angelremnants
angelremnants
chronicles of a fallen quill.
199 posts
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
angelremnants · 3 months ago
Text
Hi everyone, just a little update!
I know I’ve been pretty inactive this month, and chances are April will be the same. Uni is keeping me really busy, and with the final exams coming up, I really want to give my best as it will be the end of my first year. I’ll hopefully be back in full force at the beginning of May!
That being said, I might manage to sneak in a fic or two, depending on how I handle my time. Here's what to expect as for the upcoming works:
A President Loki x reader smut fic (currently in the drafts and most likely to come out);
Chapter Four of His For The Season;
The Birthday Special I didn't get to put my hands on.
So, while I can’t promise consistent updates in the next few weeks, I haven’t disappeared! I appreciate all of you for sticking around, and I can’t wait to share more once things calm down.
See you soon & wish me luck! 🤍
13 notes · View notes
angelremnants · 3 months ago
Text
Congratulations dearest! Hope everything goes well for you 🤍
I GOT A JOB!!!!! (This will mean the amount of content will go down.. until I work out a schedule but yeah) I GOT A JOB!
12 notes · View notes
angelremnants · 3 months ago
Note
THANK YOUUU<3
Tumblr media
*Inhales* HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANGIEEEEEEEE!!!
WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF BEING 20!!!
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
AHH thank youuu my love! <333 Really thoughtful of you to have sent me this, you don't know how much I appreciate it :') ��🩷 and omg what is this gif of Loki with his head out of the car hssjdjjd, what a teenage dirtbag..
Can't believe I'm now in the big two o' lane when I still feel like I'm thirteen lmfao—but no matter.. my heart is so full rn, your message made me smile so big!! you’re the sweetest ever, ilyy 🥹🥹🤍
10 notes · View notes
angelremnants · 3 months ago
Note
*Inhales* HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANGIEEEEEEEE!!!
WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF BEING 20!!!
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
AHH thank youuu my love! <333 Really thoughtful of you to have sent me this, you don't know how much I appreciate it :') 🩷🩷 and omg what is this gif of Loki with his head out of the car hssjdjjd, what a teenage dirtbag..
Can't believe I'm now in the big two o' lane when I still feel like I'm thirteen lmfao—but no matter.. my heart is so full rn, your message made me smile so big!! you’re the sweetest ever, ilyy 🥹🥹🤍
10 notes · View notes
angelremnants · 3 months ago
Text
I know this is my main, but even though this post isn’t about writing—if you see this, please spread the word.
Not only has Stan Lee suffered horrendous treatment behind the scenes, but there is truly no one outside the internet rallying behind him. His only real ally, his wife, has already joined him in the afterlife. His daughter is just as complicit in his exploitation as the company itself, and his longtime assistant, who claims to have strong evidence of his abuse, refuses to release it unless paid a “modest” sum of $300,000 (please note the sarcasm). Meanwhile, his documentary aiming to shed light on the situation requires far less funding to fulfill its purpose—and if you’ve seen the released footage, you’ll notice he also played a role in his downfall through many mean and degrading comments, making him just as much accountable as the other involved parties.
This has to stop. It’s absolutely scandalous that the mistreatment he endured continues even beyond his death. Every single part of Marvel that we cherish, celebrate, and talk about today exists because of this man—a man who was quite literally worked to death.
To turn a blind eye would mean continuing to enjoy his legacy while ignoring the cost at which it came. As fellow Marvel fans, I hope you understand what I’m trying to express and will stand for what’s right.
My fellow Americans,
Today, I speak to you with a heavy heart. We all love heroes—the ones in stories and the ones who create them. Stan Lee was one of those creators. He gave us Spider-Man, the X-Men, the Avengers, and so many more. His stories brought people together, gave us hope, and taught us to believe in good.
But in the last years of his life, he was treated badly. Instead of being cared for, he was used. People who should have helped him took advantage of him. They took his money, controlled his life, and made him suffer. A man who gave so much to the world was left alone, hurting, and unheard.
That is wrong. It should never have happened.
And it’s not just him. If someone as famous and loved as Stan Lee can be treated this way, then so can others. So are others. People who have spent their lives making the world better—writers, artists, elders—are being used, forgotten, and hurt. This is happening, and too many people don’t see it.
This has to stop.
This story needs to be told. People need to hear it, share it, and understand that even the most well-known people can be taken advantage of. If we don’t stop this, it will keep happening. We need to stand together and say no more.
Today, I promise that we will fight for justice—not just for Stan Lee, but for all creators, artists, and elders. We will make sure no one else suffers the way he did. We will protect those who have given us so much.
Stan Lee once said, “With great power comes great responsibility.”
Now, that responsibility is ours. We must do what is right. We must make sure the world sees this, understands this, and stops this.
Excelsior.
108 notes · View notes
angelremnants · 4 months ago
Text
HIS FOR THE SEASON l L. Laufeyson
CHAPTER THREE,⠀Let the Festivities Begin
Tumblr media
chapter summary : You, dearest reader, enter the glittering halls of the royal palace to step into a territory of many calculated dances and the promise of scandal or salvation. Amid the interplay of masquerade and mystery, you navigate a treacherous chessboard of masked suitors with poise born of both refined resolve and lingering regret, until you find yourself unwittingly entwined with an enigmatic gentleman whose unexpected charm defies all expectation. 
pairing : Loki Laufeyson x f!reader
warnings : Mature (16+), would Loki suffice as a warning? overall tension and romantic suspense, some banter, mild asshole behaviors from secondary characters, brief embarrassment. Proceed with caution if you're sensitive to such material.
word count : 7.2k
author's notes : Ao3 saw it first. ;)
Finally, the first meeting with Loki! But don't get fooled by his charming nature my lovelies—after all, you never know what goes on in the head of the God of Chaos.
(ao3 version)
Tumblr media
The Royal Palace of Valaskjalf was both a monument and a testament to power and eternity itself—to most, it appeared as an unshakable citadel of gleaming gold that crowned the heart of Asgard, a realm of wonder and somber majesty acting as a sanctuary where time seemed to bow in reverence.
From the outside, you could wager that its spires stretched toward Valhalla, piercing the sky like the spears of warriors long past. The celestial sheen of its walls caught the light of distant stars, casting reflections that lustered like the surface of an ethereal lake. The great dome loomed over the city like a silent watcher, its celestial map shifting under the soft glow of the Bifrost’s ever-present gleam.
Such an imposing avenue made it impossible for the general public to accurately predict the nature of the fight hidden behind this golden cage.
It had been years since you last set foot on this site since that fateful day, when the echo of a gavel’s finality and the chilling hush of a horrified court marked the execution of your father. The memory of that day, when your name fell from grace along with his, floated in the back of your mind like a vengeful ghost that only you could feel.
Your entrance was neither grand nor meek—you made sure that each step and each breath you took were carefully controlled, though your lungs still burned with the weight of anticipated scrutiny as you navigated on the mirror-like polished path.
The muted candlelight caught the glint of your silver adornments, a deliberate departure from your once resplendent golden radiance. Silver, you mused, was softer, more elusive, and harder to grasp, just as you had become. 
Your temporary escorts left you to ascend a sweeping staircase spiraling upward like the inner whorls of the seashells you could find on the coasts of the Sea of Marmora, leading you to the palace's beating heart. Here, the space opened up into a cavern of opulence, bathed in the subdued flare of countless chandeliers. Each crystal droplet refracted the candlelight into a cascade of tiny rainbows, casting prismatic patterns upon the crimson velvet drapes and glossy stone walls. 
High vaulted ceilings arched overhead, made of frescoes depicting celestial battles and the fabled journeys of ancient gods, imbuing the room with a sense of both awe and foreboding. Massive carved pillars crowned with gold leaf punctuated the space like silent sentinels guarding secret treasures and every surface, from the varnished ground to the luxurious banqueting tables set along the periphery, spoke of a past that was as resplendent as it was ruthless.
Tonight, however, this dazzling splendor was a world of gilded illusions accompanied by the soft strains of a string quartet, mingling to form a symphony of refined decadence where the guests, arrayed in sumptuous costumes and elegant masks, moved with an effortless grace.
Standing at the edge of this cathedral of aristocratic ambition, your heart beat a measured tattoo against the hush of whispered strategies. You were now both an observer and a participant in this game of politics—a lone huntress, poised to select your prey from among the throng of covert suitors. 
You remembered a time when you navigated these halls with ease—but now the rules of this venture seemed foreign, and the board itself an enigma. You would not act rashly for the sake of nostalgia. 
A hunter, you reminded yourself, never strikes at the first sign of movement. 
You marched along the periphery of the dance hall, your eyes drifting over the throng to visually dissect it. There was dominion in being seen yet unseen, acknowledged yet dismissed. That duality, you knew, was a weapon in itself and, if used well, would lead you to successfully identify your collection of prey.
A hunter did not strike blindly. You were here to stalk, study, choose and mark your targets with the precision of a seasoned predator surveying her terrain.
Posture was the first tell. The elites carried themselves with a natural command that resonated in their squared shoulders and chests subtly puffed in practiced ease. Some lounged in what you identified as strategic boredom, with slouched stances hinting at a quiet confidence that belied a mind already playing the game. Others, the pawns of this gathering, fidgeted nervously—adjusting sleeves, shifting weight, darting furtive glances in search of approval.
Speech and the cadence of a man’s words revealed much more than mere conversation. Highborn Asgardians spoke as if every syllable had been lacquered and honed, each word part of a greater performance. In contrast, the lesser nobles stumbled through their phrases, their hurried and clumsy utterances betraying a lack of refinement. You listened intently to snippets of conversation as you followed the borders of the ballroom, distinguishing the voices of true power from the braggarts who merely recounted tales of battles won or the number of horses bred.
Circles of conversation provided another clue. Influence, you had long realized, was gauged by proximity: how bodies clustered around a single figure, how attentively they leaned in. A man surrounded by a modest yet focused circle was worth noting, while those isolated or drowning in flattery were less so.
Clothing epitomized another language of well-managed wealth. Ostentatious rings and gem-studded cuffs declared it so, but the truly powerful needed no such desperate displays. Imported fabrics, the embroidered sigils at the hems, the careful balance between regalia and restraint—all these stated secure fortunes and deep-rooted influence. 
And still, it was the smallest details that mattered most. The way a man adjusted his mask too often as if it stifled him—perhaps hiding a secret. The subtle tension in his fingers curling around a goblet, possibly holding back or restraining an impulse. A glance that lingered just a moment too long, a poorly concealed smirk at another’s misfortune that translated into amusement at a rival’s expense.
Finally, the dance cards clutched by every noble, their names etched in ink that redirected the minds to alliances and commitments. A dance was never just a dance in these circles—it was a silent contract, a political maneuver, a statement of alignment. They told you who was already spoken for, who was in high demand, and who had been conspicuously avoided.
With those clues, you had easily identified your top three targets. All that remained for now was to act according to what you presumed would be their tastes in women.
The first target was Lord Eirikr Veidarson—a man of imposing stature whose bloodline, newly raised to high nobility, bore the staple of countless heroic deeds. His father, a renowned monster hunter, had amassed a fortune by felling beasts whose very names stirred terror in the hearts of common men. Rumor had it that Eirikr himself had felled a Nemean lion with but a single swift shot, and his bowstring was said to be the last sound many a creature ever heard.
Even in a ballroom crowded with towering figures, he was impossible to ignore. Tall and broad-shouldered, his form was draped in a dark stormy-blue doublet, intricately stitched with white embroidery depicting hunting hounds in pursuit of their quarry. His golden hair, styled with a hint of untamed wildness, caught the light as if ignited by an inner flame. Yet it was his alert amber eyes that truly marked him as a predator among men, concealed partly by the polished bone mask fashioned in the shape of a wolf’s maw.
You knew that a man of such brute force would favor innocence wrapped in grace and adoration delivered in wide-eyed wonder, a match made for a demure debutante rather than a strategist such as yourself. And so you assumed the role, your mind set to mimic the mannerisms of one easily impressed.
Timing it just so, you allowed the swell of passing dancers to nudge you from behind, deliberately staggering into his path with a startled gasp. The collision was slight—a mere brush of silken fabric against his broad chest—but his reaction was immediate. His calloused hands enveloped your waist in a firm, steadying grip, preventing your fall.
“My lady,” he rumbled, his voice as confident and warm as a well-strung bow, and his eyes twinkled with mirth behind that imposing mask. His grip lingered a moment too long, and a playful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I do not recall slaying a spirit this evening, yet here you appear, as though conjured by the Norns themselves.”
A breathy laugh escaped you, sharing a mixture of feigned embarrassment and genuine intrigue. “Forgive me, my lord,” you managed, your gaze drifting momentarily to the swirling mob of masked figures before returning to his expectant eyes. “I am but newly of age and, I confess, rather lost in the splendor of this... labyrinth of revelry.”
Eirikr’s grin deepened, his confidence undiminished. “Then allow me the honor of guiding you through this treacherous place, my lady. A dancing hall is no place to wander alone.”
Without further delay, his rough hand reached for your dance card, and in bold, slightly uneven strokes—possibly more accustomed to drawing arrows than elegant script—he claimed a place upon it. The ink barely dried before he took your hand and led you toward the dance floor, where the orchestra’s swell seemed to echo the rapid beat of your heart.
As your feet found their rhythm in the dance, you seized the opportunity to steer the exchange toward his place in court. With a delicate tilt of your head and a practiced smile, you let your curiosity emerge. “And pray, my lord, what of your influence in the halls of power? Surely one as accomplished as yourself must wield considerable sway?”
His response was but expected, boasting loudly without restraint. The harmonious tune of the ballroom shattered as heads turned toward the source of his voice. “Politics? Bah!” he declared with a deep, resonant laugh that made the very walls seem to tremble. “I have no patience for such matters! My father would have my hide if I so much as rearranged the great hall, let alone participated in the trivialities of the royal counseling.” 
Truth became crystal clear at that moment. Here was a man more inclined to the thrill of the hunt than the subtle dance of diplomacy—a brute of formidable strength yet without the refined ambition required for the life you sought. Your smile wavered ever so slightly. He was undeniably appealing, yet his nature was far removed from the shrewd partner you needed.
Feigning a sudden distraction, you let your voice drop into a soft exclamation. “Oh! I believe I have just seen a dear friend arrive.” Your words, laced with regret and a hint of contrived urgency, provided the perfect excuse to slip away from his grasp.
The noble hunter blinked, surprise flickering across his features as you offered a graceful curtsy and melted back toward the periphery of the dance floor. As your figure receded into the tapestry of masked bodies, your breath escaped in a quiet exhale.
One down, you thought.
You cursed under your breath as your eyes fell upon the damning ink on your dance card. That single name, enchanted by forces you did not command, clung to your record like an iron shackle.
Foolish choice. You should have been more selective, more cautious. Now, no matter how the night unfolded, one dance had irrevocably been reserved for a man whose worth had proven to be naught.
The impact of that decision gnawed at you when suddenly, a prickling sensation crept up your spine.
Someone was watching you.
You turned your head ever so slightly, scanning the gilded expanse of the ballroom, but the sensation flickered into an ember snuffed out before you could trace its source. Instead, as if by fate’s own design, your gaze landed on another man.
Dark-skinned and striking, he wore a mask fashioned in the sleek guise of a golden sly fox. He was surrounded by men speaking in conspiratorial tones and women whose laughter rang with practiced elegance. Lord Valbrand Fandrisson, you recognized, was a name woven into the tapestry of noble influence. His presence attested to being a descendant of a long line of Asgardian power, his status as well-connected as it was enviable. 
His eyes, luminous as molten gold, sparkled with greedy amusement. You had seen that same assessing look before, among the countless suitors your uncle once paraded before you like prized steeds.
A plan formed swiftly. With practiced grace, you lifted your fan in your left hand and snapped it open, letting the delicate accessory flutter before your face. I wish to be acquainted, you silently declared in this secret correspondence meant to test his mettle. If he truly knew the language of this game, he would understand immediately.
Within moments, his lips curled in a faint smirk as he disentangled himself from his current company. He strode toward you with the absolute assurance of a predatory gait. “You send a most intriguing message, my lady,” he smoothly declared, dipping his head in courteous deference. “And I, of course, cannot let such an invitation go unanswered.”
A soft laugh escaped you, one tempered with both mirthfulness and regret. “Then I can assume you are no fool, Lord Fandrisson.”
“On the contrary,” he replied, letting his gaze wander to your dance card. “I find it rather curious that a lady of your grace bears only a solitary name tonight.” His tone held a teasing lilt that made you wince internally.
“Alas, circumstance did not grant me the luxury to refuse a dance when it was proffered, nor did it allow me to choose my companions freely. My company, regrettably, was not that which I sought.” Your eyes flickered toward the distant crowd, offering the perfect excuse in your spun tale. “I must now retire to the sidelines.”
“If such is the case, my lady, allow me to escort you back to the dance floor,” he insisted, extending a gloved hand. “I would hate for you to remain a mere spectator on such a splendid night.”
The orchestra struck up a new melody, dictating the patterned pace of the group dance. You had hoped for a more intimate waltz, one that would afford you a private moment with your newfound companion, but the Norns, ever so capricious, had other plans. Conversely, you found yourself ensnared in the rhythm of a grand formation where partners were constantly exchanged. Despite the constant pairing and unpairing, you resolved to seize every fleeting moment that might leave an indelible impression on your quarry.
The first turn passed in a courteous blur. “I must say,” you ventured lightly as he spun you gracefully beneath his arm, “I have long heard of your mastery in the courtly arts. Yet, I begin to suspect that your talents extend beyond statesmanship and into the realm of dance.” You hoped your subtle compliment woven into an inquiry might have opened a window to dive into his ambitions.
Before he could respond, the pattern dictated a change. You released his hand as another pair of gloved fingers closed around yours. The transition was swift—one moment you were in the familiar grasp of Lord Fandrisson, and the next, you found yourself with a different partner.
He was tall, taller than most in attendance, with an air of elegant nonchalance that set him apart from the rigid, well-practiced lords. His mask, fashioned of blackened material and carved into the sweeping visage of a chimera, added even more to his height with the resplendent tall horns attached to the base. His lips curled into an unmistakable smirk that shone beneath his dark curls, carelessly cascading over his forehead and his sharp cheekbones as he bowed his head in mock deference.
"Ah, fortune smiles upon me this evening," he greeted you with a smooth and rich as velvet voice. "It appears that the lady graced with divine beauty of the line has, by some twist of providence, fallen to me instead."
You arched a brow at his words, silently noting the underlying mischief in his remarks. It was hardly unusual for a dance partner to be switched at the last moment, whether by design or chance, but there was something about his cadence that hinted at careful orchestration. Regardless, you reminded yourself that he was merely a transient partner meant to distract while your true interest remained in the distance.
Your gaze flitted to the far side of the ballroom, where Lord Fandrisson’s matte purple coat and imposing presence were unmistakable, even amidst the swirling throng. “Eager to be rid of me already?” the stranger teased as he guided you through the next step of the dance. “How cruel, that I should be so quickly discarded.”
“I am afraid I am otherwise occupied,” you answered airily, your eyes darting away in search of your intended quarry. “I must confess that my attention is presently elsewhere.”
He tightened his grip just slightly, underscoring his curiosity. “Oh? And who has captured your attention so completely that you cannot spare me a single glance?”
“Lord Fandrisson,” you returned distractedly, your gaze locking onto the blur of said man’s coat as he engaged in animated conversation with a laughing noblewoman across the floor.
A rake.
You should have known. A flicker of irritation sparked within you as you swiftly made your internal calculation that this was not the match you sought. You weren’t about to lower your standards to accept a man of wandering eyes who would later compromise your reputation, no matter his status or wealth. With a subtle sigh masked by polite detachment, you shifted your focus back to the mysterious stranger.
“I see,” he murmured as he scrutinized you with a knowing light. “Now that your gallant lord is otherwise occupied, perhaps my company has grown marginally more tolerable?”
“Do not presume, my lord,” you riposted with polite dismissal.
“Ah, but presumption is my specialty,” he countered with a diverted chuckle. “I presume you are not here merely to dance and twirl aimlessly among the concourse. No, I believe you watch every movement like would a merchant appraising a diamond.”
A ripple of unease stirred within you at the correctness of his observation. Your silence was his answer, and his smile deepened in acknowledgment.
“Yes,” he mused, triumphant as the final chords of the dance struck a somber note. “You are not here simply for pleasure.”
“And I presume you are a man with far too much time on his hands.”
“I assure you, if circumstances allowed, I would spend even more of it in your delightful company. Although, if my lady ever so grants me the opportunity, she could grace me with the honor of seeing more of her.”
You don’t bestow him the gift of a reply at his subtle dance request, favoring the liberty of slipping from his grasp in a graceful curtsy and a dismissive smile. You immediately turned on your heel and made your way toward the buffet, weaving through the crowded ballroom before he could pursue you.
You let out a soft groan as you sank into a nearby chair, the pressure of the evening finally catching up with you. The heels you’d chosen now felt like miniature daggers wedged into your feet. You’d forgotten just how much dancing could hurt after hours of relentless movement. Absentmindedly, you fiddled with the strap of one shoe, carefully slipping it off to rub the aching ball of your foot, praying that the small reprieve would last longer than a fleeting minute. 
The night had so far been long and frustrating—no matter the series of calculated encounters, it seemed every path had led you to an impasse.
And as if this losing streak didn’t suffice, a mishap occurred. From somewhere amidst the swirl of revelers, a full glass of wine veered off course and splashed with a jarring clink onto the hem of your gown, darkening the delicate fabric in a blot of deep, accusing color. 
The man responsible for the spill’s shock was immediately stricken with horror. “Oh, no—my sincerest apologies!” he blurted, trembling with dismay. Without hesitation, he kneeled before you, hastily retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at the spill, though his frantic efforts only seemed to spread the stain further.
You leaned back and let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Well, isn’t this just the cherry on top?” you remarked with a wry smile that masked your inner dismay. “It’s fine—truly. Merely one of those nights, I suppose.”
The man’s eyes darted up, uncertainty mingling with genuine concern as he studied your expression. “I’m terribly sorry,” he stammered, continuing his futile attempts to dab the stain away, and for a moment, you thought you might scold him on his clumsiness. But he then looked up fully, and his mask revealed a glimpse of a face you hadn’t expected to see.
There, beneath an elegant mask crafted like a noble stag with polished silver edges, were striking blue eyes—rich, intelligent, and filled with a gentle curiosity. Auburn waves of hair tumbled loosely about his face, framing a sharply handsome jaw and semi-full lips that held a timid smile. His voice, still polite but now imbued with a tender concern, broke the silence. "I truly didn’t mean to ruin your night, I’m afraid.”
You shook your head, dismissing his apologies with a gentle wave. “‘Tis quite alright,” you said, though your tone held a note of weary resignation. “It appears this evening is simply not in my favor.”
He hesitated, as if weighing his next words, before staring at the dance card clutched in your hand. “I must confess,” he let out in a softened tone, “that I’ve noticed your list… or rather, the absence of one.”
Your brows knitted in curiosity. “What of it?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
He offered a soft chuckle as he adjusted the delicate mask on his face. “It seems we share a similar predicament. Your stature tells me you’ve spent this evening dancing among a host of unworthy partners, and yet none have truly captured your attention. And now, this stain, though I presume is hardly the worst thing you’ve encountered, adds to the misfortune.”
A pang of recognition struck within you. Indeed, you had been deceived by every fleeting encounter, each partner presenting to be a disappointment. “I had hoped to find some meaningful company tonight,” you confessed quietly. “But every encounter has left me more disheartened.”
His eyes met yours again, and you saw a flicker of understanding there. “Perhaps,” he began tentatively, “if you are seeking someone who truly comprehends your plight, you might find solace in the garden.”
The promise of respite from the endless, empty chatter of the ballroom in his suggestion stirred a warmth in your chest. Without a moment’s hesitation, you nodded. “Yes, that sounds perfect.”
He rose gracefully, extending a strong, sure hand. “Let me to escort my lady to a quieter place,” he offered. His voice carried the gentle authority of someone who had known both the bitterness of disappointment and the sweetness of unexpected connection.
Tumblr media
You let him to guide you away from the crowded room and into the cool, moonlit air of the palace gardens. Lanterns hung from the top of the pristine pillars casted a shy glow over winding paths and the everflowing water on the sidelines of the road, the hush of night embracing you both as you walked in comfortable silence. The rustle of leaves and the distant echo of festivities formed a delicate symphony around you.
At last, he stopped in a secluded alcove where the moonlight painted various tessellations on the stone floor. “At the risk of defying this event’s purpose, I am Lord Hakon Alfvinsson,” he finally offered his name and confirmed your suspicion as to him being the last of your three most promising prey. “And I fear tonight has not been kind to you—nor, it seems, to me.”
You regarded him quietly. “I have been disappointed, more than once,” you admitted. “Each dance has left me wondering if true companionship is nothing more than an impossible feat to achieve.”
A gentle smile warmed his features. “Perhaps in another universe, our paths would have intertwined far sooner. For now, though, I offer you my company—and hopefully, a chance to escape this masquerade’s pretensions.”
You walked together deeper into one of the many gardens, each brush of his against yours sending a current of unexpected warmth through you. The conversation flowed effortlessly, and every step replaced the stress of the night with a tender sense of possibility. His rich and genuine laughter tangled with the soft breeze of the greensward, and you allowed yourself to find solace in a spark of hope that this encounter might mend your battered spirit and give way to a newfound tenderness that could put an end to the miseries of the past.
The road twisted and turned unexpectedly until suddenly you found yourself before an old friend of your youth—a labyrinth of ivy-draped hedges and weathered stone, its passages alive with the glow of radiant moss and the luminescence of moonflowers, and the extremity of the edges were bordered by the continuous water flows. The sight made you pause in your stroll, memories flooding back of carefree days spent wandering these winding corridors, where the maze had once been a source of delightful frustration as well as your secret escape. 
Hakon observed your momentary hesitation and gently smiled. “Do you know this place?” 
A playful smirk tugged at your lips as you scrutinized the openings of the twisting walls of the maze. “Indeed, I do. I used to get hopelessly lost here when I was a child—running through its corridors in search of a secret I could never quite name. It was both my escape and, at times, my torment.”
“A maze of memories, then? How enchanting,” your companion hummed.
Raising an eyebrow, you leaned in, your voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “What if I told you I could lead you through it—if you dared to follow?”
The afresh challenge that presently hung between you made him incline his head in mild intrigue. “I believe you’ll have to offer me more than mere words.”
With a spark of mischief, you stepped forward and declared, “Then let it be a game—if you can catch me in the maze, I shall reveal my name.” Without awaiting his reply, you vanished into the labyrinth’s embrace, your footsteps fading into the rustle of leaves.
The thrill was intoxicating—a rush akin to being chased like a princess by a secret suitor. You moved with purpose, pausing once behind a moss-draped statue of an ancient god to watch through half-hidden eyes as Hakon’s figure passed, his steady determination echoing softly in the labyrinth’s winding corridors. In a spontaneous act of daring, you let a decorative ribbon slip from your wrist, watching it fall softly onto the dew-kissed path and serve as a token for him to find.
Moonlight cast long, silvery shadows as you navigated the twisting pathways. You were sure the pounding of your heart in this escapade proved to be louder than the ever-growing distant strains of the ballroom’s music, gradually feeling like a fading echo from another world. At length, you reached the labyrinth’s center, where a magnificent fountain stood—a timeless relic adorned with ivy, its marble sculptures spilling water into a shallow basin. The fountain, a cherished landmark whispered about in noble circles, was said to have witnessed many lost romances and tragic secrets, its statues of entwined lovers now softened by time.
A sigh escaped your lips as you surveyed the scene. Here, in the cool embrace of history, you felt both a part of something ancient and poignantly out of place. Driven by exhaustion and a desperate need for relief, you stepped closer to the fountain and gingerly removed your heels. You cursed under your breath for favoring adrenaline over comfort.
You kneeled beside the fountain to rub the sore balls of your feet, grimacing as you tried to ease the burning ache in your ankles. Your reflection sent back a graceful figure in a gown marred by the night’s trials on the water’s surface and made you feel a glimmer of solace in that mirrored image.
The night, it seemed, had only begun to unfold its true mysteries. Amid the gentle murmur of water and rustling leaves, you heard soft footsteps behind you. Assuming it was Hakon, you glanced overhead, only to find emptiness. You returned your focus with a frown to the water's reflection, only to catch the unsettling reflection of a towering, dark figure with elongated horns standing immediately behind you. A chill shot through you, and you let out a startled scream, stumbling backward and tripping over the fountain’s stone edge.
Before you could crash into the cold water, strong arms intercepted your fall, steadying you. "’Tis alright, you won’t fall." You gasped, your heart pounding as you faced the stranger and, in a burst of indignation, shoved him back. 
“You followed me?” you demanded, your voice sharp with embarrassment and anger.
Your dance partner from earlier regarded you with a calm sense of amusement and chirpily replied, “I couldn’t help but notice the game you were playing, and I hate to be left out.”
Your cheeks flushed as you retorted, “What are you doing here? I had company!” trying desperately to mask your uncertainty.
A faint, almost mocking smile curled on his lips as he bowed his head forward at the notion. "A company that, I’m afraid, did not quite reach the right point," he returned, retrieving the ribbon you had let behind on your way and raising it to your eyes. The unwanted chaperone surprised you even more by announcing your exact name regardless of how your mask hid your identity, laying a secret laid bare in the cold night.
Your blood ran cold. "Who are you?" you fearfully asked in a poorly concealed tremble.
The man took a slow step forward, his eyes piercing as though searching your soul. "Let us not concern ourselves with names just yet," he intoned with purpose. "What I care about is striking a deal—a deal I suspect you, too, are here to negotiate."
A shiver ran through you as his words settled in the air, heavy with implication. You stilled, instinctively bracing yourself against the newfound tension.
He observed you in silence for a long moment, then continued, "You’ve traversed quite the journey tonight, haven’t you? I’m sure you did not expect it to be this arduous." 
You scowled, tightening your jaw. "You think you know what I want?" you spat, masking fear with thin defiance. "You know nothing."
"Imaginably so," he acquiesced with a slight, enigmatic smile, "but I know enough to offer you a choice. Shall we walk back together?"
You hesitated, caught between distrust and the inescapable necessity of his proposition. But the pain in your feet reminded you of your vulnerability, and you winced as you took a tentative step backward. 
He let out an almost imperceptible sigh when he made note of your lack of following his stride, showing his exasperation at the situation before briefly excusing himself and kneeling despite your protests.
"This will be brief," he mumbled as he gently took your foot in his hand, making you sit on the edge of the fountain. "I promise." Magic abruptly stirred around your foot like a liquid balm, soothing the burning pain even as strange tautness coiled within you.
"This is... inappropriate," you muttered, trying to mask your discomfort with protest.
He looked up at you, his expression inscrutable beneath the mask. "Is it not more inappropriate to seek power and fortune through marriage when so much is already lost?" he mockingly replied.
You blinked, caught off guard by his candor. His voice, though sharp, resonated with a truth you had long feared to accept. With your heart pounding and your mind swirling with uncertainty, you could only nod silently.
His magic had finished its work, and as you flexed your toes, relief washed over you in an almost shocking wave. The persistent ache had melted away into a soft, comforting sensation—one that left you wondering if it were real or merely an illusion borne of exhaustion. You slowly exhaled, trying to shake off the ghost of his touch that still lingered on your skin.
"I’ll have you consider, my lord," you cockily remarked, "that it is hardly wise to reveal such an extraordinary facet of one’s abilities if one intends to remain in the shadows. Few in Asgard wield magic with such refined grace."
Silence stretched between you for an instant as his fingers stilled momentarily before continuing their work while a satisfied smile drew on his lips as he adjusted the delicate seams of your shoes. "You flatter me. I did not plan to remain entirely anonymous for too long," he enigmatically explained. "Merely a precaution until all is properly explained."
His words, refined with subtle assurance, sent a shiver of intrigue and uncertainty alike through you. He readjusted the footwear on your heels with careful, practiced movements, allowing your dress to fall back into place with an almost choreographed swish.
"Well, I must confess, you are extraordinarily skilled," you half-heartedly grumbled, accrediting his exploit in a fragile blend of admiration and guarded reserve.
You stirred your gaze to his face as you straightened in the half-light, and you found yourself uncomfortably close—so close that the faint scent of his cool, forest-like cologne mingled with the night air. You caught a glimpse of something familiar in his dark, intense eyes—a depth that formed in you an inexplicable recognition in the abstract of an incantation from a distant, forgotten dream you couldn’t fully recall.
He cleared his throat to disperse the moment, his eyes flickering away for a moment before returning to meet yours with unwavering intensity. "Thank you," he acknowledged your compliment. "I endeavor to ensure all is comfortable at the very least."
Without further ado, he gracefully extended his hand to you in a remarkably assertive manner. You hesitated, just for a breath, before placing your fingers within his and were hoisted from your seat. His touch was not as cold as you expected, encircling yours with a tenderness that belied the enigmatic aura about him. It was a stark contrast to the brooding air that seemed to cling to him like a leech.
His hand left yours, traveling swiftly and surely to your waist, pulling you effortlessly into his arms. The sudden movement left you breathless, a gasp caught in your throat, and before you could gather yourself, your feet left the ground entirely.
The world blurred, and you were placed under the impression of being transported to the very heavens, until at last you found your feet once again on solid ground, just outside the imposing gates of the palace.
You blinked, disoriented—the sudden shift left you reeling, unsure how to reconcile the grandeur of your new surroundings with the suddenness of your arrival. Your captor stood otherwise perfectly composed beside you, granting you a moment to collect yourself. You took a step away from him as you attempted to steady your breath from the unexpectedness of finding yourself placed in front of the grandeur of the palace that loomed before you like a stately monument to bygone eras.
 "I do apologize if I startled you, but I trust your feet are no longer in distress?"
You managed a stiff nod, the shock of your sudden journey leaving you momentarily. Gathering your courage, you probed, “You mentioned a... proposition, did you not? You are aware of my search, I take it?”
“Indeed, a dear friend of mine shared your plight with me. And I must confess, I find myself most intrigued. Not only do I possess all that you seek, but I too am in need of a partner. It seems our interests, much like the stars above, align quite marvelously.”
Your heart pounded as you searched his face for any hint of pretense. Unable to quell your curiosity, you ventured, “But tell me—how did you recognize me? And how exactly do you come to be intrigued, as you so cleverly put it?"
He leaned in, a teasing glint dancing in his eyes. "A woman of such singular beauty and undeniable grace cannot be so easily overlooked. Not by those who know where to look." 
You stiffened, unwilling to be charmed just yet. "A clever answer," you commented with irony. "But not the truth, I think."
"Perhaps I am avoiding the question," he admitted after a chuckle, the intimacy of his velvet voice curling around you in a tender embrace. "But truth is a malleable thing. Some of us are better at recognizing it in others than others might think. A shark," he murmured with darkened eyes, "recognizes another."
The words struck you with the force of a well-aimed arrow, yet you refused to allow him to see the discomfort they stirred within you. You could not give him that satisfaction.
You arched an eyebrow, a glimmer of defiance in your eyes. “Is that your final word? You presume yourself to be more adept than I?” 
His smirk deepened. “I am no stranger to the darkness,” he replied in a near whisper, as if sharing a tantalizing secret. “You’ve grown quite accustomed to keeping your secrets hidden. But even in the darkest shadows, one cannot quite conceal what is most true." His gaze flicked over you, tracing every shift in your posture. "I see you clearly, far more clearly than you realize. Your loyalty, your purpose... they cannot be so easily disguised."
Your thoughts scrambled, unsure how to respond. His words, far too close to hitting home, had pierced straight to the heart of your most guarded truths. How did he know? How was it possible?
You blinked, composing yourself before responding, “You overpraise yourself. I am certain my secrets are well kept.”
It felt sickeningly liberating to admit such veracities to an individual purely unknown to you. You weren’t sure what compelled you to talk so openly about your peculiar situation, nor how easily he could rip answers from you. You resolved yourself by thinking that since he was well-versed in your predicament, it was unnecessary to continue holding pretenses. 
You were fairly aware of the danger it represented, but couldn’t help but wonder about the upper motives behind his head as you noticed his intense scrutiny briefly softening into an unguarded stare, until it subdued, vanishing as quickly as it had come. “You may be right, but the truth remains and shines through even in the dark.”
The moment seemed to stretch endlessly, leaving you uncertain of how to proceed—unsure whether you should resist or surrender to the allure of this enigmatic man who seemed to know far too much for your well-being.
The distant sounds of celebration from the palace echoed in your ears as he spoke. It felt as though you were no longer part of that world—instead, you were suspended in the matter of him and the delicate thread of proposition tying you in this instant.
Your footsteps resounded upon the marble as you and your escort ascended the grand staircase. "Consider my offer," he reminded you with the effervescence of a man desperate to gain the upper hand. "We both have much to gain from an alliance, don’t we?"
The hubbub from within the ballroom swelled in anticipation, and through the heavy oak doors came the prelude to an announcement—a heralding of destiny, if you will. 
"—and we are honored to present—" a resonant voice declared as you passed beneath the towering archway. The masked person’s stance beside you remained composed through and through. 
Despite the magnetic pull of his company, you chose to maintain a dignified reserve, keeping your eyes fixed forward. "And what would you have me offer in return? A business partner, or something more intimate?"
"Both and neither, my dear," he revealed. "It is all for the sake of pretense, if you will. I offer to be your sponsor, should you require assistance in your pursuits. In return, you would be my companion—a partner, if you will, in both ambition and heart."
You halted, a gentle laugh escaping you as you shook your head in light reproach. "Oh, you are far too cocky, my good sir. Do you honestly think I would entertain such a ludicrous proposal?"
He turned his head slightly, his eyes dancing with secret amusement. "A magician, my dear, can conjure the finest dreams if one so wishes. I assure you, I can be of considerable service."
Your skepticism was met with his unyielding charm as you retorted, "It is all rather too good to be true—a benefactor offering wealth and support, all for the sake of a companion's company?"
“That is precisely the allure, isn't it? To offer what no one else would dare, and still have you question its merit. The greatest power lies in making the impossible seem desirable. I give you only what you are willing to take, and in turn, you shall offer only what you are willing to give."
"And what would you give me then?"
He paused at your question, and turned to you before reaching out and taking your hand. Bowing ever so slightly, he pressed his lips to your appendage in a chaste kiss, eyes of the prettiest shade of a green forest after rainfall piercing right through yours.
"Anything."
For a heartbeat, the world stilled at the entrance, and the cacophony of the ballroom hushed to a mere murmur as the two of you stood rooted in that secluded spot. You vaguely dismissed the prickling sensation in your cheeks as your eyes held the fort, searching, questioning, and then you dared to ask once more in a soft whisper, "Who are you?"
Before he could answer, your small bubble was cut short by the announcer’s resounding call: "—and we are honored to welcome back Prince Loki!" The proclamation reverberated off the gilded walls, and in an instant, all eyes turned toward your squire. A collective gasp, a flurry of whispered exclamations, and the clapping of hands enveloped the chamber as the guests acknowledged his return.
Every mask in the room seemed to shudder and fall by an unseen force—leaving bare faces, expressions, and the secrets lying behind them. Your heart lurched as you realized with dawning horror that the very man you had exchanged witty repartee with, the man whose gentle touch had eased your aches and whose clever words had stirred something in you was none other than Prince Loki.
Shock, disbelief, and mounting embarrassment surged within you. You glanced down at your stained gown, a silent testament to the night’s mishaps, and then back to him. His countenance remained disarmingly calm as if nothing untoward had occurred. But your mind reeled—you had mocked, you had bantered, and now the revelation threatened to unravel you.
Without a word, you yanked your hand away and spun on your heel, intent on escaping the prying eyes of the crowd. The sharp command of the Einherjars rang out behind you—"Halt!"—but before they could reach you, the prince’s hand shot out to stop them, his posture resolute and his smile broad, as if nothing had transpired.
Your feet pounded the grand staircase as you fled, each step a stamp to your panic and humiliation. The echoes of whispered judgments and the clinking of glasses trailed behind you, a cacophony of reproach that you could scarcely bear.
The masquerade had revealed its cruelest irony: you had been unmasked before your time, your carefully crafted image laid bare for all to see—and now, the stakes had been irrevocably raised.
Tumblr media
CHAPTER TWO.⠀|⠀CHAPTER THREE.⠀|⠀CHAPTER FOUR.
see more His For The Season related works.
Want to read more of my works? Check out my masterlist !
⠀⠀
dividers ©️ @strangergraphics + unknown .
angelremnants ©️ 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost, reproduce, or distribute without explicit permission.
42 notes · View notes
angelremnants · 4 months ago
Text
Chapter three, Let the Festivites Begin, has been posted !
Happy reading. 🤍
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
HIS FOR THE SEASON, In which you once reigned at the pinnacle of Asgard’s elite, only to fall and leave behind nothing but hushed whispers and fading echoes of your name. Loki, the enigmatic prince, fared no better with his exile shrouded in scandal, reducing him to little more than a ghost haunting the opulent corridors of the court.
But as a new Courting Season begins, both of you return, bound by a fabricated betrothal with ambitions far greater than love. In this unlikely alliance, you seek not only to reclaim the splendor that was once yours but to restore the honor and wealth that fate so cruelly stole. And your ascent to glory begins with seizing the coveted title of Amber of the Season.
pairing : Loki Laufeyson x f!reader
status : ongoing !
author's notes : For the first time since I started writing here, this series will unfold as any other would in chapters of regulated length (as I'm sure to be known amongst my faithful readers to write a lot more than necessary). Updates will be infrequent as I'm still a university student with university duties (especially right now as it's the midterm season).
I'd also like to dedicate a segment to the lovely @perseephoneee who has also written an amazing Bridgerton AU Loki fanfiction, so I'd recommend you check it out. <3
( Read this series on AO3 ! )
Tumblr media
PROLOGUE, The Inaugural Chronicle
As the Courting Season dawns upon Asgard, the grand halls prepare to echo with whispered secrets and glittering alliances. You can put your worries aside, dearest reader, as the Hidden Storyteller is here to report on the new upcomings.
CHAPTER ONE, The Price of Pride
In the first installment of our ever-tangled tale, we find both our fair protagonist and a mischievous prince at the crossroads of deception and ambition. As deals are struck and masks are donned, dear readers, be warned that not all that glitters is gold, and not every promise comes without a price.
CHAPTER TWO, The Mask of Opportunity
Whispers of an upcoming masquerade have set the court abuzz, but for some, this is more than a mere night of revelry. You received an invitation alongside a most intriguing list of prospects—truly an opportunity wrapped in silk and secrecy. Meanwhile, a fallen prince finds himself backed into a corner, only to glimpse a way out through the very same affair. One wonders—when the masks are donned and the dance begins, will it be fate that takes the lead, or sheer cunning?
CHAPTER THREE, Let the Festivities Begin
You, dearest reader, enter the glittering halls of the royal palace to step into a territory of many calculated dances and the promise of scandal or salvation. Amid the interplay of masquerade and mystery, you navigate a treacherous chessboard of masked suitors with poise born of both refined resolve and lingering regret, until you find yourself unwittingly entwined with an enigmatic gentleman whose unexpected charm defies all expectation. 
CHAPTER FOUR, ...
[ Coming soon ! ]
EXTRAS...
⇨⠀Asgard's map.
Tumblr media
Want to read more of my works? Check out my masterlist !
⠀⠀
dividers ©️ @angelremnants + unknown .
angelremnants ©️ 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost, reproduce, or distribute without explicit permission.
56 notes · View notes
angelremnants · 4 months ago
Text
HIS FOR THE SEASON l L. Laufeyson
CHAPTER THREE,⠀Let the Festivities Begin
Tumblr media
chapter summary : You, dearest reader, enter the glittering halls of the royal palace to step into a territory of many calculated dances and the promise of scandal or salvation. Amid the interplay of masquerade and mystery, you navigate a treacherous chessboard of masked suitors with poise born of both refined resolve and lingering regret, until you find yourself unwittingly entwined with an enigmatic gentleman whose unexpected charm defies all expectation. 
pairing : Loki Laufeyson x f!reader
warnings : Mature (16+), would Loki suffice as a warning? overall tension and romantic suspense, some banter, mild asshole behaviors from secondary characters, brief embarrassment. Proceed with caution if you're sensitive to such material.
word count : 7.2k
author's notes : Ao3 saw it first. ;)
Finally, the first meeting with Loki! But don't get fooled by his charming nature my lovelies—after all, you never know what goes on in the head of the God of Chaos.
(ao3 version)
Tumblr media
The Royal Palace of Valaskjalf was both a monument and a testament to power and eternity itself—to most, it appeared as an unshakable citadel of gleaming gold that crowned the heart of Asgard, a realm of wonder and somber majesty acting as a sanctuary where time seemed to bow in reverence.
From the outside, you could wager that its spires stretched toward Valhalla, piercing the sky like the spears of warriors long past. The celestial sheen of its walls caught the light of distant stars, casting reflections that lustered like the surface of an ethereal lake. The great dome loomed over the city like a silent watcher, its celestial map shifting under the soft glow of the Bifrost’s ever-present gleam.
Such an imposing avenue made it impossible for the general public to accurately predict the nature of the fight hidden behind this golden cage.
It had been years since you last set foot on this site since that fateful day, when the echo of a gavel’s finality and the chilling hush of a horrified court marked the execution of your father. The memory of that day, when your name fell from grace along with his, floated in the back of your mind like a vengeful ghost that only you could feel.
Your entrance was neither grand nor meek—you made sure that each step and each breath you took were carefully controlled, though your lungs still burned with the weight of anticipated scrutiny as you navigated on the mirror-like polished path.
The muted candlelight caught the glint of your silver adornments, a deliberate departure from your once resplendent golden radiance. Silver, you mused, was softer, more elusive, and harder to grasp, just as you had become. 
Your temporary escorts left you to ascend a sweeping staircase spiraling upward like the inner whorls of the seashells you could find on the coasts of the Sea of Marmora, leading you to the palace's beating heart. Here, the space opened up into a cavern of opulence, bathed in the subdued flare of countless chandeliers. Each crystal droplet refracted the candlelight into a cascade of tiny rainbows, casting prismatic patterns upon the crimson velvet drapes and glossy stone walls. 
High vaulted ceilings arched overhead, made of frescoes depicting celestial battles and the fabled journeys of ancient gods, imbuing the room with a sense of both awe and foreboding. Massive carved pillars crowned with gold leaf punctuated the space like silent sentinels guarding secret treasures and every surface, from the varnished ground to the luxurious banqueting tables set along the periphery, spoke of a past that was as resplendent as it was ruthless.
Tonight, however, this dazzling splendor was a world of gilded illusions accompanied by the soft strains of a string quartet, mingling to form a symphony of refined decadence where the guests, arrayed in sumptuous costumes and elegant masks, moved with an effortless grace.
Standing at the edge of this cathedral of aristocratic ambition, your heart beat a measured tattoo against the hush of whispered strategies. You were now both an observer and a participant in this game of politics—a lone huntress, poised to select your prey from among the throng of covert suitors. 
You remembered a time when you navigated these halls with ease—but now the rules of this venture seemed foreign, and the board itself an enigma. You would not act rashly for the sake of nostalgia. 
A hunter, you reminded yourself, never strikes at the first sign of movement. 
You marched along the periphery of the dance hall, your eyes drifting over the throng to visually dissect it. There was dominion in being seen yet unseen, acknowledged yet dismissed. That duality, you knew, was a weapon in itself and, if used well, would lead you to successfully identify your collection of prey.
A hunter did not strike blindly. You were here to stalk, study, choose and mark your targets with the precision of a seasoned predator surveying her terrain.
Posture was the first tell. The elites carried themselves with a natural command that resonated in their squared shoulders and chests subtly puffed in practiced ease. Some lounged in what you identified as strategic boredom, with slouched stances hinting at a quiet confidence that belied a mind already playing the game. Others, the pawns of this gathering, fidgeted nervously—adjusting sleeves, shifting weight, darting furtive glances in search of approval.
Speech and the cadence of a man’s words revealed much more than mere conversation. Highborn Asgardians spoke as if every syllable had been lacquered and honed, each word part of a greater performance. In contrast, the lesser nobles stumbled through their phrases, their hurried and clumsy utterances betraying a lack of refinement. You listened intently to snippets of conversation as you followed the borders of the ballroom, distinguishing the voices of true power from the braggarts who merely recounted tales of battles won or the number of horses bred.
Circles of conversation provided another clue. Influence, you had long realized, was gauged by proximity: how bodies clustered around a single figure, how attentively they leaned in. A man surrounded by a modest yet focused circle was worth noting, while those isolated or drowning in flattery were less so.
Clothing epitomized another language of well-managed wealth. Ostentatious rings and gem-studded cuffs declared it so, but the truly powerful needed no such desperate displays. Imported fabrics, the embroidered sigils at the hems, the careful balance between regalia and restraint—all these stated secure fortunes and deep-rooted influence. 
And still, it was the smallest details that mattered most. The way a man adjusted his mask too often as if it stifled him—perhaps hiding a secret. The subtle tension in his fingers curling around a goblet, possibly holding back or restraining an impulse. A glance that lingered just a moment too long, a poorly concealed smirk at another’s misfortune that translated into amusement at a rival’s expense.
Finally, the dance cards clutched by every noble, their names etched in ink that redirected the minds to alliances and commitments. A dance was never just a dance in these circles—it was a silent contract, a political maneuver, a statement of alignment. They told you who was already spoken for, who was in high demand, and who had been conspicuously avoided.
With those clues, you had easily identified your top three targets. All that remained for now was to act according to what you presumed would be their tastes in women.
The first target was Lord Eirikr Veidarson—a man of imposing stature whose bloodline, newly raised to high nobility, bore the staple of countless heroic deeds. His father, a renowned monster hunter, had amassed a fortune by felling beasts whose very names stirred terror in the hearts of common men. Rumor had it that Eirikr himself had felled a Nemean lion with but a single swift shot, and his bowstring was said to be the last sound many a creature ever heard.
Even in a ballroom crowded with towering figures, he was impossible to ignore. Tall and broad-shouldered, his form was draped in a dark stormy-blue doublet, intricately stitched with white embroidery depicting hunting hounds in pursuit of their quarry. His golden hair, styled with a hint of untamed wildness, caught the light as if ignited by an inner flame. Yet it was his alert amber eyes that truly marked him as a predator among men, concealed partly by the polished bone mask fashioned in the shape of a wolf’s maw.
You knew that a man of such brute force would favor innocence wrapped in grace and adoration delivered in wide-eyed wonder, a match made for a demure debutante rather than a strategist such as yourself. And so you assumed the role, your mind set to mimic the mannerisms of one easily impressed.
Timing it just so, you allowed the swell of passing dancers to nudge you from behind, deliberately staggering into his path with a startled gasp. The collision was slight—a mere brush of silken fabric against his broad chest—but his reaction was immediate. His calloused hands enveloped your waist in a firm, steadying grip, preventing your fall.
“My lady,” he rumbled, his voice as confident and warm as a well-strung bow, and his eyes twinkled with mirth behind that imposing mask. His grip lingered a moment too long, and a playful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I do not recall slaying a spirit this evening, yet here you appear, as though conjured by the Norns themselves.”
A breathy laugh escaped you, sharing a mixture of feigned embarrassment and genuine intrigue. “Forgive me, my lord,” you managed, your gaze drifting momentarily to the swirling mob of masked figures before returning to his expectant eyes. “I am but newly of age and, I confess, rather lost in the splendor of this... labyrinth of revelry.”
Eirikr’s grin deepened, his confidence undiminished. “Then allow me the honor of guiding you through this treacherous place, my lady. A dancing hall is no place to wander alone.”
Without further delay, his rough hand reached for your dance card, and in bold, slightly uneven strokes—possibly more accustomed to drawing arrows than elegant script—he claimed a place upon it. The ink barely dried before he took your hand and led you toward the dance floor, where the orchestra’s swell seemed to echo the rapid beat of your heart.
As your feet found their rhythm in the dance, you seized the opportunity to steer the exchange toward his place in court. With a delicate tilt of your head and a practiced smile, you let your curiosity emerge. “And pray, my lord, what of your influence in the halls of power? Surely one as accomplished as yourself must wield considerable sway?”
His response was but expected, boasting loudly without restraint. The harmonious tune of the ballroom shattered as heads turned toward the source of his voice. “Politics? Bah!” he declared with a deep, resonant laugh that made the very walls seem to tremble. “I have no patience for such matters! My father would have my hide if I so much as rearranged the great hall, let alone participated in the trivialities of the royal counseling.” 
Truth became crystal clear at that moment. Here was a man more inclined to the thrill of the hunt than the subtle dance of diplomacy—a brute of formidable strength yet without the refined ambition required for the life you sought. Your smile wavered ever so slightly. He was undeniably appealing, yet his nature was far removed from the shrewd partner you needed.
Feigning a sudden distraction, you let your voice drop into a soft exclamation. “Oh! I believe I have just seen a dear friend arrive.” Your words, laced with regret and a hint of contrived urgency, provided the perfect excuse to slip away from his grasp.
The noble hunter blinked, surprise flickering across his features as you offered a graceful curtsy and melted back toward the periphery of the dance floor. As your figure receded into the tapestry of masked bodies, your breath escaped in a quiet exhale.
One down, you thought.
You cursed under your breath as your eyes fell upon the damning ink on your dance card. That single name, enchanted by forces you did not command, clung to your record like an iron shackle.
Foolish choice. You should have been more selective, more cautious. Now, no matter how the night unfolded, one dance had irrevocably been reserved for a man whose worth had proven to be naught.
The impact of that decision gnawed at you when suddenly, a prickling sensation crept up your spine.
Someone was watching you.
You turned your head ever so slightly, scanning the gilded expanse of the ballroom, but the sensation flickered into an ember snuffed out before you could trace its source. Instead, as if by fate’s own design, your gaze landed on another man.
Dark-skinned and striking, he wore a mask fashioned in the sleek guise of a golden sly fox. He was surrounded by men speaking in conspiratorial tones and women whose laughter rang with practiced elegance. Lord Valbrand Fandrisson, you recognized, was a name woven into the tapestry of noble influence. His presence attested to being a descendant of a long line of Asgardian power, his status as well-connected as it was enviable. 
His eyes, luminous as molten gold, sparkled with greedy amusement. You had seen that same assessing look before, among the countless suitors your uncle once paraded before you like prized steeds.
A plan formed swiftly. With practiced grace, you lifted your fan in your left hand and snapped it open, letting the delicate accessory flutter before your face. I wish to be acquainted, you silently declared in this secret correspondence meant to test his mettle. If he truly knew the language of this game, he would understand immediately.
Within moments, his lips curled in a faint smirk as he disentangled himself from his current company. He strode toward you with the absolute assurance of a predatory gait. “You send a most intriguing message, my lady,” he smoothly declared, dipping his head in courteous deference. “And I, of course, cannot let such an invitation go unanswered.”
A soft laugh escaped you, one tempered with both mirthfulness and regret. “Then I can assume you are no fool, Lord Fandrisson.”
“On the contrary,” he replied, letting his gaze wander to your dance card. “I find it rather curious that a lady of your grace bears only a solitary name tonight.” His tone held a teasing lilt that made you wince internally.
“Alas, circumstance did not grant me the luxury to refuse a dance when it was proffered, nor did it allow me to choose my companions freely. My company, regrettably, was not that which I sought.” Your eyes flickered toward the distant crowd, offering the perfect excuse in your spun tale. “I must now retire to the sidelines.”
“If such is the case, my lady, allow me to escort you back to the dance floor,” he insisted, extending a gloved hand. “I would hate for you to remain a mere spectator on such a splendid night.”
The orchestra struck up a new melody, dictating the patterned pace of the group dance. You had hoped for a more intimate waltz, one that would afford you a private moment with your newfound companion, but the Norns, ever so capricious, had other plans. Conversely, you found yourself ensnared in the rhythm of a grand formation where partners were constantly exchanged. Despite the constant pairing and unpairing, you resolved to seize every fleeting moment that might leave an indelible impression on your quarry.
The first turn passed in a courteous blur. “I must say,” you ventured lightly as he spun you gracefully beneath his arm, “I have long heard of your mastery in the courtly arts. Yet, I begin to suspect that your talents extend beyond statesmanship and into the realm of dance.” You hoped your subtle compliment woven into an inquiry might have opened a window to dive into his ambitions.
Before he could respond, the pattern dictated a change. You released his hand as another pair of gloved fingers closed around yours. The transition was swift—one moment you were in the familiar grasp of Lord Fandrisson, and the next, you found yourself with a different partner.
He was tall, taller than most in attendance, with an air of elegant nonchalance that set him apart from the rigid, well-practiced lords. His mask, fashioned of blackened material and carved into the sweeping visage of a chimera, added even more to his height with the resplendent tall horns attached to the base. His lips curled into an unmistakable smirk that shone beneath his dark curls, carelessly cascading over his forehead and his sharp cheekbones as he bowed his head in mock deference.
"Ah, fortune smiles upon me this evening," he greeted you with a smooth and rich as velvet voice. "It appears that the lady graced with divine beauty of the line has, by some twist of providence, fallen to me instead."
You arched a brow at his words, silently noting the underlying mischief in his remarks. It was hardly unusual for a dance partner to be switched at the last moment, whether by design or chance, but there was something about his cadence that hinted at careful orchestration. Regardless, you reminded yourself that he was merely a transient partner meant to distract while your true interest remained in the distance.
Your gaze flitted to the far side of the ballroom, where Lord Fandrisson’s matte purple coat and imposing presence were unmistakable, even amidst the swirling throng. “Eager to be rid of me already?” the stranger teased as he guided you through the next step of the dance. “How cruel, that I should be so quickly discarded.”
“I am afraid I am otherwise occupied,” you answered airily, your eyes darting away in search of your intended quarry. “I must confess that my attention is presently elsewhere.”
He tightened his grip just slightly, underscoring his curiosity. “Oh? And who has captured your attention so completely that you cannot spare me a single glance?”
“Lord Fandrisson,” you returned distractedly, your gaze locking onto the blur of said man’s coat as he engaged in animated conversation with a laughing noblewoman across the floor.
A rake.
You should have known. A flicker of irritation sparked within you as you swiftly made your internal calculation that this was not the match you sought. You weren’t about to lower your standards to accept a man of wandering eyes who would later compromise your reputation, no matter his status or wealth. With a subtle sigh masked by polite detachment, you shifted your focus back to the mysterious stranger.
“I see,” he murmured as he scrutinized you with a knowing light. “Now that your gallant lord is otherwise occupied, perhaps my company has grown marginally more tolerable?”
“Do not presume, my lord,” you riposted with polite dismissal.
“Ah, but presumption is my specialty,” he countered with a diverted chuckle. “I presume you are not here merely to dance and twirl aimlessly among the concourse. No, I believe you watch every movement like would a merchant appraising a diamond.”
A ripple of unease stirred within you at the correctness of his observation. Your silence was his answer, and his smile deepened in acknowledgment.
“Yes,” he mused, triumphant as the final chords of the dance struck a somber note. “You are not here simply for pleasure.”
“And I presume you are a man with far too much time on his hands.”
“I assure you, if circumstances allowed, I would spend even more of it in your delightful company. Although, if my lady ever so grants me the opportunity, she could grace me with the honor of seeing more of her.”
You don’t bestow him the gift of a reply at his subtle dance request, favoring the liberty of slipping from his grasp in a graceful curtsy and a dismissive smile. You immediately turned on your heel and made your way toward the buffet, weaving through the crowded ballroom before he could pursue you.
You let out a soft groan as you sank into a nearby chair, the pressure of the evening finally catching up with you. The heels you’d chosen now felt like miniature daggers wedged into your feet. You’d forgotten just how much dancing could hurt after hours of relentless movement. Absentmindedly, you fiddled with the strap of one shoe, carefully slipping it off to rub the aching ball of your foot, praying that the small reprieve would last longer than a fleeting minute. 
The night had so far been long and frustrating—no matter the series of calculated encounters, it seemed every path had led you to an impasse.
And as if this losing streak didn’t suffice, a mishap occurred. From somewhere amidst the swirl of revelers, a full glass of wine veered off course and splashed with a jarring clink onto the hem of your gown, darkening the delicate fabric in a blot of deep, accusing color. 
The man responsible for the spill’s shock was immediately stricken with horror. “Oh, no—my sincerest apologies!” he blurted, trembling with dismay. Without hesitation, he kneeled before you, hastily retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at the spill, though his frantic efforts only seemed to spread the stain further.
You leaned back and let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Well, isn’t this just the cherry on top?” you remarked with a wry smile that masked your inner dismay. “It’s fine—truly. Merely one of those nights, I suppose.”
The man’s eyes darted up, uncertainty mingling with genuine concern as he studied your expression. “I’m terribly sorry,” he stammered, continuing his futile attempts to dab the stain away, and for a moment, you thought you might scold him on his clumsiness. But he then looked up fully, and his mask revealed a glimpse of a face you hadn’t expected to see.
There, beneath an elegant mask crafted like a noble stag with polished silver edges, were striking blue eyes—rich, intelligent, and filled with a gentle curiosity. Auburn waves of hair tumbled loosely about his face, framing a sharply handsome jaw and semi-full lips that held a timid smile. His voice, still polite but now imbued with a tender concern, broke the silence. "I truly didn’t mean to ruin your night, I’m afraid.”
You shook your head, dismissing his apologies with a gentle wave. “‘Tis quite alright,” you said, though your tone held a note of weary resignation. “It appears this evening is simply not in my favor.”
He hesitated, as if weighing his next words, before staring at the dance card clutched in your hand. “I must confess,” he let out in a softened tone, “that I’ve noticed your list… or rather, the absence of one.”
Your brows knitted in curiosity. “What of it?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
He offered a soft chuckle as he adjusted the delicate mask on his face. “It seems we share a similar predicament. Your stature tells me you’ve spent this evening dancing among a host of unworthy partners, and yet none have truly captured your attention. And now, this stain, though I presume is hardly the worst thing you’ve encountered, adds to the misfortune.”
A pang of recognition struck within you. Indeed, you had been deceived by every fleeting encounter, each partner presenting to be a disappointment. “I had hoped to find some meaningful company tonight,” you confessed quietly. “But every encounter has left me more disheartened.”
His eyes met yours again, and you saw a flicker of understanding there. “Perhaps,” he began tentatively, “if you are seeking someone who truly comprehends your plight, you might find solace in the garden.”
The promise of respite from the endless, empty chatter of the ballroom in his suggestion stirred a warmth in your chest. Without a moment’s hesitation, you nodded. “Yes, that sounds perfect.”
He rose gracefully, extending a strong, sure hand. “Let me to escort my lady to a quieter place,” he offered. His voice carried the gentle authority of someone who had known both the bitterness of disappointment and the sweetness of unexpected connection.
Tumblr media
You let him to guide you away from the crowded room and into the cool, moonlit air of the palace gardens. Lanterns hung from the top of the pristine pillars casted a shy glow over winding paths and the everflowing water on the sidelines of the road, the hush of night embracing you both as you walked in comfortable silence. The rustle of leaves and the distant echo of festivities formed a delicate symphony around you.
At last, he stopped in a secluded alcove where the moonlight painted various tessellations on the stone floor. “At the risk of defying this event’s purpose, I am Lord Hakon Alfvinsson,” he finally offered his name and confirmed your suspicion as to him being the last of your three most promising prey. “And I fear tonight has not been kind to you—nor, it seems, to me.”
You regarded him quietly. “I have been disappointed, more than once,” you admitted. “Each dance has left me wondering if true companionship is nothing more than an impossible feat to achieve.”
A gentle smile warmed his features. “Perhaps in another universe, our paths would have intertwined far sooner. For now, though, I offer you my company—and hopefully, a chance to escape this masquerade’s pretensions.”
You walked together deeper into one of the many gardens, each brush of his against yours sending a current of unexpected warmth through you. The conversation flowed effortlessly, and every step replaced the stress of the night with a tender sense of possibility. His rich and genuine laughter tangled with the soft breeze of the greensward, and you allowed yourself to find solace in a spark of hope that this encounter might mend your battered spirit and give way to a newfound tenderness that could put an end to the miseries of the past.
The road twisted and turned unexpectedly until suddenly you found yourself before an old friend of your youth—a labyrinth of ivy-draped hedges and weathered stone, its passages alive with the glow of radiant moss and the luminescence of moonflowers, and the extremity of the edges were bordered by the continuous water flows. The sight made you pause in your stroll, memories flooding back of carefree days spent wandering these winding corridors, where the maze had once been a source of delightful frustration as well as your secret escape. 
Hakon observed your momentary hesitation and gently smiled. “Do you know this place?” 
A playful smirk tugged at your lips as you scrutinized the openings of the twisting walls of the maze. “Indeed, I do. I used to get hopelessly lost here when I was a child—running through its corridors in search of a secret I could never quite name. It was both my escape and, at times, my torment.”
“A maze of memories, then? How enchanting,” your companion hummed.
Raising an eyebrow, you leaned in, your voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “What if I told you I could lead you through it—if you dared to follow?”
The afresh challenge that presently hung between you made him incline his head in mild intrigue. “I believe you’ll have to offer me more than mere words.”
With a spark of mischief, you stepped forward and declared, “Then let it be a game—if you can catch me in the maze, I shall reveal my name.” Without awaiting his reply, you vanished into the labyrinth’s embrace, your footsteps fading into the rustle of leaves.
The thrill was intoxicating—a rush akin to being chased like a princess by a secret suitor. You moved with purpose, pausing once behind a moss-draped statue of an ancient god to watch through half-hidden eyes as Hakon’s figure passed, his steady determination echoing softly in the labyrinth’s winding corridors. In a spontaneous act of daring, you let a decorative ribbon slip from your wrist, watching it fall softly onto the dew-kissed path and serve as a token for him to find.
Moonlight cast long, silvery shadows as you navigated the twisting pathways. You were sure the pounding of your heart in this escapade proved to be louder than the ever-growing distant strains of the ballroom’s music, gradually feeling like a fading echo from another world. At length, you reached the labyrinth’s center, where a magnificent fountain stood—a timeless relic adorned with ivy, its marble sculptures spilling water into a shallow basin. The fountain, a cherished landmark whispered about in noble circles, was said to have witnessed many lost romances and tragic secrets, its statues of entwined lovers now softened by time.
A sigh escaped your lips as you surveyed the scene. Here, in the cool embrace of history, you felt both a part of something ancient and poignantly out of place. Driven by exhaustion and a desperate need for relief, you stepped closer to the fountain and gingerly removed your heels. You cursed under your breath for favoring adrenaline over comfort.
You kneeled beside the fountain to rub the sore balls of your feet, grimacing as you tried to ease the burning ache in your ankles. Your reflection sent back a graceful figure in a gown marred by the night’s trials on the water’s surface and made you feel a glimmer of solace in that mirrored image.
The night, it seemed, had only begun to unfold its true mysteries. Amid the gentle murmur of water and rustling leaves, you heard soft footsteps behind you. Assuming it was Hakon, you glanced overhead, only to find emptiness. You returned your focus with a frown to the water's reflection, only to catch the unsettling reflection of a towering, dark figure with elongated horns standing immediately behind you. A chill shot through you, and you let out a startled scream, stumbling backward and tripping over the fountain’s stone edge.
Before you could crash into the cold water, strong arms intercepted your fall, steadying you. "’Tis alright, you won’t fall." You gasped, your heart pounding as you faced the stranger and, in a burst of indignation, shoved him back. 
“You followed me?” you demanded, your voice sharp with embarrassment and anger.
Your dance partner from earlier regarded you with a calm sense of amusement and chirpily replied, “I couldn’t help but notice the game you were playing, and I hate to be left out.”
Your cheeks flushed as you retorted, “What are you doing here? I had company!” trying desperately to mask your uncertainty.
A faint, almost mocking smile curled on his lips as he bowed his head forward at the notion. "A company that, I’m afraid, did not quite reach the right point," he returned, retrieving the ribbon you had let behind on your way and raising it to your eyes. The unwanted chaperone surprised you even more by announcing your exact name regardless of how your mask hid your identity, laying a secret laid bare in the cold night.
Your blood ran cold. "Who are you?" you fearfully asked in a poorly concealed tremble.
The man took a slow step forward, his eyes piercing as though searching your soul. "Let us not concern ourselves with names just yet," he intoned with purpose. "What I care about is striking a deal—a deal I suspect you, too, are here to negotiate."
A shiver ran through you as his words settled in the air, heavy with implication. You stilled, instinctively bracing yourself against the newfound tension.
He observed you in silence for a long moment, then continued, "You’ve traversed quite the journey tonight, haven’t you? I’m sure you did not expect it to be this arduous." 
You scowled, tightening your jaw. "You think you know what I want?" you spat, masking fear with thin defiance. "You know nothing."
"Imaginably so," he acquiesced with a slight, enigmatic smile, "but I know enough to offer you a choice. Shall we walk back together?"
You hesitated, caught between distrust and the inescapable necessity of his proposition. But the pain in your feet reminded you of your vulnerability, and you winced as you took a tentative step backward. 
He let out an almost imperceptible sigh when he made note of your lack of following his stride, showing his exasperation at the situation before briefly excusing himself and kneeling despite your protests.
"This will be brief," he mumbled as he gently took your foot in his hand, making you sit on the edge of the fountain. "I promise." Magic abruptly stirred around your foot like a liquid balm, soothing the burning pain even as strange tautness coiled within you.
"This is... inappropriate," you muttered, trying to mask your discomfort with protest.
He looked up at you, his expression inscrutable beneath the mask. "Is it not more inappropriate to seek power and fortune through marriage when so much is already lost?" he mockingly replied.
You blinked, caught off guard by his candor. His voice, though sharp, resonated with a truth you had long feared to accept. With your heart pounding and your mind swirling with uncertainty, you could only nod silently.
His magic had finished its work, and as you flexed your toes, relief washed over you in an almost shocking wave. The persistent ache had melted away into a soft, comforting sensation—one that left you wondering if it were real or merely an illusion borne of exhaustion. You slowly exhaled, trying to shake off the ghost of his touch that still lingered on your skin.
"I’ll have you consider, my lord," you cockily remarked, "that it is hardly wise to reveal such an extraordinary facet of one’s abilities if one intends to remain in the shadows. Few in Asgard wield magic with such refined grace."
Silence stretched between you for an instant as his fingers stilled momentarily before continuing their work while a satisfied smile drew on his lips as he adjusted the delicate seams of your shoes. "You flatter me. I did not plan to remain entirely anonymous for too long," he enigmatically explained. "Merely a precaution until all is properly explained."
His words, refined with subtle assurance, sent a shiver of intrigue and uncertainty alike through you. He readjusted the footwear on your heels with careful, practiced movements, allowing your dress to fall back into place with an almost choreographed swish.
"Well, I must confess, you are extraordinarily skilled," you half-heartedly grumbled, accrediting his exploit in a fragile blend of admiration and guarded reserve.
You stirred your gaze to his face as you straightened in the half-light, and you found yourself uncomfortably close—so close that the faint scent of his cool, forest-like cologne mingled with the night air. You caught a glimpse of something familiar in his dark, intense eyes—a depth that formed in you an inexplicable recognition in the abstract of an incantation from a distant, forgotten dream you couldn’t fully recall.
He cleared his throat to disperse the moment, his eyes flickering away for a moment before returning to meet yours with unwavering intensity. "Thank you," he acknowledged your compliment. "I endeavor to ensure all is comfortable at the very least."
Without further ado, he gracefully extended his hand to you in a remarkably assertive manner. You hesitated, just for a breath, before placing your fingers within his and were hoisted from your seat. His touch was not as cold as you expected, encircling yours with a tenderness that belied the enigmatic aura about him. It was a stark contrast to the brooding air that seemed to cling to him like a leech.
His hand left yours, traveling swiftly and surely to your waist, pulling you effortlessly into his arms. The sudden movement left you breathless, a gasp caught in your throat, and before you could gather yourself, your feet left the ground entirely.
The world blurred, and you were placed under the impression of being transported to the very heavens, until at last you found your feet once again on solid ground, just outside the imposing gates of the palace.
You blinked, disoriented—the sudden shift left you reeling, unsure how to reconcile the grandeur of your new surroundings with the suddenness of your arrival. Your captor stood otherwise perfectly composed beside you, granting you a moment to collect yourself. You took a step away from him as you attempted to steady your breath from the unexpectedness of finding yourself placed in front of the grandeur of the palace that loomed before you like a stately monument to bygone eras.
 "I do apologize if I startled you, but I trust your feet are no longer in distress?"
You managed a stiff nod, the shock of your sudden journey leaving you momentarily. Gathering your courage, you probed, “You mentioned a... proposition, did you not? You are aware of my search, I take it?”
“Indeed, a dear friend of mine shared your plight with me. And I must confess, I find myself most intrigued. Not only do I possess all that you seek, but I too am in need of a partner. It seems our interests, much like the stars above, align quite marvelously.”
Your heart pounded as you searched his face for any hint of pretense. Unable to quell your curiosity, you ventured, “But tell me—how did you recognize me? And how exactly do you come to be intrigued, as you so cleverly put it?"
He leaned in, a teasing glint dancing in his eyes. "A woman of such singular beauty and undeniable grace cannot be so easily overlooked. Not by those who know where to look." 
You stiffened, unwilling to be charmed just yet. "A clever answer," you commented with irony. "But not the truth, I think."
"Perhaps I am avoiding the question," he admitted after a chuckle, the intimacy of his velvet voice curling around you in a tender embrace. "But truth is a malleable thing. Some of us are better at recognizing it in others than others might think. A shark," he murmured with darkened eyes, "recognizes another."
The words struck you with the force of a well-aimed arrow, yet you refused to allow him to see the discomfort they stirred within you. You could not give him that satisfaction.
You arched an eyebrow, a glimmer of defiance in your eyes. “Is that your final word? You presume yourself to be more adept than I?” 
His smirk deepened. “I am no stranger to the darkness,” he replied in a near whisper, as if sharing a tantalizing secret. “You’ve grown quite accustomed to keeping your secrets hidden. But even in the darkest shadows, one cannot quite conceal what is most true." His gaze flicked over you, tracing every shift in your posture. "I see you clearly, far more clearly than you realize. Your loyalty, your purpose... they cannot be so easily disguised."
Your thoughts scrambled, unsure how to respond. His words, far too close to hitting home, had pierced straight to the heart of your most guarded truths. How did he know? How was it possible?
You blinked, composing yourself before responding, “You overpraise yourself. I am certain my secrets are well kept.”
It felt sickeningly liberating to admit such veracities to an individual purely unknown to you. You weren’t sure what compelled you to talk so openly about your peculiar situation, nor how easily he could rip answers from you. You resolved yourself by thinking that since he was well-versed in your predicament, it was unnecessary to continue holding pretenses. 
You were fairly aware of the danger it represented, but couldn’t help but wonder about the upper motives behind his head as you noticed his intense scrutiny briefly softening into an unguarded stare, until it subdued, vanishing as quickly as it had come. “You may be right, but the truth remains and shines through even in the dark.”
The moment seemed to stretch endlessly, leaving you uncertain of how to proceed—unsure whether you should resist or surrender to the allure of this enigmatic man who seemed to know far too much for your well-being.
The distant sounds of celebration from the palace echoed in your ears as he spoke. It felt as though you were no longer part of that world—instead, you were suspended in the matter of him and the delicate thread of proposition tying you in this instant.
Your footsteps resounded upon the marble as you and your escort ascended the grand staircase. "Consider my offer," he reminded you with the effervescence of a man desperate to gain the upper hand. "We both have much to gain from an alliance, don’t we?"
The hubbub from within the ballroom swelled in anticipation, and through the heavy oak doors came the prelude to an announcement—a heralding of destiny, if you will. 
"—and we are honored to present—" a resonant voice declared as you passed beneath the towering archway. The masked person’s stance beside you remained composed through and through. 
Despite the magnetic pull of his company, you chose to maintain a dignified reserve, keeping your eyes fixed forward. "And what would you have me offer in return? A business partner, or something more intimate?"
"Both and neither, my dear," he revealed. "It is all for the sake of pretense, if you will. I offer to be your sponsor, should you require assistance in your pursuits. In return, you would be my companion—a partner, if you will, in both ambition and heart."
You halted, a gentle laugh escaping you as you shook your head in light reproach. "Oh, you are far too cocky, my good sir. Do you honestly think I would entertain such a ludicrous proposal?"
He turned his head slightly, his eyes dancing with secret amusement. "A magician, my dear, can conjure the finest dreams if one so wishes. I assure you, I can be of considerable service."
Your skepticism was met with his unyielding charm as you retorted, "It is all rather too good to be true—a benefactor offering wealth and support, all for the sake of a companion's company?"
“That is precisely the allure, isn't it? To offer what no one else would dare, and still have you question its merit. The greatest power lies in making the impossible seem desirable. I give you only what you are willing to take, and in turn, you shall offer only what you are willing to give."
"And what would you give me then?"
He paused at your question, and turned to you before reaching out and taking your hand. Bowing ever so slightly, he pressed his lips to your appendage in a chaste kiss, eyes of the prettiest shade of a green forest after rainfall piercing right through yours.
"Anything."
For a heartbeat, the world stilled at the entrance, and the cacophony of the ballroom hushed to a mere murmur as the two of you stood rooted in that secluded spot. You vaguely dismissed the prickling sensation in your cheeks as your eyes held the fort, searching, questioning, and then you dared to ask once more in a soft whisper, "Who are you?"
Before he could answer, your small bubble was cut short by the announcer’s resounding call: "—and we are honored to welcome back Prince Loki!" The proclamation reverberated off the gilded walls, and in an instant, all eyes turned toward your squire. A collective gasp, a flurry of whispered exclamations, and the clapping of hands enveloped the chamber as the guests acknowledged his return.
Every mask in the room seemed to shudder and fall by an unseen force—leaving bare faces, expressions, and the secrets lying behind them. Your heart lurched as you realized with dawning horror that the very man you had exchanged witty repartee with, the man whose gentle touch had eased your aches and whose clever words had stirred something in you was none other than Prince Loki.
Shock, disbelief, and mounting embarrassment surged within you. You glanced down at your stained gown, a silent testament to the night’s mishaps, and then back to him. His countenance remained disarmingly calm as if nothing untoward had occurred. But your mind reeled—you had mocked, you had bantered, and now the revelation threatened to unravel you.
Without a word, you yanked your hand away and spun on your heel, intent on escaping the prying eyes of the crowd. The sharp command of the Einherjars rang out behind you—"Halt!"—but before they could reach you, the prince’s hand shot out to stop them, his posture resolute and his smile broad, as if nothing had transpired.
Your feet pounded the grand staircase as you fled, each step a stamp to your panic and humiliation. The echoes of whispered judgments and the clinking of glasses trailed behind you, a cacophony of reproach that you could scarcely bear.
The masquerade had revealed its cruelest irony: you had been unmasked before your time, your carefully crafted image laid bare for all to see—and now, the stakes had been irrevocably raised.
Tumblr media
CHAPTER TWO.⠀|⠀CHAPTER THREE.⠀|⠀CHAPTER FOUR.
see more His For The Season related works.
Want to read more of my works? Check out my masterlist !
⠀⠀
dividers ©️ @strangergraphics + unknown .
angelremnants ©️ 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost, reproduce, or distribute without explicit permission.
42 notes · View notes
angelremnants · 4 months ago
Text
Ahhhh you made them so pretty omlll🥹🥹💗
Tumblr media
“One moment, darling~”
Even in battle, Loki is fixing their lippy
62 notes · View notes
angelremnants · 4 months ago
Text
I’m being told in my earpiece that poor reader threw in the towel after the first round… oop 🫣🤭
“Alright darling, if challenging the length of my stamina so easily catches your interest.. let’s see how long you can last instead.” 😈
46 notes · View notes
angelremnants · 4 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
Lovely nonnies, I have seen your heartwarming messages and thank you for the thoughtfulness! Your intentions have definitely touched me and boosted my serotonin levels 💌💋❣️
4 notes · View notes
angelremnants · 4 months ago
Note
If you receive this, you make somebody happy! Go on anon and send this to 10 of your followers who make you happy or somebody you think needs cheering up. If you get one back, even better. 🩵💜🩷🖤🩶🤍
Awwhh, this was such a sweet surprise, thank you for thinking of me dearest! I hope you're also having a wonderful day, sending all the good vibes in the world right back at you🥹🩷🩷
1 note · View note
angelremnants · 4 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
to a better future with all women in struggle.
happy international women’s day!
698 notes · View notes
angelremnants · 4 months ago
Text
My liege.. Your thoughts are greatly influencing mine when I'm supposed to be entirely concentrated on another project 😭😭
Oh my God do I need to visually be graced with the image of this mf helplessly grinding against MC like a needy little thing but also be bratty about it and try his best to find cunning ways to attain his goal dhisjwsbaoje
Ughh I lobe bratty subs. Bratty subs are the best kinds of subs. Especially if they're desperate and they put so much trust into their doms to take care of them.. *chef's kiss* 🤭
I'm supposed to be doing schoolwork, but I'm having some sub!Loki thots instead...
Tumblr media
Aphrodasiac... heat... sex pollen... Whatever the hell that caused it, he's painfully horny now.
But, you have no idea, so you hit the books to see what it is that's causing him so much pain.
Papers scattered across the table... Books open... You even have your laptop out on the off chance that Google would be kind to you and actually help! (Desperate times called for desperate measures)
And each second you're studying on his behalf instead of touching him is agony.
So, naturally, being the needy little thing he is, he kneels right beside your chair, resting his head against your thigh.
But, you're still not touching him, and he's growing impatient (and desperate!), and his pants are getting way too tight...
He starts slowly palming himself, hoping that would at least satisfy him for the moment. It doesn't.
His soft whimpers grow into distracting moans intertwined with pleas for you to help:
"Surely, you can take a moment away from your research..." "Darling, this is torture..." "Please... Please... Oh, gods, please touch me..."
As his face gently nuzzles your thigh, you apoligetically refuse him, determined to figure out what it was that was affecting him.
Despite that, you humor him with a gentle scratch on the crown of his head, eliciting another moan from him as your touch sends another intense wave of arousal through him.
All he wanted was for you to stop toying with him already and put that hand on his aching cock!
His face moves from your thigh as his hands coax yours from his head to face level, so he could kiss it as his hips began to frantically buck into his hand.
He was a mess at your feet, and it was totally distracting.
"Please... Please... Please, darling, please... Please..."
And that is what ultimately breaks your resolve.
You slide your chair back as an invitation, and he all but leaps into your lap, straddling your hips.
Cue the two of you ending up a mess of kissing, touching, and grinding as your research is left neglected on the table.
410 notes · View notes
angelremnants · 4 months ago
Text
HELL YEAHH YOU GET IT, I'm super excited to dive into the real deal! The next part is currently in the drafts and I think I might've wrote too much and will probably divide it into two?? I'm not sure.. 🧍🏻‍♀️
This blog is a certified Amora stan. I love her so much ever since I saw her in the cartoons—ngl, I'm sad that instead of being her own existing character in the MCU, she got sort of mixed with Loki and gave us Sylvie.. She honestly needs to be more acknowledged and popular in the fandom😭
HIS FOR THE SEASON l L. Laufeyson
CHAPTER TWO,⠀The Mask of Opportunity
Tumblr media
chapter summary : Whispers of an upcoming masquerade have set the court abuzz, but for some, this is more than a mere night of revelry. You received an invitation alongside a most intriguing list of prospects—truly an opportunity wrapped in silk and secrecy. Meanwhile, a fallen prince finds himself backed into a corner, only to glimpse a way out through the very same affair. One wonders—when the masks are donned and the dance begins, will it be fate that takes the lead, or sheer cunning?
pairing : Loki Laufeyson x f!reader
warnings : Mature (16+), implied secondary characters' romance. Proceed with caution if you're sensitive to such material.
word count : 5.4k
author's notes : I am back from the dead! Or rather, my midterms. I apologize for the long wait and promise that starting now, the updates will be far more frequent than one in several weeks. Expect the chapter three to hopefully come in the sooner days.
I would also like to thank all of you for the lovely feedback I received based on the first chapter, it was truly a delight to see how welcomed this story has been. <3
(ao3 version)
Tumblr media
The golden streaks of the afternoon sun filtered through the tall, mullioned windows, bathing the salon in a quiet radiance that belied the tumultuous day. The soft caress of the breeze played with the gossamer curtains while dust motes swirled in the room in the fashion of dancing particles, and you reclined in the deep velvet-cushioned chaise with legs languidly crossed. A half-finished glass of wine rested on a small mahogany table beside you, decorated with a thin rivulet of deep crimson liquid clung to the side, marking the remnants of a sip taken moments ago. On the small table beside you, scattered papers rustled in the draft, the scent of ink and parchment mingling with the lingering traces of sandalwood from the incense burned at dawn. Today, the transactions had unfolded with a certain ease—your clients had bartered, praised, and left satisfied, departing with promises and the remaining of your fine goods and leaving behind only the delicate echo of commerce. For the first time in many days, you allowed yourself a moment of respite, basking in the cloak of these successful sales and carefully negotiated deals.
The reigning peace was then broken by the sound of hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor. It wasn’t long before the door swung open to reveal Elva, balancing a silver tray laden with fragrant tea and a small plate of dainty biscuits. Her brows were furrowed in quiet concern, and though her usual calm composed her demeanor, there was an unmistakable trace of worry in the set of her mouth. Without pausing for further ceremony, she crossed the room with graceful efficiency, setting the tray down on a side table before making her way to the windows. The ancient latch softly clicked as she pushed them open, allowing a stronger gust of fresh air to rush in, scattering the day's lingering heat and heavy thoughts.
"You labor too fiercely, my lady," she observed in poorly disguised disappointment, her voice edged with reproach as she turned to glance at you. The soft breeze played with the loose tendrils of her dark hair, lending her an almost ethereal quality.
A quiet, amused chuckle escaped you. "A necessary sacrifice, Elva," you replied as you shifted in the chaise. You gestured invitingly toward the empty chair set across from you. "Pray, join me for a while. There is no need for you to hover in the shadows when the day itself bids us farewell."
Your maid conceded after a brief moment's hesitation, lowering herself into the chair with a graceful sigh, her hands folding neatly in her lap. As she reached for the porcelain teapot, a soft plume of steam ascended in a delicate spiral, the mixed aromas of chamomile and honey mingling with those of the garden. She poured in a quiet ballet of care and concern, the stream of liquid pouring uninterrupted from her careful hands, and slid a teacup toward you before cradling her own between her palms.
"The last of the unnecessary staff have been let go," she reported, lifting her eyes to meet yours with a blend of relief and trepidation. "They received proper compensation, just as you instructed."
A subtle nod acknowledged her news—one less matter to concern yourself with, a small victory in a long and arduous campaign to restore dignity to your fallen house. Yet even as a sense of satisfaction stirred within you, Elva's gaze faltered, and her fingers absently traced the rim of her teacup before she ventured further. "And that night, after supper," she pursued in a tentative tone, as if treading on delicate ground, "I did not catch sight of you. With all the bustle of this week’s business rendezvous, I have not had the chance to ask... where you went?"
A knowing smile curved your lips as you raised your teacup in a slow, thoughtful sip. "Ah, that," you said, choosing your words with care. "It was merely a small, urgent errand—one that could not be deferred."
Her brow knitted into a deeper line of concern. "At night, alone?" she pressed with apprehension. "My lady, you know the city has been restless of late. There are talks of mysterious assassinations stalking the night. It is perilous for any lady to roam unguarded…" 
 "But I am not just any lady, Elva," you declared, meeting her gaze with unyielding assurance, hoping to quell her fears. "Might I remind you, my heritage is steeped in military tradition. This means that I was trained in the art of self-defense from an early age. I possess skills that will serve me well, even in the shadowed alleys of the night." A small, wry smirk tugged at your lips as you set your cup down.
The brunette exhaled slowly, her expression softening even as her eyes betrayed lingering worry. "Even so," she murmured, picking delicately at the edge of a biscuit. "I cannot help but fret for your safety. Please be cautious. I implore you to not tempt fate."
"Always, my dear," you vowed, sharing a smile to which Elva let out a long-suffering sigh, fixing you with a look of exasperation as she set the cup down. “I must say,” she voiced, leaning back in her chair to rest her weary shoulders, “for all the scandal and hushed whispers, it’s been several days since I’ve heard a single peep about my lady’s family—aside from the occasional murmur concerning your uncle’s funeral, naturally.”
You hummed in response, idly tracing the rim of your cup with a slender finger. It seemed that the informant had indeed been loyal to his words. To be fair, the easiness of this upcoming didn’t shock you much—after all, the vultures of gossip had already feasted upon that tragic spectacle, and without fresh morsels, their attention was bound to wane. 
“But,” she continued, her gaze flickering with a spark of intrigue, “what is being spoken of—rather incessantly, I might add—is the mysterious storyteller of Asgard. They’ve apparently broken from their retirement and made another appearance.”
Your fingers stilled upon the porcelain, and your interest ignited like a flame in the dusk. “Have they now?”
Elva nodded, reaching for a biscuit though her mind seemed too occupied to truly savor it. “Word has it that their papers were seen to mysteriously appear at the marketplace two nights past. It’s all anyone can speak of now—who they are, how they appear, and how are they slip through the streets like a ghost in twilight before anyone catches sight of the author.”
A slow, knowing smile played upon your lips. How curious was it, that the reappearances of that enigmatic figure were always so well-timed—truly a reminder that even in a realm ruled by order and decrepitude alike, whispered words still held a power of their own.
Before you could mull further upon this tantalizing tidbit, Elva leaned forward, pressing on in a conspiratorial murmur. “And there’s another matter, one more pertinent to your... ambitions.” She paused, as if weighing the gravity of her words. “A masquerade is to be held at the palace by the end of the week.”
Your brow arched inquisitively. “A masquerade?”
"In honor of the courting season." She sighed as if the very notion exhausted her. “It seems Prince Thor has finally decided to partake in it. The city is positively buzzing with it."
Your expression shifted, interest morphing into something far more calculating. A masquerade presented as the perfect hunting ground for your intentions. A place where veiled faces concealed true intent but every murmured word could serve as a clue and reveal the current positions on the chess board.
“That does sound rather… opportune,” you mused, tapping a thoughtful finger against your lips. “If I were to attend—”
“You would need an invitation,” Elva interjected briskly. “This is the palace, after all. Not just anyone is granted entry. The guest list is tightly curated to safeguard the crown prince, and invitations are not freely distributed.”
You leaned back, pondering the possibility of acquiring this simple slip of parchment that could unlock a night of clandestine machinations and hidden encounters. A slow smirk curled at the edges of your lips. “Well,” you said at length, “I could always forge one.”
The curvy woman nearly choked on her tea, her eyes widening in a mixture of disbelief and horror. “Forge one?” she echoed, her voice trembling between admonition and incredulity. “My lady, do you not realize what that entails? If you’re caught, the punishment is death—for treason, no less.”
Before she could finish her sermon, a sudden rush of air swept into the lounging room, accompanied by a whoosh of wings that sliced through the room like a harbinger. A sleek, dark shape darted across the sunlit floor and alighted with unnerving precision upon the armrest of your chair.
Elva clutched her chest, her eyes widening as if she had witnessed an omen. “By the Norns—!” she exclaimed, nearly sending her cup tumbling.
Your own breath caught in surprise, a fleeting moment of alarm that froze you deep into your seat. But as you regarded the intruder, you found yourself disarmed by its calm demeanor. A raven sat before you, peering up at you as though it had always belonged there.
You exhaled slowly, the initial shock dissolving into a quiet curiosity. Reaching out with measured gentleness, you brushed your fingers along the bird’s glossy feathers. “And who might you be?” you purred, greeting the creature as if it were an old confidant returned from a long absence.
It opened its beak as a reply and dutifully released a small, shiny marble onto the table. You watched, transfixed, as the glass ball exploded in bright light and transformed into various papers of different lengths and colors.
In your quiet observation, your eyes witnessed the raven’s collar, and there, embossed in a complex detail upon the leather, was embroidered the sigil of a guild whose name you had long learned to trust in the shadows. A silent acknowledgment passed between your mind and heart. “So, you come bearing gifts,” you murmured, your fingers stroking the raven’s sleek plumage. “You have done well.”
The black bird offered another soft croak, its head dipping in a gesture of quiet approval. You reached for a biscuit from the tray, breaking it into a delicate morsel, and held it out. It eagerly accepted the treat, devouring the biscuit with surprising alacrity. In a final gesture of gratitude, it pecked at your hand gently before spreading its wings once more and taking flight, disappearing into the cerulean expanse beyond the open panes.
Your attendant’s eyes lingered in astonishment on the scattered objects long after the raven had taken flight while you bent over and retrieved the documents your visitor had dropped. With careful precision, you set it aside and then reached for the accompanying envelope before unfastening the wax seal.
“What just happened?” she asked in a hushed tone, her voice a blend of awe and confusion. Her fingers tightened around the porcelain cup she held, the pale sheen of her knuckles betraying the tension within.
“It appears my errand has finally arrived,” you replied with an air of quiet satisfaction, though your tone carried none of the usual levity. You carefully unfurled the list within the envelope but held it at arm’s length, your attention first drawn to a resplendent invitation ornated with gold accents nestled amid the scattered papers.
Your fingertips caressed the invitation before they moved to the note that accompanied it. You read its elegant, flowing script aloud:
"Sigvarddottir, it would be wise to begin your search at the upcoming ball. Choose your pick carefully, and do so discreetly. You’ve been given a small token of appreciation, courtesy of the owner of the guild."
Elva’s brow furrowed deeper. “But what does this mean? Why would the guild’s master require you to seek someone at the ball? What is it all about?”
You allowed a moment of silence to pass, your eyes narrowing thoughtfully as you turned your attention to the list you had so meticulously requested. One by one, you perused the names printed upon the fine paper, your lips moving silently as you acknowledged both familiar and obscure entries. A spark of surprise lit your eyes as you reached a name that made your heart skip as it seemed as out of place as it was provocative.
“Prince Loki,” you repeated slowly, as though the words might dissolve if uttered too quickly. A brief, startled scoff escaped you, mingling disbelief with a hint of wry amusement. “This must be some sort of error,” you supposed, shaking your head in mild incredulity. “Or perhaps a jest.”
“Surely there’s no way you’re meant to encounter him,” your maid offered as a consolation, “especially when he’s been sent overseas for so long?”
“Precisely my point,” you replied with both amusement and cautious defiance. “There is no conceivable reason for him to appear on this list.”
Elva’s face brightened at the prospect of you attending the ball, her features animated with excitement. “At least it means you’ll be at the ball,” she said, her voice rising with a touch of celebration. “But, my lady, what of your wardrobe? I recall you mentioning that your gowns have long been sold or outgrown. Your funds are as scarce as your titles these days.”
A shadow of frustration flitted across your features as you set the list aside. “That is indeed a pressing concern,” you grumbled, your gaze drifting momentarily at the thought of the dwindling remnants of your once-grand attire. “Without a proper gown, I cannot hope to blend into the grandeur of the palace nor find a convenient suitor.”
After a brief, contemplative pause, you fixed your eyes on the brunette. “Tell me, Elva—are your sewing and crafting skills still as fine as they once were? Might you assist me in fashioning something befitting the occasion by week’s end?”
A spark of delight lit her eyes, and a warm, resolute smile spread across her face. “Always, my lady,” she replied with unwavering certainty. “I shall have you looking like a queen by the time that masquerade begins.”
Tumblr media
Arriving back from the trip to your home, the sleek black raven glided back through the open window of the luxurious study, his ebony feathers catching the light in his diving like would polished onyx. He obediently landed lightly on the edge of the expensive desk, where his owner, a resplendent woman with golden tresses and casual elegance, lounged in a high-backed chair. Both of her legs were nonchalantly draped over the side of the wooden escritoire while a delicate plume ink pen twirled between her slender fingers.
“You’re back! You did so well, didn’t you, my good boy?” she cooed affectionately, reaching out to tenderly scratch beneath his beak. The bird puffed out his chest in proud response, his wings fluttering in an elegant display. Yet even as her smile deepened, her gaze caught the sight of tiny crumbs scattered like stardust across his plumage.
“Oh, Myrr,” she tutted, flicking the ink pen playfully at his feathers. “Were you fed on your journey, or are you simply a glutton for punishment?”
The raven offered a low, almost amused croak. “I fed you before your departure, you know,” she chided with mock reproach. “You’re impossible—always needing to nibble on something when you’re not supposed to.”
Before the gentle banter could settle into its comfortable cadence, the study’s door burst open with an abrupt clatter, which sent the poor bird flying out in fear. An agitated prince strode in, advancing toward the drink cabinet with furrowed brows unmistakably marked by vexation. His progress soon halted as his eyes fell upon the unexpected scene, and his lips tightened in disbelief as he fixed it with a steely glance.
“What in Hel’s name are you doing in my chair?” he barked, irritated. His hand hovered over a decanter of whiskey, yet his attention was wholly captured by the audacity of the intruder. “And for the love of Asgard, get your feet off my desk!”
The blonde arched an amused eyebrow, a mischievous glint lighting her eyes. “Come now,” she drawled in a tone dripping with playful derision. “I expected a far more enthusiastic greeting from you, especially when you are returning to an old friend. Surely you’re not so absorbed in brooding over your family matters that you’ve forgotten how to properly entertain a guest?”
With a heavy sigh, Loki reached for two glasses, pouring a measure of the amber liquid with practiced indifference. “I’m in no mood to be your jester today, Amora. You are first and foremost my lieutenant, not my friend—at least not now. You’d better have a very good reason for your presence.”
Rolling her eyes with a teasing smile, the enchantress rose from the chair, sweeping past him to retrieve her destined drink whilst he slumped back into the seat she’d just abandoned, his annoyance momentarily abated by routine. 
With a resigned sigh, he ambled to where she had been stationed, only to find Amora now perched regally upon his desk. A cascade of papers materialized in her grasp after a billow of shimmering magic gathered around her, fluttering like autumn leaves before landing in a disarrayed pile upon the sturdy wooden table.
Clearing his throat and rubbing his tired eyes, the raven-haired man began sifting through the documents. “The guild is growing far too restless,” he recited, scanning the neatly printed reports. “My contacts are wavering—those lesser members are itching for power plays, and even my so-called trusted circle now questions the decisions made last month. They’re not pleased with these recent changes in management, and whispers of another leadership shift have begun to circulate.”
His gaze darkened as he took another long, contemplative sip from his glass. “And you present all this because you believe I must handle it personally?” he sarcastically retorted. “How utterly delightful. Just what I needed today.”
An impish smirk played upon Amora’s lips as she leaned back. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important, handsome. Too many fires are burning at once, and you’re letting the smallest sparks turn into infernos. A little attention to detail can save you from losing control.”
The dark prince’s sighed, a sound deeply emitted from the burden of responsibilities too numerous to count. “As always, I’ll handle it,” he grumbled, the finality in his voice brooking no argument. “But do not expect any gratitude from me.”
His hand paused mid-air in his scouring, hovering over the stack of reports as his eyes fixed on a particular file nestled among the scattered papers. Its unmistakable crest was what captured his attention, and as he turned the folder over, his lips curled into a sneer. 
Daughter of Sigvard and Regna.
The very sight sent a jolt of indignation through him. His eyes flicked toward his associate, who batted her legs with an insouciant grace and continued to detail the latest happenings in the underground organization. Unable to contain his rising ire any longer, he cut her off before she could utter another word.
“Will you please indulge me as to why I have a file on a branded traitor’s child amongst my affairs?” he demanded, each word emphasized with contempt. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Ah, yes,” she replied unruffled, leisurely leaning back and almost savoring his discomfort. “I thought you’d find that rather... interesting.”
The witch then proceeded to recount the shared murky evening in the guild where this intriguing and calculating woman had negotiated a deal with her. Every word of your request, every precise promise, was burned into her memory.
“You’re telling me,” Loki concluded in a mixture of disdain and incredulity, “that this woman—the daughter of a disgraced lineage—is the one you reckoned would be helpful in my predicament?” His apparent disgust deepened as he shook his head, thoroughly repulsed by the very notion. “My dear, she can barely keep her house’s reputation from crumbling further than it already has. I have no desire to associate myself with a lowly being.”
Amora folded her arms across her chest and scornfully eyed her superior. “My prince, you might not like her, but you must admit—she’s in a position to offer you something that none of your so-called contacts can. Recalling our encounter at the guild, she proved it when she presented her terms so clearly. This isn’t simply a request for assistance, but moreso an offer of a way out of this quagmire.”
“A way out?” The god of mischief scoffed bitterly. “You’re suggesting I bind myself to a match with the daughter of a disgraced family? I have no intention of sullying my name further with such filth.”
“Oh, Loki, you leave yourself no room for choice,” she calmly countered with a smile. “Your reputation, no matter your princely status, is but a thin veneer. No noble in their right mind would willingly send off their offspring, let alone align with someone who behaves as you do, if not for dire necessity. Not to mention that with the rising uproar in the guild, you could easily be exposed as their mastermind and dig you further into your impending doom.” 
She paused, carefully choosing to let the words hang in the charged atmosphere. “Your father’s decree was clear: participate in the courting season or risk losing everything. Odin himself has promised you the reign over Jotunheim in exchange for your compliance.”
Loki’s face flushed with rage and reluctant acknowledgement. The Allfather’s cold pronouncements still rang in his ears, in a similar pattern to how they had bounced off the great halls of his childhood. How many times had he walked these corridors as a boy, his footfalls lost beneath the grandeur of it all? How many times had he stood before that golden throne, the one his father ruled from with an iron hand and a voice that could shake the very bones of the realm, waiting for his damnation?
"Your estate runs dry," Odin had immediately stated, not even sparing a moment to welcome him back. "Your security crumbles beneath you. You have left nothing but the ashes of squandered potential."
Squandered potential. The words had cut deeper than any of the finest blades made by those scornful dwarves, for the reason Loki knew they only spoke of truth. His domain was indeed in shambles, his prospects were dwindling, and his father didn’t even once hesitate to comment on the heavy price of inactivity there. 
"You will participate in the courting season. You will marry an Asgardian of noble standing. In return, you shall be granted peace and reign over Jotunheim."
The very name had sent ice skittering down his spine, a reminder of a heritage he had spent lifetimes ignoring and rejecting. And yet, the king had offered it to him as though it were nothing more than a piece on a chessboard, ready to be moved into place. 
"Its annexation is no mere charity," his father had explained, watching his son scale his pride against his pragmatism before him. "It is a means to restore your power. The realm is rich with untapped potential, coveted by our numerous allies such as Alfheim, Vanaheim, and even Nidavellir. Control them, and you will be granted some remote control over Asgard’s lifeline."
Jotunheim, though equipped with both rich minerals and strategic trade routes, loomed as both a lifeline and a shackle. Be that as it may, the idea of once more binding his fate to anyone, especially the daughter of a traitor, made his stomach churn.
"Taxes will flow to you. Soldiers will be stationed at its borders. Asgard will be forced to protect your land as it does its own. It is not merely an inheritance—it is an empire. A legacy."
Odin undoubtedly spoke of legacy, but Loki couldn’t help the anticipation of a biting sting from a well-laid trap. 
He had wanted to refuse. Had wanted to sneer at his father, to tell him that he would not be bartered away like some desperate merchant. But he was not a fool, nor was he blind to the ruin he stood upon, courtesy of his negligence. The deal was no simple proposition, rather a cold, calculated trade under the guise of obligation.
The throne of Jotunheim in exchange for a crown of thorns and the addition of another chain to his ankle.
The prince exhaled his demise in a long suspire, his fingers phlegmatically drumming against the armrest of his chair as he once more stared at the thick file before him. A dull and persistent headache threatened to bloom at his temples, imitating a storm cloud gathering on the horizon. He hadn’t even opened the damned thing, and already, he resented whatever ordeal his assistant had proposed him to entangle in this time.
The firelight from the grand hearth cast moving penumbra along the polished marble floors, illuminating the quiet opulence of the chamber. In spite of it being a room fit for royalty, with deep emerald silks draped along the walls and golden filigree woven into most of the furniture, Loki presently found no comfort in its grandeur, and certainly not when Amora watched him like a cat would a scurrying mouse.
At last, he tilted his head to regard her with skepticism. “And what am I meant to do with this?” he asked, carrying the distinct weariness of a man who had seen one too many schemes unravel before him.
“I took the liberty of playing matchmaker,” the enchantress announced, utterly unbothered by his exhaustion, tapping a manicured finger against the file with a knowing smirk.
Loki’s brow twitched. “You—”
“I invited her to the masquerade.” she smoothly cut through his impending protest. “You needn’t lift a finger. Just seek her out.”
His fingers tightened slightly around the paper, irritation creeping into his grip. “And why do you think she would even entertain the notion of aligning herself with me?”
“Because she’s desperate enough to strike a deal with someone of high status and willing to not attach her to any marital expectations,” she said airily, twirling a golden curl around her finger, “and intelligent enough to recognize an opportunity when it presents itself. She isn’t prone to refusing an offer that benefits her.”
Loki hummed, unimpressed but begrudgingly intrigued. Before he could press further, the heavy sound of armored boots thudding against the floor filled the space, and a low, gruff voice broke through their conversation.
“Your Highness… I apologize for cutting in, but Thor requests your presence.”
A groan of pure despair left him as he threw himself back against his seat, his head tilting dramatically against the cushion in silent suffering. “Of course he does,” he muttered, raking a hand through his dark hair as he mentally braced himself for whatever inane task his brother had conjured.
Amora, meanwhile, rose from her seat with unhurried grace, her amusement only growing at his misfortune. She leaned in as she passed to hush against his ear, “If you wish to find her, seek out someone proudly wearing shades of purple and white and frequently moving around the room. You’ll know her when you see her.”
The prince glanced at her from the corner of his eye but said nothing. With that, the lady turned toward the door, pausing only briefly beside Skurge. A single, delicate finger trailed along the edge of his armored shoulder as she cast him a sly glance.
“Do try not to miss me too much while I’m gone,” she purred.
Skurge, to his credit—or perhaps his misfortune—stammered, his usual imposing presence crumbling under the weight of her gaze. “I—I wouldn’t—”
Loki rolled his eyes, a scoff leaving his lips. “Oh, for the Norns’ sake.”
Tumblr media
Your perfumed skin emanated a delicate commixture of rosewater and jasmine, courtesy of Elva who brushed the final touches of makeup onto your face. Her deft and assured hands traced gentle arcs along your cheekbones as she applied a dusting of silver eyeshadow that caught the light with every subtle movement.
“You’re almost ready, my lady,” your maid told you with both admiration and jubilation. “Look at you... like a vision spun from dreams and moonlight.”
You paused, gazing at your reflection. The image that greeted you was as foreign as it was achingly familiar. Your deep royal purple gown, repurposed from one of your mother’s forgotten treasures, draped around you like a cascade of midnight velvet. Fine silver threads wove a secret tale across its surface, forming fine-spun ornaments reminiscent of your insignia. The fabric, albeit bearing the patina of age and struggle, still made a show of refined grandeur.
Your eyes were to be framed by the half-mask of white filigree laying nearby on the chest of drawers, etched with silver feather motifs and scintillating by dint of bits of moonstone that added an ethereal glow, as though you would hold a piece of starlight captive to your face. Loose waves of hair, interlaced with decorative silver head chains, cascaded freely down your shoulders, each strand catching the light and resembling sprinkled stardust.
The grand mirror in your private boudoir reflected not only your poised form but also the tempest of expectation swirling within. “You are radiant tonight, my lady,” the brunette’s effusive praise filled the room as she flitted about like a delighted sparrow, lilting with genuine excitement. “I have never seen a vision so splendid—a true phoenix risen from the ashes. Tonight, you shall dazzle them all, and the court will sing of your return for years to come!”
You offered her a wry smile, despite your mind being far too distanced from adulation. Instead, a flurry of tallied thoughts incessantly gyrated in your head as you re-read the carefully ordered list of names. To avoid wasting precious time, you had arranged each entry from most promising to least and you did your best to commit every detail to memory. 
Elva approached, holding the final accessory to your appearance in one hand. “Allow me to adjust your mask. We must ensure it remains steadfast, for tonight’s protection solely reside in the spirits of your ancestors watching over you,” she murmured, securing it with a final pin.
For a moment, you allowed your gaze to wander to the outdoors and beyond, where the night unfurled in a tapestry of scattered stars that performed as silent beacons in the inky vastness. You unconsciously leaned forward in nature’s painting, as if to confide in the heavens themselves, “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. It has been too long since I graced a social event that I have feared forgetting how to speak, how to navigate the subtle ballet of conversation.”
Colloquies in your daily life had become a rarity, replaced by either the hustled transactions and the cold business of selling and bartering or half-hearted condolences thrown in your direction. The lively badinage of noble society remained for now as distant as the echoes of a half-remembered dream. You shook your head, steadying your resolve as you reached for your smooth, lacquered fan that would soon serve as both a prop and a future weapon in your awaiting gauntlet.
You rehearsed the names and the details of each potential suitor as you mounted the rented carriage, clutching the list to your chest at the thought of the stakes at hand. Anxiety fluttered in your stomach, acting as a persistent tremor as the carriage rolled through the lamplit streets toward the palace.
Before you knew it, the palace loomed ahead in majestic splendor, its high, arched doorways and sophisticated carvings proclaiming a regalium of power and tradition. A subtle thrill ran through you as you stepped from the carriage and made note of the appreciative eyes of passing strangers meeting your gaze, their silent admiration serving as a balm for your fraying nerves.
Good, you thought in earnest. My appearance will not be the least of my worries tonight.
Approaching the grand entrance, you presented the ornate invitation to the Einherjar guarding the door. Their stern faces softened imperceptibly as they examined the fancy parchment, and soon you found yourself being led into the cavernous ballroom—a flashing world alive with refined music, mellow discussions featuring obnoxious laughter, and a sea of masked figures engaged in numerous dances of intrigue and arrogance alike.
Every step you took felt heavy with expectation, the hidden list of names securely tucked away beneath the chest hem of your gown. Tonight, amid the shifting shadows of masquerade and mystery, you would take your first determined steps toward reclaiming your place amongst the elites and the redemption of your lost heirship.
Tumblr media
ending notes : And the real main plot starts now! Believe me when I say that I am super excited to write the first encounter with Loki, as much as I am for writing the upcoming chapters. I was also wondering if you readers like me to set up a tag list for HFTS? Let me know below if you do.
CHAPTER ONE.⠀|⠀CHAPTER TWO.⠀|⠀CHAPTER THREE.
see more His For The Season related works.
Want to read more of my works? Check out my masterlist !
⠀⠀
dividers ©️ @strangergraphics + unknown .
angelremnants ©️ 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost, reproduce, or distribute without explicit permission.
28 notes · View notes
angelremnants · 4 months ago
Text
Thank youuu so much for hyping me up my sweet! It means everything to know that pouring my heart into this truly reaches you! 🥹💗💗
HIS FOR THE SEASON l L. Laufeyson
EXTRA,⠀Asgard's Map.
Tumblr media
chapter summary : Dearest reader, your faithful Hidden Storyteller graciously unveils a modest guide charting the illustrious Nine Worlds. Rest easy, for these tiers serve only as a gentle aid to your imagination.
pairing : Loki Laufeyson x f!reader
warnings : none.
word count : 0.2k
author's notes : I am not the creator of this map, so credits to the rightful owner!
Tumblr media
HONORED DENIZENS OF ASGARD,
Pray, lend your attentive ears to a modest guide. It is only fitting that before we embark upon the twists and turns of the season, we first acquaint ourselves with the grand stage upon which our reporting tale shall unfold. The Nine Worlds, vast and unbound as they are, have been arranged here in a manner most comprehensible—a delicate feat indeed, for such realms defy mortal maps and logic alike.
Do not be misled, dear denizens, for these levels serve solely to aid your understanding—for the sake of clarity, they have been placed in a multi-leveled configuration, though let it be known that no mere parchment could ever fully capture the true nature of these celestial domains.
The distances between these realms are not so easily measured, nor are they bridged by earthly means. After all, one must always consider the swift arc of the Bifrost and other divine pathways that bridge the gaps between our worlds, including our hallowed City of Asgard. Although, it would be dire to mention that words of roads hidden from sight, of gates long thought closed, and of regions scarcely spoken of in polite company persist to circulate among the well-known. Whether these are mere fancies or omens of what is to come, time alone shall tell.
Let this map be your invitation to immerse yourselves in the grandeur of our domain, a mere guide to the labyrinthine wonders that await. Let your eyes wander, your minds roam and your curiosity awaken, for the season ahead may yet call upon corners of the realms long forgotten, and names unspoken for far too long may soon find their way back into the court’s conversation.
Yours in faithful recollection,
Huldskald
The Hidden Storyteller of Asgard
Tumblr media
Tumblr media
PROLOGUE.⠀|⠀CHAPTER ONE.
see more His For The Season related works.
Want to read more of my works? Check out my masterlist !
⠀⠀
dividers ©️ @strangergraphics + unknown .
angelremnants ©️ 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost, reproduce, or distribute without explicit permission.
14 notes · View notes
angelremnants · 4 months ago
Text
Oh my gosh, this made my heart so full! Knowing that my writing was this immersive is truly one of the highest compliments you could ever make to me! I’m so sorry for making you cry (but also kind of honored??) 😭💗💗
Thank you so so much for sharing this vulnerability with me, it seriously means everything! Sending you the biggest virtual hug <33
Stuck With You | S. Wilson
Tumblr media
summary : The last thing you wanted was to be trapped in a room with a person you didn't know, much less be forced to team up with them. But thanks to your best friend's meddling, you now find yourself headed for a peculiar blind date, paired with someone who’s anything but a stranger. You swore you’d moved on. He said it was for the best. But maybe you were never meant to let each other go.
pairing : Sam Wilson x f!reader
warnings : Mature (16+), second chance romance, friends to lovers to kind of enemies to lovers?, mutual pining, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, forced proximity, angry/heated makeout, heavy feels and yearning, fluff and humor, truthfully two idiots in love, mild language. Proceed with caution if you're sensitive to such material.
word count : 14.2k
author's notes : To celebrate the rise of our brand new Captain America and Valentine's Day, I wrote this little piece to pour out my appreciation for Sam Wilson who is, imo, an insanely underrated character.
This is also my entry for the wondrous @elixirfromthestars 's Cinema Writing Challenge, which I stumbled upon mid-writing this one-shot and found that I was going in a direction that could've fit this in a fun way. I referenced the "Why didn't you write me?" scene from The Notebook though in a lax manner, so I hope to have still respected the general guidelines.. This is my first time participating in a writing challenge, so please bear with me :')
Happy Valentine's Day, my loves. Know that even if you're as alone as I am, your existence is greatly valued in this world. <3
(ao3 version)
Tumblr media
Driving back to Delacroix was nothing short of a pleasant experience—just you, one hand on the wheel and the other idly hanging out the window with fingers slicing through the warm morning air. It was one of the few times you enjoyed driving, which is why you insisted on not having your chauffeur be the one to take you to your destination, preferring the solitude of watching the road stretch ahead like a ribbon of sun-bleached asphalt, flanked by swaying marsh grass and the slow-moving waters of the bayou. The old jazz station buzzing over the speakers only further enhanced the atmosphere, with the crooning trumpet blending effortlessly into the continuous murmur of cicadas in the background.
It was early enough that the mist still clung to the marshes, curling around the gnarled roots of cypress trees like ghostly fingers. The world shimmered gold in the pale dawn light, an untouched moment as the weight of the day settled in. You could also make out in your passing spanish moss draping lazily from the branches, swaying ever so slightly as if still waking from its slumber. 
You had always loved this route. It felt like a portal to another life, one that belonged solely to a place where your name wasn’t headlined in articles, where your every move wasn’t scrutinized by strangers looking for something to pick apart. Here, you weren’t the subject of speculation or the topic of gossip columns. You weren’t “the one from the titles” or “the name in the papers.” You were simply you.
The familiarity of it all only served to bring you back to those late-night drives after absurdly long college lectures, when the stress of exams and deadlines melted away over seafood and pleasant company, the briny scent of the ocean mixing with the fried goodness of whatever had been thrown together for dinner. It reminded you of sunburned afternoons spent on the docks, the sound of waves lapping against the wooden beams, of kids that you used to babysit laughing as they chased each other barefoot across the pier. Life was indeed much nicer in the olden days.
The docks finally came into view as you veered off onto the dirt road. You could see that the morning had already settled into its rhythm—fishermen hauling in their first catches, their voices rising and falling over the water while the low rumble of boat engines punctuated the exchanges in the salty air, mingling with the occasional bark of a stray dog nosing around for scraps. Seagulls routinely circled overhead and swept low whenever someone tossed a handful of bait into the sea. The scent of fresh fish, damp wood, and the ever-present Louisiana humidity all wrapped around you, strong-filled even at this hour.
And there was poor Sarah, up to her elbows in work as always.
She stood near a stubborn crate, her brows drawn together in frustration as she struggled to pry it open. The morning suns of July had already kissed her skin a shade darker and a streak of dirt ran across her forearms, evidence of a morning repeatedly spent wrangling supplies and fixing whatever had inevitably needed mending. She also had that look—the one she always got when something should have been done yesterday.
Pulling up alongside the dock, you stepped out of your fancy car, rolling your shoulders with a slow stretch. The thick and stifling heat settled around you instantly, encasing itself around your skin like a second layer along the faintest promise of an approaching summer storm.
“Didn’t know we were wrestling furniture today,” you called out while your expensive shoes thudded lightly against the weathered planks, the wood creaking ever so slightly beneath your steps.
Sarah huffed, blowing a loose curl from her forehead as the sheen of morning sweat glistened against her sun-warmed skin. “You show up just in time to save the day, as usual.”
You smirked, pushing up your sleeves. “That’s what I do best.”
Together, you pried open the crate with a loud crack, the wood groaning in protest before finally relenting, revealing neatly packed supplies of nets, ropes and a few spare tools, all stacked with military precision. 
“I swear, whoever sealed this thing had a personal vendetta against me,” she muttered, shaking her head.
You leaned against one of the weathered wooden posts, letting the briny breeze roll over you. The dock swayed ever so slightly beneath your weight, creaking in quiet protest. Out beyond the harbor, the bay stretched wide and glittering, rippling with the soft push and pull of the current. For a moment, there was nothing but the steady lull of the water, the occasional cry of seagulls, and the distant clang of metal against wood as fishermen worked their boats. A rare pocket of peace.
At least, that was the case until Sarah spoke.
“Sam’s coming home today.”
The words landed on you like how a stone would sink to the bottom of a river. 
You kept your expression carefully neutral, inhaling through your nose before exhaling slowly. “Fantastic,” you deadpanned, flicking a piece of splintered wood off your palm.
Sarah sighed, already bracing for the reaction she knew was coming. “I know you two don’t—”
“Like each other?” you finished for her. “Get along? Want to exist in the same hemisphere?”
She shot you a flat, unimpressed look. “I was going to say see eye to eye.”
You scoffed. “That’s an understatement.”
Sarah crossed her arms, leaning back against the wooden beam beside you. The steady rise and fall of the tide lapped at the pylons below, filling the brief silence between you. “Are you ever going to tell me what really happened between you two?”
You hesitated. The problem wasn’t just Sam. It was everything that had happened because of him.
And worse—the things that had happened before. But how could you explain that to your best friend, who was also his sister, that before the cameras, before all of the unwanted attention, there had been a spark?
Befriending Sarah in college had meant stepping into her world, with frequent afternoons spent at the family’s restaurant but also evenings that bled into weekends. And with this eventually came Sam, who was at the time a cheeky guy too charming for his own good and with a tendency of getting under your skin in the most enjoyable way. The kind that your mama told you not to approach too much if you didn’t want to stray away from a good line of life.
You honestly wouldn’t have paid him much attention if not for the quick-witted banter, a push-and-pull that became something of a ritual every time you would come over. He would saunter into the restaurant under the pretense of bothering his sister, but his eyes would eventually find yours first, the corner of his mouth twitching upward just before he threw out some teasing remarks in hopes of riling you up. You would roll your eyes, fire something back, and somehow, without realizing it, you had begun to orbit each other.
It had slowly bloomed in the way where summer warmth shifts into the first breath of autumn—almost imperceptible until you’re standing in the midst of it. Eye contacts that lingered just a little too long. Making even the most absurd excuses simply to accompany you through your journey of going to college. A growing familiarity that turned into late-night conversations on the dock, where the world was nothing but the hush between you. There had been something easy about it, an understanding that neither of you ever had to say out loud.
And then, one fateful night—
A kiss was added to the list.
You could still precisely recall how it had unfolded. It had been one of those thick Louisianan nights where the land was quiet except for the gentle slosh of the tide against the pylons and the occasional chirp of cicadas hidden somewhere in the dark. You and Sam sat side by side on the wooden planks with your legs dangling over the edge.
He had shown up at the restaurant after closing, claiming he had nowhere better to be. You had scoffed, knowing damn well he could’ve gone to the arcades where he usually hung with his small band of friends, but instead, he’d lingered—elbow on the counter, tossing peanuts in the air and catching them in his mouth while Sarah cleaned up. When she suspiciously shooed the both of you out under the pretense of wanting to finish tidying the place in peace, you both ended up in your favorite spot and falling into conversation with the same ease you always had.
Strangely enough, that night was different.
It was felt in the way your knees brushed when he shifted closer, in the way your laughter had simmered and turned quieter, softer. It was the night where plans for the future were spoken of, and how you learned that Sam would soon leave Delacroix behind to join the Air Force while you were still figuring everything out.
“You ever think about getting out of here?” Sam’s voice cut through the quiet.
You smirked, tilting your head toward him. “What, and give up all the fine dining of your family’s home cooking? I don’t know if I could handle that.”
He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, because there’s nothing more to do than eating fresh seafood and watching the sunset every day.”
You nudged his shoulder with yours. “Hey, you’re the one talking about getting out of here, Wilson. What, the dock life not glamorous enough for you?”
His grin was easy, but there was something contemplative beneath it. “I always knew I’d leave. Not ‘cause I don’t love it here, but... I want more. I wanna see what else is out there.”
Your smile faltered, just a little. You weren’t sure why the thought of Sam leaving sat uncomfortably in your chest. "You make it sound like you’re never coming back."
He turned toward you then, one leg kicking idly at the water below. "I’ll come back." His voice got fainter this time, lacking its usual teasing edge. "It’s not like I’d just disappear on you."
You arched a skeptical brow. "Awh, don’t tell me you’re going soft on me. You saying that ‘cause you mean it, or ‘cause you think I’d cry if you didn’t?"
Sam smirked. "Maybe both."
You scoffed, pushing at his arm, but he barely budged. "Please, you’d be the one crying your eyes out first."
"Uh-huh," he vaguely affirmed, unconvinced. "You could write me letters, you know."
"You gonna write back?"
"Every time."
You regained your smile at the answer, and it was when you turned to glance at him that you noticed that he was closer than before. You weren’t sure if he had leaned in or if you had, but your shoulders touched and your knees pressed together. He was close enough that you could see the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed and caught his eyes flickering from yours to your mouth and back again.
You had felt it coming before it happened—the moment slowed, stretched, and his tentative fingers had brushed yours where your hands rested between you on the dock. He was testing out the waters, and neither of you pulled away.
Without a word, he leaned in.
It felt like a kiss engaged between adolescents discovering intimacy for the first time. He was slow in his doing, as if waiting for you to stop him, but you didn’t. You tilted into him instead, your hand resting against his jaw upon the faint scratch of stubble he had grown. His lips were warm and coaxing, stealing the breath from your lungs as he deepened the kiss while his hand curled lightly around your wrist. The world beyond the two of you fell away, drowned out by the rush of your pulse.
It was the kind of kiss that felt like the beginning of a promise. But promises, as you had learned over time, were far too easy to break.
You thought that this kiss was supposed to mean something. Evidently, it didn’t to Sam.
Months passed without a sign, not a single mail in your box or a phone call. Then years came by, and silence continued to reign like a chasm.
The first time Sam Wilson came back to Delacroix after becoming the Falcon, it wasn’t for a homecoming or a celebration—it was for Sarah’s wedding. By then, he was no longer just the annoying little brother, the immature sod who used to throw shrimp shells at you when you weren’t looking. He was an Avenger. A hero. Someone whose face people recognized, whose name carried weight.
And you? You had built a life of your own. A business. A name that had nothing to do with anyone else but yourself. 
He had changed but so had you, and whatever had been between you had withered away a bittersweet memory, more sour than sugary.
The wedding had come and gone in a whirlwind of music and laughter, of his sister glowing in a way you had never seen before, of toasts and dancing under strings of warm lights. You had somehow ended up outside, trading the muffled sounds of celebration drifting through the open doors of the reception hall for the cold silence of the outside.
You hadn’t planned to talk to him. In fact, you had spent most of the days of his visit avoiding being alone with him, dodging him and whatever it was that lingered between you both like an unfinished chapter. But he still managed to find you anyway, stepping out into the night with that same infuriating ease as if nothing had ever changed.
“Did anybody ever tell you that you scurry away like a mouse?” he jokingly prompted, hands tucked into his pockets. “For someone who’s supposed to be the maid of honor, you disappeared pretty fast.”
You didn’t look at him, instead fixing your gaze on the rippling water. “Didn’t realize I needed a chaperone.”
“Never said you did.”
Stillness settled between you, cut by the cicadas humming in the trees and the warm breeze rolling in from the bay. He was watching you. You could feel it.
“You been good?” he asked eventually, almost hesitant.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
“Business still going strong?”
Another nod.
Sam exhaled a soft laugh. “Damn. You always this talkative?”
Finally, you turned to face him, arms crossed over your chest. “Well, what do you want me to say, Sam? That it’s good to see you? That I missed you?”
He blinked, caught off guard.
“You know what? I did,” you admitted, your jaw tightening. “I missed you when you left, when you didn’t write, when you didn’t call. But then you show up years later on TV with wings on your back and a whole new life, and I—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head. “Forget it.”
Sam was quiet for a moment. “Listen, I never meant to—”
The sudden burst of camera flashes cut through the dark like lightning. Movements danced from the shadows beyond the dock. Figures. A handful of people, cameras raised, lenses trained on you both.
Your blood ran cold.
The pilot turned, his expression shifting in an instant. He stepped in front of you, partially blocking their view. “Hey! Back the hell up.”
The damage was already done. Your name was already in their mouths, in their cameras, and in their notes. And by morning, the world would be talking.
You knew it wasn’t his fault. Not entirely. The blame didn’t belong to him—not for the cameras, the prying eyes, or the intrusion. But the continuous letdown, the unresolved past, the hollow promises left unanswered—it all boiled over.
Maybe it was the years of unspoken resentment. How he had left and never looked back, only to come home like no time had passed—like you hadn’t once meant something. Or maybe it was the fact that for one fleeting instance, the world thought you belonged to him like you selfishly wanted to back then when he had never even fought to keep you.
The fight was inevitable. Hurtful words, raised voices. Raw anger tangled with accusations you didn’t mean spilling from your mouth before you could stop it, among the ones you did. And to his credit, he gave as good as he got. You weren’t the only one harboring old wounds. You weren’t the only one who felt burned by your shared past.
By the time the shouting stopped, the damage between you was just as permanent as the damage done by the eye-catching headlines. Some words couldn’t be taken back, just as ties, once broken, could never be pieced together the same way again.
The next morning, as you predicted, the internet had been set ablaze with speculation.
The press was relentless, churning through the story like a wildfire swallowing dry earth. The Falcon and his Mystery Woman—Who is She? New Romance or Old Flame? Falcon’s Secret Love Life—Exclusive Details Inside!
It was absurd. Laughable, even. You had snorted at the first few articles, rolling your eyes at the grainy photos that painted a story far more dramatic than the truth. You and Sam barely tolerated each other. If anything, your history was a testament to mutual irritation, not some clandestine love affair.
But the laughter didn’t last because the headlines didn’t fade. Because the story didn’t die.
Because soon enough, it wasn’t just some passing tabloid gossip. It was everywhere.
Paparazzi began to linger outside your workplace, their lenses snapping up every movement as if they could capture something scandalous in the mundane act of you stepping out for coffee. Your inbox flooded with emails—some from reporters fishing for a statement, others from people you hadn’t spoken to in years, suddenly eager to "reconnect." 
Social media became a nightmare all on its own. Strangers dug through your past with eager, prying hands, dissecting old photos, analyzing every public interaction you’d ever had, and spinning theories about a relationship that had never even existed.
The worst part of your predicament was certainly work-related. Every handshake, every business meeting, and every new acquaintance suddenly all came with a question mark. Were they here for you or for the association? Were they interested in your work, in you, or just in the proximity you offered to something greater, to a man whose name counted amongst Earth’s greatest heroes?
And through it all, Sam had remained frustratingly unbothered.
"It’ll pass," he had dismissed with a shrug accompanying his words. "People move on when it comes to these kinds of things."
At most, he made sure you were surrounded by constant security and had some sort of secret service he was apart from watching over you in case malevolent spectators deemed it a good idea to bother you. While you were grateful for the protection, you had wondered if his lack of intervention to correct the situation with both words and actions wasn’t motivated by underlying factors. 
Ultimately, you had been the one left dealing with the aftermath. The one picking up the pieces and untangling the mess, sifting through the wreckage of your privacy. And that was something you could never forgive.
You slowly exhaled, massaging your temple at the exasperating memory. “Let’s just say your brother has had a knack for making my life difficult and I got tired of it.”
Sarah hummed, skeptical but wise enough not to press too hard. “He’s really not as bad as you think.”
You shot her a dry look. “Sarah.”
She held up her hands in surrender, lips twitching. “Alright, alright. I won’t push.”
Before you could say more, the sound of a door swinging open interrupted you. Then came the hurried patter of feet and the excited shout of your name before two small bodies crashed into you, all limbs and boundless energy.
You caught them both with a grin, stumbling slightly under their weight as they clung to you.
“You taking us to school today?” Cass asked, beaming up at you.
You ruffled his curls, feigning deep thought. “I don’t know... you guys gonna behave?”
AJ gasped, scandalized. “We always behave!”
Their mother snorted at the blatant lie while you laughed, nudging AJ’s shoulder. “Alright then, let’s go.”
Sarah shook her head, a familiar mix of amusement and exasperation on her face. “They listen to you better than they listen to me.”
“That’s because I’m the cool auntie. Right, boys?” 
Both of them cheered in agreement, to which she rolled her eyes and shooed you toward your car. “Go before I change my mind about letting you take them.”
You steered her children toward the vehicle, their voices rising in an animated debate over which of them would get to call shotgun and put their playlist to play for the drive. But even as you settled into the driver’s seat, their excited chatter filling the space around you, your mind remained elsewhere.
Sam was coming back.
And whether you liked it or not, you were going to have to deal with him.
Tumblr media
The restaurant was already alive with the late afternoon rush by the time you strolled in with the boys coming back from school. Orders flew in, plates stacked high and the scent of fried seafood and rich gumbo diffused in the place. The kitchen bustled with movement—Sarah barking orders, cooks shuffling between stations, the sizzle of oil, the clang of metal on metal. Fortunately, you had worked enough shifts here during college to comfortably throw yourself into the chaos and fall into the rhythm with ease, balancing trays and dodging wayward elbows like second nature.
You had expected a busy night.
What you weren’t prepared for—what you could have gone your entire life without dealing with—was walking out of the kitchen, only to come face-to-face with the one person you had been dreading.
The door swung shut behind you, the sudden quiet of the dining area making the moment feel even heavier. Sam Wilson stood near the counter, arms crossed, an easy smirk already in place as if he hadn’t just been gone for years. The sight of his tall, broad and annoyingly self-assured stature made something stubborn coil in your chest. The golden glow of the setting sun slanted through the restaurant’s windows, catching on the sharp lines of his jaw and the slight curl of his lips, settling into the warm brown of his eyes with an infuriating sort of ease.
It had been years. But of course, of course, the first thing he did when he saw you was smirk and look at you the way he always did—like he was expecting a fight.
“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes flicking over you with the kind of scrutiny that made you itch to throw the nearest dish towel at his head. “They’re really letting just anyone work here now, huh?”
You scoffed, stepping behind the counter. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”
“Hey, I actually own part of this place,” he shot back, leaning against the wooden bar. “What’s your excuse?”
“Sarah asked me to help,” you replied smoothly, grabbing a clean set of glasses from the shelf. “What’s yours?”
“Thought I’d check in, be a good brother and say hi,” he sassily answered. “Didn’t realize I’d be graced with your presence too.”
“Lucky you,” you deadpanned with a tight-lipped smile, brushing past him.
And to your luck, he followed you to the back, offering unhelpful commentary while you restocked supplies, then bickered with you while you both helped—or at least attempted to—his sister with the dinner rush. Arguing over everything with the soldier felt like muscle memory at this point, and it showed in the way he reached for the same things you did, your movements accidentally falling into sync. 
By the time things slowed down enough for dinner, you were already nursing a headache. It wasn’t until the pace had slowed and Sarah finally sat down with a plate of food after her kids were put to bed that the conversation turned against you.
“So,” Sarah stabbed a piece of calamari with her fork, looking at you with a glint of something announcing nothing good. “You seeing anyone yet?”
You nearly choked on your drink. Across from you, Sam let out a low chuckle.
“Oh, this should be good,” he mused, propping his chin on his hand and settling in like he was about to watch a show.
You shot him a glare before turning back to Sarah. “Not really.”
“Not really, or not at all?”
“Not. At. All.”
Sam let out a whistle, shaking his head in mock pity. “Damn. That’s rough.”
Your fingers tightened around your glass. “Well, it’s kind of your fault.”
The smirk fell right off his face. “My fault?”
You didn’t waver, locking eyes with him. “I don’t know if you remember, but you kind of put me on the map. You know, with that whole ‘mystery woman spotted with the Falcon’ thing?” You waved a hand vaguely. “Hard to trust people when they might secretly be fans. Or worse, spies.”
The hostess hummed in interest, taking a slow sip of her drink. “That does sound inconvenient.”
Sam scoffed. "Oh, be real, miss fancy pants. You can’t be serious.”
“But I am,” you shot back. “Because of you, I have to second-guess every new person I meet. Even for business.”
Sam shrugged, looking way too entertained. “Could be worse.”
You raised a brow. “Would you trust random people throwing themselves at you if the roles were reversed?”
He let out a sharp laugh, cocky and dismissive. “Sure, after a small background check.”
You leaned forward, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, totally. It’s so much fun when I get approached because people think I’m some tragic ex or long-lost lover of yours. Or getting bombarded with people asking if I ever hooked up with the Falcon, or if I have ‘tea’ to spill on our ‘relationship’, or if I’m ‘jealous’ that you’re off saving the world and not wasting time.” You tilted your head. “That’s just peak entertainment.”
For once, the Avenger had nothing to say.
You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, and let’s not forget the weirdos who DM me saying they’d be happy to ‘fill the hole’ you supposedly left in my life.”
Sam choked on his drink, coughing violently. “What?”
“Oh yeah.” You pulled out your phone, tapped a few times, then held it out to him. “Here. Go ahead. Take a look at your legacy.”
He grabbed it hesitantly, scrolling through your inbox, his expression shifting from amused to horrified. “Oh, hell no,” he muttered. “What the hell is wrong with people?”
Sarah smirked. “Damn, Sam. Ruined her dating life and left her with internet weirdos. That’s cold.”
Sam dragged a hand down his face. “Okay, fine, that’s bad.” He handed your phone back. “But still, you could’ve just—I don’t know—ignored it? De-activate your socials?”
You stared at him, deadpan. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just ignore the fact that I have to Google every guy I talk to just to make sure they’re not running a secret fan account for you.”
He burst out laughing, to which you childishly responded by throwing a fry at his head.
Sarah, watching all this like it was prime-time TV, suddenly perked up. “I might have a solution.”
You groaned. “I don’t like that tone.”
“No, no, hear me out,” she insisted, grinning. “I saw this thing the other day—apparently, there’s a place in town that does blind dates in escape rooms.”
You blinked. “You saw what now?”
“It’s a fun concept,” she continued breezily. “Two people, locked in a room, working together to get out. You don’t know who you’re paired with beforehand, and it forces you to communicate.” She took another bite of her food, then added, “I think you two should try it.”
You both turned to her at the same time. “No—” “Hell no.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “You two are so dramatic. It’s literally an escape room—”
“With a blind date,” you interrupted with frantic gestures. “As in, being forced into a confined space with a random stranger and trusting them enough to help me get out.” You shook your head. “Not happening.”
Sarah gave you a pointed look. “You do realize that’s exactly what dating is, right?”
You glared. “Don’t make points right now.”
She turned her attention to Sam, who was still muttering under his breath. “And what’s your problem?”
Her brother shot her a disbelieving look. “You seriously don’t see the issue?”
“Nope.”
He let out an incredulous laugh. “It’s way too risky for me to go in public and have my info given out to some company and get paired up with someone potentially crazy like her right here. Yeah, no way in hell I’m signing up for that.”
You turned back to Sarah. “Do you hear the way he talks to me? And you think I should be dating?”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s exactly why I’m setting you up with other people. You both need a reality check.”
You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Okay, ignoring the audacity of that statement—why an escape room? If I wanted to be locked in a room with a stranger, I’d call my internet provider.”
Sarah once again ignored your rebuttals. “It forces you to work together. Communication, problem-solving, a little trust—”
Sam let out a sharp laugh. “Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather skydive without a parachute.”
“You literally have a parachute,” you deadpanned.
“Exactly,” Sam said. “Which is why I don’t need to go on some experimental dating hostage situation.”
Sarah huffed, crossing her arms. “Fine. Let me put it this way—if you don’t go, I’ll tell Bucky you’re both too scared to put yourselves out there.”
You wanted to put up a bigger fight, if not for the very real threat of James Buchanan Barnes getting wind of this.
You had met him once, years ago, during one of Sam’s very unwelcome, very impromptu visits. You hadn’t even been expecting company that day, let alone a literal ex-assassin sitting at Sarah’s dining table like it was the most normal thing in the world. And to make matters worse, Sam had introduced you in the most obnoxious way possible.
“This is my sister’s best friend. She talks a big game but couldn’t win an argument if her life depended on it.”
And Bucky, with all the smugness of someone who absolutely enjoyed making your life difficult, had just smirked, leaned back in his chair, and smugly commented—
“Huh. Sounds familiar.”
You hadn’t even known him for five minutes, and he had already sided with Sam. Ever since, the latter had made sure to weaponize their friendship against you at every opportunity, regardless of the fast-growing amicability between his former partner and you.
And you knew that if Bucky found out about this, you would never hear the end of it. He’d be relentless. Casually dropping mentions of your lack of a partner into every conversation, even if the irony lied in him being in the same situation—though he’d probably argue that unlike him, there was a lack of trying on your part as well as the absence of an excuse as astronomical as being a well-known mass murderer with an insane past. And also probably betting money on how fast you’d walk out of the damn escape room.
Sam narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
His sister’s grin only widened. “Oh, I absolutely would.”
You could already picture it—Bucky, smirking like he had all the dirt in the world on you and bringing it up at the most inopportune moments. Teasing you mercilessly every time you so much as glanced at your phone. Probably making some dumb comment like, “So, can’t find anyone to put up with you?”
Nope. Absolutely not.
You exhaled sharply, rubbing your temples. “I so hate you right now.”
Sarah just smiled. “So that’s a yes?”
The Falcon groaned in desperation. “This is blackmail.”
She simply shrugged at the accusation. “I like to think of it as strong encouragement.”
"How long is it?” you finally asked, defeated.
“One hour.”
Sam groaned, tipping his head back. “Sixty minutes of my life I’m never getting back.”
The restaurant’s owner shrugged, too pleased with herself to care. “Think of it this way—worst-case scenario, you get out and never see the person again.”
The pilot grumbled under his breath before sharply exhaling after a long pause. “Whatever. But when this goes horribly, I want it on record that I called it.”
“Duly noted.”
Tumblr media
The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and violet as you gripped the wheel of your car with the force of someone actively trying not to commit murder. The drive to the escape room was supposed to be uneventful. Key words: supposed to. But Sam Wilson had never once encountered an opportunity for peace without promptly deciding to mischievously ruin it.
It started small. A shift in his seat, a glance at the dashboard, an exhale so faint you almost didn’t catch it. Then, before you knew it, his fingers were wandering, prodding at the glossy screen in the center console with an exaggerated curiosity that made your temple throb.
You gritted your teeth. "Stop touching things."
“Relax,” he drawled, ever the picture of unbothered arrogance. "I’m just exploring my environment."
“It’s not an environment, it’s my car.”
Sam clicked his tongue, grinning in a way that meant nothing good. “You got all these fancy-ass features, and you don’t even use ‘em? Shame. Really makes me question your judgment.”
“You’re about to question your life choices when I push you out onto the freeway.”
With all of your previous spouts, you should have known that issuing such a warning would only serve to encourage his childish behavior.
It started with him cranking the seat warmers up to their highest setting, slowly enough that you didn’t notice until your lower back was mysteriously drenched in sweat. He followed by playing with the ambient lighting, flipping through every color at an alarming rate until the inside of your car looked like a malfunctioning disco ball. But the worst, the absolute worst, came when he discovered your Bluetooth. 
A horrendous mix of static and Sam’s laughter blasted through your speakers as the system synced.
You gawked at him. “If you so much as—”
Before you could finish your sentence, the familiar bright and bouncy opening chords of Party in the USA by Miley Cyrus blared from the speakers, the bubbly pop song catering a stark contrast to the slow-building horror creeping up your spine.
Sam, entirely unbothered by your stricken expression, immodestly threw his feet up onto the dashboard with the air of a man settling in for a long, leisurely road trip rather than someone actively testing the limits of your patience. With the unrestrained passion of a performer standing before a sold-out stadium crowd, he threw his head back and belted at the top of his lungs, “And a Jay-Z song was on!”
You recoiled, grimacing as his voice cracked mid-note. But before responding, you reached over and smacked his legs off the dashboard, sending his sneakers thudding back to the floor. “Get your dirty feet off my dash,” you snapped.
Sam clutched his chest like you’d wounded him. “Oh, live a bit, woman. Damn, you really have no appreciation for the arts or my comfort?”
Your grip tightened around the steering wheel as you ignored his jab, leveling him instead with a flat, unimpressed stare. “This,” you slowly voiced with incredulity, “is the choice you made?”
“Hell yeah.” He nodded in affirmation, not even pausing in his off-key, wholly committed performance. “This is a certified anthem.”
“This is a cry for help.”
Sam gasped, scandalized. “You don’t like Party in the USA?”
“I do. I just don’t like you singing Party in the USA.” Without breaking your focus on the road, you lunged for his phone, yanking it from his grip with the precision of someone who had endured one too many of his antics. A dramatic click later, and blissful silence fell over the cabin.
Your passenger, however, was anything but deterred. He cackled, shoulders shaking, entirely too smug.
You inhaled deeply, willing the tension in your fingers to ease before you left permanent indentations on the wheel. “I swear to God, Wilson—”
“Hey,” he cut in, still grinning like a man with no fear of consequences. “Could’ve been worse. I could’ve switched it to romance audiobooks.”
“I will crash this car.”
The silence was short-lived. Like a cocky thief in the night, Sam moved with the precision of a soldier and the recklessness of a man who knew exactly how to test your limits. One second, the phone was in your grasp, victory assured. The next, it was snatched away with infuriating ease.
You barely had time to register the offense before the speakers flared back to life, the cabin suddenly swelling with the smooth, honeyed tones of a song that hit far too close to home.
"I see the crystal raindrops fall…"
Your eyes snapped to him, narrowing in slow, dawning realization. The Falcon, unbothered and wholly self-satisfied, leaned back against the seat with his arms folded behind his head as if he hadn't just detonated a nostalgia bomb between you. The smooth timbre of Grover Wshington Jr.’s voice accompagnied the melodious instrumental of Just the Two of Us, the saxophone bringing more than just nostalgia of a classic.
You knew exactly what he was doing. You remembered the easy rhythm of laughter between verses as you'd vaguely engage in a clumsy waltz, tripping over both feet and lyrics and pretending it was intentional. You remembered Sam’s off-key falsetto and your equally disastrous harmonies, along with the unshakable euphoria and certainty that no matter where life took you, you’d always end up in the same place.
But life had a way of rewriting certainties—the choices that wedged themselves between you was certainly proof of it. And yet, despite everything that happened, that song still had its hooks in you.
Sam, ever the instigator, drummed his fingers against the dashboard, slow and patient, like a fisherman waiting for the line to tug. When you didn’t react, he turned his head and elbowed you in your arm. “C’mon. Don’t act like you don’t remember.”
Your fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “I do remember.”
“Then sing.”
You scoffed, pretending it didn’t get to you. “Pass.”
His grin sharpened. “Boo, loser. What, so you can’t sing anymore? That’s crazy. Didn’t know losing your ability to sing was part of getting old and bitter—”
Your glare should have scorched him and wiped that insufferable smirk right off his face, but he only leaned in, fully basking in his role as an unrepentant menace.
"We can make it if we try…" He sang it pointedly, nudging you again with his elbow like an annoying kid brother. You swatted him away without sparing a glance. He did it again. And again. Until finally—
You exhaled sharply, grip slackening. “I hate you.”
But as the chorus approached, the words left your lips before you could stop them.
"Just the two of us…"
It was barely a whisper at first, something fragile and unintentional. But Sam caught it immediately and grinned just as quickly, victorious, before singing louder.
You rolled your eyes, but the fight was already lost.
“That’s my girl,” he cheered on, and before you could roll your eyes, he threw his head back and belted out the next line with all the fanciness of a Broadway performer.
By the next verse, you were both loudly singing off-key. He purposely overstated his notes, while you botched entire lines just to tease him. Laughter flowed freely between lines, busting through the barricades you'd both painstakingly established.  Sam, ever the dramatist, went full concert mode, wiggling his shoulders like an overenthusiastic backup dancer and pretending to hold a microphone as he crooned into his fist.
“No,” you moaned in exasperation between bursts of laughter as he hit an ungodly note. “That was—oh my God, Sam, stop—that is a crime against music.”
He only doubled down, adding unnecessary falsetto flourishes and pointing dramatically out the window as if serenading the passing trees. The harmonies were an absolute disaster. The timing was questionable at best. But for those few minutes, it didn’t matter. It was just you and Sam, the car, and the open road, voices colliding in the space between you.
It shouldn't have felt so natural, to slip into something that had been tearing around the edges for years. But for a brief while, it did—which was perilous, like plunging into still waters.
No matter how lighthearted it appeared, you were smart enough to understand that the political choice in this song was not only to reminisce about one of your favorite memories, but also to convey a hidden message, as the song still had meaning in its lines. “We can make it if we try”. It was a promise, one you had scarcely believed in with your whole heart before you had to learn to live without him. 
By the time the final note of the song was hit, the magic was broken. You cleared your throat and adjusted your grip on the wheel. You mumbled, "Still sing like a damn goat," since it was easier than admitting anything else.
Sam snorted. "You still talk big for someone who sounds like a dying cat."
Quietness regained its rightful place, this time more charged than before with the shadow of something lost between you. He shoved his hands into his pockets, head down, looking like he was trying to collect his thoughts—or just avoid whatever was about to spill out.
“Look, about everything that happened...” He hesitated, voice trailing off, before he tried again. “I didn’t mean—”
You cut him off before he could continue. “It’s fine,” you muttered, trying to keep the ache from spilling over. “Honestly, I should’ve expected it. You’re always going to be tied up in something bigger than us. I get it now. I should’ve known better.”
The pilot didn’t respond right away but you still made out the sound of him breathing down his nose, betraying the turmoil that was spiralling in his mind. “I just—I don’t want you to think I’m ignoring what happened. I—”
“No.” The word came out before you could stop it, hard and final. Your lips twisted into a smile, but it was bitter, hollow. “You don’t need to apologize anymore. It’s not necessary. I mean, the Air Force is a big thing. And now with the whole Avengers thing…” Your breath hitched slightly. “You had big priorities. It’s understandable.”
The words left a bitter taste on your tongue, every syllable a shard of resentment you had tried for so long to swallow. “It’s okay. You don’t need to make up some excuse.”
Sam’s expression flickered, his features shifting subtly as he processed your words, but he didn’t respond. His silence felt like another slap in the face, the unspoken weight of his guilt settling over the car.
"It just hurt," you continued, the words uncontrollably tumbling out of your mouth, as if you couldn’t hold them back any longer. "You said you’d make time. That we could figure it out." Your voice cracked slightly, but you pushed on, your chest tight with the pressure of everything you’d been carrying. "But then... it was like I was just some side story to your life. I had to deal with everything on my own. You didn’t just leave me, Sam. You left me hanging in front of the entire world, like I was an afterthought."
You could see him flinching and opening his mouth to speak, but the reply stayed stuck somewhere behind his teeth for awhile. “I didn’t mean for it to happen that way,” he finally admitted, his voice tight with frustration, lips pressed into a thin line. “You have to know that.” 
You let out a dry laugh, bitter and edged with years of pent-up anger. "No," you spat, shaking your head. "I don’t know that. I really don’t. And now you want to apologize? You think a few words will make it go away?" You turned to him then with glaring eyes, the dam inside you breaking wide open. “But I guess I should’ve known better, right? You’ve always got more important things on your plate than me. And I was just dumb enough to think I could be part of it." You let out a shaky breath. "That’s on me, not you.”
Sam’s shoulders tensed, his fists clenched so tightly against his knees that you could see the tendons in his hands strain. "That’s not fair," he rasped.
“No,” you bit out with the bitter burn of years of disappointment. “What’s not fair is pretending everything’s okay now, like you didn’t leave me in the dust. You can’t just waltz back in here and expect me to forget how much it hurt when you left me behind.”
Sam growled, his gaze snapping to yours with an intensity that could’ve burned brighter than the sunlight reflecting on the windshield. “I didn’t mean to do that. It wasn’t like that. If you’d just let me explain—”
But you were already shaking your head, a bitter laugh slipping out as you cut him off. "It doesn’t matter. I’m not doing this again."
The rest of the drive stretched on in silence, bouncing on the precarious mix of unsaid words and the sharp sting of old wounds reopening. By the time you pulled into the parking lot of the escape room, your knuckles were white against the steering wheel, your body wound tight with the tension of everything you’d let out during the ride.
You almost yanked the car into park with more force than necessary, the engine’s rumbling metaphorically serving as a harsh reminder of how you were both still reeling from your slight altercation.
The door slammed shut behind you, but neither of you made a move to walk toward the entrance. The space between you felt wider than the parking lot itself. You weren’t sure what else to say, if there was even anything left to say. 
“You should go inside first,” you finally said, your eyes staying firmly on the building in front of you. “I still need to arrange a few things in the car.” You were making a conscious decision to create some distance, to not go beyond what you could navigate through the dangerous waves of this confrontation. “Good luck with your date… or, uh, escape game.” You gave a small, tight smile, though it felt more like a bitter farewell than any kind of encouragement.
Sam silently hesitated, his eyes searching yours, like he was about to say something—but the words never formed. Instead, he took a deep breath and gave a short nod. "You too. Good luck with... whatever it is you're gonna do, too."
Without another word, he turned his back to you and walked toward the entrance with stiff shoulders. His footsteps echoed against the pavement as he left you alone, marking said distance you were so adamant on implementing once and for all.
You didn’t watch him go. You couldn’t. Instead, you opened your door with a soft creak, the cool night air rushing in as you slid back into the driver’s seat. It felt like a strange kind of closure, the door clicking shut behind you as if you were signing the definite end of a chapter, even if nothing really felt settled. With a shaky hand, you wiped the stray tears that had fallen down your cheeks, quickly brushing them away like they never happened, like you could pretend they weren’t there.
You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. There was still the night ahead, the escape game to focus on, even if your heart wasn’t entirely in it.
Tumblr media
The artificial chill of the air conditioning wrapped around you as soon as you stepped inside, abruptly differing from the lingering warmth of dusk. The area smelled somewhat floral, though not in a pleasant way—more like a half-hearted attempt to conceal the antiseptic, even clinical ambiance. The welcome space looked sleek and modern, with clean lines and soft, ambient lighting, but something seemed odd.
A trio of employees stood behind the clean counter, their demeanor courteous but impersonal. Their uniforms were clean, their smiles practiced, and their eyes assessing—not in a way that made you feel welcome, but rather processed.
"Just need you to sign a few things," one of them said, sliding a clipboard toward you with the kind of ease that suggested they had done this a hundred times before. Maybe a thousand.
You picked up the pen and skimmed the pages, your brows knitting together. Waiver. Consent form. Limited liability in the case of mild distress.
Everything screamed shady.
Even though you knew they conducted a comprehensive background check on their clients' criminal records—you knew because you boldly inquired beforehand—your gut twisted with disquiet, a silent warning you had long since learned not to ignore. But you forced yourself to exhale, suppressing the mounting doubt. Sarah planned this, and she wouldn't throw you into an underground horror movie scenario, right?
Still, the blindfold part? That was peculiar, to say the least.
“Standard procedure,” the staff member assured you in a smooth and clearly rehearsed tone. That didn’t make you feel any better.
But you weren’t about to back out now. Soundly sighing, you allowed them to tie the fabric securely over your eyes, and in an instant, the world went black.
A friendly but firm hand took you down what appeared to be a long corridor. Each step heightened the sense of disorientation, the absence of sight accentuating everything else—hushed murmurs in the distance, the continuous flaps of an air vent above, the dull pressure of the floor under you. Then a pause. The air became colder. A door opened, and you were gently guided inside.
The door shut behind you, and the person beside you vanished.
You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching at the sides. The lack of vision made everything feel too much—the faint shuffle of your own feet as you shifted nervously, the way your breathing seemed louder than it should, the slight press of your pulse on your temples. How long were they going to leave you here?
The weight of the silence stretched, and so did the edges of your nerves. Finally, the door creaked open again. Your spine became rigid. Footsteps, slow and measured. The door clicked closed once more.
Someone was here.
You exhaled, forcing an easy tone into your voice despite the unease creeping up your spine. "So, uh… I guess this is the part where we introduce ourselves? Hi, I’m—"
A strange, loaded silence tightened around you like a noose, twisting in your stomach. Were they simply joking with you? Or was there something else going on here?
Your patience, already thin after the day's events, had fully frayed. Screw this. Against your better judgment, you reached up and ripped the blindfold off, blinking rapidly as your eyes acclimated to the room's dull, amber hue.
And there, across from you, stood Sam. A solitary rose danced between his fingers, whirling aimlessly, as if he had all the time in the world. His attitude was unreadable—calm and poised, but his eyes held something you couldn't quite identify.
"Oh, hell no."
Sam let out a humorless chuckle, rubbing his temple like the sheer force of his fingers could press back the headache forming there. “Unbelievable,” he sneered, shaking his head. “I should’ve known Sarah was up to something when she kept dodging my questions.”
You let out a scoff, dragging a hand down your face as the reality of the situation settled over you like an unbearable weight. “This is what I get for trusting Sarah with this. Honestly, I’d rather deal with Bucky’s endless teasing right now than… this.”
The veteran arched a brow, folding his arms. “To be fair, you did let her set you up on a blind date with a stranger.”
You leveled him with a look. “Yeah, and so did you!” You threw up your hands. “And we came here together. Did she seriously think we wouldn’t notice?”
He exhaled sharply, his expression caught between exasperation and reluctant amusement. “Guess she figured we’d be too busy arguing to put the pieces together.”
You scoffed. “Well, congrats to her, then. She got exactly what she wanted.”
Determined to put an end to this ridiculous setup, you turned toward the door, grasped the handle, and gave it a firm tug. It didn’t budge. Your pulse ticked higher. You tried again, more forcefully this time, but the door remained stubbornly locked.
Behind you, Sam sighed, the sound far too entertained for your liking. “Still locked?”
You shot him a glare over your shoulder, jaw tight. “Obviously.”
Before he could toss out another quip, the overhead speakers crackled to life, the static buzzing through the dimly lit room before a saccharine, overly cheerful voice filled the space.
"Welcome, lovebirds, to the Valentine’s Day Escape Challenge!"
Your entire body went rigid. Sam, standing just a few feet away, had stilled completely, his eyes narrowing like he was already regretting every life choice that had led to this moment.
"Over the next hour, you and your partner will work together to solve puzzles, uncover secrets, and—most importantly—ignite a spark between you!"
Your eye twitched. "The what?"
The Falcon was still staring up at the speaker, but you could feel the sheer amount of unspoken profanity radiating off of him.
"You have sixty minutes! And remember... teamwork makes the dream work!"
A mechanical clunk sounded somewhere in the room, and a timer flickered to life on the far wall, its neon numbers casting an ominous glow.
59:59. 59:58. 59:57.
You inhaled deeply through your nose, forcing down the overwhelming urge to scream, then turned to Sam. He met your stare, equally exasperated, equally resigned.
The room was an assault of saccharine love-themed aesthetics, as if Eros himself had suffered a violent, glitter-drenched demise. Heart-shaped garlands draped along the walls in looping chains, glowing pink fairy lights casting a hazy, dreamlike blush over every velvet-draped surface. A gilded vanity stood against one wall, its mirror smeared with cryptic riddles in waxy, crimson lipstick. The simulated fireplace screen let out crackled sounds, its flames flickering just a little too artificially, a cheap illusion of warmth in a space meant to seduce.
At the center of it all sat a small, round table, dressed in pristine white linen, set for two. A single wax-sealed envelope rested atop the china, like the final invitation to some grand, elaborate joke.
Sam let out a low whistle, slow and unimpressed as he took in the spectacle. “It’s like Cupid threw up in here.”
You crossed your arms, exhaling through your nose. “More like a discount wedding venue.”
“Either way, I already hate it.”
“Great. Common ground.” You stepped forward, plucking the envelope off the table, breaking the seal with a sharp tear. “Means we’ll get through this faster.”
Inside, a delicate pink card gleamed under the low lighting, its cursive gold lettering gliding across the surface like a whispered dare:
"To escape, one must first unlock the heart. Find the key, answer truthfully, and embrace the game."
You flipped the card over, your frown deepening. Blank.
“Well, that’s unhelpful.”
Sam leaned in over your shoulder, the warmth of his unwelcome presence creeping at your back. “Sounds like a load of nonsense.”
“Sounds like we need to find a key.” You tossed the card aside and swept your gaze across the room. “Let’s just get this over with.”
He followed at an infuriatingly lazy pace, hands tucked in his pockets. “You always this impatient on dates?”
You shot him a glare. “You always this obnoxious?”
“‘That a rhetorical question?”
You huffed, stepping toward the vanity. Its antique gold frame was chipped, and its once-opulent beauty weathered down to something just shy of decadent. Trinkets littered the surface—heart-shaped perfume bottles, a pearl necklace draped over a porcelain hand sculpture, and a plush teddy bear wearing a satin bow tie.
You picked up the bear, giving it a shake. Something rattled inside. Without hesitation, you grabbed the bow and pulled at it, to which the Avenger let out a sharp breath. “At least pretend to have some finesse. Poor guy.”
You turned, leveling him with a glare. “Oh, I’m sorry, would you prefer I politely ask the stuffed animal for the key?”
His smirk was all teeth. “Wouldn’t hurt to try.”
With an exaggerated tug, the bow finally tore away, revealing a tiny brass key stitched into the lining. Triumphant, you held it up between two fingers, letting it catch the candlelight. “Hah. Suck it.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He nodded toward the oversized keyhole carved into the farthest door. “Moment of truth.”
The lock clicked smoothly, the door groaning as it swung inward to reveal the next part of your prison—a room bathed in deep red velvet, dimly lit by flickering candle sconces. A loveseat sat at its heart, a small pedestal beside it, where a single glass dome encased a perfect red rose.
You exhaled sharply. “Great. More romantic fuckery.”
Sam rolled his shoulders, his stance widening. “Starting to think this whole thing is just an excuse for people to make out in a locked room.”
You shot him a warning look. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Oh, trust me, you’re really killing the mood.”
Your attention shifted to the plaque beneath the rose. The words, engraved in curling script, sent an uneasy shiver down your spine: "A promise once spoken, never fulfilled, lingers in the heart forever." You took a step back, exhaling a little too precipitously. “Alright. Where’s the next clue?”
Sam didn’t move. His gaze lingered on the plaque before flickering back to you. “That bother you?”
“Nope,” you said too quickly. “Just wanna get out of here.”
He studied you, and for once, he wasn’t all for the laughs. “You’re lying straight to my face.”
You stiffened. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on.” His voice was laced with the same exasperation you remembered from years ago—when things were different. When things were good. “You think I don’t know? You think I don’t see it?”
You pivoted angrily towards him. “See what, Sam? I told you everything already. You want to talk about how years later, when you came back, I was the one whose name got dragged through the dirt because some paparazzi decided I made a convenient headline?”
His jaw ticked. “You think I wanted that to happen?”
“Well you barely did a damn thing to stop it, that’s for sure.”
“Oh, so that was my fault?” His voice rose, heat sparking in his eyes. “I was trying to keep you out of that mess! You think I had any control over what the media did?”
“Maybe not.” Your breath came hard now, uneven. “But you had control over what you did. And you chose to stay silent.”
The room’s candlelight flickered violently, shadows dancing along the walls that suddenly felt like they were closing in on you, encaging you in this intolerable and toxic chasm of tug-of-war fight. Sam’s hands flexed at his sides. He looked like he wanted to grab something—grab you, maybe, or stop himself from doing exactly that.
“Say it,” he finally murmured, voice rough.
You swallowed. “Say what?”
“Whatever it is you’ve been dying to say since I walked back here.” His gaze burned into yours. “Go ahead. Get it out.”
The pathetic words escaped before you could stop them.
“You lied to me and I hate you for it.”
Sam flinched, but you pressed on, voice breaking on the edges. “You promised I wouldn’t just be some forgotten thing in your past. And you never even tried.”
His nostrils flared. “You think I didn’t want to?”
“Oh, please.” You let out a bitter laugh. “You were fine. You left, became a hero, and forgot all about me until you came back wearing a fucking jetpack.”
“You were never something I could forget.”
You felt something crack in your chest. “You don’t get to say that now, Sam,” you whispered.
He stepped closer. Then again. You barely realized you were moving too, until the air between you collapsed, the heat of his body pressing into yours, the tension a live wire sparking between your ribs. 
"Then look me in the eye," Sam rasped, his voice raw, teetering on the edge of something dangerous. "Look at me and tell me I’m lying and this doesn’t mean anything anymore. Tell me you don’t feel it—say the words, and I’ll walk away. But say them like you mean them." 
Your throat worked, but no words came. Because as much as you wanted to deny the allegations, you did feel it. The frustration, the anger. And beneath it all—the wanting, the aching. The bone-deep longing for something neither of you had the courage to claim when it mattered.
In an unfurling of sudden movement, his back hit the wall with a dull thud, but before he could react, you were on him, fisting the front of his shirt and crashing your mouth against his, engaging in a battle more than a kiss. It was akin to a wildfire—scorching, desperate, all teeth and heat, the culmination of every regret and every second wasted.
The pilot groaned into it, his hands flying to your waist, strong and sure as he hauled you against him. A sharp gasp left you at the feeling of his body flush with yours, but he didn’t give you room to think or to breathe. He spun you, pressing you back against the wall, his mouth relentless against yours, moving with a punishing, consuming intent—like he wanted to devour you whole.
Your fingers twisted further into his meticulous white shirt, attempting to pull him impossibly closer than you already were. He swallowed the sound that escaped you, deepening the kiss like a starved man, like he needed this, needed you, needed to make up for all the time lost.
His lips dragged over your jaw, hot breath ghosting against your skin.
"Still mad?" he murmured against your lips, voice thick with want, teasing even now, even like this.
Your teeth sank into his bottom lip, seizing it and savoring how his breath hitched at your doing, the way his fingers flexed against your waist. "Furious."
Sam’s breath stuttered against your lips, a ragged sound caught between a groan and something dangerously close to surrender. His fingers curled into your waist, holding you like he needed to anchor himself, like if he let go, you’d slip through his grasp and take the last shred of his self-control with you.
The kiss burned, devouring, each second unraveling the years of restraint neither of you wanted to acknowledge anymore. You felt the tension in the way he pressed against you, in the way his hands slid beneath your shirt, palms searing against your skin. Your nails raked down his back, dragging over hard covered muscle, bunching the fabric of his shirt in your fists as if you could pull him deeper into you, as if there was any space left between you to close.
"Tell me to stop," Sam gasped through the clashing of your mouths, the words nearly lost to the breathlessness between you. His request went ignored as his lips traced a slow, punishing path down your jaw, his breath hot against your throat as his hands wandered, gripping, relearning, claiming back what was once his for a brief instance. 
You tilted your head, granting him more access, shivering as he took it without hesitation, teeth scraping against sensitive skin. Your fingers roamed over his chest, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt, the solid weight of him beneath your touch. It wasn’t enough. You needed more. Needed skin, heat, the press of him without barriers.
Your hands found the first button of his shirt, fumbling in your urgency. One button slipped free, then another, the fabric parting under your fingers.
Until the door slammed open.
You barely had time to gasp before Sam reacted on instinct. In a blur of movement, he thrusted you behind him, body braced like a shield between you and whoever had just interrupted.
A pair of employees stood in the doorway, frozen like deer in headlights. One clutched a clipboard, the other a maintenance checklist, both staring like they had just walked in on a crime scene.
A heavy silence stretched between all of you.
"Uh…" The clipboard guy cleared his throat, his voice weak, almost apologetic. "This… isn't a private room."
Sam exhaled sharply through his nose, his patience clearly dangling by a thread. His chest still heaved with unspent frustration and the lingering burn of what had been seconds away from happening. He ran a slow hand down his face before fixing them with a dark, pointed look.
"Clearly," he said flatly.
The maintenance guy swallowed hard. "We—we knocked. Three times."
Clipboard guy shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting everywhere but at you and Sam. "Look, we know you signed up for it and all, but this is too much—you can’t stay here. We have to ask you to leave. Immediately."
The Avenger stepped forward, rolling his shoulders as he looked them up and down. The movement was subtle, but the effect was instant. Clipboard guy flinched. Maintenance guy tensed, suddenly looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.
"You saw nothing," he declared lowly. "And whatever you think you saw? No you didn’t." His gaze flicked downward, locking onto the phone peeking out of the employee’s pocket.
The guy scrambled to pull it out, hands shaking as he unlocked the screen. "N-Nothing there! See?" He turned it around in a panic.
Sam barely glanced at it before nodding, satisfied. "Good. Smart choice."
You bit your lip, caught between laughter and mortification as Sam slid an arm around your waist, steering you toward the exit with purposeful ease.
"Now," he continued, voice laced with something smug as he leaned in just enough for only you to hear, "if you’ll excuse us, we have somewhere else to be."
His grip on your hip tightened as he led you outside, your pulse hammering in response, the rest of the world fading as the need he had ignited moments ago roared back to life with a vengeance.
Tumblr media
The ride back to the restaurant was enveloped in a heavy silence—not the brittle awkwardness of unspoken apologies nor the tenseness of imminent confrontation, but a solemn, almost sacred quietude laden with things neither of you yet dared to name.
You kept your eyes fixed on the road, though the lingering warmth of Sam’s hand on your waist remained—a memory of intimacy that had evaporated the instant you stepped out of that room. The echo of what had nearly transpired clung to your skin like a phantom caress, simmering just beneath the surface, an unacknowledged secret shared between you.
When you finally reached the restaurant, the usual mix of clamors of conversation and the tinkling of glasses felt jarringly discordant against the subdued cadence of your thoughts. You both hesitated at the entrance, lingering in the threshold. After a long pause, Sam sighed deeply, his hand drifting to his jaw as if to smooth away the remnants of the night’s turbulence. “Go wait for me,” he ordered you, “at our spot.”
That command stopped you in your tracks.
Our spot.
It had been years since either of you had dared to approach it, much less mention it aloud. The old corner by the water hidden from the prying lights of the city, where you had once spent long, languid nights nursing cheap beer, debating everything and nothing, and watching the world settle into quiet dreams. Back when neither of you had been bold enough to risk shattering that fragile haven.
You searched his face, but his eyes were fixed beyond you, as if he were still uncertain whether the words should have been spoken at all. Still, you nodded.
The dock greeted you like a cherished relic from a bygone era. Weathered wooden planks stretched over dark, rippling water, the faint, distant glow of the city shimmering in its reflection. The air was crisp and invigorating, hinting at the encroaching chill of night and making you wish you had remembered to bring a jacket.
You sank onto the edge of the dock, letting your feet dangle freely above the water, your fingers twisting together in quiet contemplation. Time slipped by in muted anticipation until, at last, the sound of footsteps echoed softly behind you. Then, as if conjured by the very night, a presence settled beside you.
Without a word, Sam pressed a cold bottle on your forehead that burned as it met your skin, making you almost jump out of your place before you took the flask of whiskey—and set another beside him. He then unfurled a thick, timeworn blanket, draping it over both of you with a fluid, almost reverent motion.
The warmth of the blanket combined with the closeness of his body seeped into you instantly, chasing away the chill of the night. For a long moment, you simply sat there, the dock creaking softly beneath your weight, the gentle lapping of water against old wood composing a quiet symphony for your shared solitude.
You sighed, rolling the bottle between your palms. “So..”
One simple word laden with the totality of everything left unsaid, a distillation of years of longing, regret and the raw, unspoken truth of your intertwined past.
You exhaled slowly, tightening your grip on the blanket as though holding it could tether you both to this moment. This was it—the precipice upon which you both now stood. There was no turning away, no hiding behind silence any longer. 
“So,” Sam repeated, his voice tinged with playful mischief as he copied your idle toying with the cold bottle in his hand, “that was… something, wasn’t it?” 
“Ugh, don’t say something cliché like that. But yeah, that was definitely something for the books, I guess.” You managed a shaky smile, your words emerging in a hesitant cadence. There was a lightness in your tone—a mirth that felt like a delicate mask over the swirling emotions that both terrified and enthralled you.
The Falcon grinned, arching an eyebrow. “You know, if it weren’t for how noisy Sarah is, we might have savored it in peace.”
You chuckled softly, the sound both amused and rueful. “She practically narrated our every move. You know she loves her piece of drama.”
“Exactly,” he agreed in a playful tone yet laced with something deeper—a hint of regret, perhaps. “I think she made sure we were loud enough for at least the entire escape room to hear.”
You shook your head, still smiling despite the vulnerability threading through your laughter. “I guess sometimes a little noise is inevitable. I mean, if everything were hushed, we’d never have the chance to remember just how messy and magnificent it all was.”
Sam’s eyes softened as he took a slow sip from the bottle, the amber liquid catching the light. “Sounds like the perfect way to put it,” he murmured absent-mindedly. Your fingers moved on to fidget with the edge of the blanket draped around you, and Sam’s gaze frequently wandered to your flushed face, as if silently pleading for some unspoken reassurance.
“Ask me,” he suddenly requested, his voice both gentle and edged with a trace of desperation, as though he believed that the right question might finally untangle the knots of regret and longing that had haunted you both for so long. “Ask me the question you’ve been holding back.”
Your heart pounded against your ribs, each beat echoing with years of missed chances and unspoken words. In a trembling rush of emotion, you blurted out, “What—uh, did you like it?” Your voice quavered, carrying the weight of the moment like a fragile plea.
Sam’s eyes shimmered with a mixture of relief and sorrow as he slowly shook his head. “No,” he replied, his tone soft yet resolute. “I mean—yes, but that’s not what I meant.” He paused, carefully choosing his words as if every syllable carried the gravity of the past. “Ask me the one you’ve wanted to ask for so long.”
A delicate tremor passed through you, and your breath caught in your throat. After a long, painful silence, you whispered, “Why didn’t you write me?” 
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the gentle lapping of the water against the dock, as if the night itself awaited his answer. Sam reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and slowly extracted a tightly knotted bundle of papers. Unraveling the thread with careful fingers, he revealed a stack of letters, yellowed with time and crinkled at the edges.
“I did write you letters,” he softly admitted, his gaze fixed on the fragile pages as if they contained his very soul. “That’s what I wanted to tell you for so long. Three hundred and sixty-five of them… one for every day.” His voice trembled with both pride and regret. “But you have to understand—the Air Force policy was tight as fuck. I couldn’t send them, and once I realized that, I… I knew you’d resent me for not keeping in touch.”
He paused, running a hand over the neatly stacked pages. “This whole thing took a toll on me—physically, mentally. I was drowning in obligations and fear, and eventually, I stopped writing because I thought maybe it was the only way to spare you from more pain.” His eyes darkened as he continued, voice barely a murmur now. “And as for the paparazzi… I thought that by not speaking, by keeping my distance, I’d protect you. If I wasn’t seen with you, they’d assume there was no connection—no real relationship worth prying into.”
A single tear glinted in the corner of your eye as you absorbed his words, each one a quiet confession, a secret revealed in the darkness. The letters lay between you like relics of a lost time—a testament to love, duty, and the unbearable cost of silence.
Your fingers trembled as they hovered above the fragile stack of letters, each page heavy with the weight of stolen years and unspoken regrets. The unsent words pressed against your chest as though they carried every moment lost between you, every silent apology and longing unfulfilled. You swallowed hard, the night air thick with an unspoken tremor that danced at the edge of every exhale.
“Tell me about them,” you professed, your voice scarcely more than a whisper carried on the breeze.
The pilot exhaled sharply, his thumb absently caressing the frayed edges of one of the letters as if it were a relic of his former self. “You really want to know?” he asked, his tone tentative, laced with both caution and the burden of truth.
You nodded, your silence affirming that, despite your uncertainty, you needed to hear every word.
For a long moment, Sam’s eyes remained fixed on the ink-smudged pages, the ghostly script of his past gazing back at him in silent testimony. “One of the first letters was angry,” he began, a wry, self-deprecating chuckle trembling at the edge of his words. “Not angry at you. Never at you. I was furious at the situation. I remember that first night in my bunk, where all I could think was how I’d have to let you down. I thought I should’ve fought harder, found a way to make it work. So I wrote it all down and thought that I would probably be out soon enough to give you them in person.”
His fingers tightened around the bundle, as if the letters themselves could anchor him to a past he both cherished and loathed. “I started writing about the small, absurd things—like how the coffee on base was godawful, the jibes from the guys when I apparently mumbled your name in my sleep—which I did not, to make things clear. I even wrote about an old couple I saw on television one day and how it reminded me of when you joked that we’d be arguing over directions even when we were eighty.” His tone faltered, growing quieter, more solemn. “And then there were the letters where I just… missed you. God, I missed you so much.”
Sam’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, and his grip on the letters slackened, as though holding them was too painful. “And it got harder. Days turned into months, and I convinced myself that you’d moved on—that I had no right to cling onto us. But even then, I never stopped wanting you.”
He turned his gaze to you then, the glow of unsent confessions and quiet grief shining in his eyes. “And it shouldn’t matter anymore because it’s over. Or at least, that’s what I should believe. But it does. It always has.”
The wind whispered softly around you, stirring the fragile pages in his hand and carrying away echoes of moments lost to time. Your heart clenched, caught between the relief of knowing and the heartbreak of what might have been.
In one sudden, desperate motion, he reached for you. His fingers brushed your jaw lightly at first, then cradled your face with a tenderness that belied the cool night air. His thumbs, warm and steady, traced gentle arcs over your cheekbones—anchoring you both to this moment, to the years lost and the yearning that had bridged every mile of distance between you.
His eyes, dark and unwavering, burned into yours with an intensity that stole your breath away. “Hear me out, please,” he murmured, his voice low and insistent, as though the very thought of you slipping away again was unbearable. “I was a coward. I should’ve done better than that but I let fear, and everything else, win. I told myself I was protecting you, that I was doing what was best. But all I did was make it worse. I made you think I didn’t care when the truth is... I never stopped.”
Your lips parted in a silent gasp, but Sam did not wait for you to speak. His grip on your face tightened, firm enough to keep you tethered to him without causing pain.
“I love you.”
The words fell between you like fragile glass shards, the shatter of the barriers of years resonating with their fall. “Yeah, fuck this corny shit. I have loved you every single damn day since the moment I let you go. I know it’s selfish to say it now, after everything, but I just need you to know that I love you. And I’m so goddamn sorry that I ever made you doubt that.”
A shudder ran through you, and your hands clutched his wrists as if they were the only lifeline in your storm of emotions. Every syllable struck like a slow-burning flame, peeling back layers of anger, heartbreak, and longing until all that remained was the undeniable truth—him, you, and a love that refused to fade.
“Sam—” you began, but your voice cracked, the word lost to the tumult of your feelings.
It didn’t matter anyway, because before you could speak another word, he kissed you with the same fervor from earlier, as if he were a man finally allowed to feast upon the love that had sustained him in torturous silence. His lips met yours with a desperate ardour that sent shivers racing down your spine, his hands roaming to trace the soft curve of your neck and leading you to melt into the perfect fit of his embrace.
The world around you—the creaking dock, the ghostly remnants of past regrets—faded into insignificance. All that remained was the kiss, deepening with every heartbeat, as if he were trying to reclaim every lost day, every stolen hour of absence. And you, with equal fervor and need, returned his kiss. Your hands tangled in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, as if in that embrace you could mend the ruptures of time itself.
When you finally broke apart, breathless and trembling, your foreheads pressed together in the cool night air. “Please, tell me that wasn’t a mistake.”
Your fingers trailed slowly down his chest, grasping the fabric as if to hold onto the fragile promise of the moment. “No,” you whispered back, your voice tender and resolute. “This time it wasn’t.”
A slow grin spread across Sam’s face, and relief flooded his features like the first rays of the morning sun after a long, storm-ridden night. He swept you into his arms, lifting you clear off the ground to bring you closer, almost sitting on his lap. The world tilted delightfully as a rich, unburdened laughter bubbled from his chest in a way you hadn’t heard in a while, full of joy and the promise of new beginnings.
“You’re gonna make me lose my damn mind,” he crooned against your hair in a husky blend of disbelief and something infinitely tender, a softness that belied the wildness of the moment.
A breathy laugh escaped you as your hands instinctively clinging to his broad shoulders as if anchoring you both to the present. “You’re acting like I just solved every world crisis,” you teased, even as your heart pounded in its rhythmic cadence.
“Nah,” he replied, his thumb traced reverently along your jaw, as though memorizing every curve and line of your face. “Just mine.” 
A quiet ache formed in your chest at the way he looked at you, as if he still couldn’t believe you were real, as if he were etching every detail of you into memory in case the universe ever dared be cruel again.
Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt, and with a voice steadier than you felt, you whispered, “I love you too, Sam.”
For a heartbeat, his lips parted as if to utter more, but before the words could spill, a familiar voice shattered the reverie.
“Hey, lovebirds! Dinner’s ready!” Sarah called from the restaurant’s back porch, her tone playful as she leaned against the doorway with crossed arms and a knowing smirk that practically screamed, took you long enough.
Sam groaned, tipping his head back. “Jesus, can I have one moment—just one?” he protested.
Laughing, you grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the warm glow of the restaurant. “Come on, loverboy, before she comes out here and drags us inside herself.”
The golden light of the restaurant melted away the coolness of the night, wrapping you in a comforting embrace. As you walked back to the shack, a spark of mischief danced at the edges of your lips. You shot Sam a sidelong glance, the playful glimmer in your eyes challenging him.
“Wait a second…” you drawled, narrowing your eyes and tilting your head. “Did you—did you quote The Notebook in your big, dramatic profession of love?”
For a moment, his grip on your hand tightened, and he faltered, pigment further coloring his cheeks. “What?” he managed, his tone caught between indignation and bashful amusement.
“Oh my God,” you gasped, pressing a hand to your mouth as barely contained laughter bubbled forth. “You did! That ‘it wasn’t over’ thing—straight out of The Notebook!”
His arm looped around your shoulders, drawing you closer with a quiet, playful threat. His large palm briefly covered the back of your head as he guided you forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Say one more word about that, and I swear I will stuff you so full of oysters you won’t be able to utter a single syllable for a week.”
You snorted. “Really? That’s your big intimidation tactic?”
“Ever tried eating twenty oysters in one sitting?” he shot back, arching a brow and letting his lips twitch in a smirk. “I don’t think so. Now, go sit down and eat before I make it happen.”
Grinning, you leaned into his side, feeling the easy warmth of his arm as it draped around you. After all the lost time and shattered dreams, everything felt achingly, irrevocably right. Perhaps the years apart had only deepened the truth: the time you thought was lost might, in fact, still be yours to reclaim, as you were fated to be stuck together no matter what.
Tumblr media
Want to read more of my works? Check out my masterlist !
⠀⠀
dividers ©️ @angelremnants + @cafekitsune .
angelremnants ©️ 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost, reproduce, or distribute without explicit permission.
618 notes · View notes