#romeo and juliet fanfiction

[sparkywrites25]

Fortune's Wheel

Summary: In another life, things worked out quite differently for the star-crossed lovers. This is that life.

Chapter Summary: A reality check at the mail office inspires Father Laurence to revise his plan for the star crossed lovers.

Pairing: Romeo Montague x Juliet Capulet

Notes: In this story, I've bumped up Juliet's age to 17. Romeo is 18 here.

If you like my work and want to see more then please join my taglist. Form is pinned on my blog.

The priest scanned the delivery options and speeds with a critical eye. His attention wandered to the clock now and again, conscious of every second that passed. With that acknowledgment of time came reminders of Juliet’s desperate face and the terrible image of her holding the gun up to her head. The knowledge of what she might do if this scheme didn’t come through as it needed to haunted him. Even if he were not invested in the reunion and happiness of these two lovebirds, he needed to save the girl from such a terrible fate. Lord knew what Romeo would do if he were to find out what had happened. They were both so wrapped up in matters of their hearts and loving each other too passionately. It was like watching a wildfire beginning, knowing how much damage it could do if it continued to rage with that temperament. These children needed to cool themselves before they burned everything around them with their love.

Around him, the mailing center was busy and bustling more than usual; it didn’t fill the holy man with much hope about the safety of the letter and the speed in which it was to get to Romeo. Even the options available had their risks. The time frame for this plan to go off properly was so short and plenty of accidents and mishaps happened in the mail room.  He sighed and wandered towards the queue. He could at least ask them which was the best service to opt for. Standing here indecisively was only going to delay everything.

Once more he glanced at the clock. In a few hours, Juliet would be taking the potion. The letter needed to be sent immediately if it was going to have its best chance of reaching Romeo in time for him to rescue Juliet from her fake death. As Laurence stepped into the queue, a grumble sounded from his left. 

“So yet again, they’ve lost my letter,” a dark-skinned man was saying, gritting his teeth as he walked away from the customer service desk with his wife. “Why do we still use them?” he added, shoving one hand in his pocket. His wife spoke softly into his ear, hanging onto his arm and stroking his bicep soothingly. 

“I’m sorry, sir!” The man behind the counter called after the stranger but received no reply. 

The priest stared down at his own letter in severe contemplation. Perhaps the situation that he’d just overheard was just a freak incident and not the norm. Maybe his letter would arrive to Romeo without trouble and everything would run smoothly. It was certainly possible but could he really afford to gamble this whole scenario on the chance that the mail would arrive in time? What if this wasn’t the only case today? What if there was a problem with the mail? Would it not be reckless to take that chance with this letter?

He approached the counter himself. Fortunately, there was only one customer ahead of himself and they concluded their business within a minute. As soon as they’d moved away, the holy man bowed his head in a respectful nod as he approached the desk. “Good afternoon,” he said with the thinnest smile. “Is there a service that can guarantee this letter’s arrival by tomorrow morning at the latest?” 

The customer agent eyed Laurence and then the letter he carried. “At the moment we’re extremely busy so, while we can guarantee the letter arriving tomorrow, I couldn’t say if it would get there by morning.”

Laurence wet his lips thoughtfully and this eyes widened in hope. “Perhaps the afternoon then?”

“Again, I couldn’t guarantee. We do evening deliveries as well so it might not make it there until then.”

Evening is too late for Juliet. Laurence thought irritably. “Thank you for your help,” he told the young man politely. “I’ll deliver it myself, I think. I can spare the time.” 

With that, he left the desk and strode towards the exit. The letter would have to be delivered in person, that much was painfully obvious. Romeo needed to be in the church by ten o’clock tomorrow night. It would be too late to wait for him to receive the letter then. 

Despite what the priest had just declared, he didn’t have the time to drive to Mantua and fetch Romeo. But maybe someone else could. He might have just the person in mind. 

— — — — — 

It made the most sense, the priest thought, to only involve someone who knew about the secret marriage. Juliet’s nurse was out of the question. It would look strange for him to suddenly call on her so late at night and it would definitely be too strange to ask her to travel to Mantua to deliver a message to Romeo. It would raise too much suspicion and questions, and, at any rate, she was needed by Juliet’s side. So then that left Romeo’s cousin Balthasar who had also witnessed the ceremony. Balthasar was a far better candidate for such a task since he was generally overlooked by people and didn’t draw a great deal of attention to himself. As the closest person to Romeo and an assistant in smuggling him out of the city, Balthasar was the ideal envoy, upon consideration. 

Finding the boy was the biggest obstacle to this stage of the plan and it would involve more deception which, in all honesty, the priest was not so happy about. But, in this case, the deception could save two lives if not more and bring about the possibility of an end to this feud between the two families. When you looked at it from that bigger picture, as God must surely do, then surely this was a needs must situation? 

Laurence drove over to the Montague estate at once. The sandstone of the manor shone golden under the warmth of the sunlight. Laurence walked under tall archways into a spacious courtyard. In the heart of the courtyard, a fountain rose up depicting four men back to back, swords extended in different directions; the four Montague brothers who had started the family business over 500 years ago. The rim of the fountain was engraved with some of the most famous of descendants since then. Three quarters of the rim had been filled in with these names. As the priest looked down at them, he wondered if there was any possibility that Romeo could have his name down there one day. Perhaps the Montague who healed the rivalry with the Capulet. If that wasn’t something to be recognized for then this world was a sadder place than the holy man imagined. 

He continued past the fountain and ascended the stairway towards the main entryway into the house. Once invited inside, he inquired about Balthasar and whether he was free to assist with some manual work at the church for some coins. As the youth was often being denied an extension to his allowance by his family, the offer was welcomed immediately by the young man himself as well as his relatives. There were no arguments as the priest led the young man away from the house. 

“Is everything okay? Is it Romeo?” Balthasar asked as soon as they were out of earshot of the building. “Have you any news?”

“Not about Romeo,” Laurence explained, taking the boy’s elbow. “But we have a new situation to contend with.” 

Balthasar whitened and gestured to the park across the road from where they stood. “This is a quiet place to talk, Father,” he murmured. 

They walked into the park and settled themselves on a secluded bench behind a cluster of trees. There were few people around and no one paid much attention to the holy man and the young man sat in secretive talk beneath the shadows of said trees. 

“What’s the matter?” Balthasar questioned, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Although he was shorter than Romeo and had a little more of a feeble look about him when it came to his build, priest Laurence could see the same eagerness and brightness in his eyes that his older cousin showed of late especially when it came to Juliet and their marriage. Like Romeo, Balthasar had been very much untouched by the majority of the rivalry between the two families. Unlike Romeo, however, Balthasar still flew under the radar, behind the more enthusiastic players in this blood feud. 

Laurence glanced around them one more time to ensure there were no eavesdroppers and then he began to tell Balthasar the situation. “The Capulets want Juliet to marry Paris tomorrow morning. The girl has gotten herself quite agitated and upset over it.” 

“As she should,” Balthasar’s brows knitted so tightly that his face seemed to age with the wrinkles in his forehead, “after all, she already has a husband who is very much alive.”

“Yes but of course the Capulets do not know that,” Laurence reminded him. “God only knows what they would say if they knew that their daughter had married their enemy.”

“They’re going to have to find out now, aren’t they? If she marries again, she’ll be committing bigamy,” Balthasar spoke in hushed tones. 

“While that’s true, that’s not the most concerning part of all this. Juliet is refusing to marry Paris, without giving her reasons why and now her family are furious. They are threatening to disown her if she does not obey. If she refuses to marry Paris on Thursday then they will kick her out of the home and the family.” 

“Oh Jesus,” Balthasar ran his hands over his face. “Curse this feud. Curse our families. This has already gone too far. They cannot see the line they have crossed anymore. It’s too far from them now,” he lamented. 

Laurence placed a hand on the young man’s shoulders. “We can lament the families’ pride and ignorance later. We must help Juliet now. If her parents kick her out, where can she go? I have a spare room but that will not stop the Capulets coming after her and badgering the girl into submission, despite their claims of disinheriting her.” 

“She cannot come and stay with us. That’s like throwing her into a nest of snakes that are just as deadly as her own family. Benvolio would be a gentleman, I am sure, but the rest would not care to give her shelter,” Balthasar mused. 

“Exactly. Her options are limited although she and I have begun a plan. Though it is as desperate as it is dangerous.” priest Laurence answered. 

Balthasar fixed him with a confused look. “What plan is this?”

The priest bowed his head. “Juliet came to speak to me about the plan to marry her to Paris. She was extremely distressed and panicking. She brought a gun with her to church.”

“A gun?!” Balthasar exclaimed. “Where the devil did she get…?” He instantly began to cringe. “I expect she got it from Tybalt’s quarters or such like. The Capulets have their means, after all.” He shook his head. “What did she intend to do with it? Shoot Paris? Is she so desperate?”

“Paris was not the intended target for her,” Laurence whispered. “She threatened to kill herself before anyone could make her marry Paris.”

Balthasar covered his mouth with one hand and turned away. “God, how have we ended up in this situation where that could even be considered? How have things got like this?”

“Calm yourself, Balthasar,” the priest urged him. “Her desperation gave way to a better idea, from my mind.” As the young man returned his attention to him, Laurence continued. “There is an extract from one of the plants I work with. It can mimic death for 24 hours and in 24 hours, things can change for the better.”

“How does her faking her death make this any better?”

“Because it frees her from the Capulets’ plot to marry her off and it can resolve her separation from Romeo at the same time.”

Laurence watched the realization dawn over Balthasar’s face. A smile began to grow like a sunflower stretching up towards light and hope gleamed in the same promising eyes as his cousin. The young man straightened up and gave an understanding nod. “Romeo can come back and take her away with him to Mantua.”

“Yes,” Laurence confirmed. “They can wait it out there until we can resolve things with Captain Prince. As for the Capulets, well they will either come round to the marriage once it goes public or they will leave her for good. They cannot undo what has been done before God. If we can pull this off tonight, Balthasar, those lovebirds will be free and there may be hope to end this bloody feud at some point too.”

“I hope so,” Balthasar leaned back on the bench and ran his fingers over his mouth. “It’s uneasy to live in a city where you feel like you might get picked off by your enemy at any moment. Yet it seems too good to be true to imagine it all ending.”

“We can make it become more of a possibility,” the priest assured him. “But first you must go to Romeo and explain the situation. Juliet is going to take the concoction before bed tonight. You must get Romeo back here by tomorrow night. Ring me once you’re there and I will have an update.”

Balthasar gave it some thought. “I’ll leave this afternoon and spend the night there.”

“Make sure that you have a strong alibi,” the priest remarked. “I’m sure the Prince’s forces are expecting Romeo to smuggle himself back into the city. We must be prepared for that and to make a plan around that if we have to.”

Balthasar frowned. “That could throw a mighty spanner in what we’re trying to do, Father.”

“I know, my boy.” Laurence patted the boy’s shoulder. “We’re going to have to be very careful and stay in contact as much as we can. We have to be ready to smuggle both Romeo and Juliet out of the city tomorrow night too.”

“Perhaps we can get Benvolio involved,” Balthasar suggested. “He loves Romeo. I’m sure he’d do anything to help him.”

“Hang fire on that for now,” Laurence advised, “at least until the plan is underway. If he doesn’t help then we need to give him as little time as possible to cause any trouble he may do so. We need to be able to proceed with the plan.”

Once again, Balthasar nodded although he was still frowning. “We’re not going to have much time to try and get him on board, are we?”

“No,” Laurence agreed. “But he’s not a vital part of the plan. As soon as Romeo has retrieved Juliet then we may need to lay low a while. In which case, you can appeal to Benvolio for assistance. Until we get those two ready to go, it doesn’t matter if Benvolio will help us or not.”

“Good point.”

Laurence stood up. “Take this letter,” he said and held out the paper which Balthasar took as he rose to his own feet. “Make up a believable story for your family to explain your absence. No!” He suddenly held up a finger. “Tell them that I have you running an errand to collect some artifacts for the church. It’ll be a long trip so you won’t be back for at least a day or so. You can stay with me until the time is acceptable for you to return.”

“Okay, got it,” Balthasar agreed, the relief evident on his face that he wouldn’t need to conjure the lie himself. And really, part of it wasn’t a lie. He was helping the priest with an errand, after all. It just wasn’t an artifact that he was going to retrieve. 

He tucked the letter safely away in his jacket pocket and so he and Laurence began their journey out of the park, rejoining the main pathway as they did. 

“Good luck,” the priest told him once they had left the park. “Do what you can to keep Romeo calm until tomorrow night.”

He was met with a grim smile as Balthasar contemplated the emotional state his cousin would be in once he learned what was happening and what Juliet was going to do. 

— — — — — 

The drive out to Mantua gave Balthasar plenty of thinking time. He thought about this long feud between the Montagues and the Capulets and how many people of both families had met their end in the bloody battles and the dirty tricks both families had pulled in each other’s business dealings. He thought about how the fates had aligned to make a child of both families fall in love with each other. His thoughts turned to the dead and innocent Mercutio and the bloodthirsty Tybalt who would have nothing but vengeance. Blood was running through the streets of Verona and there was only so much the civilians could take regarding this feud. Captain Prince and everybody else was heartily sick of the situation. 

I can’t blame them, Balthasar reflected as he drove past the boundary line of the city of Mantua. He found himself breathing easier as he did. He was in safe territory now. Away from the vengeful, bloodthirsty eyes of the Capulets and away from the domineering drive of the Montagues. Here, he was just Balthasar and he was on his way to visit his cousin. There was nothing complicated or fearful about that. This was a place where Romeo could start again, and Juliet too. 

The lodgings that had been provided for Romeo was a small caravan on the edge of the city. As Balthasar left the cool shade of the city shadows behind him, he felt the sunlight roasting him through his windscreen, blinding him with its light. He grabbed for his sunglasses and pushed them over his face. Instantly his view improved and he began to glimpse the caravans dotted around the open space. 

He turned the car towards Romeo’s caravan and smiled when he spotted the young man sitting in the doorway. Pulling up outside the caravan, he watched his cousin look up. 

Romeo tossed a cigarette to the ground, a smile breaking out when he recognized his cousin getting out of the car. He hurried forward to wrap Balthasar in a warm embrace. 

“Am I glad to see you, cousin!” he exclaimed into the hug. “Have you got news already?” he asked, pulling back at once to look into Balthasar’s face. 

Balthasar fixed his most calming smile onto his face. “Nothing about your punishment yet.” He told his cousin and stepped into the shade offered by the small awning hanging off the caravan. The cooling shadows soothed the burning feeling on his cheeks. 

Romeo stepped into them with him. “But something is going on?”

Balthasar nodded his head, maintaining his smile. He had expected Romeo’s impatience given that his cousin was separated from his true love. Though how his cousin could be so certain of that love after knowing his wife less than a week, Balthasar did not know. He expected that the certainty came with the feelings themselves. Perhaps he would know it if it happened to him. Although hopefully his own love life would not be nearly so complicated. 

“Laurence has explained it all in this letter to you. He’s much more eloquent and I am still digesting it all myself,” Balthasar admitted as he took out the letter and handed it to Romeo. He stepped closer to his cousin and stared down at the words written by the priest. 

Dear Romeo,

I hope that you are settled in a safe place for the time being. I write to you because a need has arisen to reunite you with Juliet sooner rather than later. The Capulets are pressuring her to marry Paris, the Governor’s son. She has refused and has enraged her father who is threatening to disown her. Despite his threats, she and I both share the belief that her family will not let her go so easily and will bully her into this marriage. The distress that your wife has endured is immense, on top of everything else that has happened recently. She came to me and begged for my assistance otherwise she would take her own life. 

“Juliet, take her own life?!” Romeo’s head snapped around to look at Balthasar. One of his hands grabbed onto the smaller man’s shirt roughly. “She needs to be stopped. She needs to be watched!” Grief and horror battled their way across Romeo’s features and his eyes flashed wildly. “There must be another solution. I cannot lose her to death!” he began to lower the paper as his eyes immediately focused on Balthasar’s car. “We need to stop her.”

He began to make for the car but Balthasar, instinct kicking in, instantly stepped in the way and pushed his cousin back with a strength he didn’t expect himself to have. Romeo stumbled back, gritting his teeth and shooting Balthasar a death glare. 

“You’ll try and stop me? Really?!” he scoffed, charging towards him. 

Balthasar grabbed hold of his shirt but this time Romeo grabbed his wrists and resisted him, pushing back against his cousin so that Balthasar stumbled back. 

“For the love of god, finish the letter!” Balthasar yelled as Romeo pushed past him and went to the car. “Juliet’s not going to kill herself anymore!” 

Romeo stopped by the car door, with one hand, his chest heaving with the weight of his passion. Balthasar strode over to him and took his arm only for Romeo to throw his hand off and open the door. “You think I can stay still after reading this?!” he snarled at his cousin.

Balthasar huffed, his usually mild-temper rising up in the face of this difficulty. “What’s one more minute to spare to read a letter and learn that Juliet is not going to leave you?!” As he spoke, he pointed to the fallen letter and then leaned down and snatched it up. “Father Laurence wants you to know all of the truth. Not just half the letter. Read the full truth.” 

Romeo frowned at him, suspicion deep in his eyes, as he glared over the open car door. Balthasar stepped closer to him, trying to cool his own annoyance in his face. 

“Just spare a minute, cousin. Please.”

He held out the letter and Romeo took it at last, returning his gaze to the letters on the sheet. 

I have offered a solution which may bring about happier times for you both and will prevent the young lady from taking such an irreversible path. You know of my work with plants. There is a special liquid produced from one which creates the illusion of death but simply puts the drinker into a deep sleep. Juliet will take this draught and sleep for the next 24 hours. During which time her family will believe she has died. When they inevitably call me to their home, I will arrange for her to be laid in church in state. Tomorrow night, when the potion’s work is up, you need to have returned to Verona ready to take Juliet with you. No one will chase Juliet if they believe she is dead and you can live in safety outside the city. 

I will keep doing what I can with Captain Prince but it may be safer for you to stay away forever if the Capulets discover your marriage, Juliet’s survival and do not come to reason. You are led by hot, potent emotions but for a plan such as this, you need to temper them with common sense and follow my instructions. Otherwise you will be captured and executed and then, I fear, nothing will stop your wife from following you into death. 

Keep Balthasar with you tonight. Tomorrow I will confirm when Juliet is in my care and when it will be safe to retrieve her. 

Yours sincerely,

Laurence

Romeo stepped backwards away from the car, breathless from the strange read and his previous exertion. “This is dangerous work. What is Juliet doing? Why did she not just run away?” His attention snapped to Balthasar. “You could have brought her here tonight!” 

“I know!” His cousin agreed. “But then the Capulets would have been chasing her.”

Romeo ran a hand through his hair in agitation. “What if the potion goes wrong? What if she dies for real? This isn’t like being given medicine by a doctor. This is… this taking drugs!” he exclaimed. “She’s gambling with her life.”

“And you’ve never gambled like that. You’ve never taken drugs.” Balthasar countered. He sighed and walked towards his cousin, taking his biceps in his hands. This time he tightened his grip to make it difficult if Romeo tried to shrug him off again. “The pair of you have been gambling this whole time. Marrying a Capulet and in secret? Going after Tybalt and killing him? You’re lucky not to be murdered or executed right now.”

“I know I’m a fool. Everything I’ve done lately has been foolish…” Romeo argued, “except marrying Juliet. She is the only sense in everything I’ve been doing.”

“All the more reason to keep your head now,” Balthasar reminded him. “If done right, you could have your wife with you tomorrow night and both of you can escape.”

“I hear you!” Romeo snapped back. He pushed at Balthasar’s hands and sighed. “Unhand me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Balthasar hesitated before withdrawing his hands. Romeo walked around him, back toward the doorway of the caravan and so Balthasar followed him and leaned against the caravan while his cousin sank back onto his previous perch. For a minute or two, neither of them spoke. The world blazed cold with afternoon sunlight and Balthasar’s thoughts turned towards the approach of night when Juliet would take the potion and prepare for her strange sleep. 

“I don’t like any of this.” Romeo declared. “I hate that Juliet is putting herself in danger to be with me.”

“Didn’t you put yourself in danger to be with her?” Balthasar remarked. “Staying over at her place hours after you were banished?”

Romeo bowed his head but the corner of his lips tugged up. “Is that your job today? To point out my hypocrisy?”

“I’m just saying you have no room to talk,” Balthasar smiled and crouched down so that he was looking up at his cousin. “Try not to focus on the risks, cousin. Do you really think that Laurence would have recommended this if it was that dangerous to do?” 

Romeo seemed to slump even more. “Even the wisest people can make mistakes, Bal,” he murmured, directing the sadness from his eyes into Balthasar’s own. 

Balthasar slumped a little himself under the weight of his cousin’s anxious and sad gaze. “That’s true. But he was talking Juliet down from killing herself. If this concoction is that unpredictable and he was still willing to use it then he may as well have let her pull the trigger. There must be some safety to it if he’s this adamant about the plan.”

“I want to believe that,” Romeo lamented. “I do. It’s just that he could still be wrong.”

“But if he hadn’t offered anything then Juliet would be dead right now.”

Romeo dropped his head into his hands and growled like a wounded animal. “God dammit, Juliet! I would never want her harmed especially not by her own hand. This is too fucking risky.” His fingers tangled in his blond locks, twisting the fine hairs in growing agitation. “I should have just taken her with me. I should have just fucking taken her then.”

“It was too dangerous. You knew that. You couldn’t predict what her parents would do. You couldn’t have seen any of this.” Balthasar placed a hand on Romeo’s arm. “You did what you knew was right at the time. Things just… they just turned so quickly.”

“What if they catch me, Bal? What if they catch you smuggling me back into the city? Where will that leave Juliet then? They’ll just force her to marry Paris then. Or worse, she’ll kill herself. What if I lose her anyway?”

Balthasar’s hand on his cousin’s arm quickly turned into a light shake. “Don’t go there. We’re not going to let any of that happen. We’re gonna follow the plan. We’re not gonna lose our heads, okay?” He spoke with a voice firmer than he felt but right now his cousin needed to hear it. “We’re gonna wait for Laurence to confirm that he has Juliet and then we’re gonna go and get her okay?”

Romeo tensed under his grip and Balthasar feared that he was about to throw him off again. His hands fisted and Balthasar half-expected that a punch may be thrown. Instead Romeo’s shoulders hunched and his eyes squeezed shut as he inhaled harshly once and then twice. The restraint that locked his body was becoming more and more evident. Balthasar searched his mind for anything that might distract his cousin or at least focus his inclination to rebel on something else. Maybe something that could be productive or useful even. 

“We need to plan your return carefully,” he told Romeo thoughtfully. “You’re right in that they could catch us sneaking you in. Maybe there’s a way we could go undetected. I could steal another car if they know mine well enough.”

Romeo lifted his head only a fraction. “That would just buy us trouble later. If it gets reported early enough, they could catch us while we’re on our way in or out. We can’t draw attention to ourselves.” He lowered his hands from his face. 

“Should I have asked Benvolio for help?” Balthasar wondered, remembering his earlier suggestion to Laurence. 

His cousin shook his head. “No. Benvolio is too well-known in the recent street fights. He’d be just as suspected as you.”

“There’s no one else we can ask?” 

“Laurence is the only one who I can trust with this,” Romeo answered solemnly, “and he is flying under the radar at the moment. He is already involved in this.”

Both young men fell silent again and as they did, Balthasar felt the spark of an idea ignite within him. Small and maybe a dangerous spark. A spark that could cause a fire for more than just the Montague boys. A danger that could light up the priest’s life as well. But if it worked. If the theory proved to work well in reality then it could buy them time, enough time to pull this off. 

“Romeo…” Balthasar muttered after a moment or two, “I might just have an idea about that. But we’d be playing a crazy game.”

Romeo lifted his eyebrows and a huff of sarcastic laughter burst from him. “We’re already playing a crazy game, Bal. What exactly did you have in mind now?”

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

What if Sylus was a prince from a neighbouring country and you were forbidden to be with him but you couldn’t help but be drawn to him? Thus a night of unbridled passion hehehe

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐑𝐮𝐢𝐧

[ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ]

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 meant to read the letter twice.

The first time was an accident—her fingers trembling as they broke the seal, dark red and unmarked, save for the faint impression of a signet she would not dare name aloud. She had unfolded the black parchment with the caution one might offer a blade. Not out of reverence. Out of recognition. Out of dread.

The second reading was indulgence.

The third—betrayal.

By the fourth, her maid had begun to knock softly at the door, her voice threaded with concern, asking if she felt unwell. She lied. Said it was the heat. A passing fever. Perhaps the tea.

But it wasn’t. It was the letter.

' If you still dream of the garden, meet me where the orchids used to bloom. Midnight. '

Twelve words. No name. No signature.

And yet—him. In every curl of ink, in the silence between syllables.

She pressed her thumb to the writing, half-hoping it would smudge. That it might dissolve beneath her doubt. That if she willed hard enough, the looping script would fade, as if memory could be erased by sheer refusal.

But it never did.

It clung to the page like prophecy���unyielding. Certain of itself. Certain of her.

She set the letter on the edge of the windowsill, where the wind might take it. Where morning might find her brave enough to burn it. But still, it remained. Unmoving. Unshaken. Mocking her with its stillness.

She did not dare sleep. Sleep invited dreams. Dreams summoned memory.

And memory—him.

He had called himself Envoy once, at the treaty banquet. The hall had been crowded with strangers dressed like saints, drunk on duty and imported wine. He wore black that night, obsidian from throat to wrist, the cut austere—too austere.

Until she met his eyes.

Not simple. Not at all.

He had looked at her like a man who had spent his whole life building walls, only to find her waiting on the other side. His first smile was shallow. His second—dangerous. By the third, he offered her a glass of wine with his left hand and his name with his right.

The name had been false. The touch had not.

Three dances. That was all.

Once beneath the chandelier, the world watching. Once at the foot of the grand staircase, her hand grazing his in passing. And once—when no one was looking—behind a marble column, her breath fogging the stone as he leaned in and asked what she was afraid of.

She hadn’t answered. He hadn’t kissed her.

The memory had haunted her ever since.

Now the letter lay beneath her palm. Folded once. Heavy, though it weighed almost nothing. She stared as though it might vanish. As though it might grow teeth. As though the words might open her chest and nest between her ribs, coiled and waiting.

She should not go.

She would not go.

But even as she whispered the vow aloud—I will not go—her fingers were already reaching for her cloak.

It hung from the carved screen beside her bed—soft wool, lined in dusk-blue satin. She had not worn it in months, not since the frost had retreated from the fields. And yet it still carried the faintest trace of lavender and ash. Something clean. Something final.

She draped it around her shoulders with practiced grace. Not rushed. Not panicked. Like a woman dressing for a funeral where her name might already be carved into the stone. Every movement deliberate. Silent. Almost sacred.

The hem whispered against the floor.

The chamber was still, save for the rustle of fabric and the steady tick of the longcase clock in the corner. One hand to midnight. Her shadow bent long across the flagstones, wavered in the candlelight, stretched toward the threshold.

She stood motionless.

Not moving. Not breathing.

Only listening.

To the hush of the corridor beyond. To the stutter of her own heart as it faltered, then found its rhythm again. To the wind at the shutters, tapping like a question she lacked the courage to answer.

And then—

A sound.

Soft. Too soft for a stranger to make.

The door creaked open before she could speak. No knock. No announcement.

She didn’t need one.

"You're not asleep," came the voice—low, weary, but braided through with quiet steel.

Elaine.

Her maid. Her closest friend. Her constant since childhood. She stepped into the room with a candle in one hand and disappointment in the other. Her gaze drifted from the gaping wardrobe to the cloak clasped at her mistress’s collarbone. Then upward. And held.

"I knew you’d try," Elaine said. Not in bitterness. Not even surprise. Only sadness.

"I wasn’t going to," she replied, her voice steady, though her hands curled tighter within the sleeves. "I told myself no. I told myself it would be wiser—safer—to forget he ever wrote."

Elaine moved closer. The candle’s flame shivered, catching in the hollow of her throat as she stopped just shy of touching her.

"And yet you’re dressed to disappear."

A beat of silence.

And then another.

"Please," Elaine said. Her voice cracked like frost beneath a boot. "You don’t have to do this."

She turned away—not from cruelty, but because to look at her might be to stay. Her gaze fell to the floor, to the folds of her cloak pooling like ink at her feet.

"I do," she whispered. "I wish I didn’t. I wish I were stronger. Or colder. But I know myself too well, Elaine. And I know… this may be the last time I ever see him."

Elaine reached out, touched her sleeve, and for a moment—just a moment—held on.

"You’ll ruin yourself," she murmured.

She smiled. Faintly. Not in defiance. Not in pride.

In sorrow.

"Then let it be for something worth remembering."

Elaine did not let go.

Her fingers tightened—just slightly—as if she believed, foolishly, lovingly, that the right grip might anchor her mistress to reason. To safety. To the stillness of staying. Her brows knit together, not in anger, but in something older. Worn. A concern worn thin by years of quiet watching, polished now into something closer to grief.

“He’s the son of the enemy,” she said, softly. Each word landed like a stone dropped into the hush of the chamber. “You’re betrothed to another. And nothing good—nothing lasting—can come of this.”

She said it the way a nurse might warn a child about fire. Not to ruin its warmth, but because she had seen what the embers left behind.

The silence that followed was not defensive. Nor ashamed.

It simply was.

She looked down at Elaine’s hand still resting against her sleeve, and let the truth settle between them like morning fog curling across a field. She didn’t argue. She couldn’t. Every warning had already echoed within her, whispered in every sleepless hour since the letter first arrived.

But sometime between the second reading and the third, she had learned that longing cannot be reasoned with. And loyalty—loyalty is no match for love, once it has taken root.

She turned to face Elaine fully at last. The movement was gentle. Not defiant. Not fleeing. Merely unfolding.

Her smile was quiet. The kind of smile made only by candlelight—fragile, flickering. The kind that asked for no approval, only understanding.

“But I love him,” she said.

The words fell like snow through a cracked window. They didn’t beg. They didn’t justify. They simply were.

Plain. Irrevocable.

“And love,” she added, softer still, “is far too rare in this cold empire.”

Elaine looked at her for a long moment.

Her lips parted. Closed again. Her shoulders rose with a breath, and fell as if the truth had knocked the air from her lungs.

Then—slowly—she let go.

The absence of her touch was immediate. Not painful. But felt. Like the last note of a song that would never be played again.

“I always knew your heart would get you into trouble,” she murmured, quieter than before. “But I never thought I’d be the one helping you run straight into it.”

A shadow crossed her face. Not fear. Not reproach.

Something nameless. Fierce devotion laced with helpless resignation.

“If anyone asks for you before sunrise,” Elaine continued, “I’ll say you took ill and asked not to be disturbed. I’ll keep the lamps low. I’ll turn away the steward.”

Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with the weight of loyalty too deep to name.

“But when dawn comes,” she said, voice thin as thread, “you must be here.”

She nodded. Once.

“I will.”

Elaine stepped back, just far enough to clear the path to the door. Her lips pressed into a line. Not of judgment.

Of promise.

“Go, then,” she whispered. “Before I change my mind.”

The cloak felt heavier now. Not in weight—but in meaning.

She pulled the hood over her head with slow, careful fingers, gathering the fabric around her like armor no one would name aloud. Beneath it, her hair was pinned and plain. No jewels. No embroidery. Only the anonymity of darkness and wool.

“Take the servants’ staircase,” Elaine murmured, as the candle guttered low, nearing the end of its wick. “It will be empty at this hour.”

She gave no reply. Only met her friend’s eyes with a look that said everything.

Thank you. Forgive me. Don’t wait up.

And then, she turned the handle.

The hallway yawned before her—long, hushed, lined in portraits that had never known softness. With each step, the candlelight behind her dimmed, until only silence remained: the soft creak of wood beneath her slippers, the whisper of fabric against ancient stone.

She kept her eyes low as she walked. Not out of fear of being seen—but out of fear she might remember what she was leaving behind.

At the corridor’s far end, moonlight spilled through the high arched windows, painting silver onto worn tapestries. She had passed them every day of her girlhood—battlefields, crowned ancestors, mythic victories stitched in silk. Always men with swords and banners. Always women kneeling, smiling, handing over keys.

It had never occurred to her, not until much later, that all the women in those tapestries were surrendering something.

Her steps slowed.

The hush around her deepened. Grew solemn. The weight of her name—the titles sewn onto her like another gown—pressed heavy against her spine.

Princess. Daughter of the House of Virellan. Betrothed to Lord Commander Halbrecht of the Eastern Reach.

Betrothed.

Not promised. Not chosen.

No—she had been offered. Presented. Like a gemstone too rare to wear, but too valuable not to trade.

The arrangement had been made the month she turned nineteen. Her father had summoned her to his study, gestured for her to sit, and poured her wine in the manner of a man delivering condolences. The suitor was twice her age, and thrice as powerful—a fortress by the sea, an army at his back. The papers had already been drawn.

Her opinion had not been requested.

She was to dine with the man twice—smile where appropriate, laugh only when it was safe—and by spring, she would be sent across the riverlands to marry him beneath a cathedral veiled in violet banners. Her dowry would secure peace. Her womb would secure legacy.

And in return, she would be draped in silk and silence for the rest of her life.

That had been the shape of her future.

Until Sylus. Until the letter.

She reached the turn in the corridor that led toward the servants’ stair, her fingers grazing the edge of a marble column she had once hidden behind as a child. Back then, the palace had felt enormous. A world of stories. A kingdom of possibility. She had believed she would grow into something bright—something grand.

Instead, she had grown into a script someone else had written.

Noble blood, royal title—it meant nothing. Not truly. Not to the men at court. Not to the council. Not to the foreign dignitaries who examined her like silk at auction. Women like her were not daughters. Not in the ways that mattered.

They were treaties. They were leverage.

They were useful.

And tonight—more than ever—she understood the cost of being useful.

This moment—this one—was hers alone. Her only rebellion. Her only truth. Quiet, yes. Fleeting. But hers.

No steward had scheduled it. No father had blessed it. No alliance depended on it. No crown would rise or fall for it.

Only she would carry its weight. Only her.

One night to feel something real. One night to remember the shape of her body beneath someone else’s hands—not in duty, not in ceremony, but in desire. One night to speak a name not chosen for her.

She exhaled—and it felt like breathing for the first time in weeks.

Not for honor. Not for kingdom. Not for crown.

But for herself.

She took the first step down the servants’ stair.

The stone was cold beneath her feet. The dark wrapped around her like ink.

And still—she walked.

The staircase wound narrow, the walls pressed close—as if the castle itself had been built to bury its secrets in stone. Her fingers grazed the surface as she descended. Not for balance.

For something to hold. For something real.

No lanterns lit her path. Only memory guided her now: the turn near the old laundry room, the creak in the third stair from the bottom, the hush of the corridor beyond—always tinged with earth and oil and something older than time itself.

She reached the door to the lower courtyard and paused. Her hand hovered above the latch.

And she listened.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No voices. Only the stillness of a sleeping palace, and the tight, suspended rhythm of her own breath caught beneath her collarbone.

She opened the door.

The air met her like a whisper—cool, damp, edged in loam and turned soil. A world away from the perfumed corridors above. This was the night as it truly was: uncurated, untamed, honest.

She pulled the hood lower over her brow and stepped into it.

The courtyard lay still. Unwatched. The guards were posted at the gates and along the walls—not here. Not in this forgotten quiet where the heir’s daughter might wander to clear her thoughts.

Or, more truthfully, to escape them.

Her footsteps made no sound against the cobbles. Only the soft cadence of her breath gave her away.

Beyond the courtyard, past the arch choked with sleeping ivy, the path sloped toward the lower gardens—neglected, overgrown, the sort of place people spoke of only in past tense. The older maids still claimed the Queen Mother once walked there, heavy with child, and that the roses still bent toward the places she had lingered.

But the garden had long since surrendered its majesty. The hedges grew wild. The fountains had run dry. Moss clung to the statues like secrets whispered and never unlearned.

And still—she knew the way.

The gravel shifted beneath her steps. The trees thickened. And then—faint, unmistakable—the scent reached her.

Orchids.

Familiar. Sweet. Alive.

Not perfumed. Not pressed. These breathed the same night air she did, blooming defiantly in the dark. Vines spilled from stonework ahead, curling through ancient cracks as though they, too, had come searching for something lost and half-remembered.

Her steps slowed.

The garden opened.

It rose from the overgrowth like a ruin sanctified by moonlight. The pillars, cracked and weatherworn, stood stubborn in their elegance. The domed ceiling shimmered faintly where silver light touched it, ivy trailing from the eaves like a hymn long forgotten but not quite lost.

He was there.

Still. Silent. Half-shadowed.

He stood beside one of the columns, motionless—not looking at her, not needing to. His posture was deliberate. A statue carved from shadow and restraint. A sword belted at his hip. Not dressed for war, not dressed for court—but for something in between. His cloak stirred gently in the breeze. One gloved hand rested at his side, as though waiting—for something, or someone.

She stopped just short of the clearing, hidden still beneath the trees.

And watched.

Waited.

There was no doubt in her now. No hesitation. The space between them might as well have been a breath.

And yet she did not move.

Because this—this—was the moment.

Not the kiss. Not the touch. Not the ruin that might follow.

No.

This.

When two souls stood on the threshold of something vast. When the night forgot who they were supposed to be— And remembered only what they were.

She watched him in the stillness.

The distance between them stretched—silent, inviolate—not to be crossed quickly, nor without consequence.

He hadn’t turned. Not yet. But she knew he had felt her.

The way one feels the first drop of rain before the storm. The way a flame senses the breath entering the room.

The air between them pulsed—weightless, expectant.

And then—slowly, as though the motion required surrender—he turned.

There was nothing dramatic in it. No flourish. Only a shift in balance. The fall of his cloak as he moved. The tilt of his head until the sharp lines of his face emerged from shadow. Moonlight caught on the edge of his jaw, on the curve of his cheekbone, on the faint scar just beneath his eye.

His gaze found hers.

And time collapsed inward.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. He only looked.

As though the very sight of her had undone something inside him—something for which no language yet existed. As though he had waited this long precisely for her to arrive… and now could only stand still, holding the moment together by sheer will.

She didn’t lower her hood. Not yet.

She wanted him to see her like this—cloaked, quiet, unannounced. Not a princess. Not a symbol. Just a woman who had chosen to come.

His mouth parted slightly. Not to speak. Only to breathe.

Then—at last—his voice.

Low. Measured.

“You came.”

She nodded. Not for lack of words, but because there was no language vast enough to contain what she felt.

His shoulders dropped, just barely—like the loosening of a tension long held but not yet released. He took one step forward.

And stopped.

“I didn’t think you would,” he said.

Another step. Slow. Controlled.

“I told myself not to expect it. That hope was…”

He trailed off.

She stepped into the clearing, out from the shadow of the trees. Moonlight painted her in silver, cloaking the pavilion floor in a wash of pale blue.

Their eyes met and held.

“I couldn’t stay away,” she said.

The sound of her voice fractured something in the space between them. Not harshly. Not violently. Like glass warmed until it cracked. Like silence… letting go.

He exhaled through his nose. Closed his eyes.

“I’ve thought of this,” he said quietly, “too many times.”

She moved closer. Slowly. Always slowly. Her heartbeat was steady only because she refused to let it betray her.

She stopped just at the edge of the stone.

“If we’re caught,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“If they find out—”

“I know.”

He opened his eyes. In them, something unspoken.

Not pain. Not joy. Something rarer.

“I would still choose this,” he said.

They stood there—on either side of a line drawn by kingdoms, by blood, by ancient oaths.

And yet closer now than they had ever been.

She stepped forward.

Only a breath. The smallest shift.

But it was enough.

Enough for him to move.

His hand rose—not suddenly, not urgently, but with a reverence that felt older than either of them. As though he had imagined this moment so many times that now, faced with its reality, he dared not disturb it.

His gloved fingers brushed the edge of her hood. Paused. Waited.

She let him.

He lowered the fabric gently, folding it back until moonlight kissed her face—her cheeks flushed from wind, her eyes wide and unwavering, her lips unpainted, unsmiling, unafraid.

He did not speak.

Not yet.

Both hands rose, one to either side of her face. Leather met skin. His thumbs resting just at the curve of her jaw.

And then, soft—so soft she might’ve imagined it: “Let me look at you.”

She did not lower her gaze. Did not flinch, did not shy away. She let him hold her there, steady in his palms, as though he could anchor her to this fragile sliver of time by touch alone.

His hands weren’t possessive. They weren’t desperate.

They ached.

The kind of touch that begged time to stop.

He studied her—not with hunger, but with something far more dangerous.

Love.

Unhidden. Unguarded. Unspoken.

But there—in the tension carved into his brow, in the tremble that lived at the edge of his mouth, in the way his fingers curved, reverent and trembling, as though memorizing the shape of her.

“You’re exactly as I remember,” he said at last, voice rough, thick with what he did not name. “Only… more.”

More real. More near. More breakable.

She lifted her hands, slowly, placing them over his.

Bare skin to leather.

“You’re trembling,” she said.

Sylus gave the faintest shake of his head.

“I’m trying not to.”

Her smile was small. Sad. It did not quite reach her eyes.

“Why?”

His breath hitched—once.

“Because if I let myself feel everything I feel for you…” He stopped. Swallowed. “I don’t think I’ll be able to let you go.”

She closed her eyes then.

Not to retreat. Not to hide.

But because it was too much—the tenderness, the truth, the unbearable possibility that this moment was their last.

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” she whispered.

His thumbs brushed across her cheeks—a slow, reverent pass. Like a prayer said without words.

“Then don’t,” he murmured.

There was no certainty in his voice. No lie. No comfort.

Only love.

Fractured. Fragile. Real.

She leaned into his hands, tilting her brow to his, their foreheads meeting in a touch so small, so sacred, it broke something open inside her.

A dam held too long.

They stood like that. No kiss. No vows. No promises made to be broken.

Just presence.

And in that stillness, she understood—

This was what it meant to be known. To be seen. To be chosen—

Not for crown. Not for coin. But for nothing. For everything. For her.

His breath trembled against her skin.

And then—so softly, the words nearly lost between them—

“Don’t marry him.”

Her eyes opened. Slowly.

She didn’t pull back. Didn’t answer. Only looked at him.

The rawness in his voice had cut through her. Not sharp. Not sudden.

Deep.

Like something caged too long, slipping through the bars at last.

She smiled.

Not from joy. Not from hope. But from sorrow.

From knowing.

Her eyes shimmered.

“It is my duty.”

Sylus flinched.

His jaw tensed. His hands did not leave her face, but they tightened—just slightly. Just enough for her to feel the battle in him, the words he wanted to say but didn’t. The protest. The plea. The silent unraveling of every thread binding her to that future.

He closed his eyes.

Held still.

And when he opened them again, they glistened. Not with rage. Not with self-pity.

With grief. With love.

“I know,” he whispered.

And she knew he did.

That was what broke her.

Because he understood. He knew the weight of names. The inheritance of chains—not of iron, but of bloodlines and law, of crowns passed down like cages. Of duty whispered into cradles.

And still—

“To hell with duty,” he said.

It came out like breath. Like prayer. Like sin.

He pressed his forehead to hers again, firmer this time. Their noses brushed. Their lips hovered—aching, unsaid.

“I would burn down every hall that ever spoke your name as currency,” he murmured. “I would tear apart every oath that asked you to suffer for its sake. I would raze every altar built for men who never once loved the women they crowned.”

A beat of silence.

Then, quieter:

“I would give up everything I am if it meant you could be yours.”

And then—

He kissed her.

Not gently. Not carefully. But with the reverence of a man who has run out of time.

His hands cradled her face like she might vanish—like the night itself might steal her if he let go for even a moment.

Their tears met between their lips.

And between each kiss, he breathed the litany:

“To hell with duty.”

A kiss. “To hell with titles.”

Another. “To hell with borders.”

A gasp. “To hell with the blood that keeps us apart.”

A sob. “To hell with the morning.”

He broke then—just for a second.

Pressed his forehead to hers once more.

“I love you,” he said, voice cracked open and spilling. “I love you, and I don’t know how to stop.”

She kissed him back.

As if to say—don’t. Don’t ever stop.

And for one breathless, unrepeatable moment— The garden belonged only to them.

He took her hand.

Said nothing.

Only laced their fingers together, as if sealing a vow older than language itself, and led her across the timeworn stones of the pavilion floor. Their steps were silent. Unhurried. Measured not in distance, but in the quiet unraveling of two hearts tethered across fate.

Beneath the open dome, where moonlight filtered through the fractured lattice above, he turned to her once more.

They stood at the center.

No altar. No witness.

And yet—it felt holy.

His hands came to her waist. Not to claim. Not to coax. Simply to anchor. To ground her in this quiet, sacred defiance. His forehead met hers again, and when he breathed her name, it came like liturgy—soft, desperate, devout.

“I have lived lifetimes in the spaces between your glances,” he murmured. “And I would live a thousand more, just to feel your breath against mine again.”

Her eyes fluttered closed.

Not from modesty. Not from doubt.

But because every word settled into her chest like a second heartbeat—rare, relentless, and utterly hers.

His hands moved—upward, slow—to the clasp of her cloak.

Still, he paused.

Not to ask. But to offer a moment. A choice.

To see if she would stop him. To see if she would look away.

She didn’t.

Her gaze held steady as her fingers rose and undid the fastening herself.

The cloak slipped from her shoulders in silence, folding into itself at her feet like the closing of a sacred book. Beneath it, she wore a gown the color of twilight—simple, long-sleeved, unadorned. Chosen not to be seen, but to pass unseen.

And yet to him—she looked like revelation.

He reached for the buttons at her collar.

Fingers slow. Intentional. Unfastening one, then another, then another—each undone like a breath held and finally released.

All the while, he whispered:

“You were never meant to be given away like a coin in a man’s palm.”

Another button.

“You were meant to be chosen. Again. And again.”

Another.

“And if this world will not give you that—I will.”

She made a sound then—small, aching.

He caught it with his mouth.

Not a kiss of urgency. Not of fire.

But of devotion. Of reverence.

As though her lips were psalm and he, a man who had wandered too long in silence.

Her hands found his shoulders. The slope of his neck. The soft resistance of his hair. Not pulling—just holding. Steadying herself in the storm of being seen so fully.

His mouth moved to her cheek. To the curve of her jaw.

“I will memorize every part of you,” he breathed. “So that no matter what this night costs me—I will never forget what it meant to live.”

She trembled.

But not from fear.

From the ache of being known.

His fingers returned to her buttons, undoing them slowly, one by one—as though each slip of fabric were a page turned, not undressing her, but reading her.

The gown loosened beneath his touch. It did not fall. Not yet.

It clung—to her shoulders, to gravity, to hesitation.

He eased it from her with care.

First one side. Then the other. His knuckles brushed her arms, her collarbone. Her breath caught—not from the touch itself, but from how he touched her.

As though she were something delicate. Something sacred. As though he would never forgive himself if he let her forget—this, too, was hers.

The bodice softened in his hands, slipping lower until cool night air kissed newly bared skin. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t hide.

Still—he paused.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispered. “And I will give it.”

Her voice trembled in her throat, caught between ribs and breath.

“Just… you.”

Something in him broke open.

He bent, brushing his lips beneath her jaw—slow as moonrise, steady as devotion.

“You have me,” he said. “Every breath. Every scar. Every word I was never supposed to say.”

Her gown slipped past her hips.

It made no sound as it pooled at her feet.

She stood in her slip—bare from shoulder to wrist—the fabric thin, clinging, moving with each breath she dared to take. Her skin, so long hidden beneath velvet and ceremony, shimmered beneath the fractured light of moon and lattice.

Not painted. Not adorned. Just hers.

And Sylus looked at her—not as a man entranced, but as one transformed.

Not because she was beautiful—though she was. Not because she was powerful—though she had always been.

But because, in that moment, she was free.

“May I?” he asked again, his hands hovering near the hem.

She nodded.

And he dropped to his knees.

Not to beg.

But to worship.

His hands moved upward—slow, reverent—from her calves to the gentle flare of her hips. He eased the final barrier down with care. Kissed the bone at her side. Once. Then the other.

Not from hunger.

But from gratitude.

She reached for him then, fingers threading through his hair, her chest rising in uneven rhythm—not from shame, but from the unfamiliar weight of being touched without claim. Revealed without being taken.

When he stood, she was bare.

Entirely.

And not once did she feel small.

He looked at her—not like a man overcome, but like a man undone.

His breath hitched. His eyes softened.

“You are not something to be possessed,” he said, voice raw with truth. “You are something to be remembered.”

Her throat tightened.

She reached for the clasp at his shoulder. Her hands were unsure—but he stilled. Let her.

Watched her undress him as he had undressed her. Layer by layer. Piece by piece.

First the cloak. Then the tunic beneath.

Each garment he wore fell heavier than hers—not in weight, but in history. In consequence.

And still, she undressed him.

Until nothing remained between them but breath.

He pulled her into him—skin to skin, chest to chest—their warmth mingling, hearts echoing each other like two halves of a song neither of them had ever been allowed to hear.

“I want to show you what love looks like,” he said, “when no one else is watching.”

And then—

He lowered her to the stone.

Carefully. Slowly.

Not because she was fragile.

But because this was.

The pavilion floor—worn smooth by years, by seasons, by the hush of vanished footsteps—cradled her spine as if it, too, had been waiting. For her. For them.

The air was cool.

But beneath his gaze, her skin burned.

He knelt beside her first. Not to rush. Not to claim.

Just to look.

Not at her body alone, but at her. The flush blooming across her cheeks. The way her lips parted, breath trembling in her throat. The soft rise and fall of her chest—as though the night itself forgot to breathe without her.

His hand traced from her sternum down the line of her ribs, reverent, his fingertips barely grazing. Her body rose instinctively to meet his palm—not from hunger, but from welcome.

He bent over her, one hand braced beside her head, the other sliding down past her hip, along the soft curve of her thigh. He kissed her as he touched her—slow, deep—like he was tasting the very center of her soul.

“You feel like something I was never meant to find,” he whispered between kisses. “And yet… here you are.”

She gasped as his fingers found her—low, knowing, unhurried.

He didn’t fumble. He didn’t force.

He knew.

Somehow—impossibly—he knew.

The first touch was soft. Exploratory. Then again. And again.

Her hips rose to meet him. Her hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him closer, grounding herself in the quiet intensity of being wanted this wholly.

Though he was still half-dressed, she felt the heat beneath his clothes—the strain, the tremble that betrayed how undone he already was.

Sylus pressed kisses along her jaw, her throat, the hollow where her collarbone met skin. His mouth moved like it offered absolution.

And beneath him, she bloomed.

Inch by inch. Like something thawing after a long, silent winter.

When his fingers circled. Coaxed. Opened—

She sighed his name.

Not as plea. But as prayer.

“I want you,” she breathed—not from desire alone, but from truth. From certainty.

He lifted his head. His eyes—lit from within—burned.

“I’m yours,” he said.

And she believed him.

He shed the last of his clothing in silence.

No performance. No pretense.

Just skin.

And the man beneath it—aching, bare, ready to give her everything.

When he came over her, he didn’t collapse into her. He hovered—every muscle braced, every breath measured—his weight held back with aching care. His forehead pressed to hers. Their noses brushed. Her fingers curled around the back of his neck.

He reached between them. Aligned their bodies with reverent precision.

But still—he paused.

Eyes locked. Hearts thundering in tandem.

“I want to remember how you looked,” he said, “the moment I became part of you.”

Her throat tightened.

“Then take me.”

And he did.

Slowly. Steadily.

Until she gasped, her back arching from the stone as he filled her—not with pain, not with pressure—

But with presence.

She felt all of him.

And all of herself.

And something more.

He groaned, the sound buried in her hair—raw, broken, holy. He held still. Just breathed.

“You feel like a promise I never dared to make,” he murmured.

She kissed him. Soft. Desperate.

And together, they moved.

Not frantic. Not rushed.

But slow. Measured.

A language of breath and skin, of bone and vow. Each thrust a confession. Each press of their bodies a sacred truth.

He whispered between the rhythm, between the gasps—

“You are mine in this hour.” “In this breath.” “In this life—or the next.” “I will carry you… in every silence I endure.”

Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes.

Not from sorrow. But from the truth of it all.

Her body rose to meet his—again and again—each motion a sacred cadence, as though she had never been made for anything but this: to be opened gently. To be loved completely.

His lips found hers. And again. And again.

She held his face when he began to tremble—when the moment cracked open inside him and he began to unravel, shaking above her like a man who had found divinity.

“Let go,” she whispered.

And he did.

With a cry that tore through him like wind through trees, he buried himself in her—releasing everything: the fear, the longing, the restraint.

And with it, a love too vast for any vow.

She followed.

Breathless. Trembling.

Her body arching toward his, her heart splitting open in the most exquisite way.

And when it was over— When the storm had passed— They lay together in the quiet.

Bodies entwined. Skin damp. The stone beneath them warm with borrowed heat.

He brushed her hair back. Kissed her temple.

“You were never meant for cages,” he said.

And for the first time in her life—

She believed it.

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐛𝐲 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 : @ikesimpleton

[ethereacals]

hola!! would you be able to write a one shot with your first date with remus? maybe you’re both a little shy and nervous and just trying so hard to impress one another and there’s a lot of blushing and cute moments :)

hii! ofc, lovely! (screaming cause i got my first request 🥳🥳)

—•—

Check Yes, Juliet

synopsis: when Marlene sets two polar opposites up to go on a date

contents: fem!reader, reader likes bows, badboy!remus, just cute adorable idiots in love (:, mentioned dorlene!, readers favorite color is red

warnings: none!

a/n: this fic is inspired by the song “Check Yes, Juliet” by We The Kings! thanks for requesting!

“MARLS… ARE YOU SURE THIS IS A GOOD IDEA?” you ask from your position in front of your mirror, carefully tying red ribbon into your hair.

“of course it is, y/n. he’ll love you! besides, opposites attract!” Marlene assured you, carefully applying red lipstick to her plush lips.

“i was a little… hesitant when Pandora insisted I go on a date with Dorcas, y’know, cause we were so different. but look at us— we’re about to hit our eight months!”

you nodded silently, checking yourself out in the mirror before finishing your eyeliner.

once Marlene had gotten picked up from your shared flat, you laced up your shoes and got your things together.

and that’s when you heard the knock.

the special knock.

the knock you had been waiting three days for.

your hand nervously gripped the doorknob and twisted it open.

“hi.”

“hi.”

you didn’t mean to say “hi” in unison, now what do you say? crap he was supposed to say hi first and then—

“you look gorgeous.”

you got broken out of your thoughts, your eyes hitting his with an awkward gaze.

“me?”

he chuckled, “who else would i be talking to?”

���o-oh, right, o-of course.” you blushed out of embarrassment.

you could cue some crickets here, you could tell he was nervous, you’ve never seen the resident bad boy so nervous.

“these are for you.”

he held out a bouquet of luscious roses, red, your favorite color.

“w-wow… Remus… these are beautiful…”

“just like you.” his cheeks lit up in a rosy shade, almost as if a painter had graced him with his paintbrush.

he’d definitely rehearsed that.

you let out a soft giggle, before stepping out the front door and walking with him to his car.

you guys ended up going to this adorable vintage diner near his house, you felt like you could talk to him for hours, except you were so nervous.

he even paid for the food, he paid! (even though the guy should totally pay on first days but that’s just me 🤷‍♀️)

“don’t worry, darlin’, i’ll pay”

“Remus i was gonna pay—“

“shh, keep sipping on your slushy” you blushed, you needed to get this blushing problem under control.

“so, do you have any hobbies?”

sweet of him to ask, but you felt as if you were a bit basic.

“oh, i play electric guitar so.. i guess that’s my hobby, what about you?”

you smiled, god he already loved your smile, it was so sweet, especially since your tongue was red from the cherry slushy you had been sipping on.

“you play guitar? sick!— i mean— cool.. i play bass.”

“bass? i’ve always wanted to play bass!— i mean— that’s super cool, maybe we can play together sometime?” you were quick to get flustered by your own words.

damn, you were being bold.

“i’d like that.”

he tossed some stones into the river underneath the bridge you guys had found, your legs dangling gently off the edge as you sipped on your slushy.

“do you read at all?” you asked, reading being one of your most favorite things.

“i do— actually.”

“really?

“i know it seems unlikely, but yeah, i do.”

“well.. what are your favorites?”

“it’s hard to choose, but i’ve always liked the classics— you know, like.. Romeo and Juliet.”

“Remus, you can’t seriously expect me to believe that you, the coolest guy in town, reads Romeo and Juliet.” he let out a chuckle.

“it’s true.” he shrugged, flashing his signature grin at you.

“do… you have a favorite?”

and just like that you both had spent quite a few hours just sitting on that bridge and talking, you never thought it could really get better than that.

“i know we already talked about hobbies, but have you got any more?”

“i mean— i skateboard, ”

“you skateboard?! damn, i’m really trying to make myself sound cool here but you aren’t helping.” you teased, nudging his shoulder.

“oh come on, it’s skateboarding, it’s not that cool…” Remus itched his neck sheepishly.

“i’m sure there has to be something cool about you.” he teased, his big hand ruffling your hair.

“i don’t know what that could possibly be.” you shrugged.

“well… you wear these beautiful bows everytime i see you walking down the street, and you told me that you like to stay up all night and play video games.” he remembered everything..

“that’s not cool, that’s being a loser.”

“you are about the farthest thing from a loser, y/n.”

you froze a bit, that was so… sweet.

“t-thanks.” you blushed, again. (no surprise)

“i’ll have to teach you how to skate, though.”

“i’d love that.”

the drive back to your apartment was nothing short of a dream, music blasting, turns out you both had similar music taste.

“billy joel has to be a gift from the heavens.” you remarked loudly, your hair blowing in the breeze, the top down on his convertible.

“i can play uptown girl on guitar!” he responded, a wide smile on his face.

“really?”

“yeah!” the excitement in his voice made you blush almost the same color as your slushy.

“that’s so cool!”

he smiled wider, looking over to you, your pretty face lit up with street lights.

“i write poetry.” you confessed, you’ve definitely come out of your shell.

“you need to show me, sometime.” he pulled into the parking lot of your apartment complex.

“i… had a great time with you today.” you were so smiley.

“i had a great time with you, too.”

as the gentleman Remus John Lupin was, he walked you to your door.

“i guess this is goodbye.” he sighed lightly, not really wanting his night to end with you.

“thanks for.. everything—“

before you could even finish speaking, his lips were on yours.

your brain imploded, your eyes fluttering shut into the soft kiss Remus had just blessed you with.

your lips tasted of cherry and lip gloss, but he really didn’t mind. his nimble hands crept to your waist as your hands fell to his shoulders. just before he pulled away.

“i’ll see you around, Juliet.”

you smiled at the given nickname, blushing at the suddenness of that kiss still.

“bye, Romeo.”

he chuckled, before quickly walking down the hallway.

Marlene was right, opposites attract.

[ticifics]

Improvising Love

James Potter x fem!reader

Summary: James has been cast as Romeo and you hatch a daring plan to steal the role of Juliet. The script never stood a chance

Warnings: muggle!AU, fluffy, marauders making crazy plans

“Please.” James asked once again, stretching out the words in a syrupy tone while giving you that pleading look he knew was practically irresistible. To top it off, he exaggerated a pout—a weapon he loved using against you.

You, however, held your ground—or at least tried to. “No, James. I’m not getting on that stage. Give it up.” Your voice came out exasperated, but the irritation was more theatrical than genuine. You returned your gaze to the book in your hands, as if reading was remotely possible with your charming boyfriend so close to you. After classes, he had followed you home, sprawling out on your bed and begging for your attention. He was practically draped over you, his face resting just below your chest, purring like a kitten as your fingers combed through his unruly hair. Of course, he wasn’t satisfied sharing your attention with the book, occasionally nibbling on your skin whenever you stopped stroking his hair.

James, naturally, wasn’t ready to give up. “Love, I’ll be there with you.” He smiled softly, lifting his face to lock his eyes with yours. His fingers tapped the corner of the open book before he rested his chin on it, blocking your view. “Be my Juliet.”

It had been a few days since the school announced that auditions for Juliet’s role were open, and ever since James, who had landed the role of Romeo, had been asking you to try out.

You raised your eyebrows at him. “That’s the least romantic thing you could’ve said. Juliet? Seriously?”

He blinked, clearly offended. “They’re like, the most romantic couple of all time. It’s a classic!”

“It’s tragic,” you corrected without hesitation, shutting the book with more force than necessary. “They knew each other for what, a week? Two teenagers with raging hormones making impulsive decisions. No, thank you.”

James placed a hand on his chest as if he’d been stabbed. “That’s cruel. They died for love. True love, mind you.”

You sighed, a smile starting to creep up as you watched his dramatic expression. It was nearly impossible not to laugh when he pulled those faces. “James, they were way too young and completely reckless. If they had survived, they’d probably be divorced in five years.”

He looked genuinely outraged now, his eyes wide with indignation behind his glasses. “You can’t say that! They—”

Losing patience with the debate, you put the book aside and cupped his face in your hands. “The difference between us and them,” you began, softening your tone, “is that I would never lose you, James.”

The blush that painted his cheeks was instant, and you couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. It was rare to leave him speechless, but whenever you did, you made sure to savor the moment. You took the opportunity to lean in, letting your lips brush across his face in soft kisses, relishing how warm and smooth his skin was. Magnificent. With each kiss, a sigh or a soft chuckle escaped him, bubbling out like music.

“I still think you’d make an amazing Juliet,” he murmured, his lips grazing your forehead as he returned the affection. “Just saying.”

(…)

A few days later, the afternoon passed peacefully, and by lunchtime, you found yourself surrounded by the Marauders in the school courtyard. Sirius took up most of the space beside you, lounging with his typical carefree attitude, while Remus sat quietly with a book open on his lap, his eyes glued to the pages. Peter, as usual, seemed more interested in the food than anything else, and James, seated by your side, made sure to keep one of his hands intertwined with yours as he spoke.

“So, she refused to be Juliet,” James announced to the group, his tone laced with fake indignation.

Sirius let out a loud laugh, brushing his dark hair away from his face. “Can’t believe you thought she’d agree. She hates being the center of attention; you know that.”

“Exactly!” you said, pointing a fry at Sirius before popping it into your mouth. “Finally, someone who gets me.”

James rolled his eyes dramatically. “You’re all so unromantic. Where’s your artistic spirit?”

“Probably running away from you,” Sirius quipped with a sarcastic grin. “But honestly, she’s right. Romeo and Juliet are just two love-drunk idiots. The story makes no sense.”

“Oh, not you too,” James groaned, throwing his head back. “Remus, at least you agree with me?”

Remus glanced up from his book, clearly uninterested in joining the debate. “I agree with whatever lets me get back to reading,” he said, returning to his pages.

Peter chuckled through a mouthful of food. “I think it’d be funny if she agreed just to make James all nervous on stage.”

“I don’t get nervous,” James said, offended, though Sirius’s mischievous grin suggested he was just getting started.

The conversation flowed, full of teasing and laughter. James stole the occasional kiss from you between exchanges, making sure to grab your attention with overly sweet gestures that earned complaints from the group—Sirius especially. He wasted no time making comments about how the two of you were like rabbits and should find the nearest room already.

Later, during a free period, you found James sitting in the library, his eyes fixed on the script, pausing only to adjust his glasses. He looked focused, but the smile on his face made it clear he was enjoying the challenge.

You took a moment to admire him. Honestly, he was painfully handsome—messy hair, vibrant blue eyes, brimming with untamed energy. His dark brows furrowed as he read, absentmindedly twirling a yellow highlighter between his fingers. You caught yourself staring at the way he bit his lip, wishing you could do it yourself.

Curious, you approached him quietly, watching as he flipped through the papers. That’s when you noticed the section highlighted in yellow: Romeo kisses Juliet.

Your stomach twisted. Kiss. A kiss between Romeo and Juliet. A kiss between James and another girl.

The thought sounded ridiculous, but the discomfort was undeniable. A pang of jealousy surged from your chest to your throat, and before you realized it, you were standing with crossed arms, staring at James with an expression hard to decipher.

He finally noticed you, breaking into a smile when he saw how close you were. “Everything okay?” he asked, oblivious to what you’d just seen.

You simply nodded, forcing a smile. The silence following your discovery seemed to weigh heavily in the air, even as you tried to act like nothing had happened. It didn’t take long for James to realize something was off. He set the script aside and studied you, tilting his head like a curious puppy.

“Alright, what’s wrong?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as you fidgeted.

You bit your lip, hesitating. “Why didn’t you tell me about… that?”

“That what?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to sound casual, though your hand gesturing toward the script trembled slightly. “The kiss, James. Why didn’t you mention there’d be a kiss in the play?”

He blinked, his expression now completely skeptical. “Seriously? It’s Romeo and Juliet. It’d be weird not to have a kiss. Did you think I’d, what, shake Juliet’s hand?”

Your face burned instantly, and you crossed your arms in an attempt to hide your discomfort. “You could’ve given me a heads-up,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze.

James chuckled softly, the kind of sound that made your heart stutter even when you were upset. He stepped closer before you could pull away, wrapping his arms around your waist with an ease that felt intimate and natural.

“Hey,” he said gently, his fingers tipping your chin up to meet his gaze. “You know there’s no one I’d want to kiss but you.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he silenced you, pressing his lips softly against yours as if savoring something precious. He kissed you so tenderly it made you feel weightless, like a cloud. “Your lips,” he murmured against your skin, slightly breathless, “are like honey. I could kiss them forever.”

The blush spreading across your cheeks was unavoidable, and for a moment, you let yourself relax against him. James had a unique way of making the world feel less complicated. But even as he planted a few more soft kisses along your neck, the unease returned. The thought of another girl—even in acting—sharing a moment like this with him unsettled you deeply.

(…)

The Great Hall was bustling, but the table where you usually sat with the Marauders felt strangely empty without James. He had left earlier for rehearsal, which, of course, only filled your mind with unwelcome thoughts. The kiss. Was that what he was rehearsing? The idea was unbearable. You wondered how many times he and the “Juliet” would have to go over that scene, how many times she would feel his lips on hers, even if it was just acting.

“Are you listening to me?” Sirius’s voice broke through your thoughts, and you realized he was staring at you with an expression that was equal parts curious and amused.

“Hm?” you mumbled, trying to push away the images that insisted on forming in your mind.

“I said you look awful,” he repeated, grinning unapologetically.

“Thanks, Sirius. That’s exactly what I needed to hear,” you replied, rolling your eyes as Remus unsuccessfully tried to stifle a smile.

“I’m serious, what’s wrong?” Peter asked, biting into a piece of buttered bread.

You hesitated for a moment but finally admitted, “It’s James… He has to rehearse that scene. You know the one.”

Sirius’s eyes widened theatrically. “Oh no! The kiss! The unforgivable crime!”

“It’s not funny,” you grumbled, staring at your plate as if the food could offer some comfort.

“A kiss is just a kiss,” you said, more defensively than you’d intended.

Sirius raised his eyebrows, clearly sensing an opportunity to tease. “Oh, so that’s it. You’re jealous of poor Juliet?”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could deny it, he continued, “If you want to keep James’s lips all to yourself so badly, why not get rid of Juliet?”

Remus snapped his book shut instantly, looking horrified. “For the love of Merlin, Sirius. Don’t encourage this.”

Sirius laughed, utterly unfazed by Remus’s disapproval. “I’m serious. Think about it: a Romeo without a Juliet? Tragic. Poetic. Brilliant, really.”

Peter, chewing absentmindedly, finally chimed in, “That would be… hilarious, actually.”

Remus let out a long-suffering sigh, looking directly at you. “Please tell me you’re not considering this.”

But, of course, you were. The idea, absurd as it seemed, began to take shape in your mind. Sirius noticed the hesitation on your face and smirked mischievously.

“Ah, I knew you had a scheming side,” he said, pointing at you with a slice of pizza. “Come on, you’ve got my full support.”

“This is insane,” Remus interjected, clearly frustrated. “You’re going to ruin the whole play. Why can’t you just… I don’t know, trust James?”

“I do trust him,” you replied quickly, but there was something in your voice that made Remus raise an eyebrow.

“Alright,” Sirius said, completely ignoring Remus’s scolding look. “Let’s make a plan. How exactly are we getting rid of Juliet?”

You hesitated, but Peter was the one who suggested, “What if… we swapped her out? Like, no one would notice if it happened at the last second, right?”

Sirius snapped his fingers. “Exactly! Right before the kiss, she disappears, and you take her place. Brilliant.”

“This won’t work,” Remus insisted, exasperated. “You’re ignoring all the possible complications. It’s a live performance, for Merlin’s sake.”

“And that’s exactly why it will work,” Sirius countered.

You were still processing how far this idea might go, but there was something irresistibly tempting about the possibility of keeping James from kissing someone else.

“Okay,” you said finally, and even Sirius looked surprised for a moment.

Remus ran a hand down his face, clearly resigned. “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this.”

“Don’t worry, Moony,” Sirius said, clapping him on the shoulder. “It’ll be epic.”

As lunch ended, your mind was made up. The plan was risky, but you weren’t going to back out. Besides, with Sirius on your side, at the very least, it would be entertaining.

The following days required a great deal of effort to keep James from suspecting anything. You managed to get a copy of the script, and the boys helped you memorize the lines. It was embarrassing, and you considered abandoning the plan more than once, but Sirius quickly got you back on track. The hardest part was getting the costume, but the girl in charge of it was distracted enough for you to “borrow” the dress and accessories.

Before you knew it, the day of the performance had arrived.

Tension hung in the air as you put the final details of the plan into action. Sirius, Peter, and Remus were in their positions, each with their own task. The chaos was about to unfold, and you weren’t sure if you were more anxious or terrified about what would happen.

James had passed through the backstage area moments earlier, completely unaware of the storm about to break. He wore the Romeo costume, his hair neatly combed back, and, most shocking of all, he wasn’t wearing his glasses. You nearly lost your breath. The costume was flawless; he could have easily been part of a Hollywood cast. His unruly curls had been tamed, and silvery powder highlighted his cheekbones, making them sharp enough to cut glass. It was James, but in a way you’d never seen him before, and your mind swirled with admiration and nervousness.

He smiled in that way that made your heart race and approached to wish you good luck before heading to the stage. “I can’t believe they’re letting me do this without glasses,” he said casually, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “Hope I don’t trip.”

You laughed, though your throat was dry. “You’ll be amazing.”

He gave you a curious look, as if sensing something unusual, but said nothing. “See you later, yeah?”

“Of course,” you replied, trying to sound casual. He disappeared down the hallway, and for a moment, everything felt suspended in time. Until your friends appeared silently.

“Let’s go,” Sirius said, breaking through your daze. “It’s now or never.”

You gathered in a hidden corner where you quickly changed into Juliet’s costume. The outfit felt like an elaborate trap—full of layers, lace, and a suffocating corset—but there was no time to complain. Sirius handed you the final accessory as Peter and Remus ensured the real Juliet remained “secured” in the wardrobe where she was temporarily “stored.” The girl barely had time to react before Peter clumsily informed her of a last-minute change and suggested she touch up her makeup. Sirius promptly locked the door, shouting an apology as he ran to join you and the others.

“Ready?” Remus asked, genuine concern in his eyes.

You took a deep breath and nodded, even though your mind was a mess. “Thanks, guys, you’re the best.” You hugged them all at once.

“I know, darling,” Sirius quipped, hugging you back with his leather jacket creaking slightly.

“You have to go, now,” Remus reminded you. You nodded, nerves tying knots in your stomach.

“You’ve got this,” Peter said gently, squeezing your hand.

Forcing your legs to move, you walked with your head down to keep anyone from noticing Juliet’s mysterious transformation. Your heart pounded painfully as you stepped onto the stage.

The curtain rose.

The stage lights were brighter than you’d imagined, momentarily blinding you. Your vision adjusted slowly, and then you saw him. James stood at the center of the stage, completely focused on the scene. The surprise on his face when his eyes met yours was something you would never forget.

He froze for a moment, confused, but, ever the professional, continued the play, his expression shifting between shock and fascination.

You stumbled over the first lines but quickly remembered the nights rehearsing with Sirius, who, surprisingly, had a hidden talent for theater. The audience didn’t seem to notice anything—or, if they did, they were too engrossed to care.

And then came the scene you dreaded most.

James approached slowly, his footsteps echoing on the stage as you struggled to maintain your composure. His voice was steady and passionate, clear and brimming with emotion.

“If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

He extended his hand, as if to touch yours, but paused, the gesture suspended in the air. You stepped forward, your lines hesitant but laden with an emotion you couldn’t hide.

“Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.”

James’s breath hitched for a moment. He seemed almost to forget the audience, his eyes fixed on yours in a way that made the world fade away.

“Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”

“Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.”

“O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”

The tension was palpable, the moment stretching as if time itself had slowed. When James leaned in, his hand lightly touching your face, your knees felt like they might give out.

And then, he kissed you. Gently moving his lips against yours, coaxing them to part so he could slide into your mouth, making you sigh passionately.

It was brief, but it was everything you had imagined—and more. The sensation of his lips on yours was both surreal and painfully real, every detail etched into your memory. The audience applauded, but the sound seemed distant, muffled by the beating of your heart.

When the scene ended, you separated, but James’ gaze remained locked on yours, as if he had forgotten there was an audience around him.

Backstage, after the curtains finally closed, James didn’t waste a second.

“So, care to explain what that was?” he asked, his voice tinged with surprise but also something gentler.

“It was… an improvisation,” you said, trying to sound casual, though your tone was clearly defensive. The Marauders were nowhere to be seen, and now that the adrenaline was fading, your knees felt weaker by the second.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Improvisation, huh? Don’t tell me Sirius had something to do with this.”

You shrugged, trying not to blush, but he laughed, stepping closer.

“I have to admit,” he said, leaning in so only you could hear, “you were an incredible Juliet. Better than I imagined.”

Your heart felt like it might explode, but you couldn’t help teasing him. “And you? Did you manage to get through it without tripping over yourself?”

He laughed, shaking his head, and took your hand in his, lifting it to press a tender kiss to your knuckles.

“If I do trip,” he said softly, “you’ll catch me, won’t you?”

You nodded, unable to say a word, fully aware that you’d be willing to do anything for him.

In the end, you were more like Juliet than you’d ever thought.

[fuckmeyer]

if smeyer wasn't a coward vamp!Bella would have immediately eaten her daughter Rensesmem whole-hog like Saturn Devouring His Son

[cc1306]

nerd! eren jaeger,

Eren Jaeger doesn’t want much in life. He knows he wants to graduate high school, go to a university his mother would approve of and get good grades. That’s all he’s ever thought about - studying. He would’ve liked to become valedictorian if it wasn’t for his life-long best friend Armin, who’s been dreaming of it since they were kids together. Armin’s a genius - he deserves it.

One day, as he’s scribbling down the notes from mechanics with Mr Ackerman in the library, he raises his head to the sight of someone walking past him. Iris, by the Goo Goo Dolls sounded in his headphones while a girl wearing the uniform of Shiganshina High, his school, and a green tie the same as his. You were in his grade.

You were the prettiest girl he had seen. Your hair cascaded perfectly past your shoulders, and your eyes, they were oh so perfect to him. He wanted to look at you forever, to never take his sights away from you but he would obviously look like some kind of a creep. A light blush crept upon his face at the thought, and he shuddered, willing himself to focus on his work. Right, back to moments. However, he couldn’t help but sneak another peek at you.

You busied yourself in the bookshelf across the room. Too far away from him for his liking. You skimmed your finger along the spines of several books, before you came across what you came for. Scanning the room for a free seat, your face twisted into a frown from failure to find somewhere to sit and read what you chose. He squinted his eyes to try and catch a glimpse, but you were too far for him to read the title.

Lost in his attempt, he failed to realise that you were slowly approaching his direction. When he did, he whipped his head around with the hope that you didn’t happen to see him staring and think he was a strange. He had enough of the name calling from school anyways. School. If you went to his school, you probably knew his reputation. That he was a loser. Who was he kidding, why would anyone know who he was?

“Excuse me, is this seat free?” you asked him, tone angelic like you came straight from the Heavens and landed right in front of him. He looked like a deer caught in headlights - he wasn’t expecting you to come and take the seat opposite him at all. He thought you’d take one look at him and take off in the other direction. He never answered your question.

“Oh- Uh, no. You can- you can sit,” he managed to breathe out. He blinked rapidly, like if he did it enough times, you’d disappear just as randomly and you’d shown up at his table.

He watched your mouth move, but no sound accompanied your words. Only the soft melody of Nervous by The Neighbourhood could be heard, which is when he realised he couldn’t hear you because he had both earphones in. A fitting song choice for his current emotional state.

“Sorry?” he enquired, eager to hear your voice again. He wanted to hear it over and over again. It didn’t matter what you said to him, only that you never stopped speaking in his presence.

“I said, I love the Neighbourhood,” you repeated, referring to his song choice.

He was frozen. He didn’t realise his music was so loud, to the point where outsiders could hear it too. He fumbled to turn down the volume from his phone, when he registered what you had said to him.

“You love them?” he asked wide eyed. Mikasa was more into rock metal music, while Armin listened happily to a mixture of Hozier and the Cranberries. He never had anyone to bond with over music… until you.

“Yeah, I love them. ‘You got me nervous to speak, so I just won’t say anything at all,” you sang softly, in time with the music.

“You’re the first person I’ve met who likes them,”

“They’re great,” you smiled at him, before sticking your nose in that book you picked up.

“‘Romeo and Juliet?’” he accidentally blurted out loud, covering his mouth the second he realised he didn’t say that in his head.

“Yeah. You read Shakespeare?” your eyes lit up at the mention of the story you were reading.

“‘My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have for both are infinite,’” he quoted Juliet’s line from the book.

When he looked back at you, your face was frozen - eyes wide in surprise, and you simply blinked at him blankly. He scared you away, didn’t he?

“‘Being in night, all this is but a dream, too flattering sweet to be substantial,’” you finished once you got out of your dazed state.

“Act 2 Scene 2. Juliet can’t believe her feelings are real. She feels as though it’s too good to be true. She’s scared it’ll all come to an end soon,”

“I like to think she knows the end is near. She knows her time with Romeo is limited, but she feels so amazing with him, she can’t bring herself to care. She feels like on top of the world. It’s like a dream being with him because they’re so in love,” you babbled and Eren sat there the whole time, listening to your passionate voice talk about literature with him.

When he didn’t respond, you thought you were talking too much.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t ran to ramble, I just love poetry,” you apologised profusely. “I’ll stop distracting you now,”

“No!” he was way too quick to answer that. “I mean… you’re not distracting me. I like hearing you talk. About, about poetry! I like hearing you talk about poetry,” he was a mess. What was happening to him?

He didn’t care. Whatever that feeling was that erupted in his chest when your smile grew and you started talking again, he knew he didn’t care about what was happening to him. All he cared about was making sure you never stopped speaking to him.

Then, it hit him - he realised what it was that he wanted. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than for you to know who he was.

[peppermintsandbones5]

My favorite pastime is looking up fan fiction for classic literature on AO3 and seeing what monstrosities people have made

[pieniebootekent]

My second successfully bound fanfiction ✨ with permission from the author @riizachan :D I'm really happy with how the cover looks!!

[klikandtuna]

He tugs at the hem of the vest, smiling. “Thank you. You look like you’re about to break every heart at some fancy club!”

“Pssssh, I look like backwoods white trash next to you! You’re, like, elegant.”

“Shut up, Holmes.” Azlan is beaming, and is that the tiniest little blush dusted over his cheeks? But hell, compliments will do that to anyone.

—

Chapter 13, “I Think We’re Alone Now,” is up! In which our heroes court danger, indulge in a crazy idea, and clarify some rules.

In His Hand a Burning Coal (rated E) updates eeeeevery Tuesday — and I do mean EVERY Tuesday, from start to finish! 💛

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61804684/chapters/158029627

[loveu2themoonandsaturn]

me trying to explain to someone that i wanna fuck eddie munson and not joseph quinn and no joseph quinn in a wig would not work i don’t want to fuck joseph quinn in a wig that’s not eddie munson and i wanna fuck EDDIE MUNSON like

[frozenwolftemplar]

Ever wonder if people hundreds of years ago did fannish stuff?

Like, did someone in the 17th or 18th century read Romeo and Juliet and spend the rest of their week fantasizing an Everyone Lives Fix-It? Where there Regency-era girls discussing if they'd rather marry Darch or Bingley over their needlework, or crafting an AU where Henry Crawford did wait a little longer and Fanny accepted his proposal? Were any turn of the 19th century girls crushed when Jo married Professor Behr instead of Laurie and found solace in filling a notebook with a self-indulgent AU they shared with their friends?

We've been telling each other stories for years; how long have we been telling each other stories about the stories?

[heavenbloom]

🇵🇸 BEFORE YOU READ: DONATE • BOYCOTT TLOU

ꫂ ၴႅၴ — 𝒂 𝒏𝒆𝒘𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒏 𝒔𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 | 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕!𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒆

a vague continuation of this, but you don’t have to read it to understand this one

song: vicino a te — stevio cipriani

summary: after your first, brief encounter, ellie sends you a letter — with this sweet, foreign feeling blossoming in her chest, she’s too nervous to say anything in person.

warnings: 18+ mdni, fluff, letter format, ellie’s pov, yearning, kinda love at first sight, mentions of (greek) mythology, religious imagery, probably ooc, flowery language, not proofread

a/n: i should be writing other, bigger projects but i love letter writing so much, they’re the purest form of love

Dear moonlit one,

How terribly confused you must be by this letter; I am sorry for it in advance.

Perhaps it might have been more appropriate to visit you, to speak more than a few pleasantries before scampering off into the night, but, as you may have noticed… well, I have no talent for speaking.

How ironic that seems coming from a poet! Words are my profession, perhaps even my religion. I suppose, however, I can only wield them with ink and not with my lips. I have always been this way; a penchant for the quill in preference to conversation.

That is why I write to you. I can be honest here, without my nerves getting the better of me.

I want to express my deepest apologies for my insolence on that revelrous eve. Rushing off without so much as a goodbye in spite of your good nature was unkind of me, and there is no justification for it. Even so, I must explain myself;

Excuse my cynicism and my continuous irony, but I have never believed in a fairytale love. I have an apt appreciation for the picturesque and I feel deeply about many-a-thing; these qualities have made me an adequate enough poet, for I can replicate the beauty of the world that surrounds me. I can structure stanza upon stanza inspired by a scent or a face. I am an observer, therefore I have endured.

But a love that strikes as abruptly as a serpent unsheathes its fangs? A love that robs the lungs of air and renders one’s body feather-light? All because of a glance, a smile, a laugh— of course I was skeptical. How could one not be?

But it was not until I saw you on that argent night, dreamy and gentle, that I could at least come to an understanding. You appeared like the goddess Selene, so very luminous that no words could form in my useless mouth. What was I to say, in that moment? What words spoken could have done justice to the divinity before me?

And your laugh, oh, that laugh… it was as if the sound of your voice was laced with the very harps of heaven. I have not been able to listen to another’s joy without missing the beauty of yours. How foolish I am.

Why do I ramble in such a way? What I mean to say is that your mere existence has awoken me to the pearl ensconced within the centre of our lives. A precious and delicate thing that hit me, unabated. That is why I left you in such a hurry. I was enchanted, and I was afraid of it. In that moment, I was afraid of you, too. The power you held over me was seizing.

But I have gained my bearings. Of course, I cannot say that I love you, a stranger. I know near-nothing about you, and yet, in these sleep-laced hours before dawn, I wish I knew everything.

Sealed within this envelope are dried apple blossoms, birthed from a late-blooming tree. The little buds make the paper smell fragrant, but they also reminded me of our fleeting encounter. And of you; sweet and vibrant. Cheerful, even towards a person you had never spoken to. I hope they soften the suddenness of my letter.

In earnesty, I pray that you write back to me. Even if it is just to reprimand my audacious behaviour, that would be enough.

With sincerity,

E. Williams

[aestreaburningsvn]

Which Marauders Fanfic do I start writing this summer?

I have two that I’ve had saved in my notes app and planned out forEVER. Here are the overviews :)

Million Dollar Man

All stars start somewhere, do they not?

Sirius Black’s talent was taken advantage of. Born into a family of rich producers in the film world, a family that makes or breaks Hollywood itself, he was silenced. He knew all the secrets, he knew just exactly what it took for a star to truly shine.

So he did what any reasonable man would do. He stole millions of dollars from his family to pursue his dreams.

Contacting old friends from high school, friends of friends and strangers he once knew, Sirius Black creates a show. A retelling of Romeo and Juliet, choreographed, produced, directed and brought to stage with a crew of world famous actors, designers and musicians alike. Only when his family learns that their reckless son has stolen their precious money to make this come to life do things begin to grow difficult.

But does the show end there? Absolutely not.

(Main ships are: Jegulus, Jily, Dorlene, Rosekiller, Wolfstar and Marylily with background Xenodora & Fralice / Frank x Alice)

The Song of The Sea

Sirius Black is dead.

At least, by declaration of the council and the Queen herself, the heir to the throne and the future King of Koldov is missing. On his very own wedding day. By luck itself, the Queen has another son. Regulus Black.

He knows the secrets of the council, knows the studies of war and prosperity, poverty and deception. He knows them better than anyone. A shadow of his brother and the next in line Heir to the throne.

By fate itself, he disappears as well.

Persuaded by pirates that were accused of capturing his brother, a deal is made. Regulus will board their ship and give them what they want in return of having a stable reunion with the throne. Regulus will offer what it is they need, will make a trade. But along the way, he discovers the secrets he never could’ve learned on his own. Along the way, war breaks at the forthcoming of something Regulus always believed to be a myth.

Horcruxes. These pirates are Horcrux hunters, and will use the guide of Regulus’ control over the ocean to break the curse that has been made and end the war before life itself is darkened.

(Main ships are: Jegulus, Jily, a little bit of Jegulily, Wolfstar, Rosekiller, Quillkiller, Marylily, Dorlene and Nobleflower.)

Of course these are very rough overviews, plots and such may change over time and when I begin to write them, but those are the basic concepts. Can’t spoil too much! But anyways, thank you for reading, and let a fellow author know what she should write <3

[poppitron360]

People shit on Shakespeare for being boring but my guy wrote real person fanfiction and tortured his ocs and told cringe jokes and had hidden gay subplots and played with gender too- he just did it in

a squiggly font

[cardansletterss]

Everlark fanfic as Romeo and Juliet but the orignal by Shakespeare >>>

(I might do this)

[bellarkeselection]

Knew Better But Still Picked You pt 2

Gif belongs to @miyagiverse

Part One Part three

Jackie has some rules set for the reader and Cole that might be hard for them to follow.

Tag list- send me an ask to be added @cognacdelights @connieisthesun @bbabycass

Cole shrugged some jeans up his legs while I tossed one of his tea shirts over my head. Tying my hair up in a messy braid. Jackie had stomped out of the bedroom and down the stairs clearly frustrated. “So how bad do you think she’s going to be about…us?”

“I have no clue. I’ve never seen her this concerned for me before since we’ve been friends forever.” I responded by slipping some socks on my feet sitting down on his bed.

Cole throws a blue tea shirt on coming over to me wrapping his arms around my waist tugging me to his embrace. “We could just stay upstairs for the day. To avoid my parents' possible wrath on both of us. What do you say?”

“Cole..” I warned him by draping my arms over his shoulders.

He leans down since he was taller than me, kissing me slowly. “How about now?”

“We can’t hide away.” I attempted to say while he kissed me again a little more passionately as if that would convince me and I hate to admit that it might be working.

The older Walter boy in front of me cupped my face in his hands. “The way you’re reacting says otherwise….jump.” I leaned into his embrace, moving my arms around his neck threading my fingers through his honey hair. He moaned when I did so and he moved his hands down where I jumped wrapping my legs around his waist but that’s as far as we got.

“Cole. Y/n, can you come downstairs now!” His father hollered where we broke the kiss.

Cole sighed and I could feel his muscles tense up. “Oh boy. Are you sure we can’t just sneak out the back door and go to the riverside?”

“Unless your parents don’t know about that place and Jackie’s phone has terrible cell service she’ll find us no problem. We have to go, Cole.” I explained to him running my right hand through his hair getting some of it out of his bright green eyes.

He lowered me to the wooden floor and planted a kiss on my forehead. We still held hands coming down the stairs until we reached the third to last step. His parents and my best friend were standing in the kitchen with angry looks on their faces. “You wanted to talk with us?” Cole stated calmly.

“Do you want to explain to us why Jackie is saying she wants us to forbid you two to be together?” His mother Catherine scowled hands on her hips.

Cole pretended to play like he was clueless. “I have no idea.”

“Me either.” I shrugged my shoulders following along with him.

Cole's father glared at his son. “Cole, don't joke around about this. We know Jackie isn't a liar. So I'd suggest you tell us the truth.”

“I don’t have anything to hide.” I replied.

Jackie stomped up, ending up in between us and the Walter parents. “Come on, you two. I know that you're lying to them. I saw you two laying in his bed this morning!”

“Okay, fine. Yes we were sleeping together in his bed. But not in the way that you think I swear.” Holding my hands up I figured it would be safer if we only lied about the horse riding and kissing last night between us.

His father glanced at his son, leaning against the fridge. “Cole, just tell us exactly what happened and your punishment won't be as bad since we already learned about you sneaking girls out of the house without our knowledge.”

“Which will never be acceptable in this house ever.” Catherine waved her index finger at him.

Cole dropped his gaze to the wooden floor and I felt him reach for my hand. I wanted to support whatever he was about to say but I still drew back keeping my hands clasped together in front of me. “Look you guys, I am not hooking up with Y/n. I just hung out with her last night and she didn’t want to wake New York up so she slept in my room with me.”

“Fine, if that’s all you're going to tell me then let's get onto the part that I came up with.” Jackie turned on her feet to the Walter parents. “Are you still open to the ideas that I came up with for going behind my back?”

Catherine shifted her gaze between us. “Jackie is very upset that you two lied to her about this. So we have decided that you two are grounded here for the evening.”

“What-” I gasped, never being grounded before in my life.

Mr. Walter leaned his palms on the island. “And if you don’t get all the chores done then you can't go to the homecoming prep rally.”

“I didn't want to go anyway. “ Cole shrugged his shoulders not fazed.

Turning my head in his direction I admit weakly. “I want to go. I've never been at anything like that in the city.”

“Oh…” Cole replied giving me a guilty expression.

Jackie moved forward grabbing my arm and dragged me out onto the porch so we could talk alone about this. “Jackie, this is ridiculous. We didn't sleep together.”

“But you did do something with him. I can see it in your eyes, Y/n. You're closer to him than you were a few days ago. He reached for your hand I saw it.” She throws her arms away from her sides.

Dragging my hands down my face I groaned at her. This was getting ridiculous that she is so concerned for my heart. “Jackie, I don't want to be having this conversation with you. You also had no right to involve his parents in this.” I appreciate it the support. But I haven't had a boyfriend yet so how was I supposed if he would be bad or good for me.

“If you just tell me what happened last night I'll go inside and tell them I overreacted. You just have to tell me the truth.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

Shoving my hands in my pockets I huffed. “I shouldn't have to tell my whole life story. You're supposed to just trust me since I'm your best friend and you consider me to be your sister.”

“If I consider you like family then there's no problem in telling me.” She pressed onward.

Stomping my boots into the gravel drive I snapped at her not being able to handle it anymore. “Urgh! You wanna know what happened between Cole and me…we kissed. We kissed after he took me horse riding to see the stars. That's what happened between us!”

“You freaking kissed him!” Jackie raised hee voice at the same time the front door opened and Cole walked past us seeing her death glare as he went straight for the barn.

Whipping my head around I ran toward the barn leaving my best friend ending our conversation with her. “Cole!” Leaning in the doorway with my hands on either side of the stall with his horse, he avoided my gaze brushing his horse.

“Hey Y/n.” He mumbled.

I opened the door coming to stand closer to him so he'd possibly look me in the eye. “Cole, please look at me. I didn't want to tell anything about last night. Last night was something that I wanted to be my own thing that no one could take away from me. But now she's made me put it out in the open.”

“It doesn’t matter that she knows about the kiss last night. I just don’t want to talk about it anymore we have chores to do.” He grumbled walking out of the stall and gently pushing me out of the way so he could lock the stall.

Spinning around in my boots I snapped back at him. “If you’re bring an ass to make my best friend right I don't like it. I already told you that I chose you when everyone else tells me I should stay away.”

“I'm not trying to make her happy. I am trying to stay away from you. But I can't avoid being around you.” Cole spun around on his feet getting close to me where there was almost no space between us.

I parted my lips eyeing the side of his jacket pocket where I knew he had slipped his keys inside before we went downstairs and clearly his parents didn't know. “Then let's run away somewhere they don't know about. Like Romeo and Juliet but obviously not dying.”

“Are you sure you're not a little afraid of any danger, Y/n?” He questioned me, focusing his green eyes.

Closing the gap I wrapped my arms around his neck pressing up against him as much as I could. “I'm choosing to be with you aren’t I Cole Walter. Danger can be my new middle name. So let’s run away for the night.”

“Running away isn't showing them I'm a good influence on you…But I don't want to be apart from you now.’ He declared looping my hand through his and he peaked around seeing that the lights in the house had been shut off meaning everyone was asleep. He led me to his truck and I climbed in hearing him Starr the engine racing away from the ranch.

Pulling out my phone I turned my location off knowing Jackie would track me. Leaning back in the seat I put my hand over his freehand. “You are honestly more fun then I'd thought you'd be, Cole.”

“I was thinking the same thing about you, Y/n.” He intertwined our fingers together and the rest of the drive through the night was comfortable silence with both our hearts racing with adrenaline and fear.

Comments really appreciated ❤️