#prompt: hair combing in wedding chamber

[kingsandbastardz]

fic prompt: hair combing in the wedding chamber

01 li lianhua

the existence of a torture chamber beside the wedding bedroom and its contents shouldn’t be a surprise at this point. and yet… it’s the redundancy you find offensive. she has a multi-chamber dungeon. she has a water chamber in her own quarters. why must it extend here as well? you despise the sight of unmarked bottles sitting ominously on a small table beside a decorative chair. they’re placed in front of an x-shaped rack fitted with iron ankle and wrist cuffs. there are hooks freshly installed in the ceiling.

you hear rattling and di feisheng is beside you, his expression neither upset nor surprised. just blankly contemplative. he kicks lightly at a thick gauge iron chain on the floor comb in hand and his hair thrown over one shoulder. he looks around the room, eyes unfocused -- you’re not sure he’s actually seeing anything -- the snapping sounds as he rips the comb through a knot in his hair grates against your nerves.

you don’t want to be here anymore than you want him here – so you hold your hand out in front of his face and say, “give me that. i can’t stand watching you – do you want to go bald?”

it is a moment too long before he finally looks at you and the comb is deposited silently in your hand. you lead him to the table in the bedroom. on the way, you spot his hair ornament on a shelf and grab it.

at least while sitting, he’s tall enough that combing his hair is an intimacy that is easy on the arms. you’ve done this for a handful of others. your shiniang, your past lovers. your once-brother. now it is di feisheng’s still-damp hair you run your fingers and a comb through. silkier than zhan yunfei’s, more voluminous than qiao wanmian’s. its weight sits in your hand and tangles your fingers with the same tenacity of a spider’s web.

the knots cling, every bit as stubborn as their owner. was he born like this? or was this a learned trait? has he ever regretted a decision?

this man has followed you across the world – with or without his memories, every bit as dogged and loyal as fang duobing. ever single-minded in purpose. the affection he makes you feel has always been uncontrollable. you want to resent him as much as you feel fondness, but in the end, the fondness always wins out.

you tie his hair back and lock the familiar silver ornament in place, sliding the pin through the knot. (you bought this for him. with your own money, even, and not xiaobao’s.)

he twists around to look up at you – eyes open and clear in a way no one with his personal history should be able to. you’ve never once felt this unburdened. years ago, you and lao di were both in the middle of puberty, youths, barely old enough or tall enough to count as adults.  he looked up at you back then, in the same way, as you looked down from the trees. he never had to say or do anything to capture your attention. he just gazed straight into you, soft, open, and entirely receptive to anything you wanted to throw at him.

what else could you do?

you hit him with your very best.

xiaobao understands you like no one else. but this one – this one never cared about any of the things the world wanted from you. he didn’t see the future. he didn’t see potential. he didn’t see the power you wielded for the benefit of everyone. he saw only the you that stood in front of him. nothing more, nothing less.

and now? you know what he wants because you want it too. even now, there are moments you can hear the clang of sword, smell the burn of sparked sword oil, feel the heady rush of bloodlust. you crave the razor-sharp clarity that overtakes you as you take flight and know the man following you will be able to keep pace no matter where you go and what you do. you can let go. you don’t have to hold back anymore.

he sees you the way no one else does and you want him to see you that way again. you want to see him on the other side of your crossed blades and to find your steps again in the sky unburdened by lies or death. you want the life you could have had together.

there was a time, you could have dreamed of fighting together. eating together. watching as his hair turned white to match yours.

but you can’t. you only have memories left of that old you and the bitter flavor of passed time.

if only you had met again 10 years ago. or even 5 years ago, once your rage had burnt its way out of your heart and bones.

you can’t afford to want what di feisheng wants. (but you do. you want it. it burns worse than poison.)

tonight.

tonight, under the influence of good wine and the warmth of shared smiles, you will pretend you have the luxury of health and time.

tonight, you will pretend you are living the life you should have – a life free of shan gudao's shadow and without regrets.

--

02 di feisheng

you are tortured your whole life and for a moment, you actually die; but you are alive now and stronger than ever. you drink wine with a loved one and he smiles in shared understanding (finally, after all these years. you’ve waited for him.)

the suffering was worth it if that is what brings you both to this moment.

under the moon’s blessing, you smile back and for the first time in your life, you hope for the future.

[meowmeow-motherfucker]

Covenant- Chapter 9

Summary: With the five year anniversary of the attack on New York approaching, Odin and Fury come to the agreement that an arranged marriage between Asgard and Earth would show good faith toward all future interactions. When Odin refuses Jane’s candidacy, Agent Coulson is tasked with finding a suitable wife for the prince of Asgard.

Pairing: Loki x OFC Claire Fisher

Word count: 9.5k (prepare drinks and snackies as always)

Chapter warnings: outdated and sexist marriage advice, blood, jealousy and discussion of maiming and murder, flirting, semi-public makeouts

Taglist: @lokisgoodgirl @gigglingtiggerv2 @icytrickster17 @mysteriouslyfriedjellyfish @lokislilkitten @justjoanne242 @amlocked @ddmariegirl @mags-04-blog @sharris8 @meepycheep @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @the-fantasy-loving-angel @jaidenhawke @smolvenger @ladymischief11

Please let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! Thanks for coming along on this journey with me!

Claire sat in a daze as she watched the half dozen women scurry about her chambers. Today was her wedding day, and to Claire’s mind, everyone but her was either excited or frantic with activity. The queen herself was currently directing Ragna and Claire’s other ladies as they hurried to get Claire ready to start the day. She’d only arrived moments ago from Loki’s chambers, quickly taking control of the room while Claire sat on and watched numbly. Part of her mind was still in denial: that this wasn’t happening to her, it was happening to some stranger and she just happened to have an excellent view.

She was excited, there was no denying that. Everything she’d gone through for the past six weeks had led to today. Finally she’d able to spend risk-free time alone with Loki, to touch and be touched. What kind of husband would Loki be? What would their life together be like?

“Come, we must get you to the bath.” The queen said soothingly, offering her hand to Claire and effectively supplanting her musings about her soon-to-be husband with fresh tremors of nerves.

“Okay.” Claire replied shakily, taking her hand and allowing herself to be led from the room. She didn’t understand why she needed to go to the public washroom when she had a perfectly good private bathing pool in her rooms. As she bathed, the queen and the two crones told Claire what to expect after the ceremony (as if it helped her nerves to be told to let Loki do whatever he wants- don’t argue) and gave her advice for married life (basically the same advice as before- that didn’t help either). After the weird events that had unfurled the previous night, Claire was even more nervous to find out what her wedding night would entail.

After a quick dip in brutally cold water, Claire was marched back to her rooms to be dressed and Frigga disappeared almost immediately to check up on Loki.

Claire had to hand it to the Asgardians- they were very prompt. Almost immediately after Frigga left to check on Loki, her staff returned to begin combing her hair into submission, two of the women Claire recognized from the night before hot on their heels to give her their report.

Apparently Claire and Loki were hella compatible.

Claire had come to the same conclusion on her own, but it was reassuring to have her theory confirmed. The report was rather basic, as far as Claire was concerned, and mostly just focused on heterosexual activities. Which, she knew, was really the only focus as they were expected to have babies as soon as possible, but since she and Loki had privately decided they would decide when to have children, Claire resolved not to worry about it too much.

She did, however, wonder if there were things Loki enjoyed which were not included in the report. He was much older, and likely had far more sexual experience, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine he’d done just about everything (and everyone?) under the sun.

Unfortunately she didn’t get much time to herself to contemplate that. After the women left, her staff began to help her into the strapless white slip that would hide beneath her wedding dress. The dress itself was not at all what she had expected. Instead of the Earth standard of creamy white, her dress was a luscious, royal shade of purple. The deep neckline allowed for the slightest peek of her chest tattoo, and the cutouts on her biceps would allow her armlet to be seen. Before her wedding, the armlet symbolized her being inducted into the royal family, and though the color of the band itself was changing with her marital status, Claire would get to keep wearing one.

“You look beautiful,” Frigga declared as she adjusted her soon-to-be-daughter’s necklace. Frigga had returned in time to oversee the final touches to her preparation, bringing with her a gift of a decadent diamond choker. “All that’s left is your bridal crown.” The crown she and Frigga had spent hours creating sat nestled in its gilded box on her vanity. Traditionally, Frigga had explained, Claire’s crown would have been passed down from her mother, and her mother before her. As Claire did not have a family heirloom to wear, Frigga had suggested to make a new one. After all, the queen had said with a wink, all traditions begin somewhere. Together they had crafted a beautiful kransen out of lavender and rosemary sprigs, as well as ingots of carnelian and amethyst. Frigga had been pleased with Claire’s choices, and Claire was thrilled to have a witchy mother-in-law.

Ragna picked up the gilded box which held Claire’s kransen and offered it to Frigga. Frigga gingerly opened the box and plucked the kransen from its velvet pillow, setting it gently on Claire’s gleaming hair.

“There. You’re ready,” Frigga curled a lock of Claire’s sleek hair gently behind her ear. “You look absolutely stunning. Loki will be beside himself when he sees you.”

“Thank you, Frigga.”

“After today dear, you may call me Mother,” Frigga smiled warmly, delighted to finally have the daughter she’d always longed for. Claire’s face had gone pale, her eyes becoming glassy with tears as her chin quivered. “Oh darling, I did not mean to upset you!” she brushed Claire’s hair from her face, hoping to soothe the hurt she’d caused.

“No it’s okay,” Claire said wetly. “I’m not upset with you, I just miss my mom. I wish she was here.”

“I know her loss still pains you, dearest,” Frigga said, clasping Claire’s hands in hers as she knelt. “You were her dearest treasure, Claire. She would be so proud to see who you’ve become.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But I do,” Frigga smoothed the tear running down Claire’s cheek with her thumb. “I see with more than eyes, darling girl. Her love surrounds you even now. She is here today.” Claire could easily imagine her mother threatening Loki with her chancla as she shouted at him in Spanish. The thought brought a smile to her face and Frigga brightened.

“Thank you.” Claire murmured, wiping her face as her cheeks warmed with embarrassment.

“Tears are to be expected on days such as this. Do not fret, I shall keep your secret.” she winked.

~~~~

Loki stood outside the palace carriage house with his horse, preparing to take his place in the parade. The banner men were preparing to begin the festivities, assembling ahead of Loki and his horse. Odin, Frigga and Thor were at the front behind an army of banner men, while Claire would be at the end with her own battalion of banner men between her and Loki. The staging of the parade was to prevent the betrothed couple from seeing each other. Loki thought it a stupid tradition. He wished to see Claire now.

Already the crowd of people lining the streets to the temple were loud, the people talking and shouting as they clamored with one another for a better view of the royal family. Einherjar lined the streets as well to keep the peace, and ensure the route to the temple was clear. Desire burned deep in Loki’s belly, compelling him to forego the parade and the traditions and simply steal Claire away to escape from it all.

Behind her battalion of banner men, Claire felt like she was going to throw up. A stable hand had just brought out her horse, and she swore she heard the giant beast snickering at her. That horse had never liked her, and even though they’d been practicing for the parade for weeks, she was convinced the damn thing was lying in wait to make her look like an idiot.

She was going to embarrass herself in front of the entire realm and she was going to get sent home. She could feel it in her bones. All her hard work, Loki’s freedom, all their progress was going to go up in flames and it would be her fault. Loki would hate her.

The pit in her stomach roiled with nerves and her hands trembled. It’s going to be fine, it’s going to be fine. Her feet moved on autopilot toward the front of the parade, searching out the person she was doing all of this for. Gunnar stepped into her path, blocking her from leaving the secluded enclave of banner men.

“Can I assist you, my lady?” he asked earnestly. It was clear from his concerned expression that he could tell she was rattled. After being in close proximity to one another for six weeks, Claire would be concerned if he couldn’t tell.

“I’d like to go for a quick walk, to settle my nerves,” she replied, eyes darting toward the small blip of Loki’s horse that she could make out through the crowd. “I won’t be long.”

“The parade will begin any moment, my lady,” Gunnar said calmly. “Perhaps spending a few moments with your horse will help-” Claire wasn’t going anywhere near that hell beast until she had to.

“Noooo thank you, I’m just gonna scooch on by-”

“Your Majesty-”

“I’m just taking a walk,” Claire insisted. “it’ll be fine, I promise.” Gunnar fixed her with a knowing look and relented, stepping out of her way to let her pass.

She ignored the low hum of the banner men’s chatter as she cut through them. Loki’s horse was beginning to take shape now, its luxuriously braided tail swishing impatiently as Claire approached.

A few more steps brought Loki into view, and her bubbling anxiety began to recede. He stood at the horses flank, his face animated as he spoke to the animal and pet along its neck.

He looked so handsome. He was dressed in full armor today, clad in tight black leather from head to toe, with the gold band on his chest and his cape billowing behind him with the wind. His golden helmet gleamed in the sunlight, the reflection off the curved horns making her eyes squint.

As she crept closer, Claire wondered if Loki would consider wearing the helmet to bed. There was something about them that was so...primal. She imagined they would make great handholds.

A breeze stirred up his long cape, granting her an excellent view of his ass and the leather molded to it.

How would he react if she sneak-attacked him and smacked his ass in front of everyone? Maybe their wedding day wasn’t the best day to do that, but Claire wasn’t exactly known for controlling her impulses.

Something in Loki’s peripheral vision brought him to full alert, though he continued to stroke his horse as though nothing had changed. Whatever the threat, it was drawing closer.

The prince stiffened as it drew near, hackles raised instantly by the presence behind him. He palmed the hilt of one of his knives before he smelled Claire's perfume. Loki relaxed, letting his hand fall as the tension bled from his shoulders.

“Please don't do that.” He said over his shoulder.

“Sneak up on you?” She asked. He nodded subtly. “I'm sorry. I wanted to see you.”

I wanted to see you.

It warmed Loki that she actively sought him out when she wasn't supposed to. They were not due at the altar for hours yet, were not meant to see each other until then, yet here she was.

“What can I do for you?”

“You could let me smack you on the ass.”

“I beg your pardon?!” Loki almost broke the rule and looked in her direction.

“What?” Claire asked, unrepentant in her request. “You have a nice ass and I’m stressed. It’s really the least you could do.” Loki could not contain the laughter that escaped him.

Sneaking up on him was one thing but openly, brazenly stating her desire for him? Loki knew he must tread carefully; that he could easily lose himself in his devotion to her. He could make entire realms crumble at her feet simply because she was not ashamed of him.

“Alas, little wife, I must deny your request.”

“What, why?”

“Because,” Loki fussed with his horses mane to keep himself from gazing at her. “I could not be held responsible for my reaction if I should let you.”

“Wait, good reaction or bad? The report didn’t say anything about-”

Oh gods, the report. Ever since he’d received it, Loki had been aching to test the knowledge passed on to him. The ethics of knowledge seeking demanded it, and as a scholarly man, Loki was bound by duty (and pleasure) to test all possible theories.

“-you okay?” Claire’s voice brought him out of his thoughts, and once again he was barely able to stop himself from looking at her.

“I am fine,” he replied swiftly. “I am not opposed to the idea, simply the venue,” Loki’s mind warred with the idea- it would be thrilling, he supposed, to be claimed in such a way. He imagined the banner men would have lots to say about it, but Loki swiftly decided that any fool with half a brain would desire to be claimed by such a woman as Claire. “Perhaps on a day that is not our wedding day.”

“I’ll hold you to that, mischief,” he could hear the smile in her voice and it warmed him. Impatience prickled behind his skin and he growled, wishing this insipid parade would stay so that he could at last see her. “Can you maybe do me a different favor?” Claire asked.

“Possibly,” Loki replied. “What do you require, my lady?”

“Fandral winked at me earlier and I really, really, REALLY want to punch him in the face, and I need you to talk me out of it because I know I would get in trouble and he's not worth it.” Loki broke into laughter, instantly imagining Claire’s fist breaking that miserable lout’s nose. “Why are you laughing?!”

“I am sorry,” Loki chuckled. “I cannot help you.”

“What? Why?!”

“Because I would like nothing more than to watch you punch him in the face!” Loki said, as though she should already know that. (She did.)

“See, that's not very supportive,” she clucked, giving his shoulder a light slap. “I thought this was supposed to be a partnership.”

“It is. How is it not?”

“You're supposed to talk me out of non-princessy stuff,” Claire replied. “Remember?”

“Of course, but the opportunity is far too good to pass up. You could sell tickets and amass a fortune to surpass the coffers of Asgard.” Loki looked over his shoulder, spying the very edge of her.

“Are you serious?”

“Well...” Loki gave a minute shrug. “Perhaps not quite-”

“This isn't helping,” Claire hissed, and Loki felt her rest against his shoulder. “Your crazy is supposed to balance mine and mine is supposed to balance yours.”

“Oh dear,” Loki crooned. “Perhaps miscalculations were made, matching us together. The way you speak, we both belong in a mad house.”

“They'd have to catch us first.” Loki felt a slight tug on his epaulets, as if she'd bunched her small hands into fists within his cape, and smiled.

“Do you know what Fandral said to me yesterday, when I slaughtered him in the wrestling match?”

“No, what?”

“He said you are crazier than me,” Claire’s cheeks warmed at the pride she heard in Loki’s voice. “And that we deserve each other. I don’t believe I have ever agreed with Fandral before. But enough about that fool- are you suggesting we run away together, little wife?” He asked teasingly.

“Would you? If I was?”

“It is tempting,” Loki hummed. “If only to escape this drudgery. I would much prefer to see you when it pleased me, as opposed to when it pleases someone else.”

“We'll be married in a few hours and then we can hang out all the time. I'm sure things will be better once all the commotion dies down.”

“Only slightly, I'm afraid,” Loki said apologetically. “We will always have obligations. It never ends.”

“Yeah I figured,” Claire sighed. “I should probably go before I’m missed. See you soon.”

“See you soon.” Claire slipped away, but the feel of her hands in his cape remained. Perhaps Loki imagined it. He felt nerves beginning to bloom in his gut, and he shook them off. He had nothing to be nervous about. He would see Claire in just under two hours and they would finally be wed.

Loki received the signal to mount his horse and stepped into the stirrups. His horse whinnied as he settled into the saddle, checking the reins. Ahead of him, a roar of cheers informed him that Thor, Frigga and Odin had made the first turn into the streets.

Claire made it back to her section just in time for things to kick off.

“Thank goodness! It is time, my lady,” Ragna informed Claire with relief, ushering her toward her horse. “Just as you’ve practiced.” The stable hand appeared by Claire’s side to offer assistance should she need it. Considering Claire was wearing a dress and a heavy crown and jewelry, she probably would.

“Right,” Claire said nervously. “Let’s rock and roll.” she stepped into the stirrup and climbed up into the saddle with more ease than she’d anticipated.

“Well done, Your Highness.” the stable hand applauded her as she settled. Her horse huffed and stamped its feet, shaking its head impatiently.

“Well we did practice a lot to get this right,” Claire offered. “Will you walk with me? Just in case?”

“Of course, Your Highness.” the stable hand stroked the horses neck, nodding at Claire encouragingly. Ahead of them, the swarm of banner men began to move.

“Moment of truth,” Claire murmured to her horse. “Please don’t throw me and I will give you literally anything you want,” she pleaded as they left the seclusion of the carriage house and the street came into view. “Seriously, anything. You want apples? I will plant a whole orchard just for you-”

“My lady,” Ragna spoke from beside the horse, interrupting Claire’s pleas of supplication to the beasr. “The people are waving at you.”

“Oh, right, the thing we’re doing,” Claire slapped on her brightest smile and waved obediently, the hand still on the reins clenching them so tightly her knuckles ached. Claire recognized some of the faces as she passed- the blacksmith she’d purchased Loki’s wedding gift from, the jeweler who’d made their rings.

She felt a rush of pure giddiness when she recognized the little girl who had given her a flower on the beach, perched on the shoulders of a man who must be her father. Her mother beamed with pride when Claire waved to them, and while it still felt strange to be celebrated just for existing, it made Claire feel as though she would truly feel at home here in time.

The parade seemed to go on for ages, as the horses slowly plodded through the city streets. Claire’s arm began to ache and she nervously switched her grip on the reins from one hand to the other. The horse plodded along placidly, jostling Claire gently as they traveled the cobbled streets. The high white turrets of the temple came into view between the banners ahead as they made the last turn. Fragrant white smoke billowed from its chimneys into the clear blue sky above, bells high in the towers filling the air with their song. People tossed flowers as the parade progressed, delicate blooms crushed to paste beneath the hooves of passing horses.

The hardest part was almost over.

The last stretch of the parade was flanked by their guests. Claire spied the avengers clustered together, as well as several politicians she recognized and waved to. She purposely turned away from the sitting president of her country, delighting inside at the fury he must feel at being snubbed.

As her representative, Phil stood closest to the temple apart from the rest of the guests, his eyes looking suspiciously glassy as Claire’s horse clopped past him. Even Nick appeared...well, not emotional, per se. Nothing ever rattled that man.

Before Claire knew it, they were at the base of the temple stairs. The stable hand took the reins from her as they came to a stop, and Claire flexed her hands before dismounting. She glanced up at the temple to see Loki climbing the steps. Thor, Odin and Frigga were just stepping inside as Ragna helped Claire adjust her dress. A group of banner men flanked the two women as they began to climb the stairs, obscuring Claire from Loki’s view should he turn around. Claire stepped inside the opulent marble doorway, the sounds of the crowd fading as the doors were closed behind her.

~~~~

“Brother! Are you well?” Thor asked for the millionth time. With all members of the wedding party secluded away, the guests were being directed to their seats. Loki suspected the temple would see more people today and in the days to come than it had seen in the last hundred years.

“Will you cease pawing at me? I am fine,” Loki hissed, cleaning the fingerprints Thor left on his armor with his sleeve. “I merely wish to be done with this day.”

“You are not excited? I thought you and Lady Claire were quite...amorous. Mother’s ladies had many things to say.” Thor waggled his eyebrows at Loki, who scowled in response.

“Which is precisely why I wish for this day to be over,” Loki replied. “Firstly, so that I may spend time with my bride without prying ears and eyes, and secondly so that I may have those nags flogged for their constant hand-wringing.”

“You wish to snack on her!” Thor bellowed raucously, slapping Loki on the shoulder and almost causing his knees to buckle. Thor possessed a strength that could humble even the mightiest of men, god or not, and in Loki’s eyes the oaf never saw reason to limit it.

“What?!” he hissed, straightening the lines of his tunic yet again.

“It is a Midgardian term! Jane explained it to me,” Thor exclaimed. “If one's paramour is attractive, they are fit for snacking!”

“Are you certain you’re using that correctly?”

“Of course, I am not a fool,” Thor rolled his eyes. “Jane certainly is a snack, is she not?”

“Brother, if Jane is a snack, then Claire is a feast,” Loki said dreamily. “Were that this day were over already.”

“You swoon now, but she has the skill to kill you,” Thor cackled. “You saw her on the training fields; she nearly killed a man with her mighty thighs! She, a mortal, picked me up like a sack of flour!” Loki smiled. She was a sight to behold, his bride, full of fury and his. All his. He ached to feel her beautiful thighs tremble around him as he pleasured her with his tongue.

“If that is how I die, then I shall die a glorious death.” He sighed wistfully.

“Are you not concerned, brother? You would not go to Valhalla if you die between your wife’s thighs.”

“Glorious.” Loki muttered, not even hearing his brother. Thor rolled his eyes as Frigga arrived.

“It seems I have arrived at the perfect time,” she smiled. “My goodness, look at the two of you. All grown up.” her delicate fingers gathered a tear from the corner of her eye.

“Mother, you said you would not cry.” Thor chuckled.

“Nonsense. Every mother cries on her son’s wedding day. Now,” Frigga straightened, clasping her hands together as she drew closer to Loki. “Let me look at you.” She began to pluck at his clothing, adjusting his collar, a strap here, removing a non-existent smudge from his golden vambrace.

“Mother…” Loki groaned as she she reached up to smooth his hair. Behind her, Thor grinned to see his brother being hen-pecked to death.

“I remember when you were still shorter than me,” she said, her eyes beginning to sparkle with unshed tears. “Now you are so much taller than I am and I feel as though I’ve missed it all. Where has my little boy gone?” her chin quivered as she took him in, mere moments away from being a married man. “Everything your father and I have done has led to this day. Remember, my darling, to honor your wife. Protect and cherish her. Be kind and take care of her, yes?”

“Yes, mother. I will.”

“I know you will. Are you ready?”

“I am,” nerves still threatened to choke him, but he no longer felt as though he was greeting his death. Knowing Claire as he did had eased the sense of impending doom, and now he simply grew more impatient as the minutes ticked by. He chuckled as Frigga adjusted his clothing yet again. “Mother, I swear I am presentable.”

“You are, you are,” Frigga fussed. “You both look wonderful. Thor, you know what to do.” Thor nodded, turning to leave. Before he walked out, he flashed Loki an enthusiastic thumbs up.

“You look lovely, Mother.”

“Oh my darling boy,” Frigga cupped his cheek, her eyes clouding with tears again. “I am so very proud of you.” Loki’s throat threatened to swell shut.

“Mother-”

“Hush. I know how you think of yourself, but not today, my darling. You have more than proven your worth. I know you will treat Claire with the honor she deserves, and I cannot wait to see the life you build together,” Frigga pulled him into a hug that nearly undid him, releasing him in order to straighten his collar and hair once more. “Come, everyone is waiting.”

Collecting his composure, Loki offered her his arm and escorted her to the sanctuary, where Odin and the assembly of guests waited. Loki helped Frigga to climb the stairs to her place beside Odin before taking his own place on the opposite side of the stairs.

All he had to do now was wait.

Thor nudged him from beside him, flashing him an encouraging smile when Loki glanced at him. The doors to the throne room opened after what seemed an eternity.

A politely shocked murmur went through the crowd as Claire stepped in unaccompanied. Loki had known she would of course, but seeing it- seeing her- saunter toward him and the destiny they’d fallen into together made him flush with pride.

I don’t need someone to give me away. I made the choice. I talked the talk, now I gotta walk the walk.

She was wholly correct. An escort would have detracted from the attention she deserved.

For she was utterly breathtaking. A goddess for whom poetry should be writ and stars aligned.

The mulberry shade of her gown complimented the small glimpses of skin that the design of the dress allowed- the deep vee of the neckline, the small slits along her biceps. The billowing sleeves opened at her elbows, the fabric nearly reaching her feet. The cuff on her bicep had already been changed to gold to match his armor, and her bridal crown glittered with ingots of amethyst and carnelian, their raw natural beauty suffused by springs of lavender and rosemary. Diamonds dripped down her throat from the choker he recognized as his mothers.

She met his gaze as she reached the stairs, her golden shimmery lips twisting into an anticipatory grin.

Nobody owns me.

Breaking tradition, Loki darted down to meet her, offering her his arm to help her up the last stretch of stairs before the altar. He felt Odin’s disapproving gaze weighing on him but ignored it in favor of making sure Claire was on steady footing.

“Hi.” her excited whisper stirred his own eagerness and he smiled.

“Hello.”

“Fancy seeing you here.” She giggled as the proceeding began. Matching her grin with one of his own, Loki couldn’t help but think on what his mother had said about their future.

Anything is possible.

~~~~

Outside the sanctuary, five minutes earlier

“I think I’m gonna barf,” Claire said tremulously, clutching Phil’s arm tightly as Ragna adjusted her bridal crown for the millionth time. They stood outside the magnificent doors to the sanctuary, waiting for them to open and Claire’s wedding ceremony to begin. “My heart feels like it’s gonna explode.”

“It might be a bit late to duck out,” Phil whispered, offering a grim but consoling smile. “Don’t throw up please, these are my favorite shoes.”

“I’m not actually going to puke,” Claire groused. “I’m just a big jumble of nerves and excitement and my stomach can’t decide which is winning.”

“You’re excited?” Phil asked flatly.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Claire sighed. “I know you don’t like Loki or this situation and yeah it’s weird, but I think this could really work. We get along-”

“Palace gossip says otherwise. As does personal experience.”

“I was going to say ‘pretty well’,” Claire rolled her eyes. “I know you don’t like him. You haven’t exactly made that a secret-”

“Being stabbed in the back will have that effect.” Phil shrugged when Claire glanced at him heatedly.

“I’m not excusing his past behavior,” she huffed. “But there is more to him than what most people see. And yes, we fight, but we are different people from different cultures. I think we could do a lot worse,” she sighed shakily, adjusting the cuff of one of her sleeves. “You can’t tell me things haven’t gotten better, because they have.”

“Mm-hmm.” Phil hummed. Claire clenched her jaw, patience depleting in the blink of an eye.

“I don’t know why you’re upset,” she rounded on him angrily. “You get to go home in a few days. You will not spend the rest of your life in a foreign place, surrounded by strange people and strange customs and strange everything.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I just-”

“If I desire your input, I will ask for it,” Claire said coldly. “You were so adamant that I would be great at this, so keep your opinions to yourself and let me do what I came here to do,” she straightened her shoulders, looking away to find Ragna. Time was dwindling and she wanted everything to be perfect. “Ragna? My bouquet please.”

“Here, Your Majesty,” Ragna appeared at her side in an instant, bouquet already held out in offering. “Can I do anything else to assist you?”

“Is my dress okay? It feels twisted,” Ragna disappeared from Claire’s field of vision, sinking to her knees to adjust the fabric around Claire’s ankles. “Thank you.” Her nerves were beginning to get the best of her. Of course, her uncle didn’t fully understand why Claire was so jittery and Claire was not about to tell him what had happened last night. Part of Claire wanted to believe it was just a very, very strange dream caused by that odd looking vegetable dish she’d eaten at dinner.

“I know I’m a poor substitute, but I’m sure your mom would have lots to say about all this,” Phil replied. “You look beautiful.”

“Oh stuff it,” Claire groused. “I look so...dainty.”

“I’m so sorry I talked you into this…I swear if he hurts you-” he was interrupted by an usher coming to direct him to his seat.

“Stop worrying,” Claire said, giving him a gentle nudge. “Go sit down. Everything will be fine.”

“Are you sure-”

“Go!” Claire shooed him away. “I know what I’m doing.”

Phil gave her a look that said he was clearly unconvinced, but he followed the usher anyway.

Claire stood alone in front of the large ornate doors, spinning her small bouquet in her hands. She was grateful Frigga had allowed her to have the bundle of orange lilies. They did not match anything. It was Claire’s small way of including her mother, who had adored the fragrant flowers.

“Are you ready, my lady?” Ragna asked gently.

Was she? It seemed bizarre to think that just six weeks ago she’d agreed to marry a stranger. She’d been terrified and overwhelmed with anxiety. But Loki wasn’t a stranger anymore. Now he was the man she’d bankrupted in Monopoly and helped her master her princess lessons. They’d played pranks on each other, had conversations about poetry, philosophy, astronomy and their future. He was infuriating and smart and charming.

He was her friend. Her really, really hot friend; but the point was that Claire wasn’t terrified anymore. She was excited.

“Yes,” she took a deep breath, standing tall with her shoulders back. “I’m ready.”

At her words, the large ornate doors opened, revealing the cavernous sanctuary. It was time.

“Good luck, my lady. You look beautiful.”

“Thank you. Don’t forget the game plan.” Claire winked at Ragna, who smiled, cheeks turning a deeper pink as she ducked her head respectfully.

The rows of seats seemed to be never-ending, with glistening white marble pillars at the end of each row that were topped with glass bowls holding candles inside. The base of each bowl was circled with greenery entwined with purple and dark green ribbons. At the opposite end of the long aisle, standing upon the ornate stairs, Thor stood behind Loki like a shadow. Opposite them, Frigga and Sif stood side by side. Odin and the Gothi stood in the center behind the altar, watching over the room calmly as Claire made her way to them. And then, Claire’s eyes settled on her soon-to-be husband. Standing there in his gleaming gold and leather armor, all six feet and two inches of Loki’s commanding figure screamed sex (especially after last night). There was no denying it. Focus. Do not trip. You can think about fucking him silly after you climb the stairs.Claire’s stomach clenched almost painfully and a pleasant tingle ran down her spine as Loki stared at her, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly as their eyes met.

God damn, he looked delectable. She couldn’t wait to ride him like a Bantha.

Claire gathered her dress delicately in her free hand and took the stairs to meet her fate. Loki met her a few steps from the altar, letting her grab onto his arm as they took the last few steps together.

“Hi.” She whispered, meeting his emerald eyes as they reached the altar. Why was she only just now realizing how mesmerizing they were?

“Hello.” Loki whispered back as the Gothi began his introductory speech.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Claire joked quietly. The corners of Loki’s mouth turned up slightly, as if they were sharing a secret.

“If you’re finished,” Odin chastised them quietly. “This may be a joyous occasion, daughter, but there are still traditions to pay homage to.”

“Sorry,” Claire cringed. Loki exhaled sharply through his nose, which Claire interpreted as a laugh. “Not even married yet and I’m already in trouble.”

“Stop talking.” Loki hissed, doing his best to sound serious when it was clear he was trying not to laugh.

“You first.”

“Children!” Frigga chided from beside them, making the engaged couple snicker as quietly as they dared. The Gothi ignored them, placing his hands above a bowl filled with goat’s blood. After bestowing a blessing on the thick liquid, the Gothi dipped a short leafy branch in it before flinging droplets of it at the couple.

“Ugh, it’s in my mouth!” Claire complained quietly, trying not to express her displeasure too obviously. She knew it was a tradition but come on!

“Perhaps if one kept it closed…” Loki suggested innocently, chuckling when Claire shot him an angry look. “You’ve got something just there.” a teasing grin split his face as Thor handed him a cloth. How is he even hotter with blood spattered on his face?!

Sif handed Claire a similar cloth, helping her cleanse her face and nodding when she’d removed all traces of the blood. Claire passed her the crumpled cloth with a nod of thanks as the Gothi began to speak.

“The union of two households is always cause for celebration. On this auspicious day we join not only households, but the realms of Midgard and Asgard. As our bride and groom become one, so too do our realms. Prince Loki and Lady Claire of Midgard bring honor to their families and realms with this marriage.”

It took every ounce of Claire’s willpower not to roll her eyes. They were getting married, not committing sepuku. The Gothi made a motion to Thor and Sif, and Claire and Loki turned to face each other.

“The exchanging of family swords represents the exchange of protection,” the Gothi announced as Thor and Sif appeared with the swords. As Loki raised his family’s stylized sword aloft, Thor placed Claire’s ring on the blade near the hilt. Loki held the sword out for Claire to take, and she accepted it cautiously, careful not to drop the delicate ring as she slipped it into place on her left hand. She’d been warned multiple times of the bad luck it would signify if she did. “The ancestral sword of Prince Loki’s family shall one day be passed to the firstborn son of this union,” Sif accepted the sword from Claire, stepping back to lay Loki’s sword on a velvet cushion and collect Claire’s from its resting place. Sif held out the sword Claire had commissioned, allowing her to raise it in offering. “As her earthly family protected the Lady Claire, so now does Prince Loki,” Sif placed Loki’s ring on the sword before Claire offered the sword to Loki. She watched him slip his ring into place with a sense of satisfaction, the pair of them sharing a smile as Thor accepted the sword for safekeeping. “To symbolize her transition into marriage, Lady Claire will have her hair bound by her new husband.”

Sif stepped forward, carefully removing the crown from her head. Claire thanked her quietly, flashing her new friend a smile before stepping in front of Loki so he could braid her hair.

Loki’s fingers trailed up the side of her neck as he gathered her hair in his hands, the heat from his flesh lingering like a promise- last night was only a taste of what they’d get up to tonight. Claire had every intention of fucking him until she couldn’t walk.

His skilled hands made quick work of her braid, recreating the style she’d asked him to without fuss. Her braid and new status now securely in place, Claire turned back toward the altar along with Loki for the final part of the ceremony. Loki offered Claire his right hand as Frigga stepped forward with bolts of ribbon.

Claire slipped her left hand into his waiting palm as the Gothi began to speak again. Loki’s thumb rubbed along her knuckles as Frigga began to tie the first ribbon around their hands.

“As your hands are bound together by this cord, so too, shall your lives be bound as one,” the second ribbon was knotted just like the first, the rich purple overlaying the soft white. “May you forever be one, sharing in all things, in love and loyalty for all time to come,” Frigga tied the green ribbon over the purple, beginning to wrap their joined hands in gold ribbon. “With the tying of the final knot, Prince Loki and Princess Claire are as one before the eyes of the Norns, and all who bear witness on this day.”

Claire and Loki’s eyes met, and Claire saw her own complicated emotions (relief, satisfaction, lust) reflected back at her. They’d done it. The gorgeous, funny, infuriating man in front of her was hers. She was his.

“Congratulations, my darlings,” Frigga said warmly, drawing Claire’s attention from her new husband. She clasped their joined hands between hers as the guests began to applaud, the warmth from her hands seeping through the ribbons. “I am so proud of you both.” Claire’s throat tightened, her vision growing clouded as her eyes burned.

“Thanks, mom.” she murmured.

“Thank you, mother.” Frigga placed her hands on their shoulders, gracing them both with smiles.

“You have nothing to thank me for,” she said, squeezing their shoulders as she spoke. “This day is for you. Go, enjoy it.”

It took some effort, but Loki’s fingers wove through hers inside the ribbons. Together they turned to descend the stairs, nearly deafened by the guests. Somewhere in the crowd, a wolf whistle arose from the din, and Claire had no doubt it had come from Tony. The man was ridiculous.

People offered congratulations as they passed, some shaking their hands, others beginning to gather their things for the trip back to the palace and the waiting feast. Having barely eaten all day, Claire didn’t begrudge them one bit for hurrying back to the food. As they stepped out of the sanctuary, Claire had a sobering thought.

“Loki?”

“Yes darling?” her new husband turned to ask.

“How are we supposed to ride horses with our hands tied?” Loki chuckled, his handsome face losing some of the strain it had shown all day.

“While I trust we could manage it, I thought perhaps a different mode of transportation was needed.” he led her out of the temple, pausing at the top of the steps to let her see the carriage waiting for them. Behind them, the bells of the temple began to chime gaily, announcing to those waiting that they were finally married.

A wall of sound arose from the crowd gathered, cheers and pops and colored bits of paper filling the air as people let off confetti cannons.

Claire laughed, the relief from the pre-wedding stress making her giddy.

“I would offer my arm, but...well,” Loki chuckled, raising their tied hands between them. “Shall we?” Claire nodded, letting Loki guide her down the stairs and toward the waiting carriage. As they drew closer, Claire recognized her horse as well as Loki’s hitched in the front. An Einherjar sat waiting for them, while a footman waited to open the carriage door. He helped Claire step up into the open carriage, Loki close behind. They had to do an odd dance to get arranged with their hands tied as they were, but they managed to get settled and the footman closed the carriage door before climbing up to grab the reins.

“This was so thoughtful, Loki, thank you.” Claire said, settling back into the plush cushioned seats beside him.

“There is no need to thank me, little wife,” Loki replied, tucking her into his side as best as he was able. “I wanted you all to myself as soon as possible.” he admitted as the carriage began to move.

“Why, Loki, were you planning to ravish me in the carriage?” Claire asked, laying her free hand on her necklace in mock alarm.

“Gods no,” Loki shook his head. “As...eager as I am...I would never do such a thing. Besides,” his free hand cupped her face, sending shivers down her spine as his thumb traced over her skin. “There are merits to delayed gratification, are there not?” Claire swallowed, drowning in the desire to kiss him but too frozen in his grasp to do anything.

“There are.” she managed.

“I’m thrilled you agree,” his lips curled into a wolfish smile. “After all, if I were to give in to my base desires and have you here and now…” his fingers trailed down her neck, fingertips grazing her bare flesh as they traveled down to the deep vee of her gown. “I would be honor bound to kill every last person along this parade route and that would cast a pall on our wedding day, would it not?”

“Well when you put it like that…” Loki’s fingertip teased the edge of fabric, snaking inside to trace her flesh with the gentlest of touches. Claire’s eyes darted up to meet his as goosebumps rose along her skin, nipples growing tight behind her gown. “A little murder never hurt anybody.” Loki smiled, pulling his hand away as they went over a bump.

“Perhaps another time then,” he replied. “I would hate to begin our marriage with guilt.”

“You would feel guilty about that?”

“For defending you? No,” Loki shook his head. “Anyone who impugns your honor shall meet a swift death, this I swear. I only meant that I would feel remorse in that you might take issue with that.”

“Oh, not at all,” Claire scoffed. “I thought we’d already established I’m not bothered by dead bodies.” Loki laughed.

“That we did, but I thought perhaps if circumstances were different…”

“Nah,” Claire shook her head. “I think it’s hot. I shouldn’t-”

“But you do.”

“Yep. So you know, kill away. Within reason,” she chuckled. “I’ll do the same for you.”

“You’ll protect my honor?” Loki laughed. “Am I in need of such protection?”

“Perhaps if those women from last night hang around-”

“Is this jealousy, little wife? Already?” Loki leaned into her space as if they were sharing a tawdry secret. “What about them bothered you?”

“They were touching you,” Claire huffed. “I know it’s not attractive to feel possessive but I do.”

“And?” Loki prompted, eyes raking over her form as he moved closer still.

“And I wanted to cut off their hands,” Claire admitted. “And maybe gift wrap them and leave them at your door.” she added quietly. Loki grinned.

“Like the charming ducks you’ve been leaving?”

“Yes, but you know...bloody.”

“You shall have to tell me more about this when we have the time,” Loki requested. “I enjoy hearing you describe your violent desires.”

“Loki?”

“Yes, darling?”

“I understand last night was a special circumstance but if I ever see you so much as look at another woman-”

“I shall have no need,” Loki replied swiftly, his free hand coming back to her face to pull her gaze to his. “I believe we shall keep each other endlessly entertained. Have I told you how stunning you look today?”

“No,” Claire murmured, all the ire bleeding from her pores as he stared at her lips. “But I’m listening.” Loki smiled, leaning so close their lips touched. Claire’s eyes drifted closed, every cell in her body aching for his touch.

“You are a goddess,” he murmured. “And I a mere supplicant, drawn to you as flowers to the sun.” Claire whimpered as he pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, grabbing at whatever fabric on his body she could reach. She wanted him so bad she just may burst. “Are you alright?”

“Sorry, pretty words made brain go brrrr,” Claire said sheepishly. “You’re very distracting.”

“I shall keep that in mind.” Loki quipped, winking as the carriage stopped in front of the palace. He shot to his feet as the footman opened the door, taking Claire’s poor arm with him. Hey you jerk, get back here and kiss me!

Loki stepped out of the carriage first, offering his free hand to help her step down. The carriage pulled away, Loki’s fingers clasping hers inside the ribbons as they walked inside the blissfully empty entryway. At last! Loki spun them, pinning Claire to the nearest wall and capturing her lips in a heated kiss. Desire fizzled in Claire’s belly as Loki’s tall frame surrounded her, making her gasp into his mouth as he pressed against her with a ferocious need that made her knees weak.

Their tied hands sandwiched between them almost uncomfortably, but their free hands touched everywhere they finally could- Claire’s fingers tangled in Loki’s long hair, gasping as his large hand practically clawed at the material covering her body. Heated kisses worked down her neck, low groans of desire escaping Loki’s mouth as he nosed her collar aside. Claire encouraged his exploration with needful pants as his free hand sought Valhalla between her thighs, the material of her dress rasping along the sensitive trail of flesh as he sought bare skin. Gods, he wanted to explore every inch-

“Forgive me Your Majesties-”

“What?” Loki snarled as he pulled away from Claire. Why could no one in this gods forsaken place mind their own business?

“The king and queen and your guests await your arrival at the banquet hall.” Loki huffed angrily, tempering the desire to rip the annoying servants throat out. His cock throbbed angrily inside his trousers, demanding he throw decency to the wayside and lay claim to Claire here and now. But no- he wanted her all to himself without interruption or prying eyes.

“Very well,” he made an impatient gesture for the woman to lead the way. A tug on his arm brought his attention back to Claire as she whined under her breath. “Are you well?” he asked, eyes drinking in the sight of her hips shifting as she rubbed her thighs together.

“Like you don’t know,” she hissed. “So unfair.”

“Not much longer, darling, then I can take you apart without interruptions.”

~~~~

“You look tired,” Claire remarked as she leaned into her new husband's side. It was so nice to be able to be close to him without having to worry about someone coming over to spray them with water like misbehaving cats. “Did you stay up all night?” she teased, fighting back the jealousy that still burned in her belly. The two of them sat at the head of the feast hall at an elevated table bedecked with ribbons and flowers, looking out over all their guests.

“Very funny, dearest,” Loki replied in a flat tone, dotting the space between two of her knuckles with a gentle kiss. “But no. Rest assured, nothing more occurred than what you saw,” earnest eyes met hers, soothing the green beast behind her rib cage. “I returned to my chambers shortly after you departed, but duty called me away again soon after.”

“For what?”

“I had to retrieve your sword, of course.” Claire's eyebrows rose in surprise, eyes abandoning the sight of the Volstagg tugging his wife around the dance floor.

“Collect it? From where?”

“It is tradition for the groom to retrieve his family sword from a grave placed by his brothers or groomsmen,” Loki gestured to another table where Steve, Bucky, Tony, and Bruce sat embroiled in a dice game with Hogun. “Thor placed the sword,” he explained, his gaze flicking to Thor's place of honor at the table beside theirs. “Odin and all of them woke me before dawn to retrieve it.”

“Seriously?” Claire asked with wide eyes. “You had to steal a sword from a grave?”

“To symbolize my evolution from a boy to a man,” Loki rolled his eyes as he reached for his wine goblet.

“Well that sword just became the coolest gift I've ever gotten,” Claire snickered. “Do you think at some point you could show it to me?”

“The grave? Why?”

“So I can fuck your brains out on it, obviously.” Loki choked on his sip of wine, laughing as he replaced the goblet on the table.

“Obviously,” he replied. “I had no idea you were so morbid, little wife.”

“Really,” Claire glanced over at him, fixing him with a droll look. “You had no idea?”

“Hush,” Loki chuckled. “I remember our first outing quite well.”

“I’d like to recreate our first date, without Fandral ruining everything.” Claire sighed.

“We will.” Loki shifted in his seat, feeling impatient for the festivities to end so they could retire.

“Loki?”

“Hmm?”

“Why didn’t you-” Claire stopped short, huffing in agitation as she shook her head. “Never mind.” She needed to move on. They’d already established Loki wasn’t, and wouldn’t be, any more intimate with the women from last night or others. She didn’t like the clawing feeling in her chest or how it was making her act.

“Stay your claws, ketlingr,” Loki purred, his hand squeezing hers inside the ribbons. “I had no interest in knowing them any further. I hoped only to improve my performance, for you.”

“You...what?”

“Remember, darling, I have been imprisoned for five years?” Loki laughed. “Advanced as Asgardians claim to be, they do not allow for conjugal visits in their abysmal prisons.”

“How does one sign up for that?” Claire asked. “Just in case you go to jail again. I mean, don’t, but it never hurts to be prepared, right?”

“I have every faith that were I imprisoned again, you would be in the cell with me, menace.”

“Most likely,” Claire giggled. “What would we get arrested for?” Loki hummed, drumming the fingers of his free hand on the arm rest as his eyes drifted over the busy scene before them. Anja, Darcy and Jane were having a spirited discussion with Sif, Frigga was conversing with the Obamas and the queen of England. Dice forgotten on the table, Hogun was trying to ply Bruce with Asgardian mead and Bruce was looking suspiciously green. Fandral was in the corner was a young woman, no doubt filling her head with fantastical lies.

“Murder,” Loki replied at last, lips pursing at Fandral’s ridiculous behavior. “Fandral’s, of course.”

“Of course,” Claire agreed. “I’ve always wanted to reenact the Cask of Amontillado.” Loki grinned, tearing his gaze from Fandral’s countenance to hers. The tops of her cheeks were beginning to turn pink from the alcohol, her lipstick only slightly smudged from their interlude. So beautiful, and vengeful.

“Perhaps one day we shall,” Claire shifted in her seat, the alcohol and her own impatience getting the best of her. “Not much longer, darling.”

“You said that three hours ago,” Claire bemoaned. As nice as the party was, Claire was tired of acting like she didn’t want to fuck Loki senseless. She was tired of waiting! She’d been waiting for six god damn weeks. “If you make me wait much longer I’ll be forced to take drastic measures.” What more could they possibly need to do, anyway? Everyone had gotten tanked, the mountains of food had been reduced to anthills, they’d danced, and kissed...a lot.

The Asgardians had a rather embarrassing tradition that newlywed couples had to kiss whenever guests clinked their silverware on their plates, which Thor had decided to do often, and noisily.

“What sort of drastic measures?” Loki purred. “Will you throw me onto the table and mount me here in front of everyone in the room?” he teased, but the idea would have him frothing at the mouth if he didn’t possess such high levels of restraint. Claire’s enchanting face angled toward his as her lustful gaze raked along his body.

“Do you want me to?” Loki laughed boisterously at that. Gods, she amused him. Every fiber of his being ached for her to brand him as hers; he could give a fig who was in the room at this point.

“My apologies, Your Majesties,” Astrid made an appearance beside their table, breaking the bubble they’d lost themselves in. “The queen requests you meet the royal family in the courtyard.”

“Thank you, Astrid,” Loki replied, glancing back at Claire. “Shall we?”

“Yes, let’s.” A chorus of cheers went up as they got to their feet, the mellowing energy of the party picking back up at they exited the feast hall.

It was a short walk to the courtyard, their path lit by torches and the low moon. It was so freeing to be with Loki without an escort, and in the dark no less! Claire wove their fingers together inside the ribbons as they reached the courtyard, where Odin, Frigga and Thor waited beneath an ancient tree.

“Welcome darlings,” Frigga said warmly as they arrived. She gestured for them to sit on the nearest stone bench. “Only one more indulgence and then you may retire for the night.” Thor stepped forward and placed Mjolnir in Claire’s lap, the heavy hammer pinning her in place on the bench.

Frigga produced a pair of scissors from the folds of her gown and snipped the ribbons from their joined hands, passing them to Odin to be buried at the base of the tree. Odin offered a prayer to the Norns before dropping the ribbons into the small hole that was dug, burying the ribbons with handfuls of dirt.

“Your guests are fed and the Norns are appeased,” Odin brushed off his hands. “May Freyja bless your union.”

“Thank you.” Loki offered.

“Thor, do you mind?” Claire asked, glancing down at the weighty hammer crushing her thighs. Thor pursed his lips, eyeing her expectantly for a moment before he relented and held out his hand. Mjolnir flew to his outstretched hand with a zing, and Claire was able to rub feeling back into her thighs as Loki got to his feet.

“Shall we?” he offered her his hand, his wedding band glinting in the torch light. Claire placed her hand in his, and let him lead her from the courtyard.

[stiltonbasket]

Aaaaaah!!! Please please please write about wedding clothes, I need more of the Yearning

(note: please reblog, since that’s how we get prompts for future chapters!)

anon 1: Prompt for the renouncement AU.  Surely the happy couple (plus assorted Huaisangs and juniors, if you like) need to meet with some chefs and sample a gazillion interesting things to decide on the banquet menu.   WWX, of course, samples all the wines...It would also be lovely if you wrote them getting dressed and having their hair done to match the gorgeous fanart of the two of them kissing one another's hands...

anon 2: renouncement verse prompt for the wedding arc: sizhui and xiao-yu help wwx with a practice run for his wedding hair, and lwj has a surprise for each of them!

Despite Wei Wuxian’s insistence that Jiang Cheng and Lan Xichen were going to far too much trouble for the union between their two clans, his brother and future brother-in-law refused to do away with the wedding rehearsal--a grand event in its own right, with a reception for the two bridegrooms’ families and an official exchange of gifts--and set the date for the longest day of the summer, a fortnight before the actual marriage ceremony.

“You’ll enjoy the party,” Jiang Cheng scolds, when Wei Wuxian tries to complain. “And you don’t even have to do anything, so be good and let me and Zewu-jun handle it.”

In the end, Wei Wuxian spends the rehearsal morning tasting wine, because three kinds of liquor are usually served at weddings in Yunmeng: with the sweetest and most delicious drinks poured out alongside the food, and the stronger, sourer ones reserved for later in the night, after the newlyweds retire to their bridal chamber. Surprisingly, Lan Xichen tags along to help him choose the first liquor, and approves of the golden honey-plum wine so highly that he buys a whole case to take back to Gusu with him.

“I leave wine bottles as offerings when I burn incense for Mingjue-xiong,” he explains wistfully, as the two of them go back to the clan quarters with enough fengmi jiu for the dinner party. “He would have liked this, I think.”

After Li Shuai and Yu Zhenhong finish sorting the liquor, Jiang Cheng displays Wei Wuxian’s wedding dowry, and Lan Xichen hands over the bride price, while Wei Wuxian tries not to choke on his own spit from his place at Lan Zhan’s side. He knew about the dowry Jiang Cheng and Jin Ling were settling on him, of course--there was a trunkful of silk sheets in violet and blue, and three deep chests of new gowns and slippers tailored to fit his height and slim shoulders, and then a tea set and a box of gold jewelry. There was also a larger case of jade and silver trinkets for him to wear after moving to the Cloud Recesses, where gold was largely forbidden for the sake of breaking the law against extravagance, and Wei Wuxian had to promise not to touch any of it until he and Lan Zhan officially start living together in the jingshi.

Jin Ling decided to present him with a box of baby’s essentials, which Wei Wuxian thought was ridiculous--the only children he and Lan Zhan will ever have are A-Yuan and Xiao-Yu, both of whom are far too old to actually use the gift, but his nephew looked so pleased when he presented his dajiu with the tiny shoes and dresses that Wei Wuxian shut his mouth and accepted them without protest.

After all, he and Lan Zhan might really end up with a new baby sometime in the not-too-distant future, if Wei Wuxian’s propensity for acquiring small children is anything to go by.

But none of this prepared him for the delivery of the bride price, which turns out to be six thousand golden taels from the Gusu Lan treasury to make up for the loss of Lotus Pier’s newly-instated head disciple and the zongzhu’s elder brother, not to mention the only legitimate heir to Yunmeng Jiang. Jiang Cheng doesn’t even bother to look gracious when he sees it, as Wei Wuxian notes with a cough that sounds more like a strangled scream than anything else--because his shidi seems to believe that a small fortune in gold is his due for having to part with Wei Wuxian, even though Lan Xichen will be compensated for about a fifth of the bride price on the actual wedding day, 

“Did your brother just bankrupt your sect so you could marry me?” Wei Wuxian demands, half-crazed as Lan Zhan ushers him back to his bedroom to bathe and dress in his freshly-tailored bridal robes. “Lan Zhan!”

“My uncle set aside a bride price for me before I was born, since he guessed that I would require no less than five thousand gold whenever I decided to marry,” his intended shrugs. “Hurry up and dress, sweetheart, or we will be late.”

Wei Wuxian relents and takes a hurried bath while Lan Zhan goes off to tend to his own ablutions, watching Sizhui and Xiao-Yu play together from behind the privacy screen as he scrubs his back and arms and pours perfumed oil into his hair. Sizhui seems to be trying to wrangle A-Yu into an embroidered green coat and trousers, but the baby looks far more interested in Wei Wuxian’s clothes: namely, the red and purple wedding gown, since he manages to snatch the shining silk robes out of his xiongzhang’s hands before building a nest in his pillow-basket with them.  

“Xiao-Yu is a bird,” he insists, as Wei Wuxian drops his cake of soap and laughs himself hoarse at the sight of him. “It’s my nest! Go ‘way!”

“A-Yu!” Sizhui cries, nearly stunned speechless. “Didi, those are A-Die’s wedding robes! You can’t play with them, so be a good boy and listen to xiongzhang, or--or you’ll make Yuan-gege cry!”

Xiao-Yu only squints at him before turning up his button nose. “No!”

But Lan Zhan arrives a few minutes later and coaxes the baby out of his basket with a stick of haw candy, leaving Wuxian to heave himself out of the tub and draws on his underwear. After that, the three of them lure Xiao-Yu into his tiny silk coat (by feeding him all the candy he can eat, to keep him from running away) before Wei Wuxian finally dons his bridal ensemble: a deep red overgown with lotus blossoms sewn onto the sleeve-hems in lilac and gold, while the skirt and shoulders boast a shower of stray golden petals falling from the heart of a single central flower. 

“Let me do your hair,” Lan Zhan murmurs, as if this were their actual wedding day instead of the rehearsal dinner. “You look beautiful, Wei Ying.”

Wei Wuxian feels his heart quiver at the compliment as A-Yuan steps forward with his lotus headdress, pinning it into place in front of his high-combed bun so that Lan Zhan can secure the tiny gold chains fastening it to the back of his head. He often noticed his friend’s good looks before they were engaged, of course, which is the only reason why Lan Zhan finding him beautiful in return has flustered him so--and he tries to put the thought from his mind, or at least shove it away so that he can examine it later in private. 

Anyone would find it pleasing to hear such a compliment from their bridegroom, he thinks, before blushing himself half to death when Lan Zhan leans down to kiss the side of his face. Get it together, Wei Wuxian!

[but-master]

[🥀 for guin?]

Tales of Love II No Longer Accepting II So this is uh... really long slkdfj so sorry! No warnings apply except for brief mentions of show-typical violence and so much pining it hurts lol II Words: 2571 II  Prompt: 🥀 - disappointed love

--

When Guinevere was born, she was graced with a name that meant “fair one.” It was auspicious, hopeful, promising her to good things as she grew—good things like a good marriage. One of royal importance and grandeur; it meant she would never want for anything, and she would be blessed by the heavens above.

As she grew into the name, her hair light and long, shining like gold in the sun, the promises only grew more tantalizing. Her father could see increasingly higher-stationed names lining up by the day, as she was reared strong, brave, kind, and just. She was sharp and quick-witted, and though she was no knight, she was brought up with a bow in her hands; no queen of Cameliard would ever find herself defenseless.

At least… not again.

Guinevere had been too young to hear the thunder of horses as they approached, or to know what that meant. She had been just able to open her eyes, just able to cry, when her father was left to pick up the pieces of Cameliard alone, after days of siege. As soon as she’d been old enough to understand what sharp things were, and what they could do to a creature, she’d been fitted for a shortbow, with the assurance that she’d graduate to longbows as she came of age. They would not lose a second queen.

She was only seven summers old when her father interrupted her shooting practice, though, and gently took the bow from her hands, replacing it with a small, wooden box, inside of which rested her mother’s childhood tiara. It was gold, polished to gleaming, and along the metal were set tiny, white pearls. Obligation had caught her at last, and the time for tricks and play had ended.

Days later, when Guinevere turned it over in her hands before she entered the halls of Camelot—for which she’d been given the thing in the first place—she noticed a small dent in the band, about the size of her thumb pad. It made her giggle.

Even her own mother had been a… what was the world her father used sometimes? A “spitfire.”

She’d dented her own crown.

Or perhaps that was what Guinevere chose to imagine. The thought that anything else could have caused the blemish did not once occur to her, even as she grew older, and learned to think deeply about everything, down to the smallest sound or littlest loose thread.

There was something comforting about being like the mother she couldn’t remember, but had always heard good things of.

When she’d entered the halls of Camelot’s court, she’d stood straight, chin up, the combs of the tiara digging into her scalp. She wondered distantly if her mother had complained about the sensation.

She wondered if she was doing as well as she had at her age.

The thought was abandoned, however, as she concentrated hard when she granted Uther Pendragon her best curtsey, and then a second to the beautiful, famed Queen Igraine. Something in her chest swelled when the lady presented her with a private smile for her troubles. It felt like she was being let in on some secret sisterhood. From queen to princess, encouragement passed.

Guinevere practically floated through the dance steps the rest of the night.

Even when Arthur, the boy her age—the Camelot prince—tripped over her feet, she hardly felt it, and did not stumble, despite the way his grip on her hand tightened in his panic, threatening to topple her with him.

Instead, she helped correct his footfalls from the corner of her mouth, and as she did so, he looked at her with huge eyes, blue as the seas in her picture books. He mumbled a “thank you” as soft as kitten fur, as sweet as the honey she put in her milk, when her baroness said she was allowed to—fine, but you can’t do it too often; it’s no good for children to become spoiled.

She didn’t think Arthur was spoiled.

He’d said “thank you,” after all.

His demeanor remained soft as they grew, and she continued to believe in his virtue, but the shy sweetness he’d shown her when he was young began to only occur around her, when they were alone for only flashes of moments, before someone came looking for the pair of them, who weren’t supposed to be alone together outside of the view of chaperones and guards alike. Even when Morgana was around—her dearest friend, and closest companion—Arthur took on the behaviour of a knight, a strong and cold defender, from behind imaginary armor, painted with the colors of Camelot’s flags.

It was not hard to watch, Guinevere was fairly sure. She didn’t think it hurt so bad to see him that way. He was being strong for her.

He was being strong for her, so she started leaving her bow at home when she came to visit Camelot— often for months at a time, much to her father’s delight.

Without her bow, and without regular training, her skills plateaued in her late teenage years, but she was always assured that this was alright.

Especially after Arthur, who’d grown tall and broad, pulled Caliburn from stone, and later, by the candlelight in his chambers, he’d sworn into her hand that she’d never feel endangered again. He’d keep her safe as long as he lived, as long as she allowed him so, as he pressed kisses to her fingers and the tiny bones in her wrists.

Her chest had been fluttery when she’d agreed. She’d let herself be protected, for as long as he would swear to protect her, and she’d leaned over to seal it with a kiss.

The promise that had passed that day had been timed well; Cameliard was inching ever closer to war, as the city tensed for oncoming marauders. To have someone swear to keep her safe, as her thoughts dwelled near always on her father and his kingdom… how could she possibly say no?

Even as she wished for not only her own safety, but the safety of her people, as well, she could not find it in herself to say no. It was selfish, she thought, but, then, she’d never pretended that she wasn’t.

So, truthfully, it was no shock when Leodegrance met with Merlin, Camelot’s court wizard, and Arthur’s official advisor, not a few weeks later, to discuss her dowry.

Merlin was the closest thing to a royal ambassador that Camelot had, for their prince was still so young, not yet married, not yet having achieved victory in war.

Meanwhile, as the invaders pressed harder at Cameliard’s borders, the people were crying out louder and louder by the day for hope, for some good news.

In the end, the decision was easy.

Leodegrance met with Merlin, and the conversation was brief.

One turn of the moon later, she and Arthur were wedded. Her father sent her to live in Camelot full-time, and with her, she brought a grand round table made of sturdy oak—it had been Uther’s before he’d died, had been passed to her father for safekeeping, until Arthur could inherit it.

As Arthur was granted a golden crown and declared king of all Camelot—which now included Cameliard— it was deemed time. So, he was given the round table, and began to seek out those who would fill its chairs.

Guinevere was passed over entirely.

It didn’t hurt as much as she’d expected it would.

When she was younger, her father had told her stories of her mother. He’d pointed at the stars from where Guinevere craned her neck out her window to see, and he’d described to her which ones her mother loved; he’d told her the stories she’d told him, the ones she’d make up on the spot to describe why she saw shapes in them. She was creative, her father said. She was creative and bold, and her humor could have made a sailor’s toes curl. She’d had hair like gold as well, and when Guinevere was old enough to understand how to do her own, she’d asked her father how her mother wore it.

Every morning from then on, she’d tied it into a bun, securing a braid over the crown of her head, and smiled at her reflection.

But there was no place at the Round Table for braids and star stories.

Besides, she had a place to sit already. She’d gained it upon her wedding day, achieved it when she married Arthur.

At the ceremony, she’d worn her hair that same way, deft fingers flying through the steps, as gracefully as when she carefully selected each arrow in her quiver when she was home.

But she was not running her thumb over fletches that day. Instead, she was brushing her hair, length by length, treating it with gentle oils, until it shone as brilliantly as Caliburn itself. She’d strung flowers throughout it all, and had nestled a pretty gold crown behind the braid.

In the mirror, she’d squared her shoulders, and had not smiled.

Arthur looked beautiful, when she strode in to lay eyes on him, standing in the church beside Merlin, who wore his typical armor, though it was polished and cleaned. A blue and gold cape had been draped over his shoulders, and the wizard regarded the affair down his nose, as he seemed always to do, no matter what situation he was in.

Guinevere couldn’t say she blamed him this time, though.

There was gold and pearl and sapphire everywhere, and it was suffocatingly bright. Guinevere clutched the rope in her hands as if it would whisk her away from all of this.

How could she celebrate now? Her kingdom was being ransacked, surely, as she stood in a gown of opulence, to wrap a cord around her wrist and swear fealty to a different king.

The words of love were not heavy or bitter. She would not pretend they were.

She cared for Arthur, truly. As surely as she cared for him, she spoke the words, and they felt like cream on her tongue. Not sour or difficult to swallow, but they coated her mouth, made her throat feel dry.

She resisted clearing it, and instead, let Arthur kiss her lips gently. It was not the first time they’d kissed, nor would ever be their last, but as he swept her into it in front of the enormous crowd, she wondered if he felt as dispassionate about it as she did.

Kissing him like this was a show, a signal that their marriage would be consummated, a signal that they’d be bound together forever, even after the rope fell to the plush, velvet carpet of the church’s altar, having served its purpose.

Guinevere was now, and forever more, Queen, not of Cameliard, but of Camelot, somewhere which she did not despise, but equally, somewhere that was not her home.

Perhaps having no place at the Table was the better fate, after all.

The closest thing to home that she felt anymore was when she was with Morgana. A knight who felt so dispassionately about her kingdom would do no good.

Still… she relearned her bow skills anyway, when Arthur was off on quests, or when he didn’t ask where she was going when she left the castle, too wrapped up in duty to even notice her absence.

Morgana didn’t mind when she brought her bow, though, when the two of them left together, every so often.

In fact, Morgana would try to hit her arrows, arced high into the air, with bursts of magic and sparks, which lit Guinevere’s eyes up, as she watched. Yellow as the pretty flowers in the meadows of the Wild Wood, Morgana’s magic was adept, powerful, stunning. It stole Guinevere’s breath almost as often as seeing Morgana’s hair on fire when sunlight hit it did.

Guinevere wanted to touch it.

She wasn’t sure if anyone else had ever dared touch a candle flame, but sometimes when she was alone, she stared at the black, chalky wicks, as they curled beneath the orange fire which perched so carefully upon them, and thought of reaching over, quick and sly, to see if the flames really were soft as they looked, as soft as Morgana’s hair looked.

Sometimes, she’d get close. She’d reach one finger near enough for it to sting in the heat that surrounded the candle at her bedside; she’d flex her fingers and almost reach out a hand to brush stray hairs back into place, when they fell across Morgana’s eyes or nose. But she’d always hiss and pull her finger away before she could burn it; she’d always clasp her hands in front of herself demurely, if only to keep from extending her wanton hand.

She was married. She’d sworn loyalty to Arthur.

She could not jeopardize that for wanting something she had no place wanting, to begin with.

Despite her best efforts, though, it burned all the same, entirely unresponsive to even her strongest resistances, her tensest moments of please no’s. It burned deep in the pit of her stomach, unshakeable, unyielding, at its worst during nights when she couldn’t fall asleep. When she stirred through fitful dozing, in and out, under the grey light of the moon.

Those were the nights when her nightgown tangled with the bedsheets because she’d rolled one way and back again so much that she couldn’t remember which way she favored for sleep, and when her restlessness would wake even her heavy sleeper of a husband, whose blue eyes were bright in the dark, when he slipped them open with worry. Try as he might to insist that his sister got all of the magic in the family, Guinevere had never once believed him, seeing the way he practically glowed in the pitch of their room, even when their curtains were drawn.

“Guinevere, why are you still awake?” He would ask.

She’d never know what to say. He would ask her something to that effect every time, and she would never know what to say, no matter how often it happened.

“Oh… merely thinking, Arthur. It’s nothing.” She’d reassure him, brushing her fingers over his brow, in an attempt to placate him, silence his questions.

It never worked. Instead, his eyes would pierce her through, and he’d level her with a look, disbelieving and evermore concerned. “If it were nothing,” he’d say quietly, “You wouldn’t be in fits over it.”

And she’d huff a soft laugh, murmur, “guilty,” and pretend to smile back as he’d break into a tiny chuckle, before pulling her into his arms, holding her close to his chest, thinking this a merciful comfort.

He’d go on to kiss her cheek and tell her that whatever it was, he would keep it from harming her for now and forever, and she would come up just shy of believing him.

Then, he’d slip back into sleep, and she’d lie awake, feigning it, resisting movement, even if she had an itch on her nose, so as not to awaken him again, and Guinevere would close her eyes and pretend that someone else was holding her, instead.

And sometimes, if she was lucky, then maybe she would eventually drift into a nap of sorts, only minutes long, and dream pleasantly of touching candles, and a long, red braid.

[growingstronglikeahighgardenrose]

The Greatest Gift

The last part of my ‘The Holiday’ series, and with it also my last entry for the 12 Days of Sanditon challenge (albeit four days late). It’s been a wild ride between past and present, I had a blast exploring all characters in all kinds of settings, and I hope you did too!

Pairings: Charlotte/Sidney, Esther/Babington, Georgiana/Crowe

Characters: Charlotte, Sidney, Esther, Babington, Crowe, Georgiana, Susan, James

Prompt: The Gift/Tis the season to be jolly, for the 12 Days of Sanditon hosted by @sanditoncreative​

Synopsis: Charlotte finally arrives to the holiday home as everyone is preparing for the New Year's Eve Party. She realizes with shock she has much catching up to do.

Available on AO3 (please drop a like if you enjoyed)

Over mountains cold, and rivers frozen, lay a house amidst the woods. The house was neither large nor small, it was just perfect for the amount of occupants who spent their days there. Before they’d entered the house, they’d been two separate groups of friends, acquainted but not familiar with the other. But after spending days together filled with fun excursions to Inverness and the surrounding woods, and nights drowned in alcohol, friendships were established, and relationships blossomed underneath the star filled sky.

When the missing link, one part of the reason as to why these friend groups had come together, Charlotte Heywood arrived on the thirtieth of December, she had a lot to catch up with. In just eight days, Esther, who had always been keen on keeping her personal space, had shed her old habits which had been developed through years of living in a cold household devoid of love, and was now always touching Babington in some way. She rarely sat on a chair anymore, finding the lap of her newly acquired boyfriend much preferable. Charlotte had sometimes wondered how her friend would be if she were to enter a relationship, but never had she thought that she’d dive into a relationship after just a couple of weeks of knowing someone, and get comfortable with being in a relationship so easily. But then again, no one was aware of how Esther and Babington had regarded each other with certain fondness and interest since Esther’s first year at Sanditon Uni.

James, Georgiana and Crowe boasted it had been their ‘Mistletoe Madness’ scheme which had brought the mom friend and dad friend together. Babington and Esther didn’t care to tell them anything about how it had actually happened.

But then Sidney and James laughed how Georgiana and Crowe had used their mistletoes a lot as well, always accidentally finding themselves underneath them, and regularly disappearing together. Susan smirked that James, despite mocking the four new lovers, had actually appointed her as the official proof-reader of all text messages he sent towards a girl she was interested in.

Sidney had sorely missed his girlfriend, and couldn’t be parted from her for any prolonged period of time. Now nine, the group revelled in the haze of the period between Christmas and the New Year, happy and relaxed despite the approaching finals.

It was the season to be jolly, and no sadness or dark thoughts were allowed in their holiday home.

December thirtieth passed, and everyone was looking forward to celebrate the start of the new decade. Was it to be the sweet ten years in which the world would recover from the past decade? Would stocks reach record peaks, and Wall Street boom a steady golden roar as everyone celebrated life?

The next decade was as much a mystery as the paths their lives would take after this year. Within less than a year, they would all graduate. They would never be students again. The era of absolute freedom came to an end. The real world was quickly approaching. The twenties were the decade of their twenties, and they would end ’29 in their thirties: they would find employment, get engaged, get children and pay taxes. It was a bittersweet day as they accepted the prospect, and some were more heavily affected by nostalgia for years gone by than others. But united they stood strong, encouraging each other with smiles, hugs and words of kindness.

They had no clue what would happen to their friendship in the next decade, but they were determined to at least celebrate the last day of the year, sliding into the new year Gatsby style, clanking crystal and dancing with reckless abandon. The day was spent with ice-skating, a snowman competition and preparing appetizers and desert for the festive meal. There was little work to be done for the main meal since they’d all be using the electric grills on the table to bake their own pieces of meat and vegetables, yakiniku style, the only thing they had to do was to chop some vegetables and prepare a pot of pasta salad.

After all was prepared, the girls took two bottles of fizzy martini to their bedrooms to prepare for dinner together. The men remained behind, deciding to watch the new Witcher series and start drinking as well. If the preparations for the Christmas dinner were anything to go by, the girls would take up to two hours to get ready.

 Make up your mind sweet baby, right here, right now's all we got

A little party never killed nobody, so we gon' dance until we drop

A little party never killed nobody, right here, right now's all we got

 In the largest bed chamber, The Great Gatsby soundtrack was playing. Esther was in the shower, Susan was doing her makeup, and Georgiana was doing Charlotte’s hair. Esther returned, starting to paint Susan’s nails a deep red, but putting a golden topcoat over her ring finger. Afterwards, the favour was returned. They all kept changing places, drinking martini and laughing, until they were all washed, their nails painted and their hair was done up in some kind of 20s style with decorative glittering hair combs and lacey headbands.

The playlist was switched to one of Georgiana’s after the album was done.

  We go together

Better than birds of a feather, you and me

We change the weather, yeah

I'm feeling heat in December when you're 'round me

  ‘Oh, that’s our song’, Georgiana sighed happily as she plopped down on the bed, Esther crying out that she had to be careful with her hairdo.

‘That shall be one hell of a opening song on your wedding’, Susan laughed.

‘You have a song already?’ Charlotte asked with amusement.

‘Of course, don’t you?’ Georgiana asked, turning onto her belly to look at Charlotte.

‘Well, we’ve only been together for a month.’

‘And honeyboo and me have only been together for a couple of days, yet we have one. Was there never a song you two had a moment to, or which reminded you of your relationship?’

Charlotte bit her lip. Was there a song which reminded her of him? She could still remember the song they first danced to years ago. But it wasn’t representative for their relationship. Yet, yet she couldn’t help but think of him every time she heard it in the years since.

‘I have one’, Susan admitted to give Charlotte some more time.

‘Oh, which one?’ Georgiana asked.

‘It’s a bit cliché, but it’s Waterloo. It’s the song I chose as my swan song on the evening my achievements as a student representative were celebrated. It’s always been one of my favourite songs, and well, he was always there with me when it was put on. And, after all, he did have a hard time conquering me.’

‘How long have you been together with Alexander?’

‘Almost my entire studies. I think I can expect an engagement before I turn twenty-five at the pace we’re going.’

‘And you’re of course going to accept’, Georgiana smiled.

Susan nodded.

‘How… do you know? It’s easy to know you love someone, but when do you know it can be forever?’

‘When, even way past that first sweet period has passed, you still feel butterflies thinking of them. But that’s not all, that’s how you know you’re still in love. But I knew we had a real chance at staying together when, amidst all the craziness of the year in which I combined seven councils, simply receiving a text or a hug from him felt like a good night’s rest after a particularly exhausting day. All my worries and all my burdens still lay heavy on my shoulders, but he made me feel calm and strong.’

‘Oh, that sounds so wonderful. He sounds so sweet’, Esther breathed.

‘It does’, Charlotte admitted.

‘He isn’t sweet by no means. He never says everything will be alright, he never says it’s okay if I fail. He tells me what I have to hear instead, but  he’s a good, supportive and capable man, and he understands that I need someone who encourages me, not someone who tells me sweet things. But I love him.’ She shook her head, as if, after all these years, she was still amazed by the love she felt.

‘I have a song, by the way’, Charlotte admitted.

‘Tell!’

‘It’s the song that played at least thrice the evening we first met. Halsey’s song: Closer.’

‘Oh, that’s cute! And it fits as well!’

‘It does?’ Charlotte asked as she put on her red velvet dress. Esther snuck to her room to get her dress and shoes.

‘Yeah! You look as good as the day I met you. I forget just why I left you, I was insane… And four years, no call… And then you met and hit it off again!’ Georgiana smiled.

‘Well it’s only been about three years and we only hit it off again after a month of weekly meetings.’

‘Details!’ Georgiana cried before finishing her glass.

‘So, Esther, how bout you and Babbers hmm?’ Georgiana asked as Esther entered the room again, glittering 20s style Mary Janes and blue flapper dress in hands.

‘Why so curious?’

‘So you have one’, Charlotte smiled.

‘Maybe I do.’

‘Oh come on Esther, you already keep secret how you two have gotten together, you can at least tell us the name of the song.’

‘Fine. I Want To Know What Love Is, satisfied?’

‘Why Esther, I never took you for a Foreigner fan’, Susan exclaimed.

‘Coincidence. Can we now stop discussing love, I’m not planning on being emotional before midnight.’

Georgiana laughed and handed Esther her glass once she’d finished zipping her dress.

‘Alright then ladies, let’s go to the living room and have some fun.’

    In dark suits the men sat gathered on the couches, hair groomed and smelling good. But their preparations didn’t compare to the flurry of glittering glimmering festival to their eyes the girls presented as they descended upon them with their curled hair and sparkly jewellery and bright red lipstick. Their cheeks and beards were covered in bright lipstick, and champagne was popped.

‘You all really came prepared’, Princey laughed as he trailed his fingers down Susan’s long white gloves.

‘We agreed upon celebrating Gatsby style. We simply did as agreed upon.’

‘I’d say you did more than just that’, Crowe breathed as Georgiana rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. He wasn’t sure he’d make it till midnight without a short heated intermezzo.

She jumped upright with a smile. ‘Excuse me as I try to capture the moment.’

She photographed him like that, sat in the couch with arms raised in question, a glass of champagne filled with water in hand – he wanted to remember every minute, at least until midnight.

‘Do you like it?’ Esther purred softly as the others were occupied.

‘You have no idea.’

‘Enlighten me.’

‘You look extraordinary… Magnificent.’

‘Do I?’ she smirked as she traced his stubble with her gloved hand.

‘Miss Denham, I must beg you to spare me. I’m not afraid I’ll last the night otherwise.’

‘Who says I intend you to?’ she laughed as she readjusted her weight on his lap. He could only just supress a groan and press his lips against hers.

A flash went off, the screen presenting a figure with flaming red curls with her arms around the brown haired man she sat on top off, his hands almost reverently placed on her upper back.

Another flash captured James and Princey pointing their tongue at each other in mock disgusted of the kissing.

  There's glitter on the floor after the party

Girls carrying their shoes down in the lobby

Candle wax and Polaroids on the hardwood floor

You and me from the night before but

  ‘I’m still so confused as to how it all happened. I don’t know what to think about it’, Charlotte confessed to Sidney as they gazed at their friends.

‘I think this would be a so called… Christmas miracle’, he laughed.

‘I believe the entrance of this house must have been a portal to a Hallmark movie. It all just went so quickly.’

‘Didn’t we go quickly as well?’ Sidney asked, burying his nose against her sweet smelling neck.

‘It was different.’

‘How do we know they’re not different as well?’

‘Well, with Esther and Babington I dare not judge, but Georgie and Crowe?’

‘Hmm, two dramatic extroverted personalities seeking enjoyment together? I don’t think they’re that odd together.’

‘Perhaps not.’

‘Let us not worry. Before we worried it would be awkward introducing our friends to each other. Our fears turned out to be utterly unfounded. Let’s just enjoy this.’

Charlotte agreed, pressing her lips against his.

‘Let’s. I just can’t believe it all. I’m so happy, this is perfect. I just… Look at everyone having fun and being happy and laughing so much! And it isn’t just because they’re drunk. I’ve never seen all my friends in such a pure state of happiness for so long. I haven’t seen any of them smile so much. I think no one has gone half an hour without smiling once I arrived.’

  Don't read the last page

But I stay when you're lost and I'm scared and you're turning away

I want your midnights

But I'll be cleaning up bottles with you on New Year's Day

   The night was filled with laughter, and the hours slid past at record speed.

Heels were kicked off and dancing took place. It really wasn’t good, and they would be divided between loathing their embarrassing postures in the pictures, and loving the photographs because of the memories they contained.

 You squeeze my hand three times in the back of the taxi I can tell that it's going to be a long road I'll be there if you're the toast of the town babe Or if you strike out and you're crawling home

 Midnight was approaching. Shoes were put back on again, and the girls were provided with the blazers of the men. The Final Countdown was put on – James’ final joke of 2019 – as the group started counting down. The new decade was approaching, and they all stood outside united in the snow, bottles of champagne in hand.

Ten seconds to go and the bottles were shaken, ready to be popped at midnight. They screamed and laughed their way through the countdown, and then the moment was there.

 Hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you Hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you Hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you And I will hold on to you

Corks went flying and lips were kissed as firework shot into the sky. Streams of champagne reached for the sky as friends embraced. They could see the explosions of gold, red, purple, green and blue from the nearby city perfectly above the lake, it was even reflected on the lake. Champagne  was drunk from the bottle, and group pictures were taken of all of them in the snow, with fireworks artfully exploding in the distance.

All loneliness and heartache of the past years, and all insecurity about the future was left in the old year, obliterated by the happiness of the past few days.

A new era in their lives was approaching, and they were ready for it, together, united.

 Please don't ever become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere Please don't ever become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere

 They would always remember the first New Year they celebrated together. Even as responsibilities started entering their lives, they always fought to keep the week between Christmas and the New Year free for each other to capture the feeling of old, and create new ones.

Slowly, people were added to the celebrations. Susan and James brought their partners with them the following year, and Princey his first serious girlfriend the year after. And then, a ring was added to the company around Susan’s finger. Esther and Babington were up next, at the ages of twenty-seven and thirty, to tie the knot.  Then followed a round belly for Charlotte, who was surprised when Susan announced her flat belly contained a baby as well. And at the end of the decade, Esther announced her pregnancy and Georgiana and Crowe who hadn’t been meant to last the first time around, reunited after finally accepting all that came along with growing up, and this time they decided to put in the serious work. Crowe admitted himself to an AA program the day after New Year, they were wed the day after he got his One Year degree.

They exited the decade with a big Gatsby Party, and though they had indeed had a bigger financial strain on their backs and uncorked non-alcoholic champagne like they would’ve had it been the 1920’s, they were all still just as happy and rich in friends as they had started the decade. Their friendship had been the best gift they could’ve ever received.

 ____________________________________________________________

71263 words, 12 works, you guys! I'm 4 days late (10 if we count the official deadline of December 25) but I've finally wrapped up the 12 Days of Sanditon.

I want to thank everyone for reading, liking and commenting! It has been such a delight and your words of encouragement kept me convinced to persevere and wrap up the challenge even as I found myself uninspired or tired. It hasn't been my best work, I probably skipped over a lot of typo's and grammar mistakes, and the wordings and stories probably weren't always as good but I haven't written as consistently as this since I was 15! I could've probably spared myself a lot of trouble by not making my works as long (some are well over twenty pages on word), but I had a blast and I hope you did too! I love this fandom, tiny and young as it is (and it won’t get a lot better since the show’s been cancelled) and all the active people in it <3

Much love, Lynn

[fandom--desires]

Fate Will Decide - Chapter 1

Fandom: Lord of The Rings/Hobbit

Rating: K+ Character(s): Thranduil Word Count: 1,142 Prompt: Imagine being a servant in Rivendell, seeing Thranduil during a state visit and falling in love with him, but saying nothing. You fall into trouble and he comes to your rescue, eventually professing his love for you. Requested by: anon

Rivendell was awash with people, flowers and laughter. This time tomorrow the Lord of Rivendell would marry your mistress, Lady Celebrían and the houses would be united. It warmed your heart to see such love and devotion between to elves and, as you arranged the roses, you could see them walking down by the river hand in hand. You smiled to yourself and turned away from what would soon dissolve into a love-fest.

“I do love a wedding.” Laiquië, your fellow handmaiden and long-time friend, sighs wistfully as she follows you up to the great hall. “I only wish that one day I could have a wedding this beautiful.”

“It doesn’t matter how many people witness the wedding, nor does it matter the number of flowers, only that you love each other more than the grass loves rain.”

Laiquië laughs and jostles your shoulder. “I’m so sorry, oh wise one! You sound just like your mother.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” you muse, stepping into the great hall that would house the ceremony tomorrow.

The large space was draped in white silk and flowers, with hundreds of wooden seats draped with vines. It felt like an outdoor meadow contained within marble pillars. It truly was beautiful.

“However a wedding like this truly does warm the heart.” you smile, stepping over to a small table to start carrying amphorae filled of wine down to the dining room.

Crossing the courtyard is no easy feat. The servants of Rivendell scurry back and forth carrying baskets of bread, fresh vegetables, flowers and wine. Stable hands move the many horses from arriving guests to the stables and other servants show the guests to their rooms. There is scarcely room to cross the stone courtyard when more trumpets sound from the bridge.

The convoy from the Greenwood has arrived.

Servants scramble to clear the area as a huge elk trots across the bridge, the fresh-faced King Thranduil astride his back.

You have heard of the great deeds of this fresh King and the losses that he has suffered in battle, but you had never seen him before. He is truly a handsome elf and you feel your heart flutter in your chest and a blush grace your cheeks.

“By my graces, he is beautiful.” a servant behind you sighs, eliciting giggles from some others.

The King, almost as though he has heard these mutterings, casts a smirking glance over the crowd.

Your heart almost takes off.

“Back to work, please!” one of Elrond’s personal hands calls from the top of the stairs.

There’s a brief pause and the courtyard bursts back to life. You hurry up to the great hall where you find Laiquië already setting down her platter of food. Hundreds of plates line the long table and it is likely there will be leftovers for days. “Isn’t King Thranduil a sight to behold?”

“He’s certainly something.” you agree, leaning the amphorae against the wall alongside many others. The mere sight of his face had warmed your heart and that smirk had sent butterflies into a frenzy in your belly. You hope against hope to see him again but it is not be.

You are called to Celebrían’s chambers just after sunset to help her prepare for tomorrow. You are joined by Laiquië and another of her four closest maids as you pour her bath, check her clothes for faults and loose stitches.

“Are you excited, my lady?” you ask as you comb her hair before bed.

Celebrían smiles at you in the mirror. “I am excited not just for tomorrow, but for the rest of my life. And I look forwards to having you all by my side as we go.”

Although you were pleased to have been chosen to follow Celebrían to her new home, you were sad to leave your family and other friends behind. You had known the forests to be your home your whole life and, as nice as Rivendell was, it would never truly be home.

It was a feeling shared by Laiquië and the other hand maidens but none of you could ever imagine staying behind and leaving Celebrían. She was not just a mistress but a friend.

It brought you great pride the following morning to see her dressed in her wedding gown, hair braided to perfection, waiting to meet her husband. Yourself and the other maids were dressed in identical pale rose gowns and would lead her down the aisle to where her father was waiting to marry her.

“Are you ready?” you asked Celebrían, dusting invisible dirt off the hem of her gown.

“As ever I will be. Please, lead the way.” she smiles.

Taking a deep break you link your arm with Laiquië and lead the way from the room. The other four hand maidens fall into line behind you and Celebrían brings up the rear.

Servants line the hallways and the courtyard, bowing deeply to their future Lady as she passes. The doors to the great hall are open wide and gentle music floats down the stairs to meet you, seeming to guide you towards the future.

The hall is packed with people from all over Middle Earth, from elves to the leaders of men, even the King of Erebor himself. At the end of the aisle waits Celeborn and Elrond, both dressed in golds and silvers. But your eyes are drawn to King Thranduil, dressed in a rich green embroidered with silver, who watches Celebrían with a gentle smile. There is something about that elf that you just can’t ignore. A horrendous impulse that you can’t quite seem to ignore is telling you to throw yourself at his feet, and if it wasn’t for Laiquië’s warmth on your side you likely would have.

Finally you pass him and arrive safely at the end of the aisle, turning your back to him and focussing on the wedding. Yet the words are distant to you and you want nothing more than to turn around and see his face again. Laiquië nudges you every now and then to keep your attention focussed on the long proceedings. As beautiful as they were, elvish weddings were far too long.

Finally, almost two hours later, the rings are exchanged, declarations of love are made and Celebrían is officially the Lady of Rivendell. The hall erupts in cheers as the two newlyweds pass back down the rows of people and you turn to watch them go.

Your eyes inevitably land on King Thranduil and your heart almost stops when you find him staring back at you.

[buttercuparry]

Prompt: jonrya + angst + wedding night

'Bitter'

That is how the wine tastes on his tongue. And the wedding feast like ashes. He looks from his raised dias at the celebration that is going on around him and feels something painful grip at his chest. He wants to loathe them all for making merriment.

But he can't. Not truly. Not when the laughter is flowing freely for the first time since the Long Night. And so Jon takes a gulp from his cup and forces himself to swallow the wine along with his growing bitterness.

He drifts his gaze to his bride then, to the dark maned girl sitting by his side and lets himself take her in for a moment. Her wedding dress is simple and yet she manages to look regal in it. The collar and the hem of the dress is lined with fur and the skirt has patterns of winter roses sewn in it. A silken belt is looped around her waist and a silver comb shaped in the form of a direwolf adorns her hair.

' She looks beautiful ' Jon thinks wistfully.

Yes Arya Stark has always been beautiful to him but perhaps today it is a truth for all to see. Jon tears his gaze away when he realizes what he is doing. His cheeks redden and he curses himself. His wife has not looked at him once during the feast, nor has she touched any food or drink. And here he is, making a fool out of himself.

' Do you hate me so much that you can't even bear to look me? '

He doesn't dare to ask her. Not sure if he wants to know the answer.

Little sister.

No....cousin.

Arya...

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

The great hall of Winterfell is looking bountiful tonight. The torches burn brightly and the direwolf banners that adorn the walls remind her of days long gone by. The wedding party is getting rowdier by the hour and the serving girls are groped as they pass by the tables.

It is then she feels him staring at her and it takes everything in her to not stiffen under his gaze.

" My face must be a dark pool." Arya reminds herself. " It must not show how I feel."

And so she stares ahead of her, keeping her face free of the raging tempest that is her heart.

Family. Duty. Honour.

She has been called the she-wolf of the north and has always abided by father's lessons. But today Arya takes heed of her mother's house words.

' For Bran' she thinks ' I have married a man I used to call brother, for Bran'

And for a free North.

Her younger brother has never asked it of her but , she has known what she needed to do to ensure this freedom.

Marry the prince of Dragonstone. Bind the north and south without bending the knee.

' The prince of dragonstone'

She wants to rage. She wants to cry for she feels her heart breaking yet again. Jon has always been her home, the brother she has been closest to. But ever since the discovery of his parentage, it seems like she has lost him too. He has remained aloof from her and now here he is sitting beside her as her husband.

Bile raises in her throat when she hears them call for bedding. 'What will become of us?'

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

Jon stops outside the bedchamber and takes a moment to collect himself. He does not know why but suddenly he feels like a green boy again. He wants to laugh at the irony of it all. He and Arya were once the closest but now when they are bound by the most sacred vows, he feels as if there's a huge chasm between them. He sighs and tentatively steps inside the chamber. The sight that greets him leaves him breathless.

Her hair falls in soft waves past her shoulders and she only has a gossamer shift covering her modesty. Her pale skin glows in the candlelight as she stands proudly, defiance shining in her eyes.

Gods help me. I am more of a Targaryen than I thought myself to be.

He loves her. Has loved her ever since she was a babe. And so in the end it has been his love that kept him away from her. For ever since she has come back to him, he felt a desire no brother should feel for his sister. He thought this madness to be the cost of his resurrection and so he wanted to protect her from this villainy. But alas! Who can prevent fate?

" Arya..."

" Don't" she says tiredly "please just don't Jon. I know you didn't want this marriage. Neither did I. But did you have to abandon me for it? "

His heart breaks at this. She does not want him. He smiles bitterly. Of course she doesn't.

" Forgive me." he says " But I did want this."

Arya recoils from him. " Jon...we are brother and sister!"

"Cousins. We are cousins."

" No. No...don't say that." she despires

Jon pulls her to him. " Maybe I am a monster for doing so but I have always loved you more than I should. Fear not Arya. I ask nothing of you."

She buries her face in his chest then and for a moment Jon believes that one day they can learn to be happy again.

[inkandstardusts]

Prompt for you! Cosimo allowing Contessina to comfort him about Lorenzo. (Do you remember when she did and he told her that he sleeps better alone? Broke my heart! :(

okay i know it’s been ages and i have no idea if this ship is still a thing since it’s been so long since the show came out lol. also i have no excuse for abandoning this blog, i really am sorry. 

this is short and pretty angsty so idk if this is what you were looking for but fingers crossed. also, this prompt is so old and i feel so bad for sort of abandoning this blog and these prompts but i guess i just didn’t have any inspiration to write them. buuuut, all this talk about season 2 has me so hyped and i realised how much i missed these 2 characters so ahhh!!! also dont really know how accurate this is since it’s been ages since i watched i medici so do forgive me for any errors. 

Lorenzo dies so suddenly that Cosimo at first, does not know what to do. He doesn’t know if he should cry or yell or seek revenge or leave Florence. Everyone from his childhood is dead. His mother, his father, and now his own brother. It is as if God himself is playing a cruel trick on him and Cosimo doesn’t know when it is going to stop.He sits in his study, quill poised in one hand but he doesn’t know what to say. Who shall he write to? Who shall help him? His name has been tarnished and torn, dragged through the mud and then again once more, for good measure. He doesn’t know if anyone will be willing to help him. 

He sets the feather down, next to a murky pot of ink just as there’s a knock on his door before it opens. Contessina looks unsure as she walks in; a look that no one but him can identify since she is always so confident, chin always up and shoulders never slouched. She sits opposite him and there is a handful of seconds where they both just look at each other before she spokes, voice soft. 

“Cosimo, I am so sorry,” she says, still watching him carefully. “I know it is tough and I cannot imagine how you must feel, my love.”

The term of endearment catches him off guard. They have never been like that. 

“Thank you,” he responds. Something flickers on her face but it is gone before he can pin point what it was. 

“Are you hungry? Should I ask for someone to send your supper here? Everyone else has already eaten,” she says. It is odd, how awkward conversation is between them, even after so many years of marriage. 

“No, I cannot eat in a time like this.”

“Cosimo,” she starts, voice gentle. “You must speak to me. You cannot hold all this sorrow in your heart. I am your wife, you can be honest.”

“And why would I do that?” Cosimo says. It is a dismissal and she knows it, knows him. She pushes out of her seat, left hand clenched. When she’s at the door, she turns around. All the softness in her eyes are gone, and her shields are back up. 

“You know, you are not the only one who lost him, my love,” she says and this time the endearment is cold. Mocking. She’s out the door right after and he strains to hear her footfalls against the floor, and once the sound has faded away, he slumps in his seat. A few minutes later, he is fast asleep. He ignores the heavy weight of guilt that settles in his chest.

                                                           ***

Cosimo awakes, confused and groggy. He glances to the window and realises it is past midnight. The crick in his neck makes him wince as he stands up, stretching his muscles. He walks back to his chambers and when he opens the door, he is surprised to find his wife awake. She sits in front of the vanity and when he walks in, the look of surprise on his face mirrors her own. She was not expecting him. 

“You’re still awake,” he states, sitting on the edge of the bed to untie his shoes. She runs a brush through her hair, and Cosimo watches the the way the silky strands settles against her shoulder and down her back. Years ago, when their son was only a young boy he had once told her how much he liked her hair. She did not say anything in response, but ever since that night she would comb her hair only after he had returned to their room, every night. 

“As are you,” she counters. She stands up, before making her way to her side of the bed. Cosimo clears his throat, pushing his shoes to the corner before removing his shirt. 

“I was wrong,” he says and when he looks at her, she isn’t looking at him but he knows she is listening. “I was rude earlier.”

She looks him straight in the eye when she responds. 

“It is nothing I am not used to, my love.”

He doesn’t know if the endearment is mocking or not. 

“My emotions, they got the better of-” he starts but she interrupts him. 

“I lost him too,” she says, voice shaky. “I loved him too, just like you Cosimo.”

“I know!” Cosimo yells, and his voice cracks. “Don’t you think I know? Everyone in this house loved him. And now he is gone. And it is my fault.”

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until he feels her hands wipe the tears running down his face. She pulls him to her, and he lets her, resting his face in the crook of her neck. She runs a hand through his hair and he can feel himself shaking, falling apart so easily. He doesn’t know how long he stays like that but when he lifts his head, her eyes are so sad. 

“I am sorry, Contessina,” he says. “I just, I just do not know what to do.”

“Let me help you,” she murmurs, leaning her forehead against his. “Cosimo, you cannot push me away every time.”

“I know,” he murmurs back, and he does. She is his rock, has been since the day they were wed. He knows that if not for her, he would have been able to do none of this. His father once told him that as well. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“Sleep, Cosimo. You need rest,” she instructs and he lets her place his head on his pillow. She lays down next to him and he finds her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers before kissing her knuckle. 

[octaviainthewasteland]

34 for the prompts, with Allura

34: “You come to my room and wake me up at 4 am, to cuddle?”

i’ll stay in my corner and cry

Also, let’s assume that in space they have the same time measurements as on Earth.

AO3

A skill to fall asleep anywhere, in any position, and with any noise in the background was simply a part of being an Altean alchemist. As early as during the student days, it was necessary to learn how to use any available moment to the fullest and get as much sleep as possible in between shifts, endure the never-ending partying behind the cardboard wall, and ignore the roommate who quite vocally revised her formulas for a test next week. Having moved to her own place, a modest one-room apartment, with barely enough space for her and Kova, she would expect for things to become easier, but in reality, she did not spend much time there, due to constant trips and expeditions. After spending three nights without sleep, investigating loose subsurface rocks in the north, Honevra dozed off without any concerns for the deafening roar of the engine and did not stir even in particularly dashing turns and bumps. Sometimes her reports were slightly crimpled, with stains from the energy drinks and dried spots of drool, as she slept like a log right on the desk.

Strangely enough, it seemed like Zarkon was finding this habit of her entertaining. She began to wake up in a comfortable bed instead, without any recollection of how she got there and actually took off her shoes and glasses. Once as she had not yet completely fallen asleep, she felt through the slumber, how carefully she was embraced and lifted from her workplace. Zarkon himself was a soldier, and a paranoiac hence could rest soundly only beside her.

Was it the work stress, the all-consuming responsibilities of the royal representative, age, something else – yet lately more often than not Honevra was suffering from insomnia. She was no fool, she was aware that the generals did not approve of their great lord marrying a commoner. They wanted to get rid of her.It seemed like paladins liked her, especially so after Zarkon, drunk with joy, had been singing the folk songs at the top of his lungs at their wedding, just to please her. Except for Alfor. No, of course, as the embodiment of diplomacy, he was nothing but friendly, however, Honevra caught his tense unreadable gaze more than once or twice. Nevertheless, he was always cordial and friendly, smothering her with kisses in greetings, and while inviting Zarkon to visit him, he never forgot to extend his invitation to her separately.

That did not lessen her neurosis, maybe even fueling it further. Therefore, picking up the soft thud of the door being opened, Honevra instantly jumped off the bed, clutching a dagger in her hands. She did not go to bed without it under her pillow, and it was a betrothal gift from Zarkon. Galra attached huge importance to struggle and strength of body and mind, and Zarkon made sure that if needed, she would be able to hold her own.

In the hallway, in a distant lilac light from the corridor, stood the princess. Barefoot, in a nightgown, with loose hair – a wavy mane flowing below her waist.

“What happened?” Honevra pushed the blanket back, prepared to act fast at the slightest hint of danger.

Friends had been staying with them for a week already, but that evening they had received a distress signal, a cry for help, and her husband, along with Alfor, set off in their lions into the night. If someone dared to try and take advantage of their absence to cause any harm to the little princess, they would regret it. Oh, Honevra would take care of that.

The princess bit her lip and shifted from one foot to another.

“Are there any ghosts?” she muttered under her breath.

Honevra’s expression softened a bit, and she dropped the dagger, pretending that she was fluffing the pillow. Frankly, she was pretty annoyed to end up as a designated babysitter, and she could not find the right way to approach the princess. On the one hand, there was a person of royal blood in front of her, and Galra were pretty serious about status and hierarchy, but on the other, here and now Honevra was a queen-consort herself. Besides, the princess was only a child.

Honevra got reminiscent of her early days on Daibazaal. It was difficult to get used to the high ceilings and pointed structures, to deep dark colors and military austerity, borderline asceticism.

After a reserved nod, the princess trotted to the bad and ducked under the blanket, building a cocoon. Despite the fact that the bed was wide and had just enough room for five, she settled right at her side, wheezing tranquilly. Watching her fiddling from the corner of her eye, Honevra grabbed the watch from the nightstand.

“You come to my room and wake me up at 4 am, to cuddle?”

Well, it was unlikely that she would get any more sleep tonight.

“Your father will return before you know it. You won’t even have time to miss him.” She forced out awkwardly, lost as to how to comfort her.

Whatever said, it would be lies, obviously, as the little princess missed her father dearly already, otherwise she would not have come running to the only Altean in the whole palace. Even if Honevra did not feel like one of them anymore.

“When I grow up, I’ll pilot the Red Lion,” she quietly confessed.“If I am allowed to mention, it takes a lot of courage to pilot the Lion. How can it be someone who’s afraid of ghosts?” teased Honevra.“I’ll be like father. I’ll defend the universe. Together with the future prince. Or the princess.”

Honevra glanced at her, but the effect of her raised eyebrow was lost on the naiveté.

“Father told me a secret, that you’ll have a babe.”“A son,” she said with certainty, “the prince”.

Allura squawked with delight.

“Can I?”

Still a little dumbfounded and amused, Honevra rose on the bed, leaning on the headboard. Her condition was not yet evident, and she had not told anyone, not even her husband, but Alfor, perhaps, felt a lump of new energy beneath her heart.

A warm tiny palm pressed against her abdomen. Allura closed her eyes, her nose wrinkled in concentration. The marks on her cheekbones were gleaming a baby pink. Honevra could not remember when was the last time her own marks glowed. It haunted her, a creeping feeling that each day they were getting darker, sharper. Physical appearance was not of any significance for her, but it was something more and it worried her. As a matter of principle, she did not shapeshift to blend into Galra, she was not going to try to hide her heritage, nor be embarrassed by it.The dim marks, however, was yet another step away from Altea.

When Zarkon peeked into her chambers, in his smoke-smeared armor, with a tattered cloak, with a tired face, covered in scratches and little burns – but safe and sound – he found his wife abstractedly combing Allura’s hair with her fingers. The girl and the cat, a tangle of legs and tail and fur, snuffled faintly in her shoulder.

His face beamed, and he wore an oafish grin as he crept up to them, tiptoeing so as not to disturb the sleeping beauty. Leaving a soft kiss on the top of her head, he sank down beside her, using the nightstand as the backrest, and stretched his lengthy legs out.

Soon Alfor appeared in the doorway too, out of breath in a search for his daughter. Their eyes met, and Honevra put a finger to her lips, urging him to stay quiet. Zarkon gave out a big snore in agreement and slipped off the nightstand onto the edge of the bed.

Alfor squinted and laughed silently.

.

After listening to the report on how exactly they have managed to capture one of the intruders, a well-known enemy of the Empire, Haggar orders to throw the girl into the prison cell until further directions.