, “Are you out of your mind?”

Azriel let the door shut behind him and didn’t even think of sitting down in the chair facing the monstrous desk littered with papers and memos. Azriel thinned his mouth at the question. He was always sparse with words and wasn’t going to stop the habit now. 

His brother looked at him in exasperation, as if not believing what he was seeing. Upon closer inspection, the lines on Rhysand’s face were longer and shadows lingered in the space below his eyes. But even despite the tired appearance, his power rolled around him like a dark cloud in an ominous reminder. 

“I asked you something, Azriel.”

Azriel joined his hands behind his back, saying, “What do you want me to say?”

Rhysand’s frown should have been an answer enough. “I want you to explain why I saw you about to kiss Elain in the middle of a hall where anyone could see you,” he snarled, pointing an accusing finger his way. “Including her mate.”

Azriel scoffed. Of course, he would mention Lucien. It wasn’t often that Azriel’s hackles rose and he allowed them to. But when he met his brother’s eyes with rage, he knew Rhysand could match him a thousand times over. His glare had crossed with its violet twin as the air grew heavier and heavier. The siphon on his chest that he kept glamoured vibrated in answer to the challenge.

Rhysand blinked. “What of Mor, Az?”

“Don’t talk to me about Mor,” he bit out.

“I’m going to talk to you about whatever I damn wish. Especially if you go about your delusions like that.”

Azriel chose to ignore that last bit if only to keep some of his sanity. This male before him had been his friend for over five centuries. They have bled, cried and laughed beside each other. He would never lie to him and never spare his feelings. And Rhysand was right, after all. The little voice in the back of his mind had always been right too and the way Rhysand was scowling at him was all the confirmation he needed.

He glared at his shadowsinger. “If Lucien finds out you’re pursuing her, he has every right to defend the bond as he sees fit. Including the Blood Duel.”

“That’s an Autumn Court tradition.” 

The duel had historically been enacted in rare cases and ended only when the other person was dead. There was no yielding, no three taps and out. There were only two fighters and no titles could help once the Blood Duel had been invoked. Despite being an outsider, Azriel had wanted to invoke it when he had found Mor all those years ago. He had been ready to challenge both Beron and Eris, prepared to kill them or die with them. But it was Mor’s right to claim their heads that had stopped him and he would never do her the dishonor of taking that choice away. 

“Lucien, as Beron’s son, has the right to demand it of you,” reminded him Rhysand. 

“I would win,” he stated, pure conviction lacing every word. 

“I know.” It was a bitter sense of acceptance that dawned on Rhysand’s face. “Your doing so would rip apart any fragile peace and alliances we have, not only with the Autumn Court but also the Spring Court. Jurian and Vassa, too.” Rhys looked up from where his hands were joined in front of his face. “You will leave Elain alone.”

Azriel neared one step closer to Rhysand’s desk. “You can’t order me to do that.”

The High Lord took in that step and thinned his lips. “I can and I will. If not to protect you three from a world of hurt, then to protect this Court. I watched you tonight and half the evening you had your eyes glued to Elain and the other half, you were lost in your thoughts. And if I caught onto it, then Lucien did too. You better mind yourself, brother. You’re losing focus.”

Azriel snarled softly against his best judgment. 

“Snarl all you want.” Rhysand leaned back in his chair. “But if I see you panting after her again, I’ll make you regret it.”

Rhysand had rarely considered punishment, let alone threatened it. It stunned Azriel enough to knock him out of his rage and into incredulity. His brother avoided his gaze, grabbing a pen and focusing on the papers on his desk. Even as he looked down, his eyes weren’t scanning the words written there. His hand with the wedding ring shook slightly when he ran it through his hair.

“Get out, Az,” he said, more gently under his breath but Azriel heard it all right. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

With no further words from Rhysand or himself, Azriel walked out of the study, pushing himself to keep a calm pace, though he wanted to storm out. He tucked in his wings, walked down the stairs and past the spot where his and Elain’s mouth had almost met. His eyes were focused forward, shadows swirling around him and sensing the distress of their master. Once he pushed through the front door and into the frigid air, he let it consume him. 

The white clouds escaping his mouth were the only sign he was alive because as he passed the gate, he stood still. Too still. The River House towered behind him and the light in Rhysand’s study went out. 

How his brothers used to fear being chained down by the ankles. They had joked with Azriel, saying he would be the first to settle and that their fleeing nature would never allow them to stay still for one female. 

But they had grown, changed over time while Azriel stayed behind, hoping that the relationship they shared would remain unchanged. 

As Azriel kept standing in the cold, he let it permeate past his suit. Down through his skin and to the marrow of his bones. There was no jacket to ward off the chill—all by his choice. There was no one to run to and Azriel wondered if that was his choice too.

Taglist:

this is being crossposted to ao3 so make sure to show some love there too, if you feel so inclined!

omg hi to whomever is reading this work ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

thank you for taking the time out of your day to sit down with this, be it on your commute, after a long day at school or whatever other downtime you have!! i am very honored and i hope i can entertain.

i'm very pumped to get this out and into the world. this oc has been stuck in my head for like over a year, i swear. maybe even perhaps when the bonus chapter of acosf with azriel first dropped ! the ideas of the plot and scenes just kept coming to me in random moments throughout these last 12 or so months. it felt like i was being shaken by my shoulder and someone was screaming into my face to, "write this one, goddammit!!!!!"

so here i am, appeasing some azriel-obsessed part of me.

since his character is very… open to interpretation due to the utter lack of anything (looking at you, SJM), i'm going to take certain liberties with his personality and motivations. so this might be slightly OOC, but i'll make sure that this is tagged on my ao3.

enjoy, my lovelies. i'll be grateful for any comments, tips or questions. if you think something could have been done differently, don't ever be afraid to comment on it. i am very open to criticism as bettering my craft is one of my biggest goals with this. my inbox is open (i think).

[jewellery-box]

Printed cotton day dress with sleeve inserts

American, ca. 1833

Frequently satirized by caricaturists, enormous gigot, or leg-of-mutton, sleeves were the defining characteristic of women's fashionable dress at the height of the Romantic period around 1830.   Ballooning out from the shoulder and tapering tightly at the wrist, their exaggerated proportions deliberately evoked similarly voluminous sleeves of the late sixteenth century and enhanced the ideal hourglass silhouette with its small waist and full, rounded skirts. Crescent-shaped down-filled pads often kept the sleeves properly expanded; pinned to the corset underneath, they could be used interchangeably with different gowns.

Most unusually, this floral-printed cotton day dress retains its sized linen sleeve supports that were clearly intended to be worn with this dress. Attached to the interior shoulder seams with tape ties, they are an exceptionally rare survival of an undergarment with its original attire.

Although British cottons continued to be imported into the United States in the post-Revolutionary years, it may be that this sturdy twilled cotton with pink, blue, and green blossoms and meandering vines set off against a rich, brown ground is of American manufacture. By the 1820s, the domestic printed cotton industry had increased significantly from its tentative beginnings in late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, with large firms established in New England and along the Hudson River.  Floral-patterned cottons were a perennial favorite for day dresses in the 1820s and 1830s, especially for the warmer months from spring to early fall. Probably made by the wearer herself rather than a professional seamstress, the gown and its sleeve inserts demonstrate that American women were well aware of, and followed as closely as possible, current fashions from abroad.

Cora Ginsburg

[whatyadrawin]

The Fruit After The Flesh -MASTERLIST!-

Thomas Hewitt x AFAB reader

18+ Only, Minors DNI

See reference images for layout here

Summary: You are a 33 year old seamstress living in Rivers, Manitoba struggling to make ends meet and in threat of losing everything until you get a call from a lawyer who informs you of a distant relatives will. Now you own an orchard and have money in the bank on one condition, keep the orchard feeding the people in Fuller, Texas. You meet the Hewitt's and finally feel a sense of belonging in this cruel world, the family is special but one person in particular is stealing your heart... Thomas. Follow the story as you experience everything the farm life has to offer, the romance, the hardships, and the sins.

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

Chapter 18 -writing in progress-

Thank you all for reading my silly little self indulgent fic, many of you are likely big fans of Thomas and his family, I hope you all get that same feeling of family and loyalty when reading this. I appreciate the patience you all have in waiting for chapters to come out, they may take me a while due to the art but I am happy to have a very fulfilling hobby as I continue through my journey of education in pursuit of my career. Don't be scared to drop a message and let me know what you think!

[arte072]

None of which stopped Arya, of course. One day she came back grinning her horsey grin, her hair all tangled and her clothes covered in mud, clutching a raggedy bunch of purple and green flowers for Father. -   AGoT Sansa I

Sansa knew all about the sorts of people Arya liked to talk to: squires and grooms and serving girls, old men and naked children, rough-spoken freeriders of uncertain birth. Arya would make friends with anybody.  -   AGoT Sansa I

Arya had loved nothing better than to sit at her father's table and listen to them talk. She had loved listening to the men on the benches too; to freeriders tough as leather, courtly knights and bold young squires, grizzled old men-at-arms. She used to throw snowballs at them and help them steal pies from the kitchen. Their wives gave her scones and she invented names for their babies and played monsters-and-maidens and hide-the-treasure and come-into-my-castle with their children. Fat Tom used to call her "Arya Underfoot," because he said that was where she always was. She'd liked that a lot better than "Arya Horseface."  - AGoT Arya II

Margaery hailed them when the two columns met and fell in beside the queen's litter. Her cheeks were flushed, her brown ringlets tumbling loosely about her shoulders, stirred by every puff of wind. "We have been picking autumn flowers in the kingswood," she told them.

I know where you were, the queen thought. Her informers were very good about keeping her apprised of Margaery's movements. Such a restless girl, our little queen. She seldom let more than three days pass without going off for a ride. Some days they would ride along the Rosby road to hunt for shells and eat beside the sea. Other times she would take her entourage across the river for an afternoon of hawking. The little queen was fond of going out on boats as well, sailing up and down the Blackwater Rush to no particular purpose. When she was feeling pious she would leave the castle to pray at Baelor's Sept. She gave her custom to a dozen different seamstresses, was well-known amongst the city's goldsmiths, and had even been known to visit the fish market by the Mud Gate for a look at the day's catch. Wherever she went, the smallfolk fawned on her, and Lady Margaery did all she could to fan their ardor. She was forever giving alms to beggars, buying hot pies off bakers' carts, and reining up to speak to common tradesmen. - AFfC  Cersei VI

I just think Arya and Margaery are neat and would really get along  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

So here they are getting some street food together~ 

[thelustybraavosimaid]

Margaery hailed them when the two columns met and fell in beside the queen's litter. Her cheeks were flushed, her brown ringlets tumbling loosely about her shoulders, stirred by every puff of wind. "We have been picking autumn flowers in the kingswood," she told them. I know where you were, the queen thought. Her informers were very good about keeping her apprised of Margaery's movements. Such a restless girl, our little queen. She seldom let more than three days pass without going off for a ride. Some days they would ride along the Rosby road to hunt for shells and eat beside the sea. Other times she would take her entourage across the river for an afternoon of hawking. The little queen was fond of going out on boats as well, sailing up and down the Blackwater Rush to no particular purpose. When she was feeling pious she would leave the castle to pray at Baelor's Sept. She gave her custom to a dozen different seamstresses, was well-known amongst the city's goldsmiths, and had even been known to visit the fish market by the Mud Gate for a look at the day's catch. Wherever she went, the smallfolk fawned on her, and Lady Margaery did all she could to fan their ardor. She was forever giving alms to beggars, buying hot pies off bakers' carts, and reining up to speak to common tradesmen. (Cersei VI, AFfC)

--

"You're not supposed to leave the column," Sansa reminded her. "Father said so."

Arya shrugged. "I didn't go far. Anyway, Nymeria was with me the whole time. I don't always go off, either. Sometimes it's fun just to ride along with the wagons and talk to people."

Sansa knew all about the sorts of people Arya liked to talk to: squires and grooms and serving girls, old men and naked children, rough-spoken freeriders of uncertain birth. Arya would make friends with anybody. This Mycah was the worst; a butcher's boy, thirteen and wild, he slept in the meat wagon and smelled of the slaughtering block. Just the sight of him was enough to make Sansa feel sick, but Arya seemed to prefer his company to hers. (Sansa I, AGoT)

[jacarandaaaas]

moabel headcanons yayyy!!! 🌊🦋

- mirabel makes moana little plushies all the time and moana has a collection of them on her bed

- like how mirabel weapon uses her puppy dog eyes on family members moana also falls victim to her tricks

- they love dancing together all the time and are always seen out in the village dancing!

- mirabel tried to teach moana how to sew but moana got frustrated and gave up😭

- they have picnics by the river all the time

- mirabel always surprise hugs moana!

- moana always kisses mirabel on the cheek and mirabel always melts when this happens

- mirabel will often grab moanas hand and run off somewhere!

- she brought her to the seamstress one time and asked her to pick out some fabrics (she was making something for moana ofc)

- moana does the casita stair slide thing first time flawlessly (this drives camilo insane) also mirabel tripped whilst trying to demonstrate casita was not on her side that day🙏

- mirabel cant function when moana calls her by her full name

- moanas always showering her in kisses could be neck, forehead,cheeks,lips she just loves kissing her <3

- even though moana is aware mirabel can take care of herself she still is a lil bit protective

- she finds it cute when mirabel gets frustrated by something stupid like stubbing her toe

- moana is a really good listener and lets mirabel ramble for hours

- most of the time she is listening but otherwise she just loves the sound of her voice

- they’re both really big sleepers and often fall asleep on top of eachother

- moana loves casitas parties and always makes a bet with mirabel to see who can stay awake the longest

- moana loves picking mirabel up and spinning her around

- moana makes fun of mira’s height

- moana gets hot headed really easily and mirabel loves watching her rant about people

- mirabel shows moana her sketchbook and asks her for ideas

- moana is very athletic and mirabel loves watching her work out

- one time mirabel tried to but dropped a weight on her foot💀 moana was concerned mira insisted she was fine and they both started giggling about it

- mira loves when moana strokes her cheek or squishes them

- when moanas falling asleep mirabel will often play with her hair gently to help moana relax

- cuddles!! they love cuddling

- moana tried wearing mirabels glasses one time

- casita and antonio are their number one shippers

- moana asked isabela what mira’s fav flower was and got isa to make a bouquet for her <3

- laugh at eachothers jokes even if it’s unfunny

- moana thinks mirabels freckles are really cute

[assortedseaglass]

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Sixteen

Tom Bennett x OFC

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Strong Language, Smut, World on Fire spoilers

Word Count: 9.3K

Notes: Hiya pals.

“Welcome home, Mr Bennett.”

Tom looked behind the suited man and his clipboard. Beyond the small dockyard pier, he could make out the beginnings of a town still sleeping. Mist, or was it rain, was rolling in from the horizon of hills. In just a few hours, the train would take him through those valleys, along the Pennine Way and to Manchester.

“Not quite home,” Tom said to the man, who smiled in turn. “But almost.”

The boat from Gibraltar to Scotland had taken five days and, after his journey through central Spain, Tom was glad to be back at sea. In England, summer would have been making way for autumn but the heat still lingered in Spain. Days of walking, being bundled between cars, and of weeks waiting in Gibraltar for any news of his departure left Tom agitated. The heat had not helped. The days at sea had given him plenty of time for reflection. Stood on the stern of the boat, gazing as mainland Europe disappeared, he watched the surface of the water for disturbance. After the Battle of River Plate, he couldn’t shake the fear that U-boats were lurking beneath the waves, waiting to strike. Fighting for attention alongside these fears were thoughts of Bess. She had told him, before he left, that the Navy could be the making of him. In a way, she was right, for faced with the open ocean and endless sky, Tom felt freer than he ever had on land.

Home was so close now; he could almost smell it as the gentleman on the dock led him and a few other evaders towards a waiting vehicle. Roast dinners, grease from the dockyard, rain on the cobbles, perfume at the Palais and buttered chestnuts at Belle Vue. The dusty picture house, clean linen, Bess’ hair. Tom had tried to think of what he would do when he saw her, for seeing her was inevitable. For a while he thought of going to the Infirmary; she couldn’t scream at him while in her uniform. Or else, he could climb into the window of her flat like old times, but he didn’t know which was hers and hadn’t she said that the boarding matron had a strict rule of no gentlemen? Perhaps Tom could charm the woman. He wasn’t a gentleman, after all. He settled on seeking her in Longsight. Neutral ground. What he’d say he didn’t know, but that was one part of the plan he could account for; no more performing.

By evening, Tom and the other evaders that had made the crossing were trundling southwards, through Scotland and towards England. It was a supply train, and they had been given bunks by the men that worked to deliver steel, food and other resources across Britain. Tom watched as the sun set below the Pennines, knowing that in the morning he would awake in Manchester. He looked at the photograph of Bess. Almost nine months since he had laid eyes on her at the train station. Maybe tomorrow, he would see the real thing.

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Bess removed the blackouts to be dazzled by sunlight. She stood at her window a while; autumn was coming and soon all warmth would disappear from the sun. God she hated Manchester in winter. She scanned the city skyline. At least, what was left. As if in some perverse game of dominos, a few buildings that had been there last night were gone, dark smoke billowing in their stead. She had heard the first loud crashes. The air raid sirens hadn’t noticed this attack, and after the first distant explosion came banging doors as the girls of Carver Mills, dressed in nightgowns and curlers, hurried to the shelter at the end of the road.

Despite the terror of the night past, Bess found herself in unusually high spirits. The months had not been kind to her, and she could count on one hand the few times she had been truly happy since new year. Most of those times had been the first promising two weeks of 1940, sharing stolen kisses and glances with Tom. But this morning, with the sun shining through the horror, Bess felt perhaps if she couldn’t conquer the world, she could at least conquer the day.

She sat at the small vanity. She had been dancing at the Palais over the weekend and her rollered curls lingered. If she draped them just right at the base of the neck, she could hide them from Sister Stern under her nurses cap. Bess surveyed her reflection. It was a day that called for rouge. Rolling the lipstick from its tube, Bess swiped the colour across her lips and thought of the men at the hospital. She’d certainly brighten their day. The last thing to do was grab the photo from her nightstand. The paper was worn at the edges but despite this, and the black and white hue of the paper, Bess could feel Tom’s blue eyes gleaming at her. She tucked him into the pocket of her apron and donned her coat before glancing round the flat. It wasn’t much, but in the early autumn light, it felt like home. Perhaps she’d have Joan and Helen over that evening for supper and wine, if they could find some.  

The bus was just pulling away from the stop when Bess reached it, and she ran to join it. Douglas appeared at the open door and held out his hand to haul her onto the moving vehicle.

“Thank you,” she half whispered, half panted. Douglas touched his cap. A little awkwardness still coated the air after she had kissed him then revealed her feelings for his son; the month since had left little time for her to visit but she made a point to every time she was in Longsight. She valued Douglas’ friendship too much to allow her moment of insecurity and fear get in the way.

“Your father’s down the front,” he said as Bess moved to find a seat. “Looking a bit worse for wear.” Bess nodded and found her father slumped against the window behind the driver. His hair was unkempt and a little stubble was starting to show.

“Dadda,” Bess nudged him as she sat down. “Dadda!” He woke with a start and looked at her. A sleepy smile spread across his face and he took her hand in his own, patting it gently.

“I was going to pop into the hospital on my way home, to see if you were okay.”

“We’re all fine,” Bess squeezed his hand in reassurance. The Blitz was taking its toll on Fergal. More frequent air raids on the city meant that after his shifts at the dockyard he was straight into his warden’s uniform and on patrol, helping put out fires or guiding civilians to safety. Since Albie’s death, he was rarely home, his time taken up with helping the war effort and avoiding his grief. Bess laid her head on her father’s shoulder and they sat in amicable silence.

“Heavy night last night, they got Oxford Street. Palace Theatre got hit.”

“Many dead?”

“A fare few my girl, a fare few.” When they arrived at the Royal Infirmary, Fergal spoke again. “I do worry about you Bess. It’s only a matter of time before they get the hospital-”

“We’ve got a shelter in the basement, Dadda, we’ll be fine.” She kissed his cheek. “Tell you what, I’ll come by at the weekend for dinner. Stay over?”

“I’d like that, you take care.”

She waved off her father and Douglas from the stop as the bus made its way to Longsight, then hurried in to begin her shift. Sister Stern said nothing about her hair and lipstick, though from the twitch of her eye, Bess knew she wanted to. She was right too, the men loved it. She, Joan and Helen were the most popular nurses at the Infirmary with their beauty, charm and care. With every flirtatious comment, smile to her friends and patient helped, Bess felt her heart lighten. Uncertain the cause of this newfound contentedness, Bess was desperate to cling onto it regardless, and set about making plans for the evening with Helen and Joan.  

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On any other day, the walk from Manchester London Road to the Bennett house would take an hour. But as Tom strolled the streets that had coloured his childhood, his buoyance at being home turned to horror. The pub in which he snuck into for his first pint was no more than a pile of rubble. Houses of friends gone, skeletons of their childhoods all that remained. Even his secondary school, once an imposing building, had been brought down to a singular wall and the scaffold of the gymnasium. He felt sick. The war had at last come home. What if he arrived in Longsight to find it no longer existed? Walking through smoke and the rising dust of devastated buildings, he saw lines of people watching on as wardens and firemen attempted to put out the still simmering flames of the night before. At Victoria Park, a woman was trying to calm her young children, some of whom sat atop the rubble, as men scavenged what they could from the bombed-out street. A football lay abandoned in the road and Tom, taking pity on the woman, offered to kick the ball about with her sons while she rested.

By the time he had arrived in Longsight, any thoughts of happy reunions had vanished, replaced by the anxious dread that had followed him since his final days on the Exeter. The fear that around every corner, no matter how safe or familiar, life could be upended as easily as the spinning of a top. Keen not to feed his fear, Tom walked along the ginnel, avoiding the sight of the street and what it may hold. He reached the gate to the yard of his home as paused, taking a deep breath. The handle was cool in his hand, and it clicked gently as he opened it. Washing was strung across the line, mostly his dad’s shirts and a few of Lois’ small things. Instinctively, Tom took the sleeve of one of Douglas’ jumpers and brought it to his face, inhaling the smell of familiar laundry detergent. It fluttered from his hand in the breeze, and for a moment, Tom felt he could cry. It was that exact sound that stopped him. High and coarse, a wailing cry came from within the house, and Tom’s heart somersaulted.

Tentatively, he opened the door to the kitchen and stepped inside the house. A dull light streamed through the net curtains. Nothing had changed. The piano sat unused, the chairs the same, exactly where the family liked to sit. Douglas at the table, Lois by the window and Tom at the hearth. The only difference was the baby that lay swaddled and crying in its basket, set on the kitchen table. Slowly, ever so slowly, Tom inched towards the little creature. Its red face contorted as it kicked its covered legs and balled its tiny fists. He didn’t know who it belonged to, but Tom knew that somehow, he loved the little babe. Steps thundered on the landing upstairs. Tom just managed to tear his eyes away from the child when a pair of feet appeared on the stairs.

“I’m coming, I’m coming-” Lois slipped down the last few steps in her haste, buttoning the blouse she wore. “Come here then, you little bugger.” There was a moment when Tom thought he was a ghost, had died at Dunkirk and drifted home, for Lois looked straight through him with unseeing eyes. Her steps faltered as she made towards the Moses basket, looking at the space Tom occupied. She stopped and the wailing continued. The two siblings stared at each other, neither moving, as though scared they would startle. It was when Tom smiled at his older sister, dimples appearing in his cheeks, that Lois knew he was real. With a shriek she leapt at him, arms tight around his neck as she burst into sobs.

“Hiya,” he whispered with a laugh. She pulled back to look at him, taking his face in her hands and assessing him, making sure he was there. Deciding it was true, her brother was really home, she took a step back and smacked his arm, hard.

“You bloody bastard,” she laughed through her tears. “We’ve been so worried.”

“And busy,” Tom nodded his chin in the direction of the baby. Lois wiped her face with a watery smile and scooped the baby into her arms.

“Give over,” Lois huffed, unbuttoning her blouse and sitting in the rocking chair by the hearth. Tom watched as the baby’s cries turned to snuffles of contentment.

“Christ. Everything’s so different,” Tom whispered. Manchester, the war, a baby. The home he had longed for was irrevocably changed. And yet, looking at his sister cradling that little baby in her arms, Tom felt that somehow everything would be ok in the end. Lois watched Tom watching the baby and another small sob left her. “Don’t be soft,” Tom laughed, though he held out his hand and Lois took it.

“I’ve missed you,” she wiped her eyes again. “Needed you here.”

“Did you know? Before I left?” Lois nodded. “You should have told me.”

“I was scared. I’m sorry,”

Tom shrugged his shoulders, and Lois gazed back down at the baby. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” He said with a chuckle. The baby had finished feeding, and Lois held the little creature up.

“Sit down then,” she said, indicating the armchair opposite the rocking chair.

“You what?” Tom tried to sound light, but a spike of terror caused his ears to turn pink.

“Just sit down!” Tom did as he was told, and Lois lowered the baby into his arms. She laughed at her little brother, whose eyes were wide in shock. “You can relax, Tom. Lean back in the chair and I’ll put a cushion under your arm. Just take her head, that’s it-” Everything in Tom’s body stilled. His breath became deep, his racing thoughts quietened and any sound beyond the house disappeared. The baby in his arms licked its little pink lips, still milk-drunk, and looked up at him with shining eyes. “This, Tom, is your niece.”

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“Language.” Lois teased. “And this, little one, is your uncle Tom.” Knowing she was in tender care, the little girl gargling in his arms took hold of the finger that had reached out to brush her cheek.

“Fuck,” Tom said again, and wiped a tear of his own from his eye. With Tom missing, Harry married and facing a world of raising a child on her own, Lois had lost all expectations for the future she once dreamed of. A little piece of hope she thought missing slotted back into the space of her heart, as she watched her brother embracing her daughter. She ran hand through Tom’s hair tenderly and he leant into the touch, reminded of their mother. After minutes of contented silence passed Tom, never looking away from his niece, spoke.

“Is she Harry’s?”

“Yes. Though what he’ll have to do with her, I don’t know.”

“Bastard.”

“Quite.”

When he spoke again, it was to his niece. “Doesn’t matter thought, does it? You’re perfect.” Lois smiled and kissed his cheek.

“Are you alright with her there? I’ve got some folding to do,” Tom waved his hand; he’d sit there forever. “Not sure what to call her yet, I thought it’d be nice to name her after mum?” Tom nodded and Lois’ heart burst with pride. Her little family would be ok.

They talked for hours. Tom told Lois about his travels around the south of Europe, and about Dunkirk. How he ended up in Paris and his escape. About Claudette and the others he met along the journey. Lois told him of ENSA, Harry’s betrayal and of adoring Vernon. Of the baby and the birth; she spared him the detail, all but one fact. “Bess helped me deliver her.”

“Oh right,” Tom’s voiced croaked and Lois smiled to herself.

“You’d better go over and see the Vaughns later. They’ll be so happy to see you.” She came back to sit next to Tom and her daughter, now sleeping in her uncle’s arms. “I don’t suppose you’ll have heard that either, God, there’s so much to tell you-”

Tom didn’t get the chance to find out what Lois had to tell him, for the front door clicked open. Douglas walked in, shucking off his shoes and coat. “Where’s my granddaughter then?” He was happier than Tom had heard him in a long time and his stomach sank a little. Was it wrong, to have hoped to find his father devasted? Maybe he was right after all, maybe things were easier if he wasn’t here.

“Dad,” Lois’ voice was soft.

“Yes, love?” Douglas turned from hanging up his coat and glanced at his daughter, before his eyes flickered to the man sat beside her, cradling his granddaughter. Tom stood and Lois hastily took the baby from his arms. Douglas looked between his daughter and son, mouth a little ajar, and swayed on the spot.

“Hi dad.”

The words were barely out of Tom’s mouth before Douglas clapped a hand to his own and laughed. He bent double, laughing, and at this Lois began crying again. It was when his father stood straight that Tom saw the tears rolling down his face. “Dad,” Tom stepped forward but hesitated. For the second time in his life, he froze. The first was when Bess fled from this very house in tears, the second was now. Luckily for Tom, he didn’t have to wait long, for Douglas staggered forwards and gripped him in a desperate hug.

“My boy,” Douglas laughed through his tears. “My boy,”

“Hi dad,” Tom said again, weakly. Douglas, as Lois had done, cupped Tom’s face to look at him.

“My brave, brave boy.” Tom laughed awkwardly, but his heart soared with happiness. At long last, he was home.

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The afternoon was reaching for evening when the Bennetts finally grew tired of chatting. Baby Bennett was sleeping on her grandfather’s shoulder, who was watching his two children with adoring pride. Tom had taken the picture of Marie down from the wall and placed her at the table, the way the Vaughns did with their mother. Sipping the last of their tea, they sat in gentle silence and simple enjoyment of the fact that their family was together again. And not just together, but growing.

“What are your plans, Tom?” Douglas asked as he placed the babe back in her basket.

“Well, I imagine it won’t be long until I’m called back.” He hurried on at the darkness that befell Douglas’ face. “But it won’t be for a while. I’m not sure how much paperwork it takes to resurrect the dead. In the meantime, it’ll be a few good meals and see as much of home as I can.”

“Speaking of which,” Lois said. “You best get over the road. They need some good news and I think you’re just the thing.”

“Must have been devastating when I left, all the good-looking fellas gone-” Lois smacked his arm again.

“Be off with you!” Tom kissed her cheek and patted his father’s shoulder.

“Save some tea for me, Lois. I’ve been dreaming of your roast dinners.” Dressing in an old jumper and clean slacks, he made for the door and the Vaughns. The air was still warm from summer though an autumnal breeze was gathering through the street. A few little girls playing in the street shrieked when it lifted their petticoats around their woollen tights. Tom laughed. That’ll be the little one someday. Crossing the road, something else fluttering in the wind caused him to stop dead. A black ribbon, tied around the knocker of the Vaughn’s front door. His blood ran cold. Surely, Lois would have told him if it was one of the girls. If it was Bess. The sensitivity of the day’s emotion caught at the back of his throat and he swallowed. Hadn’t Lois tried to tell him something before his dad arrived home? Tom watched with quiet fear as the ribbon teased him, before stepping to the door and knocking. He straightened his jumper and ran a hand through his hair. God damn it, he should have looked in a mirror before he left. Or at least washed. Tom was just shaking out his shoulders when the door opened and he snapped to attention.  

“Co-” The words died in his throat as the eldest Vaughn sister jumped at him.

“Oh my God!” Cora withdrew to look at him, then crashed into him once more. “Oh my God! Dot. DOT! Come down here right now!” She dragged him over the threshold. As yet, Cora had said nothing to Tom, and no words were exchanged further when Dot came hurtling from the back room and screamed at the sight of him. Running across the kitchen, she jumped into his arms and bounced up and down.

“You’re alive, oh thank God,” Dot turned back to her sister. “Some good news at last!”

Cora didn’t take her eyes off Tom. “Bess will be thrilled,” Tom could have sworn he saw Cora smirk.

Bess. Tom remembered the front door. “Cora. What’s happened? The ribbon on the door,” Dot stopped her giddiness, still holding on to Tom’s hand.

“Oh Tom,” Cora shuffled around the table to hold her sister. “It’s our Albie. The Siege of Calais-” Her voice died away and Dot hiccoughed. Tom looked between the sisters.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, hating how feeble the words were and how they sounded in his mouth. Dot looked up and tried to smile through her watery eyes.

“But at least we have you back. And like Cora said, Bess will be thrilled.”

“I’m going over there to Manchester soon actually, Tom, taking some food round for Bess. If you want to come?”

Cora looked to Dot, who still had hold of Tom’s hand. She began to swing it, looking up at him mischievously. “Um,” he coughed. “Yes, will do.” Christ.

The journey back into the centre of town was easy. One of Douglas’ friends from the bus service gave he and Cora two free tickets on account of him returning home, and the bus detoured around the bombed buildings. Tom thanked God; he didn’t know if he could stomach it. Not when his mind was so occupied on seeing Bess within the hour. Next to him, Cora chatted away about Roger and how well he was doing with the RAF, about the memorial mass for Albie, and at that Tom tried to listen. But through imagined glimpses of the Vaughns’ grief, all he could see were flashes of Bess running alongside the train. It wasn’t until he and Cora departed the bus and arrived at an old mill building that he noticed he hadn’t been paying attention at all to the route they had taken. All he knew was that this was the old cotton trade quarter of the city. Tom looked up at the tall chimneys, smog-stained red brick and the shadow the old mill cast. Half of him thought that facing the Germans would be less terrifying than stepping in here and he laughed. Cora smiled lightly.

“Are you excited to see her?”

“Pardon?” Tom’s reaction was quick, so quick that when he whipped his head around from gazing up at the mill, he heard it crack.

“Give over Tom, I’m not stupid. I know all about you and Bess. She told me, after I caught you both kissing in the window.”

Tom grinned mischievously and rubbed the back of his neck. “I always get caught, in the end.”

“At least this time it isn’t trouble. Though I’ll tell you know, Tom Bennett. I adore you, but if you break her heart, I’ll kill you myself.”

“I think Dot’d kill me first.”

Cora laughed. “That she would. Now,” she put her hand on the door knocker. “Mrs Russo, the boarding mistress, doesn’t like gentlemen visitors so we’ll just tell her you’re waiting outside. Then we’ll sneak you in when she isn’t looking.”

“Aye, aye!” Tom saluted and with a laugh, Cora knocked. Once. Twice. Three times. There was a little noise behind the door and the two heard a pair of footsteps growing louder. It opened to reveal Mrs Russo, broom in hand and beaming, her bonny face shiny with exertion of cleaning.

“Cora, love, hello!” She pointed at the basket of food in her hand. “Got any for me?”

“Just deliveries for Bess I’m afraid,” the two women laughed and Tom sensed this was an ongoing occurrence. Mrs Russo then turned her eyes to him appraisingly and did not hide that she clearly approved.

“And who is this handsome lad?”

“Mrs Russo, this is Tom.” Cora lightly touched his shoulder. “A childhood friend. He’s just returned home this morning.”

“Ah, the missing fella!” Mrs Russo clapped her hands. “Bess has told us all about you, of course.” Tom felt a blush rise up his cheeks and Cora smirked. “Now, I don’t allow young men in the house, even ones as good looking as yourself, but would you take a cup of tea while you wait for Cora? I can open up the courtyard for you.”

“Only if you join me, Mrs Russo.” Tom winked.

“Oh, he is a charmer! I can see why you girls are so fond of him. I best get back to my cleaning but if you follow the building round, I’ll open the gate to the courtyard. Coming, Cora love?”

Tom began to walk along the red brick wall as Cora whispered, “I’ll come and get you when the coast is clear!”, and followed the lady inside. Mrs Russo had already opened the courtyard gate and hurried back to her chores when Tom reached it. Washing, bedsheets and nurse’s uniforms, hung between every window and at the centre of the small patio was a table and two chairs, a steaming cup of tea already awaiting him. No sooner had Tom sat down and taken his first sip was Cora hissing at him from a side door.

“Psst! Tom!” Tom hastily threw the tea into a plant pot and strode towards Cora. “Bess is still at work but I can let you in. You’re alright waiting for her, aren’t you?” Tom nodded his assent and felt his heart rate double. The two wound their way quietly up a few flights of stairs before Cora stopped to fumble with a set of keys. “Here we are, Bess’ humble abode.” She entered the flat first and Tom followed. It was as if he was trespassing on the room of someone recently deceased; it was so full of life yet the occupant was nowhere to be found. He half expected Bess to jump out at them.

The kitchen was miniscule. A cup and plate had been left by the sink, and Cora set about washing them for her little sister and putting away her parcel of food. On top of a rickety table was a vase, the dried flowers losing their leaves and scattering around two picture frames. One of Bess and her family, one of Etta. Tom smiled and moved to the window. Despite the missing buildings and the faint smoke rising from the air raids, Manchester looked magnificent in the late summer light. The sun was low on the horizon, piercing through chimneys, spires and mills. A little way off, Tom could make out the cranes of the dockyard. Beside him was an old armchair, its fabric faded and patched in places. Over the top lay some clothes, haphazardly draped, and a book of Nursing Practice. A little to his right, the bedroom door was askew, and Tom just caught a glimpse of the bed when Cora spoke. She was halfway out the door.

“I know what happened, Tom, before you went away. Bess has a steely mind and a sensitive soul, but she needs the truth.”

She didn’t allow Tom to add anything more before shutting the door. He was left alone.  

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“Got a bottle of wine from one of the lads,” Joan said, placing dirtied bedding into the wash bin. Helen was smoking discreetly out of a store cupboard window, carefully avoiding Sister Stern.

“How on earth did you manage that?”

“Said I’d give him a kiss,” Joan said sweetly and Bess laughed.

“Honestly,” Helen pretended to chastise her friend, but still smiled as she exhaled a plume of smoke. “What time shall we come up to yours Bess?”

“Eight o’clock, I’d say.” Bess was helping Joan to tidy away the linens before heading home to pick up some sewing work. “Gives me a chance to finish the clothes.”

“I wonder if there’ll be another air raid?” Helen worried the skin of her lip as she flicked her cigarette away.

“If there is,” Joan straightened and stretched her back from the day’s labour. “I’m glad I’ll be with you girls.” Bess squeezed her hand and waved her goodbyes.

The five o’clock sun set the city ablaze, and when Bess stepped onto the street, the glare the sun cast from the windows caused her to walk straight into somebody.

“I’m so sorry,” she held out her hands to steady herself against the person.

“Bess,”

Bess looked up, and into the sullen and scarred face of the man before her.

“James!” Bess took an instinctive step back. “How are you? The scarring is healing well, glad to see my stitching was neat.”

“Yes, I uh-” James looked nervously at her and shuffled on his feet. “I’m here to see one of the doctors about my sight. If he thinks I’m healed, it’ll be back to the front for me.”

Neither spoke for a moment, then Bess reached out to hold his arm. “The offer still stands, James. If you want someone to write to, you know where to find me.” She gestured to the building behind her. “Good luck.” She began to walk away when the calling of her name stopped her.

“Bess, if I do go back, would you come for dinner with me before I go?”

“James-”

“Please, just one last time.”

Despite his height, the soldier seemed to slouch under Bess’ gaze. His messy hair blew in the breeze and the coat he wore hung loosely around his shoulders. He looked completely lost.

“James, I’m sorry. I’m taking care of my heart at the moment, I don’t think I can handle any more heartbreak.” The man she spoke to straightened at this, seemingly buoyed by the fact that in some life somewhere, he could have the capacity to break this magnificent woman’s heart. The reality was entirely different, and Bess’ mind drew images of blue eyes and thin lips before her. Still, this little offering seemed to ease the soldier’s spirit and she smiled. “Good luck, James,” she said again, before heading for the bus stop.

Mrs Russo was exiting Carver Mills when Bess arrived home a while later. The little woman was buttoning her coat over a blue skirt Bess had mended for her when she spotted her tenant.

“How was work love?”

“Exhausting.”

“Well, you’ll be glad to know that Cora popped round a little while ago with a very handsome man and a food basket for you.” Bess smiled, imagining the fuss Mrs Russo surely made over Roger. He really was taking his time with that proposal.

“Perfect. Helen and Joan are coming up for supper later if you’d like to join us?”

“Oh heavens no!” Mrs Russo smiled. “I’m off to see my daughter, and besides, you girls don’t want an old biddy like me hanging around. No, you have your fun.”

“And you,” Bess passed Mrs Russo in the doorway and dragged herself up the stairs towards the flat. Despite her weariness, and run in with James, Bess still felt in her heart the lightness that had settled there that morning. For the first time, she smiled as she thought of Albie. Bess had never been particularly faithful, unlike her mother and father, but she wondered if this happiness and warmth came from her brother watching over her. Perhaps he was annoyed at her moping and was sending her a gift from the heavens. He always got annoyed when she was miserable, the likely cause being their twin moods. Or maybe it was because she had finally settled into her life in Manchester, away from her family. It was true, she missed them, and missed the piano, but this newfound sense of freedom gave her something she hadn’t known since she worked at the atelier. Only three miles away from where she was born, yet somehow this little world felt like hers entirely. The only thing that could dampen her happiness was Tom. She heard Albie’s reassuring and logical voice in her head. “Missing, not dead.” She reached the door to her flat, a little out of breath and pulled her keys from her bag.

“Missing, not dead.” She said aloud to the stairwell, placed her key in the door and began humming Mack the Knife. The sun painted her kitchen a brilliant gold, and Bess stood in the open doorway letting the last of the day’s warmth touch her face. She turned back to the door, still humming and locked it before removing her coat and shoes. Reaching up under her dress, she unhooked her itchy tights and pulled them off also, the cool tiles of the floor sending shivers up her legs. It was as she was retrieving the contents of her bag that the sudden and harsh scraping of a chair across the kitchen floor caused her to gasp and spin around.

A man was stood at the table. Wisps of his blond hair were haloed in the golden sunset, his broad shoulders squared, and Bess could just make out the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. Electricity hummed in her fingers tips. If I reach out and touch him, she thought, I might spark. At this surge of power, of energy, warmth welled in her bosom and her chest burned, as though taking her first gasping breaths of oxygen. Bess’ body, far before her mind, reached out to the figure, lit like a beacon in the autumnal light. She stepped forward, yet the figure didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

Bess would have known it was him had she been blind. If he’d not been a man, but a perfect ray of sun or a bird perched on her window or the chime of bells on Sunday, she’d have known. She would have known it as the air stilled around them. If he hadn’t come back until she was an old maid, and he an old man. She would have known it was him, just like she knew he was the reason for the day’s high spirits. Bess raised her hand and, shielding her eyes from the light, she saw him. The depths of those grey eyes, the sweep of hair. The strong neck that led to that stone jaw. The slope of his nose, pink at the tip and those lips, curved and oh so tempting. She edged ever closer, her hands instinctively reaching out to him.

Tom had been prepared for stony silence, a confrontation, or an affectionate kiss on the cheek and a “welcome home”. But when Bess looked at him as though he were the only man on earth, Tom Bennett could do nothing but watch. Watch, as she stood bathed in the sunlight. Watch, as she took in every feature of him. Watch, as her shock turned into recognition, and watch as she advanced on him, her dark eyes set and certain.

“Bess, I-” his voice was barely above a whisper, and the hopeful need he heard in his own was matched in the stormy eyes of the woman before him. Months of despair and self-hatred, years of waiting and wanting all came undone at the sound of his voice. Taken over by carnal desire that only he could ignite, Bess rounded the tiny kitchen table and collided with him.

“Tom,” her voice was shrouded in desperation, and no sooner had his name left her lips were they on his, warm, wanting and needy. Tom sighed, letting Bess devour him in a frenzy of lips, teeth and tongue, and in an instant his hands were at her back, pressing her body flush against his chest. Bess pushed Tom into the wall and pawed at his chest, desperate to touch any part of him she could. Pulling away from his lips, she tugged at the jumper he wore. She dropped it to the floor and pressed her body against his, wanting nothing more than to melt into his touch. Bess untangled her hands from Tom’s hair and frantically began undoing the buttons of his shirt. Her nimble fingers made quick work of the offending garment and Tom watched with proud awe as she ripped it away from his body and ran her eyes over his hard chest. When a small gasp left her parted lips his pride turned to fear however, until Bess ran gentle fingers under the skin his left shoulder. There, above his heart and below his collarbone, the puncture of scar tissue darkened his alabaster skin.

Seeing horror flash across her eyes, Tom placed a hand on hers and held it over his scar. “They shot me,” he said simply with a sad smile.

“And that’s why you didn’t come home,” it was a statement more than a question, and Tom nodded. Slowly, Bess removed her hand from the scar and placed a tender kiss to the mottled skin. Tom’s wayward heart drummed in his chest as something akin to hope anchored there.

“I’m sorry,” Bess whispered, peppering kisses across his chest, always returning to kiss the gunshot. “I’m so sorry,” her voice quavered and when Tom moved away from her she whined. Tears were forming in her eyes, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She reached out to Tom but he batted her hand away and instead took her face in his hands.

“Why are you apologising?”

“I didn’t say goodbye to you,” Bess took a shuddering breath. “What if you hadn’t come back? It’s, it’s-” Her voiced raised in pitch. “It’s so close to your heart, Tom.” She had barely finished the words before prolonged grief racked her body. She tried to hide her face but Tom didn’t let her. Instead, he ran a thumb over her cheek and committed this moment to memory. In the streaming, yellow light, and filled with tears, her brown eyes looked gold. She must have been wearing lipstick during the day, for the faded pigment lingered at the centre of her full lips, now wet with his kisses and slightly parted. A flush covered her cheeks and nose, and her eyebrows were knitted with anguish. Tom grinned with tenderness for her. Once more running a finger over her cheek, he wiped away a tear and spoke softly.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he kissed her slowly, savouring the taste of her salty tears and the warmth of her tongue. “I’m here, Bess. I’m home.” At this, Bess whimpered through his kisses and clutched at his shirt. The sound sent tremors straight to Tom’s cock and he inhaled harshly, attempting to restrain his desire to take Bess where they stood. Urgent for closeness, Bess wound her hand through Tom’s sandy hair and gripped hard at the nape of his neck. When he moaned aloud, she ran her tongue along his lips before moving to nip at his jaw, down his neck and his bare torso. His head fell back and hit the wall as she ran her tongue up the length of body, skirted her hands over his chest and wound them around his neck. She bit him there once again and Tom laughed.

“I missed you so much, love.” Tom whispered, the ghost of a smirk on his handsome face.

“Tom,” Bess ran her tongue along the column of his neck and bit the pulse point there. The action caused Tom to buck his hips and Bess giggled. She did it again and this time, Tom growled. “Fuck, Tom,” once more her hands found his hair and she tugged him down in a fiery kiss, their tongues fighting to gain dominance. One of Tom’s large hands gripped Bess’ waist and pulled her towards his groin, where she felt the growing hardness beneath his trousers. Head spinning, and whining at the friction through his trousers and her layers of uniform, Bess broke the kiss and licked her lips seductively. Tom pulled forward. She pulled away.

“I dream of this every night, Tom Bennett.”

That was it. That was all it took for Tom Bennett to snap. Months, if not years of wanting Bess Vaughn burst from him as he roughly took hold of her face and crashed his lips onto hers. No longer were his kisses soft and loving, but hard and wanton. Bess mewled at his display of ownership over her and began unbuckling his belt.

“Fuck,” he tore his mouth away from hers to suckle at her neck; hot, wet kisses as she fought to free him from his trousers. When the belt was undone, still dominating her mouth with his tongue, he gripped her hips with his hands and forced her backwards until her legs hit the wood of the kitchen table. With both hands under her backside, he hoisted her onto its surface and she grabbed him for another devouring kiss. Without coaxing, she spread her legs and Tom groaned as he stood between them, grinding against her layers of skirt.

“Tom,” Bess’ head tipped backwards and he ground into her. He reached behind her back and pulled the ties of the nurse’s apron and threw it to the ground. With her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms about his shoulders, Bess clung to Tom as he fought with the buttons and zip of her bodice. Cold air and Tom’s long fingers traced the skin there when he managed to undo it, and no sooner had Bess moaned is name was Tom pulling her free of the arms and bodice of her uniform. He huffed at the sight of her brassiere, and with no warning or hesitation, ripped its satin straps so that Bess’ chest was entirely bare to him. Instantly, her pink nipples puckered with cold and Tom’s eyes blew wide. He dipped his head to kiss at the full flesh there, and Bess’ hold around his waist tightened.

“Please, Tom.” His name was all she could say. Tom was all she could comprehend. Still teasing her breasts, Tom reached beneath her skirt and roughly pulled down her knickers. She moaned with need as Tom ran a finger through the treasure he found there.

“Fuck,”

Bess bucked her hips.

“Fuck,” he said again, bringing his lips back to hers and moaning into her mouth. “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined doing this to you.”

Bess laughed with the pleasure and power those last words brought her. “Yes I do,”

“Confident,” Tom smirked as he continued to kiss her and run his long fingers through her now dripping folds.

“’I’d have fucked you with my mouth, my fingers, my cock. Watched you take me.’” Bess quoted, and Tom stilled. Through lust-hazy eyes, he looked down at her. His fingers stopped their work and Bess whined.

“What did you say?”

“’I don’t want to imagine anymore what those nimble fingers of your can do.’” Bess quoted again, and she watched as his pupils dilated further and his Adam’s apple bobbed with nerves. He huffed a laugh and Bess bit her lip.

“How do you know that?”

Bess tried to drive her hips upwards, frantically trying to feel his fingers against her but he moved them away. “What do you mean?”

“I-I didn’t send that letter,” Tom whispered, his mouth close to hers. Bess frowned a little, confused but eager for their reunion to continue.

“Well, you have a guardian angel because not only did they send you back, but they sent that letter too. And I’ve read it every night and every morning since it arrived. I’m tired of using my hand and pretending it’s your mouth around me.” Bess kissed him quickly, chastely.“I could say exactly the same.”

Tom regarded her with admiring shock then, with a harsh thrust as quick as lightening, brought his fingers to dip inside her. Bess cried out but was silenced by Tom’s hot mouth on hers. Who was more wanton, neither could say, for no sooner had he touched her was Bess bucking her hips onto his hand. Faster and faster, Tom fucked her sex with his fingers. First one, then two. When he added a third he felt Bess clench hard around him and he buried his head in her chest.

“Please,” she whimpered, curling an arm around his neck for purchase. “Please, I need you Tom.” At the sincerity of her words, a singular sob rent its way from Tom’s tense body. He looked down at her, at his Bess, spread before him on the table, half dressed and flushed with lust. It was true that Tom had thought of this moment, though his dreams could never equal the excitement, terror and elation that he felt roaring through his veins. But his obsession with Bess was so much more than lust. These nine months he had carried her in his pocket, through battles and enemy-occupied states. If he did have a guardian angel, surely it was she. Surely, it had always been her. On the Exeter, wasn’t it her hair he saw in the flames? When entangled with another woman he didn’t know the name of, wasn’t it her lips he’d imagined? It was memories of her, teaching him piano, nights at Belle Vue or the Palais, the momentous occasions he had made her belly laugh, or quiet evenings sharing a cigarette that had got him through those lonely, fearful nights at sea. It was the certainty that when he got home Bess would be there, waiting for him or not, that dragged his tired and war-battered body across Europe to safety. He needed her, completely and entirely.

With a swift kiss, Tom removed his fingers from her arousal and fumbled hastily with his slacks. Bess bolted upright and her hands found his. Together, with smiles and desperation, they wrestled with his slacks and briefs until the growing hardness that had strained so uncomfortably against the hard fabric was freed. Bess’ mouth watered at the sight and she kissed Tom with a renewed hunger. Looking back to his hard erection pressed against the soft flesh of her thigh, she whimpered. A few pearlescent beads of precum were gathered at its pink and swollen tip, and the veins that travelled along the shaft to its base in the thicket of blond curls throbbed. Without hesitation, Bess gripped his wide length and Tom hissed as she pumped his arousal before lining it up with her centre. Bracing his hands on the table either side of her lips, Tom’s head fell forward against Bess’ and she ran the tip of his cock along the entrance of her dripping sex. She inched closer to the edge of the table, mouth falling open in a silent moan as the tip of Tom’s painfully hard cock pressed against her entrance. He was panting with need, and the effort to not slam his hips forward and fully seat himself inside her. Already, their kisses were sloppy. The small kitchen was alite with the heat of the sun and their bodies. Bess’ hands gripped his broad shoulders and Tom took himself in hand, but when her legs wrapped around his slight waist, he faltered.

“I-I-Christ,” he was cunt-drunk before he’d even fucked her. “I don’t have a sheath.”

Bess ran a hand through his flaxen hair. She had waited years for this man, known since the war began that it was Tom Bennett or no-one. Any consequences of loving him wholly be damned. “I want all of you, Tom,” she whispered. “Please.”  

And Tom, with a shuddering breath, inched himself slowly into the welcoming heat of Bess’ body. Simultaneously they groaned, as Tom bottomed out in the warmth of Bess’ cunt. Her head tipped backwards and exposed the column of her elegant neck. Not moving within her, Tom leant forward to kiss the delicate skin there, the act pushing him forwards so that the tip of his cock brushed that sensitive spot within Bess’s pussy.

“Fuck,” her cry sounded pained, and Tom would have withdrawn from her were it not for the piercing of her nails in his shoulders, or the plump flesh of her thighs holding him ever closer. Slowly, so tantalisingly and cruelly slowly, Tom edged out of her heat, causing Bess’ eyes to flutter shut. He paused to watch the heaving of her breasts as she raggedly gasped for air, and at his stillness she looked at him through half-lidded eyes. “Please-” Whatever she was to say next died in her throat, for Tom slammed his hips so forcefully into hers that she saw stars. Over and over, Tom thrust his aching cock into her heat as she mewled and clawed at any part of him she could reach. With every snap of his hips Bess’ body came alive for him, from the quivering of her walls around his cock to the babbled gasps of “more”, “Tom”, and “harder”.

For Tom, the tight heat of Bess around him, the image of her coming undone at his touch and the desperation with which he had always wanted her reached a feverish pitch in which the overwhelming cacophony of feeling rendered his mind utterly blank. All he knew was Bess, the sound of her pleading voice, the harsh rasps of their hot breath on each other’s bodies and the obscene sounds of their love making. Harder and faster he pounded into her, all thought of gentleness gone from both their minds, bodily need and years of craving each other taking over.

The banging of the table legs against the floorboards of the old flat was barely audible over Bess’ moans and Tom’s muttered adorations, and neither noticed nor cared. Tom was too caught up in the waves of pleasure washing over Bess, and when her body fell back against the table and revealed her parted sex taking his cock so perfectly, he reached down to circle a thumb over her needy clit. Bess gripped his wrist and Tom felt her cunt clench around him.

“Don’t stop,” she gasped, and at her demand Tom felt he could continue no longer. Eager to satisfy her, he ground his jaw and with a hand at her hip and the over rubbing perfect circles over her sex, he watched as a flush of red bloomed across Bess’ cheeks and chest. Her body tensed and began to quake, and Tom knew he had never seen anything so beautiful; he promised himself he would bring Bess to pleasure as often as he was able. The shockwaves of her orgasm pulsed through her body, hard and untameable, and at the feeling of her climax Tom came undone, growling lowly as he came within her. Bess’ body went limp and he brought her against his chest, cradling her in his arms. In turn, Bess kissed the side of his forehead and laughed. When he looked at her through his loving and fucked-out gaze, he saw the surely uncomfortable position she was in; legs spread wide around his waist, leant slightly against the hard table and half dressed. Slowly, Tom pulled out of her still quivering sex and Bess gasped. The sound made Tom grin with smug satisfaction and Bess laughed. He kissed her smiling lips and pulled her to her feet.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered with a chuckle. Bess stood and, as she did so, the skirt of her uniform slid from her hips and pooled on the floor. Completely naked in front of him, Tom reached out a hand and caressed he full hips.

“Now you’re the one apologising!” Bess stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his perfect lips and feeling his cock grow hard once more at the touch of her bare body. He laughed.

“I had grand plans for when I came back to you, and fucking you on the kitchen table wasn’t one of them. I’m sorry-”

“I don’t know,” Bess cut him off with a languid kiss. “It seems appropriate to me, the course of our lives seems to have occurred in the kitchen.”

“Not anymore, love.” Bess raised a quizzical brow but her question went unanswered, for Tom bent low and flung Bess over his shoulder. She squealed and held his waist, Tom’s own hands firm on the plump roundness of her bottom. Bess could sense the shit-eating grin her wore and she smacked his arse.

“Cheeky,” Tom walked her to her bedroom, kicking open the door and dropping her on the bed. His eyes were hungry and she expected him to ravish her. Instead, he crawled atop her and rested his head against her soft stomach and curled his hand around her hips. It was then that Bess realised that hunger and lust for another person were not the same, and her heart beat with a fresh wave of love for the man clutching at her body.

“I missed you,” he said again, running his hands up her sides. She shuffled beneath him, rolling onto her side and Tom was forced to look up. Bess was reaching for the drawer of her bedside table.

“I want to show you something,” her voice was strained as she stretched awkwardly to retrieve something amongst the pile of makeup, magazines and fabric samples. Sitting up, naked and vulnerable, Bess handed Tom a bundle of paper. It was only when he looked closer that he realised they were letters. Each dated, with his name in the centre. He looked from them to Bess with wide eyes, doubting that anyone, including his father or Lois, had ever loved him this much.

“I never stopped writing, after you went missing,” she wiped her eyes and a glimmer of the old Bess, defiant and hardy, appeared before Tom. He wrapped a hand in the copper hair at the base of her neck and kissed her deeply.

“You’re some woman, Bess Vaughn.” And with dexterous fingers, he opened the first letter and began to read.

Notes: I’m sorry this took so long, hen dos and Eurovision and mega work deadlines and illness got in the way. Forgive me. Expect communication and long, sexy, heart-felt smuttiness in the next chapter! See you soon (I promise!)

EDIT: If you've read Come Back To Me, you may have noticed that in my illness-addled mind I called Bess the wrong name. All sorted now.

Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 @anditsmywholeheart @exitpursuedbyavulcan @myfandomprompts @allthefandomtherapy @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @beiigegalx @skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools @aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring

[fallinnflower]

the secret prince's cinderella

huening kai x fem!reader (fluff, royalty!au, historical fantasy!au)

wc: 6k

a/n: hi everyone! so a month or so ago i had a dream i was directing a movie that follows (generally) the plot of this fic. during the aftermath of hurricane helene i had no power or internet or cell service and ended up writing the whole thing in basically two sittings. the bigger projects i have been mentioning for years now are still in the works, including vampire!Bambam, vampire!DPR Ian, part two of dragon/river god!wonpil, etc... these are all monster-sized works that i really am just grinding slowly at amidst my day-to-day life. thanks for your patience and i hope you enjoy this extremely fluffy fic!

When you first meet Kai you think he's just a strange, sort of awkward kid. He wanders into the town square one day and finds where all the kids are kicking around a ball one of the other kids' moms made for all of you to play with, and just kind of… stands there. You can tell he wants in, and as the eldest of the group (by thirteen whole days!) you decide to let him join. Nobody questions your decision — Kai evens out the teams for boys against girls for your games. 

Even if you weren't the eldest in your group, you're sure you could've pulled strings to let Kai in if you'd had to, but you probably wouldn't have had to anyways. With his ethereally good looks, the other kids were already captivated by him. It didn't matter that he was awkward, he was pretty. You knew how powerful that could be, given that your mom was the prettiest lady in town. 

So, your friendship with Kai began like that. Teaching him how to properly kick a ball so that he didn't hurt his foot; showing him the berry patches that were safe to pick from on the outskirts of the farms and forests; scouring the creeks to find the perfect stones to skip. It was idyllic, sitting in the meadow in the shadow of the big, tall castle on the hill where you all pondered what might be going on so far out of your reach. 

You never even imagined what it might become in the future — what fate you had started spinning as you kicked that homemade ball over to him and made the circle of kids part to make him a space. 

It’s going to be a sweltering summer, your mother had told you that morning, as you carefully braided her hair. Your mother has beautiful hair, a strawberry blond that almost glows pink in the sunlight and fair skin without a blemish. How she manages to be so pretty, you’ll never know — you inherited her eyes but not much else, though you like to think you have some of her charisma, too. 

Your mother had also told you to be careful, and to not be home late, planting kisses on both of your cheeks and your forehead before making her way to work. You once heard that she could've become some lord's lover in the past, but she came here with your father instead. She works as a seamstress for the palace, setting off early every morning before the sun rises to make her way up the hill. Your father works in the blacksmith's shop. You’re almost old enough to work, but, for now, do odd jobs with the other kids and help keep the little garden in your backyard alive. 

Alongside Kai, of course. He had been completely clueless about plants before you showed him the garden, and then he became obsessed. You know it’s only a matter of time before he comes knocking at your door to go stare at the sprouts, wondering each day at any little change in them. 

Just as you finish braiding your own hair, there comes a familiar, rhythmic knock at your door. You don't even have to look to know it's Kai, so you pull it open without a second thought. 

"How are the potatoes?" he asks, cheeks flushed. 

"The same as yesterday. Did you run here?"

"Of course," he replies, walking purposefully through your house and right out the back door. "I'm sure it had another sprout growing yesterday, so it probably has leaves today."

"Kai," you sigh, trailing behind him. No matter how often you tell him that plants don't grow quite that fast, he never stops being so excitable. You decide to just let him go look at them like you always do. It's kind of cute, anyways — a thought you try to push aside. Kai is your friend first and foremost, and the fact that his teenage years had only added to his incredible beauty shouldn't — wouldn’t — change that. 

Also, you know next to nothing about him, really. He keeps where he lives a secret and never talks about his family outside of vague statements about their personalities. What you know about Kai is what he's willing to share, meanwhile he knows almost everything about you and your life in this village. You don’t take it personally; his friendship means too much to you for you to go breaking it by prying too much. 

"It looks like the tomatoes are wilting," he laments, his voice breaking you out of your thoughts. 

"Really?" You go squat beside him among the little rows and look at the leaves he's gently cradling in one hand. They still look green to you, just fine, but Kai’s brow is still creased with deep concern. You chuckle softly.

"I think they're okay, Kai," you reassure him, patting his shoulder. It strikes you just how broad his shoulders are, and you push the thought away.

"You worry about the plants like you're their overbearing mother," you tease, nudging him with your elbow. He sways, letting go of the tomato plant and using one hand to prop himself up so he doesn't fall. Something falls out of his pocket with a dull thud into the dirt, and you snatch it up before he can. 

It's a rock, an almost perfectly round gray one with a little face drawn on it with charcoal from a fire. The face has been redrawn multiple times, but always the same little smile. You can't help but laugh,

"You still have this?" Kai's cheeks turn faintly pink as he reaches out to take the rock from you. You hand it back to him, although you don’t really get why he holds it so gingerly.

"It's special," he replies, a little sullen. 

"It's a rock," you state. For the life of you, you can't understand why he's so sentimental over rocks and vegetables in the garden, but makes no fuss over the fancy fabric scraps or broken bits of jewelry your mom gets to bring home sometimes. You find those much more fascinating, especially the fabric, as your mother explains how much time each embroidered design takes. 

"It's not just any rock," he retorts, now indignant as he cradles the rock in his palm. He holds it up to your face as though to prove a point. "We found this when you were teaching me how to skip stones!"

You blink in confusion, looking between him and the rock. 

"Kai, that rock wouldn't skip even once. It's too heavy. You just liked how it looked!"

You still remember that day vividly yourself. The whole little group had gone down to the creek to practice skipping stones. Your grandmother had been very good at it before she passed away, and taught you how to do it on the days when she watched over you while your parents worked. Teaching other kids wasn't nearly as easy — Kai was the only one truly paying attention to what you said, his eyes earnestly fixed on you as you demonstrated how to find a good rock for skipping and how exactly to flick your wrist when throwing. That rock he now held was one you had picked up to demonstrate a bad skipping stone, but Kai had gone running into the water to retrieve it just after it landed. 

"Look how perfect it is!" he had exclaimed, making his way back to the shore with the stone triumphantly held up in his hands. Some of the other kids had conceded his point, and even you could acknowledge that it was a surprisingly round, symmetrical rock — though hardly worth his pants getting soaking wet over.

Still, to keep it all these years and draw its face back on every time it rubbed off…

You almost say something about it being weird, but the fondness on his face as he looks at the rock reminds you of the ratty rabbit doll you repair every time she has a rip or tear. She barely looks like she did when your mom first made her from fabric scraps, but she's too sentimental for you to let fall apart. If Kai's rock is weird, then your bunny would be just the same. 

"Didn't you name it?" you ask instead, a vague memory attempting to rise in your mind. 

"Yeah, it's Huenin Lionel Mbappe!" he replies proudly. He starts to say something else, but the chiming of the bell at the town square interrupts him. He quickly shoves Huenin Lionel Mbappe back into his pocket and stands up, offering you a hand. You don't need it, but you take it, surprised as always at how smooth his hands are. There are some calluses, but not nearly as many as your father and some of the other working men and boys in the village. Once again you wonder what he does when he's not with you, but you don't dwell on it, pretending you don't notice that he's still holding your hand as you run to the square together to meet up with the others. 

You're just glad he can't see how flustered you are as he squeezes your palm, pulling you along. 

Working with the other teens in the village often entails doing small tasks the apprentices and owners of different businesses don't have time to. Running deliveries, cleaning up a mess — little jobs for meager amounts of money. Being the eldest, you're the closest to picking a trade, but you think you'll likely just be like your mom. You already know how to sew pretty well from being taught by her, and you do odd mending jobs for other villagers in a pinch. The other kids you run with have been trying to forge connections at the businesses you help, testing the waters for a potential apprenticeship. 

Not Kai, though. While he seems interested in almost everything, he doesn't put himself forward as a hirable option for anyone. He also rarely takes a share of the earnings — you'd learned years earlier that he would secretly pass it all off in small bits to each of you, making different excuses each time until he had none left. You don't ask why and you don't tell him or the others you've caught on. Like your own potentially blossoming feelings, it feels like the mention of it could ruin what you and Kai have now, and you value that too much to jeopardize it. 

"Y/N, your dad said a couple of us should get more water for the blacksmiths from the river," one of the boys says as you and Kai approach. You brush flyaway strands of hair away from your face, quickly slipping your hand out of Kai’s grasp before the others notice.

"Okay, I think some of the ladies in the market have errands for us too. Should we split up for now?" you ask, and everyone in the group agrees. You expect Kai to go with some of the boys who start making their way down to the river, buckets in hand, but he lingers by your side as the rest of you head towards the market square. 

For some reason, Kai seems to be sticking especially close to you. He accompanies you on more of your errands, only taking on his own if someone calls him over specifically. Even then, he makes his way back to you as soon as he can, dutifully trailing behind you. 

"You're like a duckling," you tell him as the two of you make your way back out onto the street. You count the coins in your palm and only shoot him a short sidelong glance when he drops his share into your pocket, trying to be stealthy. 

"What do you mean?" he asks, sidling up beside you. 

"The way you're trailing me," you explain, dropping the rest of your coins into your pocket where they clink against the ones he left. He cringes slightly, knowing he's been caught, but you don't say anything about it. "It's like I'm a mother duck and you're a duckling, following right behind me."

"Hm," he hums, hands clasped behind his back. "Does that also mean I'm cute like a duckling?" 

He's smiling at you almost smugly, like he's expecting a compliment. Your heart flutters at the sight, and you wonder if you'll ever get used to just how handsome he is. Pushing the thought aside, you nudge him with your elbow, snorting,

"Helpless, more like." Kai laughs and knocks right back into you,

"You're right, I'm hopeless. What would I do without you?" His words catch you off guard, and you clear your throat to cover your embarrassment. 

"Who taught you to talk like that?" you tease, and his grin widens. 

"My dad told me I should be sweet to the girls in my life. Especially the really important ones. And the ones I really like." 

Which of those am I? you wonder, but the words get stuck in your throat. You and Kai stare wordlessly at each other for a moment, and you feel as though you're getting pulled in by his sparkling eyes—

"Kai! Can you come help me with this?" You both startle at the voice of another vendor, and you poke his shoulder. 

"You should go help them. I'm going to ask around for more errands." Kai nods, and you can't tell if you're imagining the disappointment in his eyes as he turns away. 

The day ends the same place it started — Kai walks you back to your house to check on the garden again before you start dinner. You stay in the kitchen and tie on your apron, pulling out your paring knife so you can start peeling potatoes and carrots. While he looks to see if there's anything to be gathered, you light the fire under the large pot hanging in the fireplace and dump the bucket of well water you had brought with you in. Kai comes back through the door with a small basket tucked under his arm as you pull your chair up by the fire, settling down to start peeling. 

"Can I help?" he asks. It's not an unusual request, but one you're not sure if you'll allow. Kai isn't always the best with a knife, prone to getting distracted as the two of you talk. The last thing you want is for him to slice his finger open, but you find yourself nodding anyway. 

"Okay, but be careful. Can you start on the carrots?" You feel safer about him peeling carrots than potatoes, and he acquiesces, pulling another chair up beside you. 

The crackling of the fire fills the room, the sound of peels hitting the bottom of the buckets barely audible. Eventually you start humming, a habit you picked up from your father, and Kai joins in on the tune. You glance at him to be sure he isn't distracted and are pleased to find him peeling the carrots successfully. 

"Oh, wait, Y/N!" he exclaims a few moments later, almost making you slice off a large chunk of perfectly good potato. You look over to him as he sets his knife on his lap and picks up a carrot. He holds the tip in his left hand and raises it to about his shoulder, the bottom of the carrot pointing diagonally at his right hip, and raises his other hand. 

"Doo dwang dee dwang~ Dow dow da dow-da-da-dow~" 

You stare on in mute disbelief as he continues, tapping his fingers along the tip of the carrot, making a strumming motion with his other hand at its wide end. He eventually stops and beams at you, an expectant look in his eyes.

"So, what do you think? Did I sound like a lute?" 

"That was a lute?" You almost feel bad for asking, but really, you wouldn't have ever guessed. 

"Huh," he says, looking down at the carrot in his hand. "My mom liked my impression."

"Moms are like that," you reply. "My mom once told me I had a nice singing voice and then I embarrassed myself in front of half the village kids."

Kai seems a little puzzled by this, as though he hadn't considered his mom might just be saying that because he's her son. Regardless, he shrugs it off and picks his knife back up. 

"I'll just have to practice more."

You don't say another word and just go back to peeling and humming. Kai leaves when the bell rings on the hour, and you continue cooking dinner as your parents make their way home in the twilight of the village. 

You don't see Kai for the next few days — not that it worries you. Honestly, you don't know what he does or where he is most of the time, but it's fine. You go about your usual routine, until it's interrupted by an unusual tolling of the bell, the kind that signals for villagers to come to the main square for news. You set aside your sewing and rush out to meet your friends there, spotting your father on the edges of the crowd with his coworkers from the smithy. As you gather, you see some sort of palace official with the royal guard behind him preparing to speak. He unfurls his message and clears his throat loudly; the crowd instantly hushes. Your heart beats loudly in your ears, worrying over whether the news is good or bad and your mom working inside the palace. 

"Hear ye, hear ye— to celebrate the joyous occasion of Prince Kai Kamal Huening's eighteenth birthday, all citizens are invited to attend a ball at the royal palace, Saturday fortnight! Be prepared to eat, drink, and be merry!" 

A birthday banquet at the palace with everyone invited? you think. Then, Kai almost named his pet rock like a member of the royal family? 

You wish he was there so you could get his reaction, but instead you turn to your other excited friends. All you can think of is what you could possibly wear to the palace of all places, and with only two weeks to prepare. 

Not seeing Kai for a few days is normal, but not seeing him for two weeks is strange. He had shown up at your home out of breath the afternoon of the ball announcement, asking if you'd heard the news, only to run back home just as quickly after checking on the garden. Your mother had rushed home that evening with a roll of fabric in her arms, exclaiming that her coworkers knew she had a daughter around the prince's age and let her take the last of an old bolster home. It wouldn't make much, maybe sleeves or the bodice of a gown, but it was beautiful. It was leftover from some drapes in a far wing of the palace, a plush blue velvet with golden-threaded embroidery. 

"You'll look splendid," your mother had said, positively beaming as she held the fabric up to your chest. You didn't bother telling her that there was next to no chance of you dancing with the prince no matter how pretty your dress was, but thought better of it. Besides, it's not like you weren't excited at the prospect of dancing — just not with some total stranger like the prince. The image of Kai smiling broadly when you said that you would be attending the ball rose to the forefront of your mind. 

Pushing it aside, you and your mother had begun working on your gown. Now, with the ball only days away, you hadn't seen even a glimpse of Kai in all that time. You'd wanted to show him the fabric, but with it almost finished you want the final look to be a surprise to everyone but you and your mother. With each day you don't see him, worry weighs more heavily on your heart. Nobody in the village knows Kai better than you, so if something had happened then nobody would even know where to start looking for him. You (and your friends) tell yourself to calm down. He always turns up, so you just have to be patient. 

You stare down at the potato plants in the garden forlornly, looking at how some of the leaves are beginning to turn just the slightest bit brown as autumn begins to descend. You imagine Kai's worried face and let out a sigh. You just hope he's alright, wherever he is. 

On the morning of the ball, everyone in the village wakes up excited. There's no real work to be done that day, as the palace had ordered most businesses to halt operations unless absolutely necessary. Your father scrubs his hands and face (with your mother's help) until his skin doesn't have even the slightest speck of soot on it. You help your mother braid her beautiful hair into a pretty crown on her head, and she helps you into your brand new dress. Slowly, the villagers start making their way up the hill to the palace; you walk behind your parents, who walk arm-in-arm, chatting happily. You wonder how long it's been since they've been able to spend a day together like this, or seen each other all dressed up. The thought of seeing Kai in a fancy outfit makes your heart pound; he's so pretty even in the simplest work clothes, how much more attractive will he look in party attire? 

You try not to dwell on it, not wanting to be even more nervous than you already are. Instead you focus on all the familiar faces around you, dressed in their absolute best and chattering excitedly. You aren't sure exactly where your friends are because you came with your parents, but you know you'll all find each other eventually. When you reach the palace gates, you're greeted by members of the royal knights and other official-looking personnel. Your mother points out the people she recognizes, whispering to you and your father who the chamberlain is, and the butler, and the marshal. You lose track of all the people as you're led into the ballroom and are astounded by its grandeur. You've never seen so many candles in one place, or so much food and wine. 

"I'm going to find my friends," you announce, still half in a daze. You do try to find them but also end up wandering around the room, in awe of everything around you. Even the drapes in this room put the fabric your mom brought home to shame — is it because it's a big event, or had that fabric been for drapes in some unimportant room. You finally catch sight of a couple of your friends, but as you make your way to them you're interrupted by the sound of a bugle. The whole crowd turns their attention to the raised platform where the two large thrones sit alongside three smaller thrones that you assume are for the two princesses and the prince. 

"Now announcing the arrival of the His and Her Majesties, the Sun and Moon of the kingdom!" Everyone drops into a bow or curtsy as the royal couple enters, and you glance up through your eyelashes to get a glimpse of them. You're surprised by just how stunning they appear, and how kind their smiles look. They stand in front of their thrones and look off to the side as their children’s entrances are announced,

"Princess Lea Navvab Huening!" She enters with a smile and a graceful wave, her dark brown hair pulled back neatly. She looks almost familiar, though you wonder if it's just because she's standing beside her parents. 

"The Prince, Kai Kamal Huening!" The entire crowd goes even more quiet, excited to get a glimpse of the man of the hour. Your breath catches in your throat when you see him, and you have to rush to lower your head so you don't seem disrespectful. 

That… that’s your Kai, isn't it? Up there on the platform? Your head is spinning, and you barely hear the announcement of the youngest royal sibling, Princess Bahiyyih Jaleh Huening. She's beautiful, too — the whole trio is stunning as they stand beside their parents, but you can scarcely think with the way your heart is racing. This whole time, your Kai was actually Prince Kai? You swear it can't be true, then look back at the royal family as the King and Queen descend for the first dance of the night and know you're right. It's him. 

You barely see the first dance, but when the Prince and first Princess descend for the second dance you're hyper-focused. Once he's on the dance floor you truly can't deny it anymore. 

You can't decide what to do. A part of you wants to run and hide, embarrassed and, frankly, scared that you had treated a member of the royal family like any other village child. How could you be so stupid? How could you not know? You try to slink away to the furthest edges of the crowd as Prince Kai has the third dance with the second princess, wondering if you can somehow get away without being noticed by him. 

But then they announce that the ball has started in earnest. The King and Queen take their seats, as well as the princesses, and you watch Kai scan the crowd in search of a partner for his first dance with someone who isn't his sister. You step behind one of your father's coworkers, an exceedingly tall man, but you're shocked when the crowd suddenly starts parting in front of you almost immediately. 

"Y/N?" a familiar voice calls, soft. You swear your heart stops in that moment. The man steps aside to reveal Kai, the light making the golden crown on his head seem like a halo. 

"Can I have this dance?" 

Everyone is staring at you and Kai with the same sense of disbelief that you're feeling. The same boy they'd had running errands a mere two weeks before was the prince of their kingdom, and now he was asking the girl he'd run around the village with for years to be his dance partner. 

"I— um, are you sure about this?" you whisper, looking from his face to his outstretched hand and back. You know what this looks like, what this implies. After all, celebrating his birthday like this is also to remind everyone that he's an adult of marriageable age now — does he really want to imply that you're his first choice?

But Kai just continues to smile, albeit looking a little bit more confused. 

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" 

So, you take his hand. 

You've never slow danced with anyone but your father at home, and even then it was just for fun; your dancing at festivals was never so regimented. Kai guides your hands to their proper placements and squeezes the one he holds, flashing you a reassuring grin. 

"I've got you. Just follow my lead." It feels like your heart has leapt up into your throat, so you can only manage to nod and put your trust in him like he said. 

And he guides you. You never would have guessed he was such a skilled dancer, but it's so easy to follow his lead that you're able to actually enjoy yourself more than worry about how you look. His hands are warm and his gaze is so fond, so tender, that you almost can't believe it's you he's looking at. As you fall into a comfortable rhythm, Kai leans in closer.

"You look beautiful," he murmurs, his lips almost brushing against your ear. A shiver runs down your spine, but you don't think anyone but him notices. It only makes him smile more when you stare at him in bashful disbelief. When he said his dad told him to say sweet things, that was the King, right? That realization just sends you reeling further. 

You stare at him, not sure what to say to that aside from a barely audible,

"You too." Kai blushes, his cheeks turning a rosy pink that makes him look even more angelic. 

"So am I an important girl or a girl that you like?" you ask, not really meaning to say anything at all and certainly not something so embarrassing. Kai looks taken aback, his eyes widening like a deer's. Somehow his cuteness makes you feel embarrassed, but you try not to show it. 

"Both?" he says. "I think it can be both. So, both." He smiles, satisfied with his answer.  

"You like me?" you squeak out, and Kai cocks his head to the side. 

"Yeah? I thought that was obvious. Everyone else knew." 

"Everyone else knew?" you parrot in disbelief, and Kai nods. 

"I guess I'm the only one they teased about it…" You can't help but laugh a little at that; none of the other neighborhood kids ever gave you much shit since you were their unofficial leader. That said, you're definitely going to have to grill them about this later. 

Kai pulls you slightly closer as the song comes to an end, before you part to bow and curtsy to each other. 

"Can I have the next dance, too?" he asks, looking down at you with the most doe-like eyes he can manage. You press a hand to your chest, where your heart is still pounding. 

"I think I need to sit down before I have a heart attack. This was a lot to take in." You take the hand Kai offers you, though, as he escorts you over to a chair. 

"I'll get you something to drink," he says, and he's gone before you can even protest that a servant could probably just bring a tray around. He's still your Kai, after all, you think, and it makes you feel relieved. 

As you're sitting waiting for him you notice how many eyes are on you. None are judgmental, thankfully — most are just in awe, both that Kai is actually the Prince and you suddenly seem in line to become a part of the royal family yourself. The mere thought makes your cheeks start to burn again, and you wave your hands by your face to try and cool down. 

As you're doing so, you suddenly notice the crowd parting towards you again, this time to allow the two princesses to approach. You hurriedly stand up and drop into a curtsy,

"My humblest greetings to your highnesses, the first and second princess." Your hands are shaking but you hope they don't notice as you hold your skirts up. 

"Is this her?" the second princess, Bahiyyih, whispers to her sister. You glance up just as the first princess elbows her before turning to you with a smile. She takes both your hands in hers. 

"What she means is, we've heard a lot about you. And Kai has gotten in a lot of trouble for sneaking out all the time, but we get it now." You swear your face gets warmer with every word she says, made worse by the effervescent grin on Bahiyyih's face as she nods along to her sister's words. Just then, Kai reappears by your side, a drink in each hand. Lea lets go of your hands, which you're grateful for because you feel like your palms are getting sweaty. 

"Lea…" He whines, shifting so he's standing behind you even though you don't hide him very well. You reach for your drink, hoping that having something to hold will ease your shakiness. 

"It's true!" Bahiyyih chimes in. "It took us forever to figure out where he was going, and then we realized he was going to meet a girl! It's so cute!"

"Please don't call me cute," he groans. 

"But you are cute," you blurt, and immediately want the ground to swallow you whole. A glance at Kai tells you his face is bright red, burning hot just like yours, and Lea squeezes your hands tighter as she and Bahiyyih practically squeal with delight. 

“So you do think I'm cute?” Kai asks, leaning around to get a look at your face. Now both he and the princesses are looking at you expectantly, and you feel like your face is on fire. 

“Well, yeah,” you mumble, quickly taking a sip of your drink. The princesses are almost vibrating with excitement, and Kai’s face turns bright red but his eyes are glimmering with excitement, his smile broad. His joy is almost blinding, and your heart is nearly beating out of your chest. 

“I think you're cute, too, Y/N,” he says. Your knees feel weak, and you only manage to pull your gaze from his when you faintly hear the sound of Bahiyyih giggling. Lea takes hold of her little sister’s arm and smiles apologetically at you,

“We'll give you two some time alone now.” She starts tugging Bahiyyih away, but the youngest Huening sibling takes hold of your hand.

“I can't wait to get to know you better, sister-in-law!”

“Uh, y-yes, me too,” you reply, mind going blank. Sister-in-law?! In a daze, you sit back down in the chair Kai had led you to earlier, barely registering that he's sitting next to you until he sets his hand on top of yours. 

“Are you okay?” You turn to him, mouth slightly agape. 

“Did she call me sister-in-law?” you ask. Kai laughs bashfully and links his fingers with yours, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. 

“Yeah, she's… excitable.” You nod, still sort of dazed, and take another sip of your drink. Staring back out into the crowd, you notice the princesses making their way back up to their parents’ side. In the distance you can see Bahiyyih leaning in to whisper something to her mother, and the queen's gaze seems to find you in the sea of people. 

“Oh my god,” you say, hurriedly turning back to Kai. “Does— do your parents know about me?” He nods.

“I got caught sneaking out and told them everything,” he explains. “This ball was part my idea and part theirs, so I could introduce you to them… Or let them see you, at least.” He must have seen the total anxiety in your expression at the prospect of meeting his parents one-on-one and immediately smooths it over, squeezing your hand again. 

“There's no rush,” he reassures you, and looking into his earnest eyes does actually help to calm your nerves. From this close you hardly notice the crown on his head, he just looks like the same boy you've been running around the village with for years. Just Kai. 

Your Kai. Just the thought makes your heart soar. 

You down the rest of your drink and stand up, Kai’s hand still in yours. 

“Do you want to step outside for a bit?” you ask, and Kai nods, setting his own drink aside too before standing up. The two of you make your way onto one of the balconies off the ballroom, and the cool night breeze puts your mind at ease. You feel like you can finally breathe again, standing by Kai’s side under the familiar light of the moon. He lightly swings your joined hands between you, staring up at the stars. Eventually, he turns his full attention back to you,

“Why did you want to come outside?” You take his other hand in yours and look down at the stones paving the bottom of the balcony. His shoes are so nice, you think, and almost want to laugh. All this time you wondered why he was only around some of the time and gave his money to the other kids — meanwhile he was sneaking in and out of the palace to come meet you. You take a deep breath, summoning all your courage,

“I just… thought it would be kind of embarrassing to have our first kiss in front of a crowd…” Kai squeezes your hands unintentionally, and you glance up at him, unable to meet his gaze fully. Even after saying it, you aren't sure where you got the confidence. 

“So, can I?” he asks, his voice soft. “Kiss you, I mean.” You laugh, the tension breaking, and lean in. 

“You really are hopeless, aren't you?” you tease, “Of course.”

You press your lips to his, the taste of wine still lingering, and you suddenly get the feeling that this is the beginning of the rest of your life. And you're going to live happily ever after.

[nightingale2004]

The Hunger Games next generation Post- Mockingjay: Everlark vers (Katniss x Peeta)

Willow Primrose Everdeen

Faceclaim: Cailey Fleming

Willow is the firstborn daughter of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. She is also the older sister of River Everdeen and Rue Meadow Everdeen

Before Willow was born, it took some time for Katniss to be comfortable with the idea of having kids, but with Peeta by her side, it became easier

After Willow was born, both Katniss and Peeta were terrified, but at the same time, they felt incredibly excited, warm, and happy

Willow takes after her mother in her looks, but her hair is lighter, and she has her dad's smile and eyes

Willow is surprisingly very mature and calm most of the time, even at a young age, but she's also sarcastic and has her parent's fighting spirit (mostly her mother's)

She calls Haymitch and Effie Grandma and Grandpa. The first time she did it, it caught everyone by surprise, but Effie and Haymitch embraced the titles given to them and continued to love Willow, River, and Rue as their own

She loves the outdoors and the rain

When Willow was a baby, Katniss would always keep her close with a baby wrap carrier and even took her on walks in the woods, gardening, and hunting sometimes

Knows how to track, hunt, and shoot a bow and arrow like a pro (thanks to her mother)

She may look like both her parents but she takes after mother completely

Is very protective of her brother Rye and her baby sister Rue

Knows how to make a bow and arrows from scratch

When Willow is not hunting, she likes to draw and paint like her father, and she's pretty good at it, too

Knows the Meadow song by heart since Katniss would sing it to her every night

She learned the "Hanging Tree" song at school along with the "Hunger Games" and the rebellion

Peeta owns his own bakery, where Willow helps out after school most of the time. Haymitch started his own winery and is married to Effie, who is a successful designer, seamstress, and architect. (Effie did some designs on Willows school)

When Willow first learned about the Hunger games and President Snow, she would always hug her parents to comfort them in some way

When Haymitch babysits her and River, Willow feels like it's the other way around

Willow loves the memory book and would look at it sometimes

When her dad is having a "bad day," Willow plays "real or not real" with him and paints with him when her mom has a nightmare or "bad day" they would sit in the woods, sing to each other, or just cuddle with each other

Willow is her mother's daughter, but she is weak for her father

She has met her grandmother (Katniss's mom), and she taught Willow basic medical skills, like medicine, and how to take care of wounds, big or small. She also writes letters to Willow to keep her updated, and she even tells her about her grandfather (Katniss's dad) and her aunt Primrose

Willow has a green thumb and loves gardening

Willow will not hesitate to fight someone if they talk bad about her family

Will try to act cool but is a softie in the end

Willow whistles a lot and would always whistle or sing so she can listen for Mockingjays. She also whistles to signal her parents that she's safe when she goes hunting or does target practice

Katniss's mom believes that Willow is a reincarnation of Katniss's dad because whenever Willow sings or even whistles, the birds even stop to listen

Knows how to play guitar

She is called Willy by her family, and Haymitch calls her Will just to mess with her

Katniss made the pearl Peeta gave her as a necklace, and she gave it to Willow to wear (Willow never takes it off)

Her favorite color is orange like the colors of autumn

🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹

River Cinna Everdeen

Faceclaim: Julian Hilliard

River is the second child and first son of Peeta Mellark Everdeen and Katniss Everdeen

He is also the younger brother of Willow Primrose Everdeen and the older brother Rue Meadow Everdeen

River is 5 years younger than Willow, and Rue is 3 years younger than River. Rue is a toddler right now

River mostly takes after his dad in appearance, but his hair is darker, and he has his mothers eyes

River is mostly attached to his mother and older sister

He does not like fighting, yelling, arguing, or anyone getting hurt

When both Willow and River were younger and their parents would have nightmares, they would sleep with kids

River loves playing in the Meadow and loves it when his family goes on picnics

Would always find ways to make his family smile

Willow will deny it, but she is completely weak for not just her father but for River and Rue to and is all over them

Knows basic medical skills and helps his dad at the bakery

He also helps Effie at her shop with clothes

He loves both his parents but he is a complete mama's boy

His family visits District 4 a lot to see his grandma. River and Willow also get to play and hang out with Annie's son and their aunt Johanna

He is the sweetest little boy you'll ever meet. He tries to act tough like Grandpa Haymitch and his mom, but it ends up looking like an angry kitten

He and Willow know how to climb trees and would make a race game of it

He loves animals

Like his sister, he helps out in the garden and loves helping out his family

He is an early riser and always wakes up when the sun is up

His favorite color is yellow, like the sun

Whenever Katniss's mom sees Willow and River together, they remind her of Katniss and Prim when they were younger

Both Katniss and her mother see Prim in River

Whenever he has a nightmare, he will either sneak Willows bed or his parents' bed

Both he and Willow have made more than one attempt to steal extra cookies from their dad when he bakes them

When he learned about the games and what his parents experienced, he joins his sister in giving them hugs every time he comes home from school

He also plays "real or not real" with his dad when he has a "bad day". He also hums the Meadow song to Katniss when she's upset

River thinks the "Hanging tree" song is a bit scary

Loves dancing

Looks through the memory book a lot and often wishes he knew the people close to his parents who passed away, including his namesake Cinna, who was his mother's friend during her game years

Both River and Willow have asked their parents questions about their past. Katniss and Peeta didn't tell them everything but only a few things until they got older and mature enough for them to understand

Loves it when his whole family is together

He loves the winter mostly because of the hot chocolate and fresh baked cookies his dad makes and his family being snuggled together inside their home

He likes to draw, but he's not as good as his sister, but he is good baking, cooking, making items from random objects he finds

When people found out about his parents, he hated attention, but he deals with it alongside Willow