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atlabeth · 8 months ago

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unadulterated loathing (pt 2)

pt 1 / pt 3

pairing: fiyero tigelaar x fem reader

summary: you are forced to partner with fiyero on a history project. things don't go as you imagine.

a/n: sprinkling anthony bridgerton references in this because wreck my plans that's my man!! anyways this is actually going to be 3 parts because i have zero self control and ended up writing 15k words in total and im trying to see whether i like posting parts or doing one whole one shot more so there's going to be a third part. but for once in my writer life i have the whole thing written so it will be out in a couple days! have no idea how this fic became this long out of nowhere but i hope you all enjoy lol. stressed reader x calm bf will always be famous on this blog

wc: 4.9k

warning(s): almost cheating? fiyero is still w/ galinda for most of this so the line is very blurred but they dont cross it lmao. the slightest bit of angst but basically all fluff

“Isn’t this nice?” Fiyero spread his arms out as you took a seat in the grass. Idly, you wondered about getting grass stains out before he started talking again. “Fresh air, actual sunlight, and things to look at other than words on a page.”

“I do go outside,” you said wryly. “You act like I’m some hermit.”

He shrugged. “I only ever see you in class or at the library.”

“I’m just there most of the time,” you said with a slight laugh. “I’m not this smart by slacking off.”

Fiyero said your name with surprise. “Was that a joke?”

You laughed again. “Hardly.”

“I think it was,” he nodded. “You really are learning how to have fun.”

“I know how to have fun!” you exclaimed. “We just have different ideas of fun!”

“And what is your idea of fun?” Fiyero asked pointedly. “Studying? Attending class? Going through the intricacies of various languages?”

“That last one is very fun,” you defended.

“How did you decide on linguistics anyways?” he asked. “You’re incredibly passionate about something I didn’t even know was a major here.”

“It’s not, technically.” You shrugged. “I’m a history major. I just convinced Doctor Dillamond to let me be his teacher’s assistant so I could include more linguistics lessons in the syllabus.”

“How do you do it?” he asked. “Oz— why do you do it? You’re stressed all the time. Surely taking one less class or not being a TA wouldn’t kill you. All of this seems like it is.”

“I’m not like you, Fiyero,” you said. “I can’t get kicked out of a hundred schools and still be fine. I’ve got one chance, and if I squander it, then I’ve also squandered my dream. And that’s unacceptable to me.”

“There’s always second chances,” he said. “And third ones, too. Sometimes even fourth.”

“Maybe for a prince,” you laughed. “But not for somebody like me.”

“And just who are you?” Fiyero asked as he sat down next to you. “I know you’re Gillikinese and I know you’re probably going to succeed in whatever you attempt. But I still feel like I don’t know anything about who you are without the school uniform.”

“Why does that matter?” you asked defensively. “We’re project partners, not friends.”

“Because I’d very much like us to be friends,” he answered simply.

That might have been the most shocking thing he’d said all day. Fiyero Tigelaar, Winkie prince and self-declared slacker and desired paramour of nearly every Shiz student, said he wanted to be your friend.

Again, that warmth bloomed inside you. You tried to ignore it—tried to fully banish it.

“Don’t do this,” you said, looking away from him.

“Do what?”

“Act like you like me,” you said, stronger this time. “You— you do it with everyone, and that’s fine, but don’t do it with me.”

“I’m not following,” Fiyero said.

You glared at him. “I know you aren’t this daft.”

“Apologies,” he said. “I’m just trying to figure out how you figured I don’t genuinely like you.”

You blinked. “Because you’re you. You flirt with everybody so you can dance through life.”

“Of course,” Fiyero agreed. “It just so happens that I genuinely like you in addition.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Why?”

His laugh was nothing but shocked. “Are you asking me why I like you?”

“Well,” you glanced away with a huff, “when you put it like that it sounds ridiculous.”

“I’ll bite anyways,” Fiyero said. “I like you because you know what you want. You never really stop talking about it, honestly.”

“Are you trying to compliment me?”

“You’re intelligent and driven and you don’t shy away from anything you want,” he continued. “And you thoroughly vex me in near every encounter we have, most joyously.”

“…So you like me because I’m stubborn and confusing,” you said.

Fiyero sighed. “You‘ve got some serious self esteem issues.”

“I do not!” you exclaimed.

“You’ve tied your worth to your academic achievement,” he said. “You can’t see all the good you’ve already done, how smart you truly are, because you only stress about the next thing you need to do. You’d rather lose your mind over what’s to come than realize all you’ve got in the moment.”

Your mouth opened and closed for a good five seconds, like a fish out of water, before it snapped shut.

“I thought you were supposed to be brainless,” you settled on.

“I am,” Fiyero agreed with a chuckle. “But I also know people better than most, and our study sessions have given me ample time to study you.”

Great Oz, why was your face so hot? You felt like you were burning up from the inside out. Fiyero Tigelaar was killing you, and slowly at that.

“Why are you studying me?” you asked pointedly.

“Because you’re interesting,” he said. “And very beautiful.”

“Well, I’m— I’m glad we’ve finally reached a truce.” You tried to sound as casual as possible—you couldn’t let Fiyero know the full effect he was beginning to have on you. You didn’t think he would ever shut up about that, and Galinda certainly wouldn’t either. You didn’t want to make an enemy of her. “It’ll make this project much easier.”

“Yes,” Fiyero mused. “I believe it will.”

Amusement, and maybe something warmer, danced in his irises. A very small part of you wanted to let yourself fall, freely and uncaring, just as every other student did.

You had to lock that part of you away, never to be seen again. You didn’t like Fiyero. He was still a nuisance in every single sense of the word.

You swallowed, trying to cure your cottonmouth. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice.

You needed to finish this essay immediately.

You sighed when you heard a knock on your door. Coralie, for how smart she was, had a habit of forgetting her room key—so much so that you’d stopped bothering to lock the door on the days she went to class before you.

“It’s unlocked, Cora!” you called out. You didn’t want to get up from your desk, not when you were in the middle of writing. You were worried that you would lose the thread of inspiration you’d finally caught the moment you got out of your chair.

“You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked,” a familiar voice said. “All sorts of miscreants could get in.”

Your hand slipped in your shock, but you couldn’t even be annoyed about smearing the fresh ink on the page or getting it on your shirt cuffs because you had more important things to worry about. Namely, your surprise visitor.

“Fiyero?”

“Present,” he affirmed as he leaned against your doorframe. “You’ve got a nice place here.”

“Thank you,” you said. “What are you doing here?”

“Much less pink than Galinda’s,” he continued. “I think it’s the only color she owns, honestly. A bit absurd but—”

“What are you doing here?” you repeated.

“I should be asking you that question,” Fiyero said, eyes narrowing in on you. “I went to the library and you weren’t there.”

You cleared your throat. “I was giving you the day off.”

He frowned and stood up from the doorframe. “Who said I wanted the day off?”

“You,” you said. “When you didn’t show up to Doctor Dillamond’s class today.”

Fiyero brushed his hand through the air. “That’s different.”

You looked at him expectantly. “So you skipped the class this project is for, but you don’t want to skip the actual project.”

“That sounds about right, yes.”

“You don’t even do anything whenever we’re together,” you said. “You just stare at me and complain about doing work and ask me about my life and take an hour to write one page of notes.”

“That also sounds about right,” Fiyero said. “I enjoy your presence. Do you not enjoy mine?”

If only he knew the way he’d been making you feel for the past week. He could never know that he appeared in your dream last night.

“...Your presence is fine,” you said. “I just figured I would give you the day off, seeing as we only have one week left until it’s due.”

“How much have you written already without me?” he asked.

“Five pages, but that—”

“You’ve nearly done half of the project without me?” Fiyero interrupted.

“...Yes?” Why did you actually feel bad about this?

Fiyero got closer so he could look over your shoulder at your work, and you found yourself holding your breath at his proximity.

“Do you think you’re doing me a favor?”

“Clearly,” you said. “The sooner it’s done, the sooner it’s over, and the sooner you don’t have to deal with me anymore.” You shrugged. “You said you wanted to ride my coattails anyways, so I figured I would make it easier for you.”

“Just a few days ago you were chastising me for not doing my part,” Fiyero said. “Now you’re not even letting me try?”

“I—” the words stuck in your throat, and again you felt your face heat.

I don’t want to have to think about any of this more than I have to because I’m worried what I’ll realize.

I don’t want to give you any more chances to take me off course because I know I’ll say yes.

I don’t want to be around you longer than I have to because I think I’m starting to like you.

“Yes?”

“I am doing you a favor,” you finally decided. “You don’t have to worry about it. Go ride that horse of yours, or bother other students, or spend time with Galinda. You’ve earned it.”

“Hardly,” Fiyero said. “I’m doing my part, whether you like it or not. We’ll meet at the library tomorrow morning before class like we’ve been doing.”

“I have class at 8 in the morning tomorrow.”

“...Then we’ll do it after class,” he reneged. “I do need my beauty sleep.”

That got a smile out of you, which spurned one from Fiyero in turn. “I think that is one of the only genuine smiles you’ve given me since we started working together.”

“I smile plenty,” you insisted.

“At your books,” Fiyero said. “Not at me.”

“That’s because my books are oh-so-beautiful,” you said. “And they don’t even need beauty sleep.”

He placed his hand on his heart. “You wound me.”

Your smile grew and you set your pen down. “The library after class?”

Fiyero nodded and tapped on your desk as he stood up. “Library after class.”

He was about to go to the door when Coralie poked her head in. “Why is the door— oh! Fiyero!” She straightened up, plastering on a pretty smile as she stepped inside. “What brings you to our corner of Shiz?”

“Doctor Dillamond’s midterm,” he said. “Your roommate here is trying to save all of the fun for herself.”

“That sounds like her,” Cora nodded sagely. “You’re very good to try and keep her from that fate.”

Fiyero pressed his hand to his chest. “I consider it my duty. But I apologize for the intrusion—I’ll leave the two of you be.”

“Oh, stay as long as you want,” she spoke up. “I’m sure your partner wouldn’t mind.”

“He’s got things to do,” you interceded. “You’ve got things to do, Fiyero.”

He smiled knowingly. “I certainly do. You lovely ladies have a fine rest of your day.” He looked at you and said your name. “Don’t forget tomorrow.”

“How could I?” you said weakly.

Fiyero chuckled and bowed his head in lieu of more parting words. The second he left, Cora turned to you with wide eyes.

“Don’t,” you warned.

“He came here to talk to you!” she exclaimed. “He found out your room number because he wanted to talk to you!”

“Be quiet!” you exclaimed. “The door is still open—he can probably hear your screeching!”

Coralie shut the door and squealed. “He likes you!”

“We are project partners,” you enunciated. “Nothing more.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s what you think,” she said. “Just like I’m sure that he wants to be more.”

“You’re acting like he isn’t with Galinda,” you said. “She controls this whole school—do you remember what happened to Elphaba when she didn’t like her?”

Cora shrugged. “Sure. But I’ve been hearing there’s trouble in paradise.”

That got you paying attention. “What?”

“I knew it!” Coralie exclaimed—nearly yelled, honestly. “I knew you liked him!”

“Be quiet!” you whisper-yelled. “Oz, what is wrong with you?”

“I knew you liked him!” she repeated. “And he likes you— oh, it is too perfect!”

“He does not like me,” you insisted, “and you are crazy.”

“You didn’t say that you didn��t like him,” Coralie sung, and you screwed your eyes shut.

“Fine!” you finally said. “Fine— I like him. Will you stop now?”

“Of course not,” she said, and you sighed. “How bad do you have it?”

“I don’t have it bad,” you scoffed. “I just— I enjoy spending time with him. And I think he’s kind of cute.”

“Oh, you are full on head over heels,” she mused. “You just don’t know it. It’s okay.”

You groaned as you buried your head in your hands. “I hate you.”

She laughed. “And you like Fiyero.”

“Shut up.” Your words were muffled, but you meant them all the same.

You were comically doomed.

The next day went… shockingly smooth.

Fiyero was in the library when he said he’d be—he was even there before you, much to your surprise and he still had the notebook and pen you’d given him, much to his surprise. He made sure to bring an extra canteen of water for you, because he noticed you never had any with you. You were probably concerningly dehydrated.

He tried to be a more attentive student to you than he’d ever been at any of his classes—not that that was difficult. You explained your outline and all the work you’d already done, what he could do on the last five pages and how to make his writing voice match yours to make a consistent paper.

He wrote notes both on what you knew about Ilara Mayfair (a ridiculous amount, in his opinion) and anything else you thought he needed to know (also a ridiculous amount).

He was impressed most of all, though. No wonder you’d isolated yourself from near the entire student body and stressed over every letter in every sentence in every assignment. You were incredibly intelligent, but you were also able to explain everything in a way that even he understood. Fiyero had never really cared about… well, anything relating to school before he ended up partners with you.

But now, Fiyero found himself surprisingly entranced by it all. He’d always liked your voice, and he had a permanent smile on his lips watching you talk so easily about your passions. It put a spark in your eye and a brightness about you that was usually bogged down by everything else that you stressed about.

You were beautiful, especially when you were happy. And Fiyero had discovered over the past week that you were happiest when you got to talk about what you cared about to an interested audience. He only regretted acting like he wasn’t interested for so long.

Finally, when Fiyero called a break on account of his hands aching (he’d never written this much in his life, and it still was only half of what you did basically every day), and you were eating an apple (that he also brought, because you really didn’t take care of yourself when you were doing work, which was always), he smiled at you.

“You know, we really do make a good team,” Fiyero said.

You swallowed the bite of apple you had in your mouth and cocked your head as you looked at him. “You think?”

“I know,” he nodded. “You’ve done the impossible, darling. You’ve actually made me care about school.”

“Well, I think you’ve done the impossible too.” You lifted the apple up. “You made me care about my health during midterms season.”

“It certainly wasn’t easy,” he said wryly. “You kind of took it all kicking and screaming.”

You shrugged. “I’m not top of our class for nothing.”

“Do you have to stress yourself into misery to be top of the class?” he asked.

“I’m not miserable,” you retorted.

It was when you said things like that that Fiyero really began to worry about you. It was part of the reason he was so intent on staying by your side through this whole project—no matter how dull he found the material—after the first session. He sometimes saw you around campus, usually carrying a stack of books or talking with your roommate.

After Fiyero was paired with you, he wondered why he didn’t see you more before it all, considering how active you were with literally everything school-wise. Then he realized you were likely always in the library, and the only time he’d visited the library was on Galinda’s tour. You were there, well enough, but you took your leave as soon as things started getting rowdy.

A shame, he realized. He wondered what your relationship could have been had Galinda not staked her claim on him so soon.

You weren’t going to take care of yourself, clearly enough, so Fiyero decided—at least for the duration of this project—that he would. It didn’t really matter if you were top of the class if you passed out from stress, exhaustion, annoyance, or a mix of all three. Likely a mix of all three.

He didn’t really anticipate those feelings morphing into genuine affection.

“I seem to recall you saying you dream of your future assignments,” Fiyero said, coming out of his thoughts. “That doesn’t sound like the habit of a happy person.”

“Oh, please,” you scoffed. “Everybody has stress dreams.”

“You know, I really don’t think they do,” Fiyero said.

You rolled your eyes as you picked your pen up with your free hand and jotted down a few more sentences. “Sure.”

“On that note,” he said, “why don’t we call it a day?”

“We can’t call it a day,” you said. You took another bite from your apple and swallowed, continuing to write all the while without looking at him. “We’re not finished yet.”

“That is the most casually you’ve said that so far,” Fiyero mused. “I really am making progress.”

You laughed, finally paying him mind. “Progress with what?”

“I’ve been tracking your smiles and laughs this whole time,” he said. “See, this essay was your project, but that was mine—trying to make you enjoy your life.”

“This essay is both of our projects, Fiyero,” you said. “Besides, I don’t think Doctor Dillamond will accept your bar graph of all the times I laughed at you making a fool of yourself.” You frowned. “Or would it be a line graph because it’s over time? Or maybe it could be—”

“Alright,” he interrupted. “You’re going into hypotheticals on my joke. That’s clearly the sign that we need to call it a day.”

“…Fine,” you reneged. “But it’s just a break, not calling it a day. And I get to finish proofreading the rest of the essay when we get back.”

“A compromise,” Fiyero said. “Love it.”

You rolled your eyes as you started gathering your things. “You love everything.”

“Eh,” he tilted his head, and you felt his eyes on you. “Most things.”

You couldn’t help your smile, much as you tried to bite it back. “Whatever.”

Soon enough, you and Fiyero were sitting together by the dock. You let your legs dangle over as you watched the scenery around campus—the ripple of the water, the gentle brush of the wind, the chirping birds that flew around without a care.

“Isn’t this nice?” Fiyero asked. He also had his legs over the edge, but he’d laid down against the stone.

“You don’t have to push your relaxation propaganda so hard anymore,” you said wryly. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“And I’m grateful for it,” he said. “Someone that works as hard as you do deserves to relax the same amount.”

“We’ve gone over this a thousand times—”

“I know,” he interrupted. He turned his head to smile at you. “I just have to hope that some of it sticks.”

You rolled your eyes, once again unable to hide your smile. “And I have to hope for the same with this paper. Do you think you’ll remember any of this once we turn it in?”

“Oh, but of course. You were the one to teach it to me, after all. I could hardly forget it all.”

“Good,” you said. “Everyone should know about Ilara Mayfair.”

Fiyero chuckled, and you once again fell into comfortable silence.

That was the thing that shocked you the most, you think. Not that you were beginning to like Fiyero, or that you actually liked Fiyero, or that you actually looked forward to spending time with him. It was that you were so comfortable just sitting with him in silence.

It was very difficult to get to the silence, though. Fiyero couldn’t really stay quiet, and you didn’t know if he liked talking or the sound of his own voice. But you found it didn’t really annoy you like it used to.

Great Oz. You really were into him. How embarrassing.

Eventually, when the strain in your wrists and fingers from writing had finally faded, you turned your head to look at Fiyero. “I think it’s time we go back.”

He sighed. “Already?”

“It’s been fifteen minutes,” you said. “Far longer than the breaks I usually take.”

He opened his mouth, likely to say something of the same ‘you need to relax’ ilk, but you held up your hand. “Don’t. Just be thankful you got me away for this long.”

Fiyero smiled, and he pulled himself up off the ground. “I always am.”

He held his hand out, and you stared at him for a moment. “Why do you always do that?”

“Help you up?”

You nodded. “I can do it myself.”

He shrugged. “I told you it was my project to make your life easier.”

“You said it was your project to track my happiness,” you said.

“And they go hand in hand,” he said. “I’m surprised you remember.”

“It happened thirty minutes ago, Fiyero,” you said wryly. “Besides, I remember everything. It’s a gift.”

Fiyero laughed, and you finally took his hand. He pulled you up and once again, you tumbled a bit too close—and again, his hand fell to your waist. He had to be doing this on purpose by now.

“We keep finding ourselves in this position,” Fiyero mused.

Heat flooded your cheeks like usual. “And whose fault is that?”

“Well,” he said, tilting his head, “you’re not exactly pulling away.”

Your mouth opened, trying to think of what words to say when your head was reeling from his mere presence. But then you saw a flash of pink in the background, and your eyes darted away from Fiyero.

Galinda. She was distracted, talking with Pfannee and Shenshen as she went down the stairs. Oz, how did she slip your mind so easily whenever Fiyero was in your proximity? Why did you let him get this close when he was spoken for?

You panicked—nothing less. You tore out of Fiyero’s grasp with a bit too much gumption, and then you stumbled, then you slipped, and then you fell. Fiyero called your name in shock, reaching his hand out, but it was too late. You’d plunged into the water before you could save yourself.

The cold water instantly shocked all your senses, your eyes widening as you gasped out on instinct. Your mouth filled with water and your muscles seized up from the change in temperature—it was so much deeper than you’d imagined, and all your layers of clothing weighing you down were of no use.

You tried your damnedest to ignore the alarm bells going off in your head as you fought against yourself, finally gathering the sense to swim. You kicked your way up to the top, gasping for air once when you breached the surface.

You heard Fiyero yell your name again and you blinked rapidly, trying to clear the water from your eyes. When everything finally came into focus, you saw him on his knees, his coat shed and his sleeves rolled up.

His eyes were wide as he reached his hand out, once again saying your name—this time with a certain desperation. “Are you alright?”

You tried to respond but all you could do was cough, trying to expel the water from your lungs. You took his hand and he helped pull you up onto the dock, where an exhale shuddered out of you.

“I— I am so sorry,” he stammered. It was the first time you’d ever seen him flustered, and you were too busy hacking up a lung to point it out. “Obviously I didn’t think—”

You held up your hand in lieu of saying something, as you didn’t think you could say something.

This was so stupid, and it was something that never would have happened before you and Fiyero started working together. Your paper was due in two days, you’d only just finished the draft, you still had so much proofreading and rewriting to do, and instead, you were here on the docks soaked to the bone.

And you found yourself laughing.

“Oh, Oz,” Fiyero said. “You’ve lost it.”

You couldn’t refute it, because you kept laughing. You could feel the eyes of your classmates on you, could hear them whispering to each other—likely making fun of you—and it only made you laugh harder.

“Are—” Fiyero chuckled nervously as he said your name, “are you okay?”

“I’m soaked,” you got out through your laughs. “And everyone saw me fall into the water. I’m a fool, Fiyero!”

He was still staring at you in that careful way, as if you were made of glass. “I can’t tell if you’re mad or not.”

“Oh, Fiyero.” You wiped the trailing water off of your face and wrapped your arms around him. You felt him freeze beneath you for the slightest moment—it had to have been the last thing he expected you to do. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Fiyero returned the hug, his movements still unsure. He didn’t seem to care that you were getting him wet, just about your wellbeing. “What— what for, exactly?”

For a moment, you couldn’t look away. His blue eyes were meant to enrapture, his soft lips typically an invitation sealed with a smirk. But for once, Fiyero looked genuine—he wasn’t putting on a performance, or trying to seduce anyone who looked at him. He was genuinely sorry, genuinely confused. It only made you laugh again.

“What for, indeed.” A higher voice pierced through the air, and you separated from Fiyero immediately. Galinda, to no surprise, had found her way over to the chaos you’d created, her compatriots flanking her on either side. She smiled at you brightly, but her whole demeanor was like a violin string pulled taut.

“Galinda,” Fiyero said. “Lovely to see you.” He didn’t seem half as shocked as you at her appearance, but his words fell flat.

“And you as well, dearest.” Her smile turned sickly sweet as she shifted her attention to Fiyero momentarily, taking the opportunity to lace her fingers with his and pull him into a kiss. He pulled away first, but if it affected Galinda, she didn’t let it show when she looked back at you. She batted her eyelashes as she said your name incorrectly. “What was it you were saying?”

The sudden combination of cottonmouth and sour guilt creeping up your throat didn’t really help your already flustered state. She knew what she was doing—but you did too, didn’t you?

She was with Fiyero. You knew that. And though Fiyero danced across the line, you took his hand every time he offered.

“I—” you cleared your throat, attempting a casual smile of your own. “Just that I know why Doctor Dillamond put us together.”

“Excellent,” Fiyero said. “Off-topic, but excellent— are you sure you didn’t hit your head down there?”

“Perhaps you should go to the nurse,” Galinda said. “I’m sure Shenshen could—”

“I’ll be fine,” you interrupted, your smile tightening ever so slightly. You looked at Fiyero. “Meet me at the library tonight, and bring coffee. We’re finishing this project tonight.

“Of course,” he nodded.

You nodded as well, and you started to go. Galinda’s gaze was sugary sweet poison, and you couldn’t take the weight of it anymore.

“Wait,” Fiyero spoke up.

You stopped against your better judgment, and he let go of Galinda’s hand to take his jacket off. He moved closer to you and wrapped it around you. His touch, light but certain, lingered on your shoulders once he’d finished adjusting it, and his gaze stayed on yours

“Until you can change,” he said.

“...Thank you,” you said.

Galinda cleared her throat extremely loudly, her taut smile back. You remembered yourself and stepped away from Fiyero.

“I’ll see you tonight,” you said, already starting on your way. You wouldn’t let him stop you again.

“Tonight,” he agreed, bowing his head in parting.

You only glanced back once you were by the stairs. When you did, you saw Galinda speaking rapidly to Fiyero—you were too far away to hear anything, but she didn’t look happy. When your gaze drifted to him, you found he was already looking at you. Almost subconsciously, you tugged his jacket tighter around you. When you realized what you were doing, you stopped. You averted your eyes immediately and hurried up the stairs.

You weren’t out of breath from exertion.

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literaryvein-reblogs · 9 months ago

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Writing References: Tips & Advice

Some Tips & Advice for Writing Fiction

Active Reading ⚜ Hook ⚜ Outline ⚜ Summary ⚜ Wordiness

Allegory ⚜ Food ⚜ Horror ⚜ Humour ⚜ Memoir ⚜ Mystery

Beginning & Ending ⚜ Chapter Ending ⚜ Last Line ⚜ The End

Conscious Language ⚜ White Room Syndrome ⚜ Writing Style

Creative Writing ⚜ Journal Writing ⚜ Speculative Biology

Fight Scene Part 1 2 ⚜ Plot Twist ⚜ Subplot

Procrastination ⚜ Rejection ⚜ Vocabulary ⚜ Your Audience

Writer's Block: Part 1 2

Your Character: Hero ⚜ Likable ⚜ Morally Grey ⚜ Well-Rounded

Writers on Writing

Anaïs Nin ⚜ Andrew Motion ⚜ Annie Proulx

Elmore Leonard ⚜ Ernest Hemingway ⚜ Friedrich Nietzsche

George Orwell: Motives for Writing ⚜ On Poetry ⚜ On Nonsense Poetry

George Orwell: The Prevention of Literature ⚜ On Good "Bad Books"

George Orwell: Describes A Writer

H. P. Lovecraft ⚜ Henry Miller ⚜ Italo Calvino

Jack Kerouac: Are Writers Born or Made?

James Baldwin ⚜ John Rechy ⚜ John Steinbeck

Joyce Carol Oates ⚜ Ray Bradbury ⚜ Ronald Knox

Kurt Vonnegut: The Shapes of Stories

Margaret Atwood: On Plot

Rick Riordan: On Character ⚜ On Dialogue ⚜ On Plot

Rick Riordan: Some Common Problems in Unpublished Manuscripts

Stephen King ⚜ Ursula K. Le Guin ⚜ Vladimir Nabokov

Virginia Woolf: On Censorship ⚜ On Words

W. H. Auden ⚜ William Strunk Jr. & E. B. White

Zadie Smith: Dance Lessons for Writers

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#writing tips #writing advice #writeblr #dark academia #writing reference #spilled ink #writing inspiration #creative writing #light academia #literature #fiction #novel #writers on tumblr #writing prompt #writer's block #writing resources

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qinche-cvmslvt · 4 months ago

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Content Warning: NSFW, MDNI, fluff, romance, taboo, Professor Sylus, AU Sylus. Slow burn, sexual and emotional tension. Power dynamic relationships.

Summary: You’re in your final years of schooling. Sweet and freshly 18, Professor Sylus has always made you feel something. But you feel it more now that you’re an “adult”. Perhaps, there’s more to this connection than meets the eye?

A/N: Helloooo, yes I have a problem but I love this concept and I’ve been wanting a professor Sylus fic for a very long time. I am collabing with my sister. She’s a seasoned Kpop fanfic writer hahahah. Anyways, don’t freak out. Every main character in this fic is at 18 and up.

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Chapter 1: After Class

The late afternoon sun slanted through the high classroom windows, bathing the rows of desks in a golden haze. You slid into your usual seat near the front, smoothing your skirt and laying out your notebook with steady, practiced movements. Despite your composed exterior, your heart gave a traitorous flutter the moment your gaze found him at the front of the room. Professor Sylus stood with one hand resting on his mahogany desk and the other writing the day’s lesson title on the chalkboard. Dust motes danced in the sunlight around his tall figure. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing toned muscles that flexed subtly with each stroke of chalk.

At 18 years old and in your final year of high school, you were technically an adult – a fact that emboldened and unsettled you all at once. Yet, sitting in Professor Sylus’ classroom, you felt small and young, as if the mere presence of your teacher could lay bare the schoolgirl inside you. You bit your lip and forced your eyes down to your notebook, fighting the heat rising in your cheeks. Get a grip, you chided yourself silently. It was just another literature class, and he was just your English teacher – confident, brooding, and far too mesmerizing for your own good.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Sylus began, his baritone voice easily commanding the murmurs in the room to hush. You dared a glance upward through your lashes. He surveyed the class with calm authority, jewel-like eyes scanning over students with a measured patience. His gaze passed over you briefly, and for a heartbeat your eyes met. A spark – real or imagined – skittered through your chest. Quickly, you looked back to your blank page, your pulse thudding in your ears.

Sylus cleared his throat and turned toward the chalkboard. On it he had written a line from the poem they’d been studying: “…somewhere between right and wrong, there is a garden. I will meet you there.” The quote hung in the air like a daring secret. “Today,” he said, “we continue our discussion on forbidden themes in literature – the allure of crossing lines that society has drawn.” His voice was smooth but there was an undercurrent of intensity when he spoke of the subject, as if the topic resonated with some private part of him.

As he launched into the lesson, you tried to focus on your notes, not on the man delivering the lecture. Your pen scribbled dutifully, but your attention drifted to him in spite of yourself. Professor Sylus moved with a restrained energy, pacing slowly in front of the chalkboard. The afternoon light caught in his crimson eyes when he turned just so, making them gleam. There was a certain heaviness to his brow – a brooding intensity that made him appear deep in thought even as he taught. He was relatively young for a teacher – you guessed not much older than thirty – and there was a vitality in the way he spoke that held the class rapt.

“Can anyone tell me what the poet might mean by that line?” he asked, tapping the chalk gently under the quote he’d written. His gaze traveled across the room expectantly. A few students shifted in their seats, avoiding eye contact. You knew the class well enough to predict that silence would follow; most were either too indifferent or too intimidated to volunteer an interpretation.

You inhaled quietly, gathering your nerve. This was your favorite subject, and despite the tremor of nerves around you, you couldn’t resist engaging – if only to impress him. Lifting your eyes, you found Sylus already looking your way, as if he anticipated you might speak. The thought sent a little thrill through you.

You raised your hand. “It’s about a place beyond judgment,” you said when he nodded for you to answer. Your voice came out softer than you intended, and you swallowed and continued more clearly. “The poet is saying that outside of right and wrong – beyond the rules and expectations – there’s a space where two people can truly be together. A… a secret meeting place, free from consequence.”

As you spoke, Sylus’ expression shifted almost imperceptibly. The stern line of his mouth eased, and the slightest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Something warm flickered in his eyes – pride? admiration? – that made your chest tighten.

“Very good,” he said, and that rich voice of his wrapped around the praise in a way that felt personal. “A thoughtful interpretation.” His gaze held yours a second longer than it needed to. In that moment, the rest of the class might as well have not existed.

Your cheeks burned at his approval. You managed a faint smile back before looking down again, hiding behind a curtain of your hair. You could still feel the weight of his eyes on you for a moment more, and the knowledge sent a sweet, forbidden thrill through your veins.

While Professor Sylus went on to elaborate on the poem’s historical context, you dared to steal another glance. He had turned away to address the rest of the class, but there was a new tension in his posture – a stiffness in his shoulders, as if your answer had affected him too. He ran a hand through his silver hair, the fingers briefly tugging in a gesture that might have been subconscious. For an instant, you allowed herself to imagine what it would feel like to run your own fingers through that hair, to soothe whatever turmoil made him look so distant and haunted when he thought no one was watching. The fantasy was as intoxicating as it was inappropriate, and you banished it with a quick shake of your head. Your braid brushed against your neck, grounding you back in reality.

Minutes passed, and you diligently copied down the notes Sylus put up on the board, punctuating them with a few stolen looks in his direction. Each time, your eyes seemed to find some new detail to fixate on: the way the veins in his forearm stood out when he gripped a book to read a passage aloud; the precise cut of his jawline; or the way his voice gentled when he recited a particularly poignant line from the text. There was such passion and nuance in his teaching that you found yourself entranced, hanging on to every word despite the turmoil of attraction stirring inside you.

At one point, as he circulated around the room to check on the students’ annotations, Sylus approached your desk. You straightened your spine, heart drumming. He stopped beside you, close enough that you became hyperaware of his presence—the faint scent of cedar and spice from his cologne, the warmth radiating from his body.

“Do you see how the second stanza reinforces that idea?” he asked softly, leaning down to glance at your open textbook. His face was suddenly much nearer to yours, and you hoped he couldn’t hear how loudly your heart was pounding.

“Y-yes,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper. The air between you felt charged. As you shifted slightly, your shoulder lightly grazed his arm. The contact was barely there, but it sent a jolt of electricity across your skin. You froze, and so did he.

Sylus drew in a slow breath, his gaze flickering to you. Time seemed to slow in that small moment of accidental touch. You dared to meet his eyes. Up close they were an endless crimson sea, stormy with something unspoken. His jaw tightened as if he was waging some internal battle. Then he straightened, politely putting a safe distance between you once more.

“Good,” he said, clearing his throat. His tone was steady, betraying nothing, but his adam’s apple bobbed with a hard swallow. “Keep up the good work.”

You nodded silently, and he moved on, continuing his rounds. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your hand trembled slightly as you underlined a phrase in your book, attempting to appear engrossed in the text while your mind raced. Had you imagined that intensity in his eyes? The way he’d gone still when you touched? Don’t be ridiculous, you tell yourself. He’s your teacher. He was just making sure you understood.

But no matter how you tried to dismiss it, you couldn’t shake the memory of that brief flash in his gaze – like a wild, caged thing peering out. It made your stomach flutter with equal parts excitement and nervousness.

By the time the lesson drew to an end, the sun had deepened to a warm orange, and long shadows stretched across the floor. Sylus returned to the front to wrap up, assigning a short reflection on the poem for homework. The shrill ring of the final bell for the day made several students jump up eagerly, the spell of the class broken as backpacks were slung over shoulders.

You closed your notebook slowly, reluctant for this enchanted, torturous hour to end. Around you, classmates chatted as they filtered out of the room, their sneakers squeaking on the polished linoleum. Normally you would be rushing off as well, joining the after-school buzz in the halls. But today, you lingered, pretending to carefully organize your papers as your mind raced with an idea – or rather, an excuse.

Sylus busied himself at the teacher’s desk as the students departed, stacking essays neatly and wiping a stray chalk smudge from his fingers. His movements were measured, outwardly as composed as ever. Inside, however, his thoughts were anything but calm. Throughout the class he had maintained his usual professional demeanor by sheer force of will, yet now that he was alone… well, almost alone… he exhaled slowly, releasing a tension he hadn’t fully acknowledged until this moment.

He risked a glance upward through his dark lashes. One student remained, hovering at her desk near the front – you. He immediately felt his pulse kick up in response, an unwelcome surge of awareness. She should go, he told himself firmly. Being alone with a student after class was unwise under any circumstance, and with this particular young woman it was downright dangerous to his hard-won self-control.

Sylus had noticed you the very first week he started teaching at Linkon High. How could he not? You were bright, attentive, and disarmingly sincere in your love of literature – a rarity that had drawn his interest initially on a purely intellectual level. But then there were the other things: the way your smile lit up your eyes when you grasped a concept, or the soft tuck of hair behind your ear as you concentrated. Little details that had etched themselves into his mind against his better judgment.

He had brushed off his fascination as simple pride in a star student, nothing more. He was your teacher, after all. Lines existed for a reason, and he was determined never to cross them.

Yet today, when you had given your interpretation of the poem… something in your voice, earnest and a touch vulnerable, had struck a chord in him. Your words about a place beyond right and wrong had felt directed at him in ways you couldn’t possibly know. In that moment, he’d almost forgotten where they were. He had looked at you and seen not just a diligent student but a young woman on the cusp of adulthood – an adult, he reminded himself, albeit a very young one under his care. The realization had shaken him more than he cared to admit.

And then that brief contact – your shoulder brushing his arm – even now he could recall the heat of it. It was nothing, a pure accident, and yet it had set his nerves alight. For the rest of the class he’d struggled to keep his focus on the lesson and not on the memory of how close you’d been, how your perfume—something subtle, with cherry or floral—had left him slightly lightheaded.

Now, as the last of the other students slipped out the door, Sylus forced himself to appear at ease. Calm and collected, he reminded himself, like it meant nothing. With a quiet click, he capped his pen and slid the graded papers into his leather briefcase. Any second now, you would head out as well, and he would be safe to breathe normally again.

But instead of the expected sound of your retreating footsteps, he heard your voice, gentle and hesitant,

“Professor Sylus? Can I ask you something?”

Sylus’s hand paused on the briefcase buckle. He lifted his eyes to find you standing a few paces from his desk, notebook clutched to your chest. Most of your classmates had already disappeared into the hall, leaving an expectant quiet in their wake. The overhead lights were off, and only the honeyed dusk light from the windows illuminated the space, casting half of Sylus’s face in shadow and half in soft, gold light.

For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you, taking in the sight. You looked nervous, biting the corner of your lip in that way he’d come to recognize whenever you were grappling with a thought. The warm glow of sunset danced in your eyes. Why did it feel like the air between you was charged again, now even more intensely than during that fleeting touch?

He cleared his throat, reminding himself to speak. “Of course,” he replied, his tone measured. He leaned back against the edge of his desk to appear relaxed, crossing his arms loosely. “What do you need help with?”

You stepped forward into the aisle between desks, closer by a cautious half-step. You, your mind whispered traitorously. I need you. You banished the illicit thought and drew a slow breath. “It’s about the poem,” you began, willing your voice to sound steady. “Something you said about forbidden themes… it got me thinking.”

In truth, you hadn’t really needed clarification on the lesson – he had been very clear, as always. But the idea of walking out that door felt unbearable when a hundred unspoken questions and feelings swirled inside of you. This was your chance to linger in his presence just a little longer, to maybe confirm if you'd imagined the connection you thought you felt. Even if all you got was a few more minutes of conversation with him, it would be worth it.

Sylus nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving your face. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Which part are you wondering about?”

You came a step closer, until you were right in front of him, the desk between them the only barrier. You set your notebook down atop his desk, open to the page of notes you'd taken. It took all your willpower to keep your hand from trembling. “Here,” you pointed to a bulletpoint in your careful handwriting. “You mentioned how, in literature, forbidden relationships often serve to challenge societal norms. I was just… well, I was curious if you think the writers romanticize those relationships. Do they make it seem more attractive because it’s forbidden?”

Your question hung in the air. In the quiet that followed, you heard the ticking of the classroom clock on the wall, counting the seconds of silence.

Sylus regarded you thoughtfully. He knew literature theory well enough to answer in academic terms – to talk about narrative devices and the human fascination with taboo. Yet as he gazed at your earnest face, framed by a stray beam of golden light, the purely academic answer didn’t seem to be the one caught in his throat. Instead, what came out was a gentle counter-question.

“What do you think?”

You hadn’t expected that. A soft breath escaped you. He often turned questions back on students to encourage critical thinking, but right now the way he asked felt different – almost personal. His voice was lower now, almost intimate in the quiet room. Was it your imagination, or had he inched just a little closer over the desk?

Your fingers fiddled with the spiral binding of your notebook as you gathered your courage. “I think…” you began slowly, searching for words that wouldn’t betray the full depth of what you felt. “I think authors do make it attractive. The risk, the secrecy… it adds excitement.” Your throat felt dry, and you pressed on. “When something is forbidden, maybe it makes every small moment, every glance or touch, feel more meaningful. Because you know it could be taken away.”

As you spoke, your eyes remained locked on the open notebook, tracing the indented lines of your writing rather than looking up at him. It felt safer to voice such things to a page than directly to Sylus’ face. Even so, your heart hammered at your own boldness. You were no longer talking strictly about poems or novels, and you both knew it.

There was a brief rustle, and you realized Sylus had moved. Gently, he reached out and closed your notebook, his long fingers resting for a moment on the cover just beside your own hand. You froze at the proximity – his knuckles only inches from your skin. Your gaze lifted on instinct, drawn by the magnetic presence of him.

Sylus’ eyes met yours, and you saw it again – that flicker of conflict, of heat, carefully restrained behind a composed mask. The dying daylight outlined the strong planes of his face, but his eyes were soft as they searched yours. “Literature isn’t the only place where that happens,” he said quietly. “Sometimes real life mirrors the stories.”

Your breath caught. The desk suddenly felt like an insignificant separator; the space between them crackled with something unspoken. Did he mean… could he possibly be referring to the two of you?

You tried to speak and found your voice had fled. In the silence, your uncertainty must have shown in your face, because Sylus’ expression gentled further. He seemed to be choosing his next words with great care.

“What I mean is,” he continued, tone still soft, “there’s a reason readers are drawn to those stories. A reason we sometimes find ourselves…” He paused, as if debating how frank to be. His gaze flickered down to their hands – his still resting near yours on the closed notebook – and then back up. “…drawn to things we know we can’t have.”

Your heart skipped a beat. There it was – the spark, the admission veiled in careful words but so plainly there. The world seemed to narrow until it was just him and you in that dim classroom, the air thick with everything you weren’t saying. You felt a flush rise in your cheeks and didn’t know if it was from joy, fear, or the dizzying combination of both.

“Sylus…” you whispered, his name slipping out before you could stop yourself. The familiarity of using just his first name hung between them. You weren't even sure why you said it – perhaps to confirm that this was real, that this was him speaking and not a beautiful daydream conjured by your hopeful mind.

At the sound of his name on your lips, something in Sylus broke subtly – his carefully maintained distance wavered. His hand inched forward just a little more, fingertips almost, almost brushing the back of your hand. He caught himself at the last second and withdrew slightly, curling his fingers into a loose fist instead.

“This…,” he said, so softly it was almost a breath. The single syllable carried a world of meaning. He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

You both knew what he meant: this connection, this delicate, dangerous tension humming between you. Acknowledging it was risky, but in that stolen moment neither of you looked away.

Your lips parted, a thousand thoughts racing through your mind. You could scarcely believe this was happening – that the longing you'd harbored might not be one-sided. He feels it too… The realization lit you up from the inside. It also terrified you. He is the one person you aren't supposed to want, and the only person you desperately did.

Outside in the hallway, a locker slammed shut, jolting you back to reality. The distant chatter of students reminded you both of where you were – teacher and student, standing on the edge of a line that, once crossed, could change everything.

Sylus drew back slightly, straightening. A shadow of regret passed over his face as the spell between you broke, but the tenderness remained. He lowered his voice, though there was no one else to hear: “You should head home,” he said gently. “It’s getting late.”

You nodded, realizing suddenly how close you had leaned in toward him. You hadn’t even noticed your own body swaying nearer, drawn like a moth to a flame. Flushing, you stepped back, clutching your notebook to anchor yourself. “Right. Of course.”

He walked you to the classroom door, a careful distance between you now. Your mind was still reeling at what had just passed between you—subtle and yet undeniable. At the threshold, you turned back to face him. The corridor behind you was nearly empty now, just a straggler or two heading for the exits. In here, in the golden half-light, Sylus stood with one hand braced on the doorframe, looking down at you with an expression you could only describe as conflicted longing.

“Thank you for answering my questions,” you said softly. It felt like an inadequate thing to say after everything, but it was all your overwhelmed mind could supply.

A faint smile touched his lips. “Anytime,” he replied. “You know you can always come to me if you need help.” There was a quiet emphasis on those last words, as if they held layers of meaning. His dark eyes flickered with the warmth of an unspoken promise before he masked it with a polite smile.

You clutched your books to your chest a little tighter. “I… I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” Your voice wavered, and you couldn’t help the small smile that slipped through, hope and anxiety warring in your chest.

Sylus nodded, but just as you were about to turn, he spoke again, voice low and earnest. “Wait.”

You paused, heart leaping into your throat. “Yes?”

For a moment he hesitated, as though walking right up to the edge of that line again. His gaze held yours, steady and searching. Say something, part of you pleaded silently. Admit you feel it too.

“I—” He stopped himself, then tried again, his words measured. “I just want you to be careful.”

Your brow knit in confusion. Was he scolding you? Warning you about staying late at school? Or was there a deeper meaning? “…Careful?” You echoed softly.

Sylus’ jaw tensed, and he let out a slow breath. His next words came out barely above a whisper, meant only for you: “This is uncharted territory. If we’re not careful, someone could get hurt.”

It was both a caution and a confession. He was acknowledging that something was indeed happening between you, even as he tried to protect you both from it. The weight of his words—and the vulnerability in them—hung in the air.

You felt a sting of emotion in your chest, a mix of reassurance and ache. Reassurance that you hadn’t imagined everything; ache that he was already pulling back into propriety. “I understand,” you whispered, your throat tight. “We’ll be careful.”

Silence settled again. His hand still rested on the doorframe, just above your head now. The way he loomed there was not threatening at all—in fact, you felt shielded, cocooned in the alcove of the doorway with him so close. His gaze traced over your face as if committing it to memory.

Then Sylus inclined his head in a slight nod. The corner of his mouth curved, not quite a smile, more an expression of gentle resolve. “Good night,” he said softly at last. There was a slight hesitation, as if he’d been about to say more.

You caught that tiny falter—had he almost said your name? The thought sent a warmth fluttering in your stomach.

“Good night, Professor Sylus,” You replied, equally soft. Your fingers lingered on the door for a second, unwilling to break the last bit of eye contact between you. His eyes looked almost black in the dim light, and they were filled with so many things you wished you could decipher.

Finally, you forced yourself to step out into the hall. The spell had to be broken for now. With every stride down the corridor, your body felt lighter and more heated all at once, as if you were walking on air while adrenaline thrummed in your veins.

Before turning the corner, you glanced back one last time. Sylus was still there in the doorway, watching you go. The golden light behind him cast him in silhouette, but you could see the outline of his broad shoulders, the slight tilt of his head. You wondered what he was thinking in that inscrutable moment.

Hidden in the shadows, Sylus allowed himself a single, forbidden indulgence: he smiled – just a faint curve of his lips – as he watched you disappear around the corner. The empty hallway echoed with the fading sound of your footsteps. He let his head rest back against the doorframe and closed his eyes for a brief moment, exhaling a breath he felt he’d been holding all day.

What are you doing, Sylus? he chastised himself silently, even as that ghost of a smile lingered. His heart was still thudding in his chest. He knew this was dangerous ground – more dangerous than anything he’d ever felt. But the way you had looked at him, the way your voice trembled with hope… it made him feel alive in a way he’d nearly forgotten.

He would have to keep his distance, he told himself firmly—for both their sakes. Yet as he switched off the lights and darkness fell over the empty classroom, Sylus realized he was already counting the hours until he would see you again.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace smut #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #sylus smut #sylus x you

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amethystarachnid · 1 month ago

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Hiii, I was wondering if you could do a Loki x reader story where the reader is of one of Frigga’s ladies in waiting/a daughter of a friend of the crown who has shown promising magical ability? Frigga agrees to give her lessons in sorcery alongside Loki and they instantly get along but their friendship becomes more. Maybe she defends Loki against Thor and his friends when they belittle him. You’re my one of my favorite Loki writers so it would mean so much, thanks!

EXILED HEARTS

⤷ LOKY LAUFEYSON

ᯓ★ Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, some angst and some fluff

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.8k

ᯓ★ Summary: As Frigga’s protégée, you grow close to Loki through shared magic and understanding. But courtly judgment, Odin’s decree, and whispered scorn force you and Loki to choose between royalty and each other. In the end, you choose love—and build a life far from the palace’s golden cage.

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think, just some angst

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The candlelight dances on the silk-lined walls of the royal library, casting flickering shadows across the shelves as you press deeper into the alcove. Your fingers hover over a page in a worn tome, ancient Asgardian glyphs etched in gold leaf. The script feels alive beneath your touch, humming faintly—perhaps only in your mind, but you like to believe it’s real. You’re not supposed to be here, not this late, and not without permission. But curiosity is louder than decorum.

You recite the lines again, under your breath. The ancient incantation rolls off your tongue imperfectly, but something in the air tightens—a hush, like the world is holding its breath. You flinch as a row of candles flares, a gust of invisible wind whipping past your cheek. Then it’s gone. Stillness returns. But your heart pounds.

“That passage,” a voice says softly behind you, “is not meant to be read aloud without guidance.”

You turn so quickly your braid slips over your shoulder. Queen Frigga stands just within the archway, her silhouette gilded by moonlight from the tall windows. She doesn’t look angry—curious, perhaps, or quietly amused. Her head tilts as she studies you, eyes soft but sharp as ever. You’re not sure if you should kneel, apologize, or bolt.

“My queen, I—I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” she says, stepping into the room. “If you had meant to cause trouble, I suspect the whole wing would be in disarray by now.”

You flush, clasping your hands in front of you. You’ve served at the court long enough to know better than to touch books not offered freely. But the Queen has always held herself with grace, and now, she moves beside you with no hint of reprimand.

“You read it aloud correctly,” she says, eyes still on the book. “That’s more than most trained mages can say.”

You blink, stunned. “I did?”

A faint smile curves her lips. “Your magic is unrefined, but it's there. Stronger than I expected.”

The words wrap around you like a cloak you’re not used to wearing—warm, heavy, significant. You’ve always known the spark lived inside you, but it was private. Unspoken. Tucked away in dreams and half-lit evenings when you whispered spells into your pillow and imagined stars answering back.

“I don’t... I don’t know what to do with it,” you admit. “I thought maybe if I read enough, something would just—click.”

“Magic doesn’t click,” Frigga replies. “It unfolds. Like silk. Or music. Or a storm.”

She glides her fingers over the open pages and closes the book gently. “You have great potential, my dear. And you’ve been quite patient, haven’t you? Serving in silence. Observing.”

You nod. You've been a shadow in these halls for years now—your mother once a dear companion to the Queen, your name a small one tied loosely to the court. When you first arrived in the palace, you were told to mind your manners and stay out of sight. You did. But you never stopped watching.

Frigga reaches out, her fingers brushing just above your wrist. You feel a warm pressure—not a touch, exactly, but something more delicate. Like a thread catching yours.

“I will teach you,” she says, voice gentle but sure. “But not alone.”

You frown slightly. “Not alone?”

“My youngest son still studies. Perhaps not as diligently as he should, but it would benefit him to have a partner. And you may find him... enlightening.”

Your breath catches. You’ve seen Prince Loki, of course—everyone has. A dark figure in green and gold, wry and sharp-eyed, moving through the palace like a secret. He’s aloof, cold at times, always ten steps ahead of everyone else in the room. He’s also the Queen’s favorite, though no one says it aloud.

The thought of studying beside him is equal parts terrifying and thrilling.

“I would be honored,” you say quickly. “Truly.”

Frigga smiles. “Good. Come to the east courtyard tomorrow morning. Before the sun rises. Bring nothing but yourself.”

And just like that, the Queen turns and leaves, her robes whispering like wind through silk. You stand there for a long moment after she’s gone, heart still fluttering, hand resting over the closed tome as though it holds something more than paper and ink.

Maybe it does.

The east courtyard is cold before dawn, the stone slick with dew. You wrap your cloak tighter around your shoulders, breath clouding in the pale light. No one else is here yet. The palace is still asleep, save for the guards at their posts. You stand by the marble fountain, trying not to let your nerves chew at your composure.

Then you hear footsteps. Precise. Measured.

Loki appears from the far archway, his green cloak trailing behind him like a shadow with purpose. He glances at you once—expression unreadable—and then looks away just as quickly.

You straighten. “Good morning, Prince Loki.”

He raises an eyebrow, his tone cool. “So you're the Queen’s new pet project.”

You bite back a retort, keeping your voice even. “She offered to teach me.”

“Yes, she does enjoy playing tutor now and then. Don’t mistake it for favoritism.” He steps closer, arms folded across his chest. “I assume you’ve read half the library already. Tell me—what does the Eltherian sigil for balance look like?”

You hesitate. “Three intersecting crescents, forming a triangle.”

“Impressive.” He sounds almost disappointed. “So you are a little witch.”

“I’m not trying to impress you.”

He tilts his head, a crooked smile forming. “No? Most people do.”

Before you can answer, Frigga appears through a shimmer of light, stepping into the courtyard like the sunrise itself. She doesn’t greet either of you—just smiles softly and lifts her hands. A circle of runes spirals into the air around her, forming a translucent dome.

“Now,” she says, “we begin.”

And begin you do.

---

It starts with silence.

Not the awkward kind, but something more curious. Comfortable. Or perhaps simply patient.

Loki doesn’t speak much during your first few lessons together. He watches. Assesses. He makes no effort to hide the way his eyes flick to your hands as you shape energy into form, or the faint quirk of his lips when you mispronounce something in old Vanir. He rarely corrects you aloud, but you always feel the judgment just behind his gaze.

But you also notice the way he lingers after Frigga dismisses you both. The way he conjures minor illusions absentmindedly while you review a scroll, as though daring you to ask questions. And one morning, he surprises you.

“You shouldn’t hold your palm flat when summoning a sigil,” he says suddenly, as you're struggling to stabilize the glowing arc of a protective ward. “You’re letting too much energy pool in your wrist.”

You glance at him, caught off guard. He’s sitting cross-legged nearby, an illusion of a raven perched on his shoulder. He doesn’t look up from his book.

You frown and adjust your hand, tilting it slightly, trying again. This time the sigil hums with steadiness, and the edges no longer flicker.

“How did you know I was doing it wrong?”

Loki shrugs. “I’ve been watching.”

He says it so plainly, like it means nothing. But something in the way he says it makes your chest flutter.

From that day on, things begin to shift.

Loki is sharp and unpredictable, like a blade half-hidden in silk. But he’s also brilliant. His understanding of runes, language, and magical theory is far beyond what any of your tutors could have offered. You learn more from watching him for an hour than from studying texts for days.

And surprisingly—he starts to share.

“You overthink the spell before casting,” he says one day, as you're practicing duplication charms. “Your mind races ahead of the magic. It won’t follow you if you run from it.”

You exhale. “That’s not very comforting.”

He tilts his head. “Who said magic is supposed to be comforting?”

And yet, when you cast the spell again and it holds, you catch his expression soften.

Sometimes he shows you tricks that aren’t in any book. Subtle sleight-of-hand movements that help anchor concentration, mnemonic phrases he created himself to recall complex sequences. His magic is elegant, and full of flair—showy, yes, but also intimate. Thoughtful. Personal.

And you start to respond in kind.

You show him a meditative chant your mother taught you, one that calms the mind before a spell. You teach him a gesture from your family’s minor sigil-craft—a flick of fingers that stabilizes wards at the edge. He doesn’t admit it, but you catch him using it the next morning when he thinks you aren’t looking.

Frigga notices.

She rarely comments, but there’s a certain smile she wears now when she watches the two of you sparring or laughing quietly over a scribbled note. She leaves the sessions earlier now, allowing space to grow unmonitored. She doesn’t need to nurture what is clearly blooming.

One day, in the garden after a particularly draining session, you both sit beneath the shade of an ancient tree. Loki conjures two glasses of chilled wine with a flick of his fingers, handing one to you without a word.

You accept it, raising an eyebrow. “Poisoned?”

“Only mildly,” he replies with a smirk.

You laugh, and he watches you with a strange look in his eyes. Not amused, exactly. More like... reverent. But it passes quickly.

You sip and let the silence stretch between you, the warmth of the wine settling in your limbs.

“Why do you try so hard to hide how kind you are?” you ask quietly.

He stiffens just slightly, the smirk faltering. “Kindness is a liability in court.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He turns his face away from you, his voice lower now. “Kindness is a performance. Just like cruelty. Just like charm. It’s all costume.”

You study him carefully. “And which one are you wearing now?”

Loki doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t look away, either.

The bond forms in quiet things.

The way you begin to fall into rhythm when you cast spells side by side. How his presence begins to anchor you instead of unnerve you. How your laughter comes easier in his company, and how his sharp edges soften when you’re near.

He teases you. Constantly.

“You hold your wand like it’s a fork,” he mutters one morning.

“At least I don’t use mine like a toothpick,” you snap back, without missing a beat.

He blinks, then laughs—a full-bodied, rich sound that startles both of you.

After that, his teasing becomes more frequent. But now it’s paired with warmth. With glances that linger too long. With conversations that go on well past your lessons.

And sometimes, your hands brush when you pass him a book or a vial or a rune-stone. Neither of you ever comments on it. But neither of you pulls away.

One evening, weeks into your lessons, a storm rolls across the palace—lightning crackling violet across the sky, thunder low and distant. You find Loki already in the library alcove, cross-legged on the carpet, eyes scanning a floating scroll.

“Can’t sleep?” you ask softly.

He glances up. “Can’t ignore the noise.”

You sit beside him without asking. The storm outside is a mirror to something in your chest—wild, unsettled.

He conjures a flame in midair, letting it dance between his fingers. “Do you ever think about leaving?”

You tilt your head. “Asgard?”

He nods. “All of it. The court. The roles we play.”

You hesitate. “Sometimes. But I don’t think I’d belong anywhere else.”

“Maybe you’d belong everywhere.”

You smile faintly. “Or nowhere.”

Loki looks at you for a long moment, something in his gaze quiet and unguarded.

“You’d make an excellent liar,” he says softly.

You blink. “That’s a compliment?”

“From me, it is.”

And when the thunder rumbles again, you don’t flinch.

By the time your lessons have stretched into months, you and Loki are inseparable. At least, in your private hours. In court, things remain unchanged. Loki is still the prince, and you are still a lady of no consequence. But in the shadowed corners of the palace—in the gardens, in the library, in the stillness of the early morning—you are equals.

You know the exact angle of his smile when he’s about to say something clever. He knows the cadence of your laugh before it breaks free. You can feel when his magic flares too hot, and he can sense when yours begins to fray. You speak in half-sentences now, and still understand each other perfectly.

There’s something between you. Something unspoken.

It curls like a spell just on the edge of being cast. Like a secret waiting to be whispered into the dark.

But neither of you gives it voice.

Not yet.

One night, you find him in the observatory, leaning against the railing, staring out at the stars. His cloak is gone, his tunic unfastened at the collar. He looks more boy than prince. More truth than mask.

You step beside him. “You always come up here alone?”

“Only when I wish someone would follow.”

You glance sideways. “Did you wish for me?”

He smiles faintly, not answering.

The two of you stand there, the cosmos yawning open before you. In the hush of starlight, everything else falls away.

Loki speaks first.

“Magic is the only thing that’s ever made sense to me. The rest—the throne, the rules, the lies—it’s noise. But this...” He gestures outward. “This is real.”

You nod slowly. “I know. It’s the only time I feel like I’m me.”

His eyes flick to yours. “You always seem like you.”

“Only because you see me clearly.”

His breath catches. Just for a second.

Then, softly: “I do.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full—of everything you could say. Everything you both choose not to.

---

It begins in moments Loki doesn’t expect.

When your laugh echoes off stone walls and silences the static in his head. When your hands brush as you pass a shared spellbook and he feels a flare of heat in his chest that has nothing to do with magic. When he finds himself watching you instead of the stars, wondering if your smile is ever meant for him alone.

He knows what it is.

Of course he does. He’s read every poem, every legend. He’s watched others pine and ache and confess. He’s mocked them for it. But this — this — sneaks up on him. A thread quietly tying itself around his ribs each time you tilt your head and ask him something only he would know. Each time you call him by name like it’s not a title but something softer.

He realizes he wants to touch your hand without magic. To walk beside you with no pretense. To hear you call him justLoki and not think it strange.

And that’s precisely the problem.

You are not just anyone. You are a lady of the court. Trusted. Refined. A daughter of the Queen’s closest friend. Frigga adores you, sees you as a protégé, a favored companion. You were born noble enough to serve royalty — but never quite enough to marry into it.

And he—he is a prince.

He’s always known the weight of that title. It crushes beneath its own expectation. Marriages in court are chess moves. Alliances. Not choices.

He tells himself it would be unkind to give you hope. To let this thing, this want, bloom into something it cannot be.

So he buries it. Quietly. Carefully. He sharpens his wit when you come too close. He flinches back when your fingers nearly touch his. He casts sideways glances when you aren’t looking.

But you notice.

You always notice.

It happens in the training hall.

You’re there with Loki, practicing controlled projection spells when Thor storms in with his usual entourage — Sif, Fandral, Hogun, Volstagg. Their presence fills the room like a gust of arrogance, all laughter and muscle and heavy boots.

“Still playing with illusions, brother?” Thor calls, grinning. “Come train properly. Throw a hammer. Lift something.”

Loki doesn’t look up. “Some of us have more refined pursuits.”

Volstagg laughs. “Refined? More like useless. You could conjure a feast and still starve.”

Sif smirks, arms crossed. “He can conjure shadows, but they’re no use in real battle. At least Thor’s brute strength wins wars.”

Your magic flickers in your palm, spell unraveling.

You look between them—four warriors who have never respected the power of what Loki does. Who see his magic as vanity, not strength. They’ve made jabs before, but today it feels crueler. Sharper. Directed like knives.

Loki says nothing. But you see the stiffness in his shoulders. The quiet set of his jaw.

You step forward before you think twice.

“At least he uses his brain,” you say, voice steady. “He wins with thought instead of swinging wildly until something breaks.”

The room falls silent.

Thor turns to you, brows raised in mild surprise. “Lady Y/N, we mean no offense—”

“I think you do,” you interrupt, stepping closer. “You mock what you don’t understand. Magic isn’t for show. It’s not weakness. And if any of you had half the discipline Loki does, you might learn something beyond brute force.”

Sif’s jaw tightens. Fandral shifts uncomfortably. Even Thor looks vaguely chagrined.

Loki doesn’t move. But his eyes are on you now. Intently.

You hold your ground.

“If you’ll excuse us,” you finish, voice colder now, “we were in the middle of a lesson.”

The warriors exchange glances, then file out with awkward nods, their usual bravado softened.

The silence that follows is deep and heavy. You turn, pulse still racing.

Loki is staring at you like he’s never seen you before.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you reply. “But I wanted to.”

A pause. You take a breath.

“They shouldn’t speak to you like that. You’re powerful. Brilliant. You—”

“Don’t,” he says, more sharply than he means to. You stop.

“I’m not a hero, Y/N.”

“I didn’t say you were,” you reply, carefully. “I said you deserve respect.”

He looks at you, and there’s something in his expression that’s almost... pained.

“You shouldn’t stand that close to me.”

You blink. “Why not?”

He exhales. “Because you’ll make me believe this is real.”

Your breath catches. The words hang between you, raw and dangerous.

He turns from you before you can answer, voice quieter now.

“You’re... a lady of court. The Queen favors you. One day you’ll marry someone respectable. Someone who isn’t—me.”

“Someone who isn’t a prince?” you ask softly.

“No.” He swallows. “Someone who isn’t this prince.”

And there it is — the truth, laid bare like a wound.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you say the wrong thing, the thread between you might snap.

Instead, you step closer again — slow, deliberate. Close enough for your shoulder to brush his.

“I don’t care what they think,” you whisper. “Or what they expect.”

He doesn’t look at you.

But you feel the way he leans, just barely, into your warmth.

You stay like that, side by side, the air thick with unsaid things. And for now, that’s enough.

---

You are summoned before the Allfather at dawn.

Two guards knock at your chamber door and say only that the King requests your presence. Their expressions betray nothing. Your hands tremble as you lace your boots, and your stomach is stone by the time you reach the throne room.

Odin waits, seated high on his gilded dais. Frigga stands nearby, her face unreadable, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

You bow low, heart thundering. “You summoned me, my king?”

His voice is cold. Distant. “I did.”

He says nothing for a moment. Just watches you with that single eye, piercing as a blade.

“You spoke out against my son and his companions,” he says, calmly. “Disrespectfully. In front of others.”

You lift your head, confused. “Your Majesty, I—”

“You may think yourself clever,” he cuts in. “But you are not above consequence. I allowed your presence in this court out of respect for your late mother. That grace has now ended.”

The words hit like ice.

“I—please, I meant no harm. I only—”

“You dared to insult Thor, a prince of Asgard, in favor of his brother. And worse, you did so publicly.”

Your heart stutters. He saw. He heard everything.

“My loyalty to Loki—”

“—is inappropriate,” Odin interrupts, voice thundering now. “And suspect. You are no longer permitted within the palace. You will leave by nightfall. You are not to communicate with the royal family again.”

It’s not a punishment. It’s exile dressed in silk.

You turn to Frigga, eyes pleading. “My queen—please—”

Frigga’s voice is soft but firm. “She is young. She spoke in defense of someone she believes in. Surely—”

“I have made my decision,” Odin says flatly.

The finality in his voice is ironclad. There will be no further appeal.

Frigga’s jaw tightens. Her eyes meet yours, filled with sorrow. But she says nothing more.

And so you bow again, this time with your heart breaking inside your chest.

You don’t go to Loki.

You can’t.

Not with what you’ve been ordered. Not knowing it’s your last night within the golden walls you once thought were home.

You pack slowly. Quietly. No servants. No goodbyes.

But as twilight falls, your door creaks open.

Loki stands there.

His eyes rake over you—half-dressed for travel, your spellbook missing from the shelf, your satchel folded on the bed.

He frowns.

“Where are you going?”

You try to say his name, but your throat locks. You look away, and that’s all he needs to know something is wrong.

He steps forward, sharply. “What happened?”

“Loki—”

“No. Don’t lie to me.” His voice rises. “Who sent you away?”

You swallow, tears already rising. “Odin.”

He stills.

“What?”

“He heard what I said. In the training hall. About Thor. About the others. He says I disrespected the crown. I’m no longer permitted near the royal family.”

Loki laughs once, bitter and sharp. “So I’m to lose you because I’m the wrong person to defend.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is,” he breathes. “Of course it is. I should have stopped you. I should have warned you what my father is capable of.”

He paces, restless. Like if he doesn’t move, he might collapse.

Then he stops.

“I was coming to see you,” he says, voice softer now. “Because I couldn’t keep pretending anymore. I was going to say it, even if I shouldn’t.”

You stare at him.

He steps closer.

“I love you.”

It doesn’t sound like a confession. It sounds like a surrender.

“I love you,” he repeats, more quietly. “And I tried not to. I tried to be noble. But I can’t stand another day watching you from across a hall, pretending you’re just another sorcerer. Another shadow.”

Your breath trembles.

“Loki…”

“I thought I had time,” he says, laughing again, but it’s broken now. “Time to say it properly. To plan something clever. Something worthy of you. But I don’t. Do I?”

You shake your head, tears falling freely now.

“They’re sending me away,” you whisper. “And I’m not allowed to see you again.”

He steps back, like your words have struck him.

“No,” he says.

You say nothing.

“No,” he repeats, more fiercely this time. “You’re not leaving like this. I won’t allow it.”

“You don’t have a choice,” you say, barely able to stand. “Neither of us do.”

He storms toward the window, magic sparking from his fingertips. “I’ll talk to Mother. To Odin. I’ll threaten—”

“No.” You grab his hand. “If you do anything, he’ll punish you. He’ll hurt you more than he already has.”

He shakes his head, jaw clenched.

“I just got you,” he says, voice cracking.

You pull him in, pressing your forehead against his.

“I know.”

He clings to you. Arms tight around your waist like if he lets go, the whole realm will fall apart. Maybe it already is.

You stay like that until the bells toll the hour. The hour of your exile.

He doesn’t speak again.

You pull back first, trembling. He watches your hands, as though memorizing them.

And then you turn and walk away.

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

Because if you do—you’ll run straight back into him and never leave.

And you can’t afford that.

Not when he’s a prince.

Not when you’re already gone.

---

Loki does not sleep the night you leave.

The moment your footsteps vanish down the hall, the palace feels hollow. He tries to pretend it hasn’t happened. He sits where you last stood. Stares at the place your satchel had rested. Breathes the air as if it still carries your warmth.

But it’s not the same.

It never will be.

He doesn't cry. Not because he isn't shattered — but because the grief settles too low, too deep, for tears. Like stone in his chest. Like ice in his blood.

He doesn’t eat the next day. Doesn't speak.

Thor asks where you’ve gone at breakfast.

Loki leaves the table without answering.

Days pass. Then weeks.

He tries to throw himself into study. Into perfecting spells. Into illusion and fire and silence. But nothing helps.

He stops attending court. Avoids the library. Avoids everywhere you used to be.

When Frigga finds him, he’s in his chambers — the air stifling, windows shuttered, every candle burning too hot.

She sits beside him without asking. She doesn’t offer platitudes. Only a mother’s eyes and quiet understanding.

“I couldn’t stop him,” she says softly.

“I know.”

“I tried. I would have made him see.”

Loki doesn’t look at her. “He never sees me.”

Frigga’s silence answers everything.

When she touches his cheek, he lets her. But he feels nothing. Her warmth is not yours.

“Come back to court,” she urges gently. “Don’t let him take your fire.”

He looks at her then — really looks. And when he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous.

“He took more than that.”

Loki begins to despise Odin.

Not just for banishing you — but for what it reveals.

For how easy it was for the Allfather to cut you away. For how little your voice meant in his grand design. For how quickly love and loyalty were outweighed by appearances and pride.

But what terrifies Loki most is that he begins to believe him.

Not Odin’s justice — but his reasoning.

You are not of the blood. Not a royal. Not a pawn he can use. You were disposable the moment you became inconvenient.

And if that is true...

Then what is Loki?

Whose blood runs in his veins?

He buries the thought like poison. But it festers.

He begins to unravel.

You feel the loss in your bones.

The first few days after your exile are a blur.

You travel to a minor outpost of Asgard’s outer provinces — a quiet, forest-ringed settlement near the eastern fjords. Frigga arranges your passage discreetly. You don’t see her, but a letter arrives, signed in her delicate hand:

You are not forgotten, child. Not by me. May your magic carry you where our laws failed you.

You cry for the first time reading that.

The nights are the worst. You lie awake listening to the wind and wonder if he’s thinking of you. If he feels this phantom pain — this severed thread — the same way you do.

You left without saying it.

You were too afraid that saying the words aloud would shatter you.

But you love him. Fiercely. Completely.

And now it is too late.

You settle in the village as best you can.

The people here know your name, if not your story. They’re kind. Curious. They’ve never met a sorcerer who trained in the palace before, and certainly not one who left under mysterious circumstances.

You take on small magical work — healing charms, weather wards, illusion weaving for harvest festivals.

It is not the life you imagined.

But it is life.

And slowly, the ache dulls to a throb.

But it never vanishes.

You still wear the green ribbon he once conjured for you — tied to your wrist now, fraying at the edges.

Back in Asgard, Loki starts seeing you everywhere.

Not truly — but in every spell he casts. Every half-finished rune where your handwriting used to correct his. Every mirror that flickers with an illusion that looks a little too much like you.

He dreams of you.

Sometimes you speak. Sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you walk away before he can stop you.

Those are the worst nights.

He stops trusting himself.

He picks fights with Thor. He withdraws further from court. When he sees Sif or Fandral, rage curls in his gut like fire, but he says nothing. Not yet.

Frigga continues to reach for him.

But he pulls away. Even from her.

Because you were the one who made him feel worthy. Who looked at him not with pity or fear or expectation — but as someone whole. Someone he could become.

And now, without you...

He doesn’t know who that person is.

Seasons shift.

You grow stronger.

The pain does not vanish, but it becomes a companion — one you carry with quiet grace.

Your magic flourishes without palace constraint. You discover new rituals in the wilds, spells born from root and river. The land teaches you in ways scrolls never could.

Children in the village begin to call you “the silverweaver,” for the way your spells shimmer like thread in sunlight.

But at night, you still sit by the window, gazing toward the northern skies — hoping for a flicker of gold and green. Hoping he might reach for you, even now.

And far across realms, in a tower steeped in shadow and magic...

Loki whispers your name into candlelight.

Every night.

As if that alone might bring you back.

---

Loki is quiet.

Not the poised, calculating quiet that used to mask his cleverness — but a hollow quiet, a kind of stillness that speaks of erosion. Day by day, Thor watches his brother grow more distant. He forgets meals. Avoids mirrors. Sometimes, he vanishes for hours, only to reappear smelling of smoke and magic.

At first, Thor says nothing. For all their history, he’s never been good with Loki’s silences. But this one... this one feels dangerous.

One morning, he finds Loki in the royal library. Not reading. Just standing, unmoving, in front of a shelf where a spellbook used to be. The space is empty now. Loki’s hand rests on the spine next to it, fingers still.

Thor clears his throat.

“You always mocked my dramatics,” he says lightly. “Now you haunt rooms like a ghost.”

Loki doesn’t turn. “Go away.”

But Thor doesn’t.

He steps closer, voice softer now. “You loved her.”

Loki’s fingers curl into a fist.

“I saw it,” Thor continues. “I didn’t understand it at the time. I didn’t respect it the way I should have. But I see now. It broke you when she left.”

“She didn’t leave,” Loki says bitterly. “She was banished.”

“I know.” Thor breathes out, guilt lacing his voice. “And I did nothing.”

That gets Loki to turn — sharply, eyes flashing. “You laughed with them. Mocked me. Mocked her.”

Thor bows his head.

“I did. Because I was foolish. Because I thought it didn’t matter.” He pauses, then meets Loki’s eyes. “But it does. You love her still.”

Loki says nothing.

Thor continues, more gently. “I asked Frigga where she’d gone. She didn’t tell me everything, but she told me enough. I want to make it right.”

“You can’t,” Loki says, voice tight.

Thor straightens. “Maybe not. But I can take you to her.”

Silence. Long. Breathless.

Loki doesn’t dare believe it.

“You know where she is?” he says finally.

“I’ve kept eyes on the outer provinces. Quietly. Just in case.” Thor offers a small, crooked smile. “You’re not the only one who missed her.”

You’re in the woods outside the village, gathering herbs at twilight when you feel it — the magic, sharp and bright, blooming behind you like starlight cracking open the air.

You whirl around, heart stuttering.

Loki steps out from the shimmer of a hidden portal. Slowly. As if unsure you’re real.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

He looks thinner. Paler. His eyes are rimmed with exhaustion. But his face — gods, his face — it still makes something in you collapse.

“Loki?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just walks toward you, step by step, until he’s close enough to touch.

“I thought I’d forgotten how to breathe,” he says, voice thick. “But here you are.”

You reach for him, fingers trembling.

He catches your wrist — gently — and presses your hand to his chest.

“Still beating,” he murmurs. “Barely.”

You laugh, and it’s cracked and wet and full of disbelief. “How are you here?”

“Thor,” he says simply.

Your eyes widen.

“He knew,” Loki continues. “He saw what I became without you. And he... he helped me find my way back.”

You blink fast, tears gathering. “But your father—”

“He can rot in his throne,” Loki cuts in. “I don’t care what he says anymore.”

You stare up at him. And in a breath, everything comes crashing down — the exile, the silence, the ache.

“I missed you,” you whisper. “Every day. I thought I’d never—”

He silences you with a kiss.

It isn’t sweet. It’s desperate, and aching, and hungry. His hands tremble on your waist like he can’t quite believe you’re real. You kiss him back with years of unsaid words and broken nights behind it.

When he pulls away, his forehead presses to yours.

“I didn’t come just to see you,” he says. “I came to take you back.”

You tense.

“I can’t go back,” you whisper. “He’ll exile me again. Or worse.”

“I know.” Loki pulls back, looking into your eyes. “That’s why we’ll do something he can’t undo.”

You blink.

“We’ll marry.”

Your breath hitches.

“Loki—”

“Not in the palace. Not in gold or glory. But truly. Vows. Magic. Soulbound.” His hand cradles your face. “If I am bound to you, Odin will have no power over it. Not without defying ancient rites. Even he wouldn’t risk that scandal.”

You stare at him, stunned.

“I should’ve done it the moment I realized,” he says. “I should’ve fought then. But I’m here now.”

You say nothing.

Just throw your arms around him and nod against his shoulder.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes. Yes.”

The ceremony is quiet.

Thor stands witness, dressed not in armor, but simple Asgardian blue. He says nothing, only nods as you both step forward under the canopy of stars.

Frigga is not there, but you feel her blessing. In the wind. In the stillness. In the soft glimmer that dances across your joining hands when the spell begins.

Loki speaks the old words first — the binding vow of his magic to yours, his heart to yours, his soul to yours.

You echo them, voice shaking but clear.

A ribbon of starlight winds around your wrists, sealing the bond. A vow older than kings.

When it fades, Loki cups your face.

You smile through your tears.

And when he kisses you again, the world rights itself.

Later, after Thor has gone, and the night has grown still, Loki lies beside you in the little cottage, holding your hand like a relic.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs. “Truly.”

You smile sleepily. “And you’re mine.”

“Forever?”

“Always.”

His eyes close.

---

The Bifröst opens in the high dawn light, casting shards of color across the golden bridge. The wind is cold at this height, but Loki doesn’t feel it. He only feels your hand in his.

You step into Asgard again for the first time since your exile, and the moment your feet touch the bridge’s smooth surface, your breath catches.

Everything looks the same.

And nothing feels the same.

Loki doesn’t let go of you. Not for a moment. His posture is tall, regal, but there’s a tightness in his jaw that only you notice — the readiness of a man still expecting his father’s wrath to strike like lightning. But beside him, you walk unflinching.

Because this time, you’re not just a lady of court.

You’re his wife.

And Odin cannot undo what’s been bound by magic and vow.

At the end of the bridge, Frigga waits.

Her cloak is silver today, soft as falling snow, and her face is unreadable as you approach. But when she sees your hands twined, when she sees the thin thread of starlight still woven faintly around your wrist — the magic of the bond — her expression cracks.

Her eyes shine. And then, impossibly, she smiles.

“Mother,” Loki says carefully.

She says nothing at first. Just lifts her hand — and touches your cheek.

“You’ve come home,” she whispers, voice full of emotion.

“Yes,” you whisper back. “Together.”

Her gaze flicks to her son.

“You found your way,” she says.

Loki’s throat works, but no sound comes.

Frigga exhales, a soft laugh, and pulls you both into an embrace.

For a moment, there is no kingdom. No judgment. Only warmth.

Then, from the far archway of the bridge, another presence approaches.

Heavy boots. Gold-lined robes. The weight of rule etched into every stride.

Odin.

Loki stiffens.

Frigga steps back, her hand remaining on your shoulder. She doesn’t retreat. Neither do you.

Odin stops several feet away. He says nothing.

His eye lands on your face — then drops to your joined hands.

You wait for the outburst.

But it doesn’t come.

His gaze flicks to the faint shimmer of your marriage binding. Ancient, lawful, soul-forged.

He can’t deny it.

So instead, he says nothing. Just watches with that unreadable stare.

Frigga is the one who speaks.

“They are wed,” she says, her voice light but firm. “By rite. By vow. And by will.”

Odin’s silence stretches.

“Not under my roof,” he says at last, flatly.

“They didn’t need your roof,” Frigga replies.

His jaw tightens.

Loki finally speaks, voice calm but icy. “You banished her. You cast her out for loyalty. But now she returns not as servant, but as my equal.”

“She was never your equal,” Odin says, low.

“She is now,” Loki replies, eyes sharp. “You can no longer pretend I am yours to command.”

Odin looks at him for a long, long moment.

Then he turns.

And walks away.

No decree. No fury. No blessing.

Just a quiet defeat.

Frigga’s sigh is subtle, but full of decades of disappointment.

Loki watches his father vanish into the distance, the old cape dragging like a shadow behind him. Then he turns to you — and for the first time since crossing into Asgard, his shoulders ease.

“You stood tall,” he murmurs, pride in every word.

“I had you beside me,” you reply.

Frigga smiles at you both. “He cannot touch what is bound by older laws than his crown. He knows it.”

Loki’s hand squeezes yours. “Let him try. I’ll burn down the throne room first.”

Frigga gives him a pointed look. “Let’s not start a war just yet.”

The three of you walk through the palace together, and for once, the golden halls feel like yours. Whispers follow, of course — nobles peering from behind pillars, servants pretending not to look. The rumors run ahead of you, unstoppable.

But you walk proudly.

At Loki’s side.

A prince’s wife. A sorceress in her own right. Not a shadow or a servant or a secret.

Not anymore.

---

At first, the court doesn’t know how to respond.

They bow, of course. You are married to a prince. You walk beside Loki now in green-trimmed gowns and silver circlets, your hand on his arm, your back straight. Protocol demands deference.

But behind the smiles, the court stirs like a nest of snakes.

They whisper. Always just behind you. They speak your name with too much reverence, or not enough. You are not royal, not raised in the line of succession, not bred in the traditions of courtly diplomacy. You are — in their eyes — an interloper. A symbol of rebellion. The lady who loved too loudly.

They speak of you in corridors. In gardens. Over wine.

Did you bind Loki by spell?

Did you seduce him to power?

Why would a prince give up his rank for a former lady-in-waiting?

The speculation coils around every room you enter. You hear the sharp pause in conversations. See the too-wide smiles from noblewomen who used to speak freely with you. Even the servants are cautious, uncertain if speaking with you is offense or obligation.

Loki feels it all.

He doesn’t show it — not openly — but you can tell. His shoulders tense at council meetings. His words grow colder with every cutting aside made in your direction. He starts to avoid the court dinners altogether. Not because he is ashamed — but because he is tired.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of seeing you flinch at the weight of scrutiny.

One evening, late, you sit in the highest balcony of the palace garden — where the stars hang low, and the fountains drown out the city noise. Loki stands beside you, silent, watching a comet trail faintly across the dark.

You speak first.

“This isn’t what I thought it would be.”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

“No,” he says at last. “Nor I.”

You look at him. His expression is unreadable.

“I thought,” you begin, voice quiet, “that once we were together — once it was real — the rest wouldn’t matter.”

He turns to you now, eyes tired but soft. “It shouldn’t matter. But this place…” His voice tightens. “This court has never forgiven me for being different. It was naïve to think they’d love the woman who made me stronger.”

You take his hand.

“So what now?” you ask. “Do we just endure it?”

He hesitates.

Then, slowly, he sits beside you, your fingers still laced with his.

“I have lived a life built on approval,” he says. “On proving myself worthy. To Odin. To Asgard. To every lord and scholar and warrior who looked past me.”

You nod, listening.

“I thought royalty gave me power. But now…” He looks down at your hands. “Now I have you. And they would ask me to pay for that with silence. With shame.”

He lifts your hand and kisses your knuckles gently.

“I won’t.”

You exhale, your heart breaking and healing at the same time. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” he says slowly, “that I would rather live unknown — peacefully, freely, beside you — than wear a crown that costs me everything.”

Tears rise behind your eyes.

“Loki…”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“If you would leave this behind with me,” he murmurs, “I will build us a world of our own.”

You nod. Fiercely. Without hesitation.

“Yes.”

Frigga listens in silence as you both tell her.

Her expression does not falter, but her eyes glisten faintly.

“You are certain?” she asks gently.

“Yes,” Loki says. “We want peace. And truth. Not this.”

Frigga reaches for your hand. Holds it between both of hers.

“I always hoped one day you’d return here,” she says. “That you’d be safe within these walls.”

“You gave me that once,” you whisper. “But Asgard never did.”

Frigga exhales. “Then I will help you.”

Loki looks at her. “You’ll aid us?”

“Of course,” she says softly. “You are my son. She is your wife. That makes her my daughter.”

You almost break at those words.

Frigga leads you to a sealed archive — quiet and old, deep beneath the palace — where records of the lesser realms are kept. She scans scrolls and maps, her fingers sure and searching.

Finally, she finds it: a small realm under Asgardian protection, a quiet place of rolling hills and warm sunlight, where trade is simple, governance is light, and nobility is a formality. The people are kind. The land is rich. It is a place where magic is respected, not feared.

“There’s a manor there,” she says. “Untouched for years. Still under crown stewardship, technically.” She smiles. “But I believe I can lose the paperwork.”

Loki clasps her hand. “Thank you, Mother.”

Frigga’s expression softens. “Write to me. Tell me of your seasons. And if you have children—”

Loki lifts a brow.

“—especially if you have children,” she finishes with a fond smile.

Thor finds you both in the gardens the morning you leave.

He looks unusually serious. His cloak is folded over one arm, not worn, and his hammer hangs at his side untouched.

“I hear you’re vanishing again,” he says, trying for lightness.

Loki smirks faintly. “Running from you, specifically.”

“I thought as much.” Thor steps closer, then hesitates. “Are you sure?”

You and Loki exchange a glance.

“Yes,” you say. “This is what we need.”

Thor nods, jaw tight.

“I envy you,” he says. “Sometimes I wish I could leave all this behind. Be someone other than the crown’s shadow.”

Loki tilts his head. “You’re more than that.”

Thor smiles.

Then he looks at you, and his expression changes — softens.

“Take care of him,” he says to you. “He’s an idiot sometimes. But he’s a good one.”

“I will,” you promise, blinking quickly.

Then Thor turns to his brother.

“And you—” He steps closer and places a hand on Loki’s shoulder. “If you don’t name your first daughter after me, I’ll be offended.”

Loki blinks. “You want us to—?”

“Oh, I expect nieces,” Thor says proudly. “A house full of them. Wild, magical little terrors who’ll terrorize me when I visit.”

You laugh — a full, surprised laugh — and Loki rolls his eyes.

“We’ll see what we can do,” you say, smiling.

Thor embraces you both — a rare, bone-cracking sort of hug — and steps back with a grin.

“Go. Be free. Just don’t forget you’ve still got family here.”

And with that, you leave Asgard.

Not in secret. Not in shame.

But together — arm in arm, bound by vow and choice.

Your new home is far from the golden towers, tucked in the folds of a sunlit realm that greets you like an old friend. The manor is modest by royal standards, but beautiful: tall windows, a warm hearth, a garden grown wild with herbs and glowing flowers.

You breathe freely there.

You rise with the birdsong and fall asleep to Loki reading old texts beside the fire. The villagers come to know you with kindness. Children ask you for illusions. Elders thank you for weather wards. It is not the life of a queen — but it is yours.

And Loki, for all his sharp wit and starlit power, smiles more in these quiet days than he ever did in the throne room.

Sometimes he watches you walk through the garden, fingers brushing lavender and light, and he says nothing. Just watches, like he’s memorizing every movement.

Because he chose this.

He chose you.

And for the first time in all his long, guarded life…

He has no regrets.

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inky-duchess · 2 years ago

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Fantasy Guide to Royal Children - Heirs and Spares

The lives of Princesses and Princes are of interest to most fantasy writers, it's where many of our heroes, side characters and antagonists hail from. But what is there life like? Is it always ballgrowns and servants? Or something more?

A Strict Order of Precedence

The first thing to know about royal children and siblings is that there's a very strict precedence of importance. Is it fair? No. But this is a system, it doesn't have to be fair. The heir comes first without argument. They are the most important child, they are always greeted first, they are the one to stand next to the monarch or their parents at occasions, they literally go first - and this doesn't change with age, if the heir is the youngest, they still have precedence over their siblings. After the heir, order of predence goes by age and the order effects the life of the children. For example, the older sister will marry begore any of her sisters. This order of deference will be so engrained in your character's life that they will believe it the norm and rarely question it, it probably won't spark any in-fighting.

Accommodation & Staff

Royal children are usually raised one of two ways. Either they are raised at court, in the same Palace as their parents or they are raised away from court under the care of trusted servants. Being raised away from their parents isn't a sign of remoteness or dislike or terrible parenting, it was a way of break a child into the constraints of royal life while giving them freedom of scrunity or danger. Usually these children are raised in the countryside for their health, as cities are usually cesspits for disease. Their parents would come to visit them or allow them to visit them at court. Children raised at court are raised with a higher level of scrunity and attention. They will be in the public eye.

Royal children will always be surrounded by staff. There will be nurses to wash and dress them, nannies to discipline and direct them, guards to protect them and usually, a guardian known as a governess to run their household and care for their needs. Staff are not allowed to hit royal children and must obey their commands. Some royal children were very close to their staff:

Kat Ashley and Elizabeth I

Baroness Lehzen and Queen Victoria

Klementy Grigorievich Nagorny and the Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich

Lala Bill and Prince John

However, some royal children faced neglect from their staff. George VI was abused by his nanny, who would pinch him during important occasions, openly favour his elder brother over him and deny him food, which many have been a cause of his speech impediment. After the Russian Revolution, another of the Tsarevich's nannies proved less loyal than the other. Andrei Yeremeyevich Derevenko abandoned his charge, but not before ordering the boy around and insulting him.

Day to Day Life

Royal children would be educated withing their home by tutors. They would usually take lessons all together (the heir may take other lessons). A royal child would recieve an education in languages, arithmetic, geography, etiquette, dancing, music, sports such as riding and literature. Sometimes they would even share lessons with the children of trusted nobles or their cousins. Only the heir will be taught statecraft and how to reign. There is no rhyme nor reason a spare would learn how to rule.

Some royal children are taught the value of their position. Many royal children will be raised strictly to adhere to their social standing and their place in it. Some children may be raised in isolation, kept from mingling and raised to think of themselves as higher than those around them. Some royal families preferred to raise their children as "normal" as possible. The last Romanov children slept in camp beds, with no pillows and we're expected to tidy their own rooms and help the servants. They didn't even use their proper titles, they were called by their names and given a tight monthly allowance to spend. Alexandra of Denmark and her sisters used to make their own clothes. Some royal children could even be encouraged to play with the children of servants and staff as well as nobility (Kolya Derevenko and Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich, Winifred Thomas and Prince John). Companionship was a great honour for noble and common child alike as sometimes, they would be invited to live or be educated alongside by the royal children.

Royal children will not undertake royal duties until they are of age. Younger children be be present for large scale events such as jubilees but would not be expected to partake in any duties themselves. When they are of age, they will usually be granted an annual allowance, be invited to social events, invited to be patrons of charities and participate in royal duties.

Heir Vs Spare

Heirs have more responsibility, all the prestige, more power but they have less freedom, less room to explore their own lives and be expected to always be the epitome of perfect. Heirs will be given responsibilities in government, sitting in on state meetings or undertaking state duties.

Spares have little in the way of real power but have the ability to live less regimental lives and gave more agency in their personal lives. Spares may act as ambassadors to other nations or undertake state visits on behalf of the monarchy or even take positions in the army. Spares are encouraged to find positions to support themselves outside the family, either in a marriage or undertaking some service to the country. Spares who stay in the country, tend to act as unofficial advisers to their sibling when they become monarch.

All Grown Up

When royal children grow up, there are usually certain expectations and limitations.

Heirs will be married quickly, the lineage must be secure. Heirs will usually marry either as part of a political alliance or marry somebody suitable - from a good family, the right background, and able to fit into a certain mould (i.e malleable, amiable and loyal). They will be expected to focus on the country, it's needs and support the monarch at all times. Their social circles will be scruntised, their every move will be noted and remarked upon. Heirs will never gave to worry about funding their lifestyle, the Crown is their job and it supports them.

Spares can marry or remain single if they choose, (but if the monarch instructs them go marry they must). Spares can travel, they can be idle, they can even persue amusements not permitted for the heir. Spares can win glory on the battlefield and mix with all sorts of people. That isn't to say spares are useless, spares often occupy very important spaces in society and government. Spares will usually take these positions not for just status but also for the pay. This is why spares are granted royal titles such as dukedoms (they can make money off the lands, be able to build a dynasty for themselves and their heirs and gain status).

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pinkpurplesunrises · 29 days ago

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Just don’t step on my foot - the short story - Alexia Putellas x Reader

Writer's note: Inspired by Alexia's Instagram photo dump, dancing salsa with her mother.

It started with a text.

Alexia: Is it weird I kinda wanna learn salsa?

You squinted at your phone. This was at 11:47 p.m. on a Tuesday. She followed it immediately with another:

Alexia: Like… like actually learn it. With you. 💃🏽🕺🏽

You: You just compared yourself to a small man emoji.

Alexia: I panicked.

And that was it. A casual comment turned into a real plan. Three weeks later, when her birthday rolled around, you handed her a small red envelope.

"Ten salsa lessons," you said. "Beginner level, so we don't die."

Alexia’s eyes widened. “Wait, really?”

You shrugged. “You said you wanted to. You’re impossible to shop for. And, selfishly, I want to see you in dance shoes.”

She leaned in and kissed you. Soft and sure. “Best gift ever. Also, I’m leading.”

You snorted. “Of course you are.”

The first lesson was an exercise in humility.

Mostly yours.

“I didn’t think there would be this much… counting,” Alexia whispered, wide-eyed, as Marina, your instructor with a suspicious amount of cheer, clapped her hands and shouted, “ONE two THREE… FIVE six SEVEN!”

You were still trying to figure out what happened to four and eight when Alexia spun you effortlessly. Like she’d been waiting her whole life to salsa dance.

Meanwhile, you were trying not to trip over your own feet. Or hers. Or thin air.

“How are you already good at this?” you hissed. Exasperated, after the third turn you flubbed.

Alexia shrugged, smug. “Natural talent. Leadership skills. Strong sense of rhythm.”

“You played football, not Dancing with the Stars.”

“And yet here we are.” She winked. Catching your hand again like a pro. “Try to keep up.”

You wanted to throw a shoe at her. But you were still clinging to the hope that Marina would call a water break before you collapsed in shame.

Each week, it got worse. Or at least, you didn’t get better.

Alexia? She was thriving.

By week four, she was casually humming salsa tunes while brushing her teeth.

By week six, she had moved on to practicing spins in the living room. With a broom.

“Okay,” you snapped one evening as she dipped it, dipped it, with alarming grace, “if you give that broom one more longing stare, I’m going to lose it.”

She laughed, flipping imaginary hair over her shoulder. “What can I say? It follows my lead.”

You flopped onto the couch with a groan. “I hope it steps on your foot.”

“You’re just mad it dances better than you.”

She wasn’t wrong. But you weren’t going to give her that satisfaction.

Not yet.

You almost quit during week seven.

Not dramatically. Not with a speech or storming out of the studio. You just kind of… stopped. Halfway through a basic step, your feet froze, your timing went off and you pulled your hand out of Alexia’s before she could twirl you again.

“I can’t,” you muttered. Turning away. “I seriously can’t.”

Alexia, for once, didn’t make a joke. She stepped back. Giving you space and tilted her head just enough to catch your eye. “Hey,” she said gently, “what’s going on?”

You waved a hand at the mirror-lined wall like it could explain everything.

“I look like a broken marionette. My rhythm sucks. I’m offbeat. My brain can’t process the steps fast enough, and you...” You gestured toward her. “You’re out here channeling Shakira meets ballroom royalty. I’m just trying not to elbow you in the nose.”

Alexia stepped closer. Not touching you yet. Just… being there.

“You’re being hard on yourself,” she said. “It’s not a competition.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve got the hips of a goddess and apparently, salsa blood in your veins.”

That got a laugh. “I absolutely do not. I just… like it.” She looked down. Nudging her foot against yours lightly. “But I didn’t start out good either, you know?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure you were born spinning.”

“I’ve been practicing at night,” she admitted sheepishly. “On YouTube. Tutorials. Watching our videos back. Because…” She trailed off and bit her lip.

“Because?”

“Because I wanted to impress you.”

You stared at her. “Are you kidding me?”

She finally took your hand again. Warm and steady. “You’re doing this for me. The least I could do is meet you halfway.”

Something softened in your chest. “I just didn’t want to suck at it,” you said. Quieter now. “I wanted to be good. With you. You’re so confident out there. And I feel like I’m always two beats behind and one misstep away from public humiliation.”

Alexia stepped forward until your foreheads almost touched. “You don’t need to be perfect for me. I didn’t want to learn salsa to become a professional dancer. I wanted to learn it with you.”

Your breath caught a little.

She grinned. “Also, you look very attractive when you’re angry at the music.”

You snorted. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you for dating the broom.”

She laughed. “I broke up with it. We weren’t spinning in the same direction.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. And that night, when Marina cued up the music again, you let yourself have fun with it.

You still missed half the steps. Your turns were slow. And your cross-body lead looked more like a traffic accident. But for the first time, you weren’t focused on being good.

You were focused on her.

Week eight was a revelation.

Somehow, you got it. Not perfectly, but enough. You hit a clean eight-count in time with Alexia. You turned and didn’t trip. You even dipped slightly at the end... and when you looked up at her, wide-eyed, she looked just as surprised as you did.

“You did it!” she gasped. “You didn’t maim me!”

“I know!” you shouted. Arms flailing with joy. “We didn’t look like baby giraffes learning to walk!”

“Okay, that’s a stretch,” she teased. “But yes. Much less giraffe-y. You even gave me a flourish at the end.”

You paused. “That was not intentional. I tripped on your shoelace and disguised it as style.”

Alexia grinned and kissed your forehead. “Well, your tripping has flair now. I love it.”

By week nine, you had a routine down. A rhythm. She would stretch while you filled your water bottle. You’d both complain about Marina’s obsession with clapping. She’d help you tie your shoelaces because, in her words, “You’re a liability and I like my toes unbroken.”

And somewhere between missed beats and shaky steps, you started to feel it. Not just the music, but yourself in it. She gave you her hand and instead of apologizing for where you placed your feet, you started looking her in the eyes again. Smiling. Moving.

Dancing.

After the last class, the night air was cool and still buzzing with leftover music.

You and Alexia walked home slowly. Fingers intertwined. Your limbs sore but heart full. She couldn’t stop smiling. Her little dimple kept peeking out like it had a mind of its own.

“I still can’t believe I didn’t fall during that last spin,” you said, limping slightly from your most dramatic dip to date.

“You were basically majestic,” Alexia said. Dead serious. “You should’ve had a wind machine behind you.”

You nudged her hip. “Save the dramatic flair for your broom ex.”

She chuckled, then checked her phone. “Okay,” she murmured. “She’s home.”

“Who?”

“My mom.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re going now?”

She nodded. “I told her I wanted to stop by. Didn’t say why.”

Her mother answered the door wearing her reading glasses and a mismatched set of pajamas... floral bottoms and a Barça hoodie that had clearly once belonged to Alexia.

“Hola, cariño,” she said. Smiling tiredly. “Everything okay?”

Alexia leaned in and kissed her on both cheeks. “I have a surprise.”

Her mom immediately narrowed her eyes. “Is it a dog? Because you’re still technically not allowed to surprise me with living things after that duck situation.”

Alexia laughed. “It’s not a dog... or duck.”

Her mother tilted her head. “What is it then?”

Alexia reached out her hand. Palm up.

“Dance with me.”

“… Excuse me?”

“Salsa,” she said. Grinning wide now. “I want to salsa with you.”

Her mom blinked. “Are you having a fever?”

“No. I’ve been taking lessons.”

Her mother stared at her for a full ten seconds. Mouth slightly open. “Since when do you dance?”

Alexia turned toward you. Who was standing behind her with your arms folded and the smuggest smile on your face.

“Since she gave it to me for my birthday.”

Her mom’s eyes darted between the two of you. “You’re serious?”

Alexia pulled her phone out. Thumbed through a few videos, and handed it over. You watched as her mother squinted, hit play, and then… went quiet.

It was your freestyle. Shaky camera work. A bit blurry but full of movement and laughter and something real.

When it ended, her mother looked up. Blinking fast.

“Tu padre would’ve loved that,” she said softly. “He used to say, ‘Dancing isn’t about the steps... it’s about who you’re holding.’”

Alexia took her hand again. A little firmer this time. “So come on. Let me hold you.”

Her mom let out a laugh. Half disbelieving. Half tearful. And shook her head. “I’m going to need to change first. If I’m doing this, I’m not dancing in duck pajamas.”

Alexia turned to you, face glowing. “She said yes.”

You smiled. “Told you. No one can resist your strong leadership energy.”

She kissed your cheek and whispered, “I learned from the best.”

They danced in the small living room. Alexia leading. Her mother laughing. Both occasionally forgetting the steps but remembering to smile through every one.

You watched from the couch. A quiet spectator to something bigger than music.

Grief. Joy. And love tangled between their hands like an invisible rhythm. Steady and healing.

At the end, her mom pulled her into a hug and whispered something only Alexia could hear. You saw her eyes close. Saw her swallow hard. Then she nodded.

Later... as you both slipped out and walked home under the city’s sleepy sky... she turned to you and said, “Thank you. For the gift.”

You bumped her shoulder. “I didn’t give you salsa. I just gave you lessons.”

She looked at you. Eyes soft. “Yeah. But I got so much more.”

Then she reached for your hand again. And this time, she didn’t need to lead. You both just walked. Quietly in step.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Writer's note: writing inspiration is drained. Not sure what to write next but I guess inspiration will come back soon

#woso community #woso writers #woso x reader #woso #fc barcelona femeni #woso fanfics #fc barcelona femeni x reader #woso imagine #my short story #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas x reader

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hcneymooners · 1 month ago

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❀ my favorite fic writers on tumblr except my descriptions are oddly specific. ( pt. 1 )

@pbaz7: sleek, refined, luxurious. you always want to keep it on the tongue. you always want more, but you know better than to overindulge. the best way i can put it: every single piece takes the ordinary and deepens it. a conversation is never just a conversation. it’s about what you didn’t say, what you didn’t text, what you thought you mentioned but know you didn’t. it feels like night-riding: slowing down on the highway but going top speed, the world slurring into a blur of headlights and a pitch black sky, someone else driving you in the body of a dark black car. always looking in, a love that never asks you to look out. every word hits like a broken-off piece of dark chocolate. the world expands like a pupil under a drug. luxe, perfect, niche. writing that doesn’t worry about what you think of it; it just knows you will think of it.

@bucketsorbueckers: fucking lush. the exact feeling of going on a deep water dive—pressure, but gentle. perfect exploration of domination and submission without ever feeling cliché. it invites you in, but never lets you out. did you want to leave? maybe. but you know staying is better for you. cyclical. everything comes back around, everything is a lesson earned. feels like that girl you keep seeing in slips of light when you’re out somewhere: you keep looking at her, at her flash of teeth, her perfect outfit, her thrumming veins, her hip bones. makes you feel like it’s only you, and then you blink and it's not. it’s about attention. attention in every form: learning people, learning the rules, watching them, breaking them. reading is letting go, and when it’s over you feel hungover in the most delicious way. dark red, berry pink, burnt orange. a trust fall where you never land. so good. the exact experience of a contact high with someone you love, of chasing someone you need.

@elleaitch22: b.o.a.t by camila cabello. the feeling of being someone’s favorite baby—someone’s favorite anything. staying after everyone’s left just to get a moment alone. kisses in someone’s lap. secret smiles because you share an internal inside joke. stumbling through your twenties but being honest about it. hands in your hair as you dance in a dark room. roses—specifically thick and pink. the remnants of perfume on a sweater you can’t bring yourself to wash because you miss them too much. peonies. fingers clasped under the table. privacy screens on a cellphone. bella hadid bare face. airplane mode. that suspended feeling of safety when you’re with someone you trust. forehead kisses. friendship bracelets. talking into a kiss. hands around your hips. non-toxic possession. trying again because this time, you will get it right. happiness that’s earned. a quiet life. the city under a sunset bleed, light flashing off a skyscraper and blinding you for six perfect seconds. the shower after the beach. love as a tightrope. skinship. you made it. you knew you would. vanilla and amber.

@loeysoi: mariners apartment complex by lana. faded-out camera, route 66, bubblegum fondness, loose freshly washed hair. driving over bridges and backroads, forgetting to text back but the people who know you forgive you anyway. it’s that careless kind of affection, messy and soft, that song you never skip. reading lyra’s work is like sitting in a car with the windows down, sun slipping low, everything blurred at the edges but somehow sharper inside. poetic, lyrical, never trying too hard. she’s finding it and you’re looking with her, only to have a minute more of her time. she’s your woman, she’s your man. a kind of quiet recklessness: wanting to be seen but a little afraid to ask for it, loving without explanation or ceremony. humorous but never at your expense. tan lines and sun-freckled skin, random shit to keep a spot in a book, sun-bleached denim, the specific energy of someone trying to keep the smoke out of your face, the warm ache of trying to hold on while knowing you probably won’t. endlessly fragile, endlessly real.

@lupinqs: maddie’s work can’t be described as anything other than a vast emotional landscape. it feels like i’ve been let into a secret world i never want to leave—an outsider sitting quietly, watching someone else’s life unfold in great detail. her blog, both in content and aesthetic, is the equivalent of slipping outside during a night out and sitting in the haze of smoke, while the light refracts off of you and dusts across someone else. it’s effortlessly nuanced and emotionally mature, without ever begging you to notice. i can’t explain the correlation, but it gives cool, calm middle daughter who’s riotous and fun when you slowly cut into her like slicing into a cake. always lovely, always self-assured, always carrying a tone that acts like a calling card. you couldn’t mistake it for anyone else’s, but it’s sweet when someone says you remind them of her.

@azzibuckets: cessa is a snapshot. straight glitter down a throat. a million memories you keep guarded like a dog. the same perfect feel as being pressed close to someone in a photo booth. a sweet spot, a soft spot, just tenderness always spilling over, without the embarrassment of being so revealed. first love. a perfect crush. a bright summer that seems to last forever. the gentle nature of waking up after a sleepover tangled together, legs brushing. instantly recognizable, with its bright, bubbly beat. it’s laughter caught in a cup, the low hum of fizzy emotional texture, the safety of being known without having to explain. kissing a girl under the excuse of trying out her lip gloss. the sun caught under your tongue and deep in your belly. you’ll never die here. you’ll be alright here. writing that feels like holding hands without realizing you reached out first.

@luvergirl-535: honeymoon album by lana del rey, cherry soda fizz, the perfect lip combo made up of products you can’t find anymore. a slow, dulcet hum that’s both dreamy and daring. writing that drips with lipstick glazed by too much time in the sun, tongue-in-cheek with a wink caught just right in the corner of a smile, dimples, playful but never shallow, a streak of mischief with a quiet, certain knowing of what she wants. coachella when it was still fun. leaning on a shoulder. being picked up behind the knees into someone’s arms when you fall asleep in the car. sweetness with an edge: bubblegum kisses that sting a little, drifting close enough to taste. a private world, empty beaches, desire when it feels both tender and sharp. what you’re holding onto when you feel yourself growing up. stairway to heaven. soft, sly, and unforgettable.

part two coming soon. x

#mine ; 🐎.#pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #i love my moots #that's why i got carried away

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thedaddycomplex · 2 months ago

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You know how all of these companies are cutting staff and letting AI do a lot of the work? Well, it doesn't exactly pan out, like, ever.

I, for one, keep getting texts from an "AI assistant" where I get my car serviced about an upcoming appointment I never made. And when it asks if it should connect me with a service person to deal with the issue, I point out it's an issue the goddamn AI created, so it can fix it its motherfucking self. It's a fun little dance we do about once a week.

Anywho, the venerated Chicago Sun-Times published an insert with an article on summer reading suggestions. This article was created using AI and many of the books suggested simply don't exist.

*sad trombone noise*

Some will argue that this was for a seasonal insert and not exactly officially part of the actual paper. In fact, the Chicago Sun-Times did just that...

But, see up there at the top of the page?...

...Sure makes it look like an exactly official part of the actual paper.

And sure, this could be just a harmless and embarrassing lesson for the self-proclaimed "Hardest Working Paper in America" (and the other papers that picked up the article and also ran it — oops!), but it does speak to a much larger, much more serious, much more complicated problem.

A huge swath of the country simply don't trust the news anymore. It's a problem that has many sources, a few of which are:

The Trump administration's repeated use of the phrase "fake news" whenever there's a hard question or critical article

The very fucked up fact that billionaires own most of the news outlets in the country and are killing stories about Trump as they line up to suck his deformed little knob

The sad truth that these outlets are more and more turning to AI for some of the heavy lifting, a tool that has been proved easily manipulated and horribly flawed again and again and again

Why should you care?

I've said this before and I'll say it again: Journalism Saves Democracy.

Journalism is the only profession mentioned in the U.S. Constitution for a reason. It's supposed to keep power in check and inform the public. That's why people call it the Fourth Estate.

Now, one silly reading list won't topple journalism. But, it's one more mistake, one more small reason to be dubious of the Chicago Sun-Times, and one more thing that supports "fake news" claims — all because some rich guy decided to save some money by firing staff and handed the keys over to AI.

And it comes at a time when we've never needed the Fourth Estate more.

#chicago sun-times #summer reading #ai #trump administration

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basset-babe · 1 year ago

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five times: the first.

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

warnings: none but gossip

word count: 3.5k+

a/n: in the ever tasteful art of writing fan fiction, here's me breaking my writer's block and making my debut on bridgerton fanfiction, i give you the first of five times with ben. i absolutely adore the abc men but ben just has a special place in my heart (tbh anthony and colin do too, i just felt like daydreaming abt ben today) i do hope y'all enjoy! ciao!

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

dividers from @heavenlayt thank you!

first time.

"My lady? It is time to wake." Elsie, my lady's maid, knocked on my door, as she entered. "If your ladyship pleases, the hour had struck 6 of the morning." As my eyes adjusted to the soft light hues streaming through the curtains. I sat myself up and replied, "Elsie, good morning. I am now awake, awake enough hopefully."

Elsie ushered in with a pitcher of water and cloths. "Is it really today already?" I huffed as I stood walking to my dressing room. I cleaned myself and slipped on to a new chemise. "My lady, Her Grace has instructed that we make haste. Yes, your presentation to the Queen and the court is today. In a few hours to be exact."

I faced my looking glass as a few other maids came in to assist with my stays and petticoats. This is the day that all my grandmother's lessons and patience comes to fruition. All the hours practice dancing, and of course, the languages I've studied and now do speak fluently, if I do say so myself.

"Tell me honestly, Elsie," I looked back at her as she ties the ribbons of my corset. "Would I ever succeed in... all this?" I flailed my hands gesturing. I fear I might not even find a match for this already seemingly long season. She smiled and said, "You've prepared for this for the longest time. You have become such a fine young lady, miss. Any bachelor is to be blessed in abundance to bask in your presence, in my estimation. My hopes and prayers are always in your welfare, my lady."

As I take my last look in the looking glass, my gown fashioned from ivory silk, its smooth surface shimmering. My hand traced the pearl-beaded neckline and I fixed the puff of my sleeve. With my gloves at hand, I head out my room's door where I am greeted by my grandmother, her cane tapping the hardwood floors. "A tad bit early than I expected, my dear." Her tone joking as I followed suit. I smiled as we went down the manor's foyer. The stairs were adorned with our small family's portraits. "Well, I did try to attire myself with the utmost haste, Grandmama, fully aware of your esteemed patience." I remarked in jest but she laughed amusedly.

Halting in my steps, I found myself drawn to a familiar sight—the wedding portrait of my beloved parents. A soft smile graced my lips as I gazed upon their image, memories of happier times flooding my mind.

Sensing my absence, my grandmother turned back, her keen eyes alighting upon me. With a gentle hum, she adjusted her monocle and approached, offering a comforting pat on my back. "Grandmama," I began, my voice tinged with a wistful longing, "I do hope I make them proud." Her response was a tender reassurance, spoken with unwavering certainty: "I am sure they already are, dearest."

As I stood poised on the threshold, awaiting my turn for presentation, a sense of vulnerability washed over me, akin to that of a damsel in distress. My grandmother, ever the epitome of grace and poise, meticulously adjusted the feathers of my attire, ensuring every detail was impeccably in place. "Breathe," she counseled, her voice a gentle reassurance in the midst of my nerves. "You have done me proud, dearest," Grandmama affirmed, her words a comforting embrace, imbued with pride and unwavering support.

Then the Lord Chamberlain announced, "Miss Y/N Y/L/N presented by her grandmother, the Right Honorable, the Dowager Viscountess Y/L/N."

As the grand doors parted, a hush fell over the room, and I sensed the weight of every gaze upon me, particularly that on my grandmother too, her presence announced by the dignified tap of her cane as she followed behind. Stepping forward with measured grace, I approached the Queen's podium and executed a low curtsy, drawing in a deep breath as I maintained a respectful bow. Despite the murmurs echoing through the court, a moment of stillness enveloped the room as I felt the Queen rise from her seat. With a gentle touch, she lifted my chin, and I straightened, meeting her gaze with a warm smile.

"The paragon that you are, my dear," she uttered with a tender affection, bestowing a kiss upon my forehead in a gesture of approval. A grin spread across my face, the warmth of her words suffusing my being, even as my cheeks protested from the strain of the continuous smile. With a graceful pivot, my grandmother and I retreated with measured steps, executing another respectful curtsy before withdrawing from the Queen's presence.

The once subdued murmurs of the court now crescendoed in my ears, a cacophony of whispers and speculation swirling around us.

"Grandmama... Me? A paragon?" I murmured to her, quite exhilarated by the Queen's words. Yet, my grandmother remained stoically composed, her gaze fixed steadfastly ahead amidst the throng of aristocracy.

It was a rare sight to behold her amidst society's grandeur, for she typically kept to herself. However, she had made an exception, deeming it fitting for me to enter society this season. And indeed, her decision had borne fruit. Every effort she had invested in my preparation had culminated in this moment of recognition and acclaim.

I cast a fleeting glance towards the court and beheld the most gentle of green eyes. He acknowledged me with a subtle nod, prompting me to avert my gaze. I delicately toying with my fingertips as a flush of warmth suffused my cheeks under the weight of his gaze. I thought, "He must be a Bridgerton." As he wore their signature navy blue color and his hair a bit more disarray in his possible attempt to make it look more orderly.

In a moment of amusement, I softly chuckled as I returned my gaze to his warm countenance, which bore a friendly smile. Grandmother moved her cane in front of me as if to rectify my demeanor. Upon realizing my error, my gaze widened in contrition as I cast a sheepish glance her way.

Inwardly, I fortify myself for the impending social engagements with the esteemed members of the court, anticipating the sunset reception that is to ensue after this presentation. "May fortune favor the bold," I silently invoke, summoning courage for the encounters ahead.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow across the Buckingham Palace gardens, guests gathered amidst a scene of opulent splendor. Marble pillars and graceful arches adorned with cascading vines formed the backdrop, while ornate chandeliers and intricately carved ceiling pieces adorned the alabaster walls of the open-air reception area. Underfoot, the smooth marble flooring provided a regal foundation for the soirée, imbuing the atmosphere with an air of timeless grandeur and sophistication.

As refreshments circled the soirée on silver trays, deftly carried by attentive servants, the ton assembled to mingle amidst the lush surroundings of the Buckingham Palace gardens. Bustling mamas engaged in animated chatter, their voices rising above the murmurs of conversation, as astute gentlemen sought out advantageous alliances for their poised debutantes. Amidst the swirl of social intrigue and polite banter, the air crackled with anticipation, each guest poised to seize upon the opportunities of the evening's gathering.

Accompanied by my grandmother, I descended the garden stairs into the sunken garden reception. The ton, resplendent in their finery, turned their heads in unison, their curious gazes alighting upon us like the flicker of candlelight on polished silver. Whispers rippled through the crowd as we traversed the room, each pair of eyes lingering, momentarily entranced by the spectacle of our arrival. Even those engaged in conversation momentarily paused to acknowledge our arrival. "The season's paragon.." They said.

"Your Grace, might we trouble you for some refreshments?" I nodded to the servant approaching with a tray of glasses.

As we delicately sipped our glasses of lemonade, Lady Ledger made her approach, flanked by her cousin Lady Violet Bridgerton, and her daughter, Miss Eloise, who had been presented alongside me earlier in the day. Joining them was her friend, Miss Penelope Featherington, completing their entourage.

"Ah, Viscountess Y/L/N, Lady Y/L/N, are you enjoying the reception?" Lady Ledger inquired with a knowing smile. Lady Bridgerton nodded graciously in acknowledgment, offering a courteous response to both my grandmother and me. "Indeed," Grandmother chimed in, "never underestimate the Queen's knack for transforming the mundane into a marvel of grandeur."

"Shall we take a turn around the room, Lady Y/L/N?" Miss Eloise extended the invitation, linking elbows with Miss Penelope. "Shall we?" I said settling between them, leaving our matriarchs amongst their chatter.

We've taken a few steps far from the soirée back near the refreshment table when Eloise spoke, "Well, Lady Y/L/N, do enlighten us on your thoughts about the presentation and the reception. Speak freely, for I've grown weary of the tiresome cacophony of giggles and idle daydreams from the other ladies this evening. Thankfully, Miss Penelope here has been a better companion throughout."

"I find myself drawn to exploring avenues beyond the confines of the marital sphere at present, even though my mother absolutely opposes to the idea of me having a gap year, then." Penelope sighs and continues, "Despite the absence of prospects thus far, I find myself surprisingly content in my quiet indulgences."

"Honestly, delaying a year in the marriage mart may seem unconventional, but one mustn't rush fate. Patience often leads to the most unexpected and delightful unions." I answered, "Even I opted for a delay of a year, despite not making my debut until this season as per Her Grace's wishes. I must say, I couldn't be more grateful for the opportunity to indulge myself in my beloved books during that time."

"Do tell, Miss Y/L/N, what literary tomes do you find yourself indulging in?" Eloise asks.

"I dabble in perusing natural history compendiums, particularly finding botanical works to be a favorite pursuit of mine," I paused momentarily, then continued, "Oh, I fear I may inadvertently bore you both with my penchant for the sciences. However, I do find solace in the allure of romances and literature crafted with a delicate balance of wit, social commentary, and the thrill of romantic escapades, albeit confined to the written word."

Further discourse veered towards the discussion of almost radical hobbies and interests amongst the three of us. I found myself increasingly at ease amidst the reception, in the company of these two. "But I do wish these receptions offered more than mere gossip, dance, and music," Penelope remarked.

"Indeed, it can become rather tedious to dance until one's feet ache," I replied, "although, I must confess, I have yet to be invited to partake. I merely entertain the notion of engaging a tutor and mastering the intricacies of these social dances through diligent practice."

"I concur. It might indeed provide a welcome diversion, perhaps enticing one of you to accept an offer to dance, solely for the sake of regaling me with the experience. There is only so much I can endure of our daily routines and chatter," Penelope added with a hint of playful exasperation. "Nothing absolutely changes, honestly."

However, ere long, the moment was upon us as Lady Bridgerton approached alongside a gentleman with tousled brown locks, unmistakably of noble bearing. Penelope and I moved aside as he was introduced. "I would like to introduce you to Lord Morrison."

"Miss Eloise. A pleasure." He bowed.

Lady Bridgerton nodded towards Eloise in agreement as he spoke, "Might I have the honor?"

Penelope and I smiled amidst the gentleman as we glanced over to Eloise who's had a confused smile at the offered hand. "Of what?" She asked, her hands clasped.

We stifled a laugh as her mother said, "A dance, Eloise," Lady Bridgerton, then, led Eloise's hand towards the outstretched one of Lord Morrison's. "Yes, I think you shall, Lord Morrison." She looked at Eloise, "Do recall, a try?"

She cast upon us a gaze brimming with utter annoyance, seemingly beseeching deliverance from a dance destined for doom. "You wished to be entertained," she intimated.

As I discerned my grandmother's cane drawing nearer to Penelope and me, she gracefully inquired, "Are you enjoying your company, dear?" Her tone carried both warmth and concern. "I couldn't help but notice the absence of suitors vying for your attention. Would you care to be introduced?" she offered, her hand holding a glass of wine, likely courtesy of Lady Danbury.

"The night is indeed still young, Your Grace," I respond with a smile. "As you often advise, there's no need to hasten amidst fun."

"Atta girl," my grandmother replies with a twinkle in her eye. "You've made my words your own. Quite the wit, just like your dear old grandmother."

"Not that old, Your Grace." I laughed.

As my grandmother started her lively chatter with Penelope, my gaze wandered, drawn to a familiar mess of brown hair amidst laughter, situated beside Lady Bridgerton. Automatically, I presumed him to be her son, but entirely unsure which one.

Our eyes met, again, even if we are across the room. He was impeccably dressed in a tailored coat and carried an air of warmth that set him apart from the crowd. Intrigued by his steady gaze, I felt a flutter of anticipation in my chest as I continued to chat with Penelope and my grandmother.

"Will you excuse me, Viscountess and Miss Y/N. My mother, she summons me. " Penelope exited as her mother waved her hastily over for an introduction to a baron, it seems.

"May I take a tour of the room again, Grandmama?" I asked.

"Come take the tour with me," Grandmama said. As she walked and her cane struck the marbled pavement, gentlemen adjusted their cravats and smiled my way. "They are all staring again, Your Grace."

"Pay no mind, my dear. Allow them to come to you."

We were soon approached by a nobleman. "Lady Y/L/N. Miss Y/L/N. I am Lord Ibarra," he announced, his tone posh and refined.

"Ah yes, Lord Ibarra," Grandmama replied. "I believe you have been introduced to my granddaughter, Y/N."

"Yes, we met at your estate's Thanksgiving picnic," he confirmed.

"And I believe you had just won a few awards in Madrid," I added with a touch of nostalgia.

"Unfortunately, his advocacies stand in his way of scoundrelship, dearest. Oh well, humbug," she remarked, waving a dismissive hand.

"Well, in that case, I do hope his lordship has found himself new musings," I said with a polite smile.

"Only then would he be able to indulge in new hobbies if he'd been keeping up to date with his dues and no backlogs, wouldn't you, Lord Ibarra?" Grandmama added with a pointed look. Lord Ibarra nodded curtly and took steps back before excusing himself form the encounter.

"He is unfit. Quite poor with money and all the decisions that accompany it. A man of any honor ensures his debts are entirely settled. Let us proceed." Grandmama commented,

We continued our tour of the room. A gentleman dancing nodded with a smile. "He is rather charming."

"He is merely attempting to salvage what little remains of his fortune. Be assured that Mr. Fairfax is well informed of your considerable dowry." Grandmama, yet again, snidely remarked.

"I trust you are acquainted with him as well," I observed, gesturing to a gentleman with a colorful cravat. "Heaven forbid a notorious rake and alleged father of a bastard should captivate you, my dear."

Another gentleman who walked pass and smiled. "Only a seventh son. We shall find you a more suitable match." Grandmama stated.

Then Lady Bridgerton approached with her son in tow. "Ah, what a delightful sight. Violet, dear."

"Viscountess, this is my son, Benedict," Violet introduced with pride.

"Lady Y/L/N. Miss Y/L/N. An honour," Benedict said with a respectful bow. "I have been hoping for the chance to meet you."

My heart skipped a beat at his words, my cheeks flushing, yet again, with a becoming blush. "Mr. Bridgerton," I replied, my voice soft but filled with warmth, "the pleasure is mine."

"Your mother and I have shared many a tea. We are close, are we not?" Grandmama said with a warm smile.

"Indeed, but circumstances have changed now that your granddaughter has entered society, now a lady," Violet remarked, her eyes twinkling.

"About time, a year later than as her father would have wished," Grandmama responded with a sigh.

"Oh, I am deeply sorry for the recent loss of your son and daughter-in-law. I remember them both fondly from our social seasons," Violet said with genuine sympathy.

"Life must move forward after mourning, as it always does. Enough of the sorrow. We must ensure you two become well acquainted," Grandmama said, steering the conversation back to the present.

I smiled as Benedict handed me a glass of lemonade from the servant's tray. "I have not seen you much around the ton recently, Miss Y/N," he commented with a gentle curiosity.

"Ah yes, I have been occupied with managing the estate alongside Her Grace since my parents' passing. Additionally, I have been deeply engrossed in my hobbies and interests," I explained.

"What might those be?" Benedict inquired, his interest piqued.

Grandmama interjected, "Her botanicals. She is utterly devoted to her plants, especially during blooming season. It is quite a passion of hers."

"Miss Y/L/N," Benedict began, his voice carrying a warmth that sparked my curiosity, "I must admit, I never knew that botanicals held such fascination for you."

I felt a flush rise to my cheeks at his observation, but his genuine interest put me at ease. "Indeed, Mr. Bridgerton," I replied as my voice tinged with excitement, "Botanicals have always been my greatest passion. There's a certain beauty in the way plants grow and flourish, don't you agree?"

I found myself opening up to him, sharing my knowledge of plants and their intricate ecosystems. With each word I spoke, I sensed his genuine interest, and I couldn't help but feel a flutter of connection between us.

"Mr. Bridgerton," I said, my heart swelling with pride, "Your appreciation for botanicals is truly heartening. I would be delighted to share more of my botanical knowledge with you in the future, if you're interested."

His eager nod and warm smile filled me with joy. "I would like that very much, Miss Y/L/N," he replied, his voice sincere. "It would be an honor to explore the wonders of the natural world with you."

"Oh, Benedict, you must tell them of your recent painting," Violet encouraged.

"Mother," He laughs. "Yes, one has reached display at the art gallery on the avenue. It's not much, really," Benedict said with a humble smile.

Grandmama replied, "That is an outstanding accomplishment, Benedict. It seems both of you have a tendency to downplay your achievements! I, for one, am a great supporter of both the sciences and the arts."

"There is always room for refinement in my pursuits. One never truly reaches perfection, wouldn't you agree, Miss Y/N?" I merely nodded in response to his question, my demure demeanor intact as I delicately sipped from my glass.

Benedict began to stand more upright as Lady Danbury approached our group. "Lady Danbury, good evening," he greeted with a respectful nod.

"At ease, Mr. Bridgerton. Miss Y/L/N, you look rather lovely this evening. Is there a reason I've yet to see you on the dance floor?" Lady Danbury inquired, her sharp eyes twinkling with curiosity.

Grandmama replied, "All in good time, Agatha."

Lady Danbury leaned in and replied fleeting, "You poor thing, being kept off the dance floor."

"If only it were not time for us to retire," Grandmother said turning turning to me with intent. "I am anything but weary, Your Grace," I assured Grandmama, my enthusiasm evident.

"Dearest, there is nary a gentleman here who wouldn't take your hand. You must consider this. The most perfect thing for you to do now is not to dance but to leave them all wanting more. If anyone knows how this works, it is I, your grandmother," Grandmama advised, her eyes gleaming with wisdom.

"Perhaps you are right. Let us go," My expression softened with a small smile. My heart sank slightly at the thought of our evening coming to an end so soon, but I knew better than to disobey my grandmother's wishes.

With a nod of gratitude, my grandmother turned to Benedict. "Mr. Bridgerton, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I hope we shall have the opportunity to see you again soon."

I watched as Mr. Bridgerton returned my grandmother's gracious smile with one of his own. "The pleasure was mine, Viscountess," he said, but his voice tinged with regret. "I look forward to the chance to call upon Miss Y/L/N--"

But before he could say another word, my grandmother had already ushered me away, leaving Mr. Bridgerton standing amidst the bustling garden. As we made our way through the crowd, I couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment at the missed opportunity to spend more time with him. The thought of not having the chance to dance with him weighed heavily on my mind.

As we stepped out into the cool night air, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was not the end of our story. Despite the missed chance, I held onto the hope that our paths would cross again, and that perhaps, in the not too distant future, I would once again find myself in Mr. Bridgerton's company.

#benedict bridgerton x you #bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton imagine #x reader #fem reader #bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton fic #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton/reader #fic #bridgerton fic #benedict bridgerton oneshot #fanfiction #benedict bridgerton x y/n

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