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Hello! Thanks for clicking on! I am deciding to take up writing Oneshots of the ANCIENTS AND BEASTS !

READ DOWN BELOW FOR RULES! :)

1. I’m strictly writing about the ancient and beast pairings! I don’t mind writing side characters but the main focus should be on the pairings!

1.5 . Also I meant ancient x beast pairings and I don’t mind writing ancient x ancient or beast x beast’!

2. rare pairings are okay too! I actually encourage rare pairings so if you have one submit!

3. I WILL NOT write any smut ( or lemon wtv that is called again) angst, fluff and probably dark romance is okay like kissing is alright too! 

4. when submitting your request i ask that you are specific as possible with a plot and your pairing and weither its angst or fluff! 

5. I also ask that you don’t rush, I promise you I’ll see all your requests just know they take time and dedication and motivation so! I ask that you have a bit of patience!

that’s all for now have fun submitting!

Chapter Text

In the shadowed corners of the ancient library where forgotten tomes whispered secrets to the dust, Silent Salt lingered like a ghost.

The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and the faint, lingering aroma of baked goods—remnants of the world they once knew before the fall.

He was a warrior, clad in armor that gleamed like polished steel under the dim lantern light, but beneath it all, he carried burdens heavier than any blade. Silent Salt had always been a man of few words, his selective mutism a shield forged from years of pain.

Speaking was a vulnerability he rarely afforded, especially when the words threatened to unravel him.
Tonight, though, the weight was unbearable. He paced the creaky wooden floors, his boots silent as snow on stone—ironic, given his name. Shadow Milk Cookie, his companion in this twisted exile, was sprawled across a velvet chaise lounge nearby, flipping through a crumbling book with feigned interest.

Shadow Milk’s eyes, sharp and mischievous like fractured sapphires, flicked up occasionally, watching Silent Salt with that knowing gaze. They had been through hell together—the corruption, the battles, the isolation. Yet Silent Salt had never fully opened up.

Not about this.

The secrets clawed at him: his past as someone the world had tried to box into a shape that didn’t fit. He was transmasc, a truth he’d fought to claim amid a sea of expectations.

Back in the days of glory, when they were heroes, he’d hidden it well. But the trauma lingered like scars under his skin—whispers of “girl” hurled like daggers, pronouns that sliced deeper than any sword. People had called him weak for his silence, bullied him for not fitting the mold of the stoic knight they demanded.

He’d failed missions, not because of incompetence, but because the weight of dysphoria and fear had crushed his focus. “You’re not like the others,” they’d sneered. “Too different. Too fragile.” And now, with Shadow Milk, the one cookie who saw him as more than a silent sentinel, he wanted to confess.

To lay it bare. But what if Shadow Milk reacted the same? What if the jester’s mask cracked into disgust or pity?

Silent Salt stopped pacing, his hand trembling as he clutched the hilt of his sword. He signed with deliberate motions, his fingers cutting through the air like hesitant strokes of a brush. I need to tell you something.

It was simple, but his heart hammered as if he were charging into battle.
Shadow Milk sat up, closing the book with a soft thud. His grin was wide, but there was a softness in his eyes that belied the chaos he usually embodied. “Oh? The silent knight speaks… well, signs. You’ve got my full attention, my dear Salt.

Spill the tea—or should I say, the salt?” He chuckled at his own pun, but when Silent Salt didn’t respond with his usual eye-roll, Shadow Milk’s expression sobered. He patted the space beside him on the chaise. “Come on, sit. You look like you’re about to shatter.”

Silent Salt hesitated, his mind flooding with memories. The first time someone had misgendered him deliberately, laughing as if it were a joke. The bullying in the training halls, where fellow warriors had mocked his build, his voice when he dared to use it, calling him “pretender” and “freak.”

The traumatic events that followed—missions where he’d frozen, unable to speak or act, labeled a failure because he couldn’t meet the rigid expectations of masculinity they imposed. He’d internalized it all, building walls so high that even his mutism felt like a refuge. What if Shadow Milk saw him as less? As broken?

With a deep breath that did little to steady him, Silent Salt sat. He pulled out a small, worn notebook from his armor—a tool he used when signs weren’t enough. His hand shook as he wrote, the pencil scratching unevenly against the paper. He tore out the page and handed it over, his eyes averted, pulse thundering.

Shadow Milk took it gently, his playful demeanor fading into something earnest. He read aloud, his voice soft and measured: “‘I’m transmasc. I’ve always been a guy, but… not everyone saw it that way. They called me ‘girl,’ used she/her like it was nothing.

Transphobes everywhere—family, friends, even allies. They bullied me, said I was weak because I couldn’t always speak up or fit their idea of strong. I failed expectations because of it, and it haunts me. I’m scared you’ll see me differently now. Like I’m not enough.’”

The words hung in the air, heavy as storm clouds. Silent Salt braced himself, muscles tense, waiting for the rejection. His mind replayed the worst: a laugh, a dismissal, or worse, that pitying look that said he was fragile. He signed quickly, Sorry, as if preempting the hurt.

But Shadow Milk didn’t laugh. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he set the note aside and turned to face Silent Salt fully, his hands reaching out to cup the warrior’s face with surprising tenderness. “Hey, look at me,” he murmured, waiting until Silent Salt’s eyes met his.

There was no mockery, no disgust—only a fierce protectiveness that burned like blue fire. “First off, thank you for trusting me with this. I know that’s not easy, especially with all the crap you’ve been through.

But listen—none of that changes a damn thing about how I see you.”
Silent Salt’s breath hitched, and he signed, But the trauma… it affected me. Made me mute sometimes. Weak.

Shadow Milk shook his head, his thumbs brushing gently over Silent Salt’s cheeks. “Weak? You? The guy who charges into battles without a word, sword blazing, protecting everyone like it’s nothing? That’s strength, Salt. Your silence isn’t weakness—it’s your power. And being transmasc? That’s just you. The real you.

Anyone who called you ‘girl’ or threw transphobic bullshit your way? They’re the weak ones, hiding behind hate because they can’t handle someone as authentic as you.”
Tears pricked at Silent Salt’s eyes, unbidden. He hadn’t cried in years—not since the last time someone had shattered him with words. But Shadow Milk’s voice was steady, wrapping around him like a warm cloak.

“I get the fear,” Shadow Milk continued, his own voice cracking just a fraction. “I’ve got my own masks, you know? Hiding behind jokes because the world’s a cruel stage. But with you? I don’t need the act. And you don’t need to meet anyone’s expectations but your own. You’re enough. More than enough. You’re my knight, my partner in this mad world.”

Silent Salt leaned into the touch, the tension easing from his shoulders like melting ice. He signed slowly, I was afraid you’d bully me too. Or see me as different. Failed.

“Never,” Shadow Milk whispered, pulling him into a hug. It was firm, grounding, the kind that chased away shadows. “If anyone ever tries that again, they’ll have to go through me. And trust me, I can be a real nightmare when I want to be.”

He pulled back slightly, grinning now, but it was soft, genuine. “Besides, I’ve always seen you as you. Guy through and through. Pronouns? He/him, all the way. And if I ever slip—though I won’t—smack me with that sword of yours.”

A small, rare smile tugged at Silent Salt’s lips. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. The fluff of the moment seeped in, warming the angst that had coiled so tight. Shadow Milk chattered on, filling the silence with light-hearted stories of his own mishaps, drawing Silent Salt out of his shell bit by bit.

They stayed like that for hours, tangled on the chaise, Shadow Milk’s hand in Silent Salt’s hair, murmuring affirmations until the fear felt distant.
As dawn crept through the library windows, painting the room in soft gold, Silent Salt finally relaxed fully.

He signed one last thing: Thank you. For being here.
Shadow Milk kissed his forehead. “Always, my Salt. Always.”

In that quiet space, amid the echoes of past hurts, they built something new—unbreakable, unflinching. No more secrets, no more fears. Just them, against the world.

Chapter Text

The Grand Halloween Masquerade at the Hollyberrian Palace was supposed to be the event of the century: crystal chandeliers dripping with cobwebs, tables groaning under mountains of candy, every ancient soul in the kingdom hidden behind elaborate masks and costumes.

Hollyberry had thrown herself into the planning like a war campaign (because parties, she insisted, were simply battles of joy). She had chosen to dress as an ancient dragon knight: crimson scaled armor, a flowing cape of wine-red velvet, horns curling proudly from her helm. She looked magnificent. She felt magnificent.

Until she saw Eternal Sugar.
Eternal Sugar had come as some kind of celestial mourning doll: layers of sheer black lace and frost-pale silk that floated around her like smoke, a cracked porcelain mask covering the upper half of her face, sugar-crystal tears glued beneath her visible eye. A pair of broken holographic wings shimmered faintly on her back, flickering every time she moved.

She looked like grief given sugar-spun form, and Hollyberry’s heart cracked the moment their eyes met across the ballroom.
They hadn’t spoken in real words since the incident three months ago (the one where Hollyberry had laughed too loudly at a court joke that called Eternal Sugar “the pretty little princess who cries candy tears”).

She hadn’t realized how deeply it cut until Eternal Sugar stopped visiting the palace entirely. Letters went unanswered. Invitations returned unopened. And now here she was, dressed like someone who had already buried every feeling she once had for the loud, brash Hollyberrian queen.

Hollyberry’s dragon helm suddenly felt too heavy. She crossed the floor, boots ringing against marble, ignoring the swirl of ghosts and vampires and witches parting around her.
“Eternal Sugar,” she said, voice softer than the orchestra deserved.

The doll in black lace stiffened. A gloved hand lifted, as though to adjust the mask, then fell again. “Your Majesty,” Eternal Sugar answered, the title cold and perfect. “Enjoying your own party?”

Hollyberry’s throat closed. She reached up and yanked the dragon helm off entirely, letting pink curls tumble free. “I look ridiculous, don’t I?” she tried, forcing a grin that wobbled. “Big scary dragon afraid of one tiny mourning doll.”

Something flickered behind the cracked mask (hurt, maybe, or exhaustion). Eternal Sugar turned to leave.
“Please,” Hollyberry caught her wrist, gentle despite the gauntlet. “Five minutes. Out on the balcony. Just… five.”

Pavlova (dressed as an extremely smug black cat with real diamond whiskers) chose that exact moment to slink past, tail high. “Oh my,” she purred loudly enough for half the ballroom to hear, “is the dragon knight begging the crying princess for a dance? How tragic.”

Hollyberry’s grip tightened protectively around Eternal Sugar’s wrist. “Pavlova,” she growled, “if you don’t vanish in the next three seconds I will turn you into a literal rug.”

Pavlova’s ears flattened, but the smirk never left. “Touchy, touchy.” She flicked her tail and melted into the crowd, already whispering to the nearest group of nobles.

Eternal Sugar tugged her wrist free, but she didn’t flee. She walked toward the balcony on her own, black lace trailing like spilled ink. Hollyberry followed, heart hammering harder than it ever had in battle.

The night air was crisp, scented with frost and distant bonfires. Below them, the palace gardens glowed with jack-o’-lanterns. Eternal Sugar stopped at the balustrade, wings flickering out of sync.
“I didn’t come here to ruin your night,” she said quietly.

“You’re not,” Hollyberry answered. She set the helm down on the stone railing like surrendering a weapon. “You’re the only real thing in it.”
Silence stretched, brittle and aching.

“I’m sorry,” Hollyberry blurted. “For laughing. For not seeing how much it hurt. For being so loud all the time that I drowned you out. I thought if I just kept smiling, kept pouring wine and telling stories, you’d never leave. But I pushed you away instead.”
Eternal Sugar’s shoulders trembled. One sugar-crystal tear broke free from the mask and shattered on the balcony floor.
“I dressed like this,”

she whispered, “because it felt honest. Like all the sweetness in me cracked the day you laughed at me in front of everyone. I thought if I came looking already broken, it wouldn’t hurt when you turned away again.”

Hollyberry stepped closer, slow, giving Eternal Sugar every chance to flee. When she didn’t, Hollyberry carefully lifted the porcelain mask away. The face beneath was pale, eyes red-rimmed but dry now, staring up at her with centuries of guarded hope.

“I’m not turning away,” Hollyberry said, voice cracking. “Not ever again. I was an idiot, Sugar. A loud, proud, terrified idiot who didn’t know how to say I love you without hiding behind a joke or a goblet.”

Eternal Sugar’s breath hitched.
Hollyberry dropped to one knee (not the dramatic knightly kind, just a tired, earnest collapse). She took both of Eternal Sugar’s cold hands in her gauntleted ones. “I love you. The real you. The one who cries, the one who smiles like sunrise, the one who wears mourning lace or cotton candy fluff. All of it. I’m so sorry I ever made you feel like any part of you was a joke.”

A sob tore out of Eternal Sugar (small, shocked, centuries in the making). Then she was falling forward, knees hitting stone, arms flinging around Hollyberry’s armored neck. Hollyberry caught her instantly, pulling her close, cape enveloping them both like dragon wings.

“I missed you,” Eternal Sugar muffled against her shoulder, voice wet. “I missed you so much it hurt worse than anything they ever said.”
“I’m here,” Hollyberry whispered into lavender-scented hair. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.”

They stayed like that until the broken holographic wings finally flickered out entirely, until the sugar tears melted in the warmth between them. Somewhere inside, Pavlova was no doubt spreading delicious gossip, but out on the balcony none of it reached them.

Eventually, Hollyberry stood, lifting Eternal Sugar with her as easily as if she weighed nothing. She brushed the last crumbling tear from a porcelain-pale cheek.
“Dance with me?” she asked softly.
“There’s no music out here.”
“I’ll hum.” Hollyberry grinned (small, careful, real). “Badly. Like always.”

Eternal Sugar laughed (wet, shocked, and perfect). She rested her head against the cool scaled armor over Hollyberry’s heart. “Yes,” she said. “Always yes.”
And under the Halloween moon, the dragon knight and the mourning doll swayed together (no masks, no pretense, just two ancient souls finally learning the steps to the same quiet song).

Chapter Text

The sun was beginning its slow descent over the Golden Cheese Kingdom, painting the palace gardens in molten amber and rose.

Every fountain glittered like liquid gold, every hedge trimmed into perfect spirals of topiary, and the air carried the warm, indulgent scent of fresh-baked rich cheese bread—still faintly steaming on the marble table between the two queens.

White Lily sat cross-legged on a silk cushion, her long silver hair spilling over one shoulder like moonlight. She was attempting (and failing) to look dignified while tearing off another piece of the loaf they’d made together that afternoon.

Golden Cheese, sprawled dramatically on the chaise opposite her, watched with a fond, lopsided grin, her cape discarded somewhere on a rosebush and her crown tilted rakishly to one side.

“You’re supposed to savor it, not inhale it,” Golden Cheese teased, voice warm as melted fondue.
“I am savoring,” White Lily protested through a mouthful, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. “I’m savoring very… aggressively.”

Golden Cheese laughed, bright and unrestrained, the sound echoing off the golden statues. She reached over and brushed a crumb from the corner of White Lily’s mouth with her thumb.

The gesture was gentle, almost shy—rare for someone who usually announced her affections like royal decrees.
They had spent the whole afternoon in the palace kitchens: Golden Cheese insisting they didn’t need servants (“We are perfectly capable queens, thank you”), White Lily nervously reading the recipe three times aloud, Golden Cheese accidentally dumping an entire jar of gold-dusted truffle salt into the dough because “everything is better with more shine.”

Somehow, against all odds, the bread had turned out perfect—buttery, rich, with a crackling crust that sang when broken.

Now it sat between them like a small sun, and they kept stealing pieces, passing the same loaf back and forth until their fingers were slick with butter and their hearts were stupidly, perfectly full.

White Lily licked a bit of cheese from her thumb and sighed, leaning back against the chaise. “Do you think…” she started, then stopped, cheeks warming.
Golden Cheese tilted her head. “Think what, my lily?”

“That we’ll be… good at this?” White Lily’s voice dropped to something soft, almost afraid to be heard by the garden itself. “Being parents.

Together. I keep imagining a tiny cookie running around these halls with your hair and my… everything else, and half the time I’m overjoyed and half the time I’m convinced we’ll ruin them in entirely new and spectacular ways.”

Golden Cheese went very quiet for a moment—an occurrence so rare it felt like the world held its breath. Then she scooted closer until their knees touched, until the warmth of her radiated through the thin layers of silk and satin between them.

“Hey,” she said gently, taking both of White Lily’s hands in her own golden ones. “Look at me.”
White Lily did. Those molten eyes were softer than she’d ever seen them—no performance, no grandeur. Just Golden Cheese, stripped of every crown and title, looking at her like she was the only treasure in the entire kingdom.

“We made this bread,” Golden Cheese said, squeezing her hands. “You were terrified of the oven. I almost set the kitchen on fire—twice. We argued about whether truffle salt was ‘technically edible in that quantity.’

And yet…” She tore off one last piece of the loaf and held it up between them, steam curling into the twilight. “It’s perfect. Because we made it together.”
White Lily’s eyes shimmered suspiciously.

“Parenting’s going to be messier than any kitchen,” Golden Cheese continued, voice low and steady. “There will be nights we both cry harder than the baby.

There will be tantrums—probably ours. I’ll try to solve every problem with increasingly extravagant gifts. You’ll overthink bedtime stories until the poor kid knows twelve versions of the same fairy tale. We’re going to mess up. A lot.”

She leaned forward until their foreheads touched.
“But every time we do, we’ll figure it out the same way we figured out this bread. Together. Side by side.

Covered in flour and love and probably baby spit-up.” A grin tugged at her mouth. “And I can’t imagine anyone I’d rather make a mess with than you.”

White Lily let out a watery laugh, then another, until she was half-sobbing, half-laughing into Golden Cheese’s shoulder.

Golden Cheese wrapped her up instantly—arms strong and sure, cape forgotten, crown sliding off entirely to clatter onto the marble.
When the tears eased, White Lily mumbled into the warm crook of her neck, “You’re going to spoil them rotten.”

“Obviously,” Golden Cheese replied, pressing a kiss just below her ear. “They’ll have a solid-gold crib, a personal orchestra for lullabies, and at least three ponies before they can walk.”

White Lily pulled back just enough to level her with a look. “One pony.”
“Two ponies and a miniature golden chariot.”
“Golden Cheese.”
“Fine, one pony. But it wears a tiny crown.”

White Lily dissolved into giggles again, and Golden Cheese kissed her—slow, tasting of rich cheese and honeyed future. When they parted, the last rays of sunlight caught on the crumbs scattered across their laps like fallen stars.

“Whatever kind of parents we become,” White Lily whispered, lacing their fingers together over the now-empty bread plate, “as long as it’s us… I think our little one is going to be the luckiest cookie in any kingdom.”

Golden Cheese smiled—small, real, radiant. “And the cheesiest.”
White Lily groaned, but she was smiling too, wide and helpless and in love.

Somewhere in the distance, a fountain chimed the hour. The sky deepened to velvet. And in the golden garden, two queens sat tangled together among cushions and crumbs, dreaming quietly of tiny footsteps echoing through halls that had never known anything so precious as family.

They stayed there until the stars came out, sharing the last warm whispers of bread and the first warm promises of tomorrow—together, always together, ready for every beautiful, ridiculous, butter-soaked moment to come.

Chapter Text

The Grand Ballroom of the Golden Cheese Palace had never smelled quite like this before.

Usually it was roses, molten gold leaf, and the faint metallic tang of ostentatious wealth. Tonight it was smoke, sharp cheddar, and the unmistakable aroma of something very expensive catching fire.

Burning Spice stood in the center of the marble floor, arms crossed, staring at the chandelier that was now very much on fire.

Tiny flames licked along the gilded arms where strings of aged parmesan had been artfully draped for “atmospheric effect.” His atmospheric effect was currently dripping molten cheese onto a priceless carpet.

Golden Cheese stood ten feet away, hands on her hips, crown slightly askew, trying (and failing) to look stern while her mouth kept twitching.

“You said,” she began, voice trembling between laughter and regal outrage, “that you wanted to help me plan the Autumn Gala menu.”
“I did help,” Burning Spice rumbled, not sounding sorry at all.

His deep voice rolled like distant thunder. “I improved it. Fire-roasted cheese garlands. Revolutionary.”

“They were supposed to be cold canapés hanging like crystal!”
“Cold is boring. Fire is honest.”

A glob of flaming asiago chose that moment to fall with a wet plop directly onto the train of Golden Cheese’s cape.

She shrieked (an actual, undignified squeak), spun in a frantic circle, and beat at the flames with both hands while Burning Spice watched in open admiration.

“Stop enjoying this!” she snapped, finally smothering the fire against a velvet curtain (which also began to smolder).
“Never,” he said, grinning wide enough to show fang. “You’re glowing.”

“That is literal fire, you absolute menace.”
He stepped forward, plucked the singed cape from her shoulders in one easy motion, and tossed it aside like it wasn’t stitched with threads of actual sunlight.

Then, before she could protest, he caught her hand and tugged her into the middle of the floor, right beneath the cheerfully burning chandelier.
“Dance with me,” he said.
“There is a fire. In my ballroom.”
“It’s romantic.”
“It’s a hazard.”
“It’s both.”

Golden Cheese opened her mouth, closed it, then let out the laugh she’d been fighting for ten minutes straight.

It rang off the golden walls like bells.
“You are impossible,” she said, but she was already letting him pull her close, one of his huge hands settling at the small of her back, the other swallowing hers entirely.

The orchestra (who had fled twenty minutes ago when the first cheese wheel exploded) was long gone, so Burning Spice simply hummed. Low, rough, off-key, but steady as a heartbeat.

He swayed them in a slow circle while sparks drifted down around them like hellish confetti.
Golden Cheese rested her cheek against the warm leather of his chest and felt the rumble of his terrible singing vibrate through her. The chandelier gave a pathetic creak overhead.

“We’re going to have to replace that,” she murmured.
“I’ll make you a new one,” he answered instantly. “Forged in dragonfire. Won’t melt.”
“Nothing you touch stays un-melted.”
“Exactly. Consistency.”

She laughed again, softer this time, and let him spin her out and back in. The hem of her gown brushed through puddles of cooling cheese; her hair came loose from its jeweled pins and spilled bright as treasure over his arm.

He smelled like smoke and cinnamon and something fiercely alive, and she decided (right then, under a collapsing ceiling of fire and dairy) that she had never felt more at home.

When the chandelier finally gave up and crashed in a spectacular shower of crystal and cheddar, they didn’t even flinch.

Burning Spice simply lifted her off her feet, turned once so the debris rained down behind them, and kept dancing across the scorched floor like the world wasn’t ending in delicious, ridiculous flames.
Golden Cheese looped her arms around his neck and kissed the ash from his jaw.

“Next time,” she whispered against his skin, “we’re doing fondue.”
“Next time,” he promised, voice rough with wonder and joy, “I’ll only set the fondue on fire a little.”
She kissed him again (long, slow, tasting smoke and spice and the particular madness of loving someone who turned every ballroom into a bonfire and every disaster into a love story).

Above them, the last flames flickered out, leaving only the warm glow of two idiots hopelessly, incandescently in love amid the ruins of the most expensive cheese accident in history.

And somewhere in the wreckage, beneath a toppled ice sculpture shaped like a swan, a single unbroken wheel of brie sat untouched (waiting, patient and perfect, for them to find it later and declare the entire night an unqualified success).

Chapter Text

The night was so deep it felt like the world had been dipped in ink.

Only the moon remained, a perfect silver coin hung above the ancient pines, pouring cold light over the clearing where ten of the most powerful cookies in existence had, by some cosmic joke, decided to spend the night together.

Eleven, if you counted the ghost of Elder Faerie Cookie who hovered unspoken between two of them.
Their camp was a loose circle of mismatched tents and bedrolls.

Hollyberry’s was bright red and already half-collapsed from enthusiastic snoring. Pure Vanilla’s was neat, pale gold fabric glowing faintly from the healing runes stitched along the seams. Shadow Milk had refused a tent entirely and was currently draped over a branch like a theatrical bat, pretending to sleep while actually watching everything.

Burning Spice’s “tent” was literally just a ring of scorched earth where he’d threatened the grass into submission. The others had settled somewhere between practicality and pride.

At the very edge of the clearing, half-hidden beneath the sweeping arms of an old silver fir, stood the smallest tent of all: soft white canvas with delicate green embroidery of lilies along the hem. It belonged, technically, to White Lily Cookie. Tonight it belonged to two.

Inside, the air was warm and close, thick with the scent of crushed pine needles and the faint sweetness that always clung to White Lily’s petals. A single lantern hung from the center pole, turned low so the light was more amber than gold, painting slow, liquid shadows across the walls.

White Lily sat cross-legged on a thick bedroll, knees drawn up, arms wrapped loosely around them. She had changed into a simple pale nightgown (soft cotton, sleeves long enough to cover her hands when she felt shy). Her hair, freed from its usual ribbons, spilled over her shoulders like moonlight made liquid.

Across from her, Silent Salt Cookie had removed only his gauntlets and cloak. Everything else (helmet, chestplate, greaves) remained in place, gleaming softly.

He sat with his back perfectly straight, sword laid across his lap like a barrier he wasn’t sure he was allowed to lower.

For a long time neither spoke. The only sound was the wind in the pines and the occasional distant shout as Burning Spice and Golden Cheese tried to murder each other over the correct way to toast a marshmallow.

White Lily broke the silence first, voice barely louder than the lantern’s whisper.
“Do you… remember the night Elder Faerie taught me how to call moonlight into flowers?”
Silent Salt’s helmet tilted: the smallest, most careful nod.

She smiled, small and wistful. “I was so frightened of the dark back then. Everything felt too big. Too broken. But he sat with me in the palace gardens until dawn, showing me how even the tiniest lily could hold an entire night sky in its petals if you asked gently enough.”

She paused, then crawled forward on her knees until she was close enough that the lantern light caught the faint shimmer of tears she refused to let fall.
“I think about that a lot,” she whispered. “When everything feels broken again. I think… maybe he’d be proud that we’re trying. That we’re here. Together.”

Silent Salt’s hand twitched, then rose (slow, hesitant) until his bare fingers brushed the back of her hand. The metal was cold, but the gesture was not. White Lily turned her palm up without thinking, letting their fingers lace together. His grip was careful, like she was made of glass.
Another long silence. Outside, someone (Eternal Sugar) let out a dramatic, longing sigh loud enough to rattle the tent walls.

White Lily laughed under her breath. “They’re never going to let us sleep, are they?”
Silent Salt shook his head once. Then, surprising even himself, he tugged gently (just enough to guide her closer).

White Lily went willingly, scooting forward until she could lean against his side. The armor was hard and cool, but she didn’t care. She tucked herself under his arm, head resting just below his shoulder pauldron, one hand splayed over the engraved lily on his chestplate.

They fit. Impossibly, perfectly.
She began speaking again, voice softer now, stories spilling out like petals on water.
How Elder Faerie once carried her on his shoulders through a storm because she was too small to see over the floodwaters.

How he taught her that silence could be a kind of love louder than any song.
How he used to hum an old lullaby when nightmares came (three notes, over and over, until the dark felt safe again).
With every memory, she sank deeper into Silent Salt’s side.

His arm settled around her shoulders, heavy and sure. At some point her legs curled up, feet tucking beneath his cape. At some point his helmet came to rest (barely) against the top of her head.
Outside, the camp had devolved into beautiful, ridiculous chaos.

Eternal Sugar had dragged her blanket right up to the front of their tent and was now lying on her stomach, chin in her hands, kicking her feet in the air like a lovesick schoolgirl.

“Witches preserve me,” she moaned, loud enough for half the forest to hear. “They’re cuddling. They’re actually cuddling. I can feel the fluff from here and it’s killing me.”

Shadow Milk, still upside-down in his tree, hissed, “You are the loudest creature in existence.”
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, clown.”

Shadow Milk’s eyes narrowed. He glanced across the dying fire to where Pure Vanilla sat quietly mending a tear in Hollyberry’s cloak. The healer’s face was calm, but his fingers kept pausing on the stitches, eyes distant.

Shadow Milk’s chest did something complicated.
Eternal Sugar noticed. Her grin turned positively feral.

“Oh my stars, both of you? Over the same ray of sunshine? This is better than any play I’ve ever seen.”

Pure Vanilla looked up at that exact moment, met Shadow Milk’s gaze across the embers, and (for once) did not look away. Something unspoken crackled between them, bright and sharp as lightning.

Nearby, Burning Spice had Golden Cheese in a headlock while she tried to shove a flaming marshmallow down his throat. Neither seemed particularly upset about it.

Dark Cacao and Mystic Flour had not moved in two hours. They sat on opposite sides of the fire, perfectly still, eyes locked.

The space between them hummed with centuries of bloodshed and something no one had named yet. Hollyberry had given up trying to offer them snacks; the last marshmallow had withered to ash in midair from the sheer force of their staring.

Inside the tent, White Lily’s voice had gone drowsy.
“…and he said the bravest thing a soul can do is stay gentle when the world teaches you to be sharp…”
Her fingers traced idle circles over Silent Salt’s chestplate. His thumb stroked slow arcs across her shoulder.

The lantern had burned so low the shadows pooled like ink.
Eventually her words slowed, then stopped. Her breathing evened out. She was asleep, curled against him like trust made solid.
Silent Salt did not move.

Could not have moved if the world ended again.
Carefully, so carefully, White Lily shifted in her sleep. Her face tilted up, searching even unconsciously. Her lips brushed the cold cheek of his helmet (once, twice), feather-soft kisses pressed to unyielding steel.

“Goodnight, my quiet guardian,” she mumbled, barely audible.
Inside the helmet, Silent Salt’s face exploded into heat so fierce he was grateful for every layer of metal between them.

His heart thundered like war drums. He sat frozen, clutching gentleness like it was the most dangerous weapon he’d ever held.

Outside, Eternal Sugar let out a muffled squeal into her blanket. Shadow Milk dropped off his branch and landed in an undignified heap. Pure Vanilla hid a smile behind his hand that looked almost pained.
The moon crept lower.

The fire settled into quiet embers.
Dawn was still hours away, and Silent Salt did not sleep. He simply held her, counting heartbeats and stories and the impossible warmth of a lily blooming against winter steel.
Some nights, he decided, were worth an eternity of silence.

Chapter Text

The invitation arrived on a single square of pale-pink parchment, slipped beneath Dark Cacao’s chamber door at dawn. No seal, no flourish, just three looping words in glittering sugar-ink:

Tonight. Midnight. Rooftop garden.
Don’t be boring.
—E.

He stared at it for a full minute, the way one stares at a lit fuse.

Then he folded it once, tucked it inside his gauntlet, and pretended his pulse hadn’t stuttered.
Midnight found the citadel asleep under a thin blanket of late-autumn frost.

Dark Cacao moved like a shadow in full armor (because of course he wore full armor to a date; the very idea of appearing in anything less felt like treason against himself).

His great cape whispered over the stone stairs as he climbed the private spiral to the rooftop garden no one had tended since his queen passed.
He expected darkness.

Instead he found starlight poured into reality.
Eternal Sugar Cookie had been busy.
The neglected garden had become a confection of impossible beauty.

Paper lanterns shaped like crescent moons floated overhead, glowing soft rose and gold. Vines of crystallized sugar twined through the old trellises, heavy with blossoms that looked like spun cotton candy and smelled like warm vanilla.

A low table (ebony wood draped in pale silk) waited at the center, set for two. Platters of delicate desserts glittered like jewels: tiny macarons filled with starlight crème, chocolate truffles dusted in gold leaf, slices of cake so fluffy they seemed to hover an inch above the plate.

And in the middle of it all stood Eternal Sugar herself.
She had traded her usual extravagant gown for something simpler (still pink, still absurdly luxurious), but sleeveless, the skirt falling in soft layers like petals.

Her wings were folded tight, shimmering faintly, and her hair was down, cascading in pale waves that caught every lantern’s glow.

She looked like a dream someone had tried very hard not to have.
“You’re late,” she sang, though the clock tower had only just chimed twelve. “I almost started without you.”

Dark Cacao stopped at the edge of the silk rug she’d laid over the frost. “I was… ensuring the guards would not disturb us.”

“Translation: you stood outside the door for ten minutes convincing yourself this was a tactical error.” She grinned, bright and sharp. “Come here, your majesty. Even kings are allowed to take the armor off on a first date.”

He didn’t move. “This is a date?”
“What, you thought I dragged all this up four hundred stairs for a diplomatic summit?” She laughed, the sound like glass bells.

“Sit. Eat something before you spontaneously combust from stoicism.”
Against every instinct drilled into him over centuries, he sat.

The moment his weight settled onto the cushion, the floating lanterns drifted lower, forming a soft dome of light around them. Eternal Sugar plopped down opposite him, knees drawn up beneath her skirt like a child, and immediately stole one of his truffles.

“So,” she said around a mouthful of chocolate, “I have questions.”
Dark Cacao exhaled through his nose. “Proceed.”
“First: when was the last time you ate dessert that wasn’t plain rice cake?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. “…Before my son was born.”
She whistled low. “That’s criminal. Second question: when was the last time someone hugged you who wasn’t trying to stab you immediately afterward?”

His golden eyes narrowed. “You are enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands.

“Third question, and I’m only asking once: will you take the helmet off? I want to see your face when you inevitably blush.”

The silence that followed was so complete the frost crackled on the stone.

Then, slowly (as though the motion physically pained him), Dark Cacao reached up and unfastened the clasps at his throat.

The heavy helm came away with a soft hiss of cold air. He set it beside him like a fallen crown.
His hair was longer than anyone alive had ever seen it, black threaded with silver, falling in a severe line to his shoulders.

The scar that crossed his left eye looked harsher in the gentle light, but the rest of his face (stern, exhausted, ancient) softened by a fraction when Eternal Sugar’s expression went quiet and wondering.

“There,” he rumbled. “Satisfied?”
“Not even close,” she whispered, then caught herself and beamed. “But it’s a start.”

She pushed a small plate toward him: a single slice of cloud-like cake topped with a single perfect sugared violet.

“Try it. I made it myself. Well, I supervised tiny cherub cooks while lounging on a chaise, but same thing.”

He regarded the cake the way he once regarded enemy battle lines. Then he picked up the fork (silver, delicate, probably worth more than most kingdoms) and took a bite.

Flavor exploded across his tongue: vanilla bean, hint of citrus, something like laughter made edible. For one unguarded second his eyes widened.

Eternal Sugar watched him with the smug satisfaction of a cat who’d finally caught the bird.
“Good?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. “…Adequate.”
“Liar.” She laughed again, softer this time, and reached across the table to brush a crumb from the corner of his mouth with her thumb.

He went perfectly still under the touch.
They ate in companionable quiet for a while (her chattering about the ridiculous politics of her realm, him answering in low monosyllables that gradually grew into full sentences).

She told him how lonely eternity felt when everyone around you was made of sugar and dissolved at the first sign of tears.

He told her (in the fewest words possible) about the night he stood on this very rooftop and watched his kingdom burn centuries ago.

At some point she moved to sit beside him instead of across. Not touching, not yet, just close enough that her wing brushed his arm when she gestured. The lanterns floated lower still, until the light was intimate and warm.

Eventually the plates were empty and the sky overhead had begun to pale at the edges.
Eternal Sugar rested her chin on her hand and studied him openly. “You know what I like most about you?”

He arched a brow.
“You’re the only person I’ve ever met who’s more afraid of happiness than I am of sadness.”
His breath caught (just slightly).

She continued, voice softer than the dawn. “I’m not asking you to be someone else, Dark Cacao. I’m not even asking you to be happy tonight. Just… stay a little longer.

Let me sit next to you while the sun comes up. That’s all.”
He looked at her for a long, long moment. Then, moving like a man defusing a bomb, he lifted his arm and let it settle (heavy, careful) across her shoulders.

Eternal Sugar went still, afraid to startle him. After a heartbeat she leaned in, resting her head against the cold steel of his pauldron. Her wings folded forward, curling gently around them both until they sat inside a cocoon of pale pink light.
Neither spoke.

The first ray of sunrise touched the horizon, turning the frost to molten gold.
Dark Cacao’s voice, when it came, was barely more than gravel. “Next time,” he said, “I choose the location.”

Eternal Sugar smiled against his armor, eyes fluttering shut.
“I’ll hold you to that, your majesty.”
Above them, the paper lanterns winked out one by one, spent and satisfied.

The king did not move his arm until the sun was fully risen and the citadel bells began to ring for morning patrol.

He decided some battles were worth surrendering.
And some sweetness (just this once) was worth the risk of melting.

Chapter Text

The sixth night was the worst.
The Ash-Cough had sunk its claws deep, and Mystic Flour’s body finally rebelled against centuries of iron control.

She convulsed so violently the cot’s wooden frame cracked. Black flour (her own essence) bled from her mouth in thick, choking clouds that filled the room with the scent of burnt grain.

The healers fled in terror, shouting that the Beast was unraveling, that her soul itself was turning to ash.

Dark Cacao locked the door behind them with his own hands and did not open it again.
He held her through the seizure, arms locked around her thrashing form, taking every blow against his armor without flinching.

When the fit passed she went limp, eyes rolled back to pale slits, breath barely a thread. The black flour settled over them both like funeral dust.

He carried her (still coughing wet, broken sounds) to the private royal bath, an ancient chamber carved from obsidian deep beneath the citadel. No one had used it since his queen’s death. The water came from a hot spring that ran beneath the mountain, steaming and sulfur-tinged.

He filled the sunken pool himself, arms shaking with fatigue he refused to acknowledge.

Armor clattered to the stone floor piece by piece until he stood in nothing but dark linen trousers, scars livid across his back and chest. Then he lifted her again (veils and all) and stepped into the water.
The heat shocked her awake.

She gasped, coughed, clung to him with surprising strength as the black flour dissolved into the water in swirling ribbons.

He settled onto the submerged bench, cradling her against his bare chest so the water lapped at her collarbones. Steam curled around them like incense.
For a long while neither moved. Her coughing slowly eased.

The water turned cloudy, then clear again as the corrupted flour washed away.

Eventually her head fell back against his shoulder, white hair floating like ink in milk.
“You fool,” she rasped, voice shredded. “You’ll sicken too.”

“I bathed in dragon’s blood as a child,” he answered quietly. “Poison finds no purchase.”

A lie. He had been deathly ill for weeks after that ritual. But she was too weak to call him on it.
She started shivering again despite the heat.

Without thinking he tightened his arms, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. Her cheek pressed to the hollow of his throat; he could feel her pulse fluttering against his skin, frantic and birdlike.

Minutes stretched. The only sounds were water dripping and their breathing slowly syncing.
At some point her hand found his, fingers threading through his with desperate strength.

He answered by curling his own around hers, thumb stroking over her knuckles in slow, steady passes (the same rhythm he once used to calm warhorses before battle).

Hours later, when the water began to cool, he carried her out, wrapped her in thick towels warmed by the brazier, and took her not back to the infirmary but to his own chambers.

The royal bed was enormous, draped in dark furs and crimson silk. He laid her in the center like something sacred and climbed in after, armor abandoned somewhere far below.

She curled into him immediately, instinctively seeking warmth. He let her. Pulled the furs over them both until only her face was visible, pale and exhausted and startlingly young without the veil.
Outside, the snow kept falling.

Inside, the fire in the hearth burned low and steady.
He thought she had slipped into true sleep until her voice, barely audible, drifted up.

“I dreamed… the world ended in flour and silence. And you were the only thing still warm.”
His arms tightened fractionally.

“I am here,” he said against her temple. “Dream again. I will still be warm.”
She made a sound (half sob, half laugh) and burrowed closer, face hidden against his chest.

He stayed awake all night, counting her breaths, feeling the fever slowly loosen its grip degree by degree. When dawn finally crept through the high windows in pale gold bars, her skin was cool to the touch for the first time in nine days.

Mystic Flour slept on, fingers still tangled with his, the faintest dusting of healthy white flour beginning to drift from her hair again (soft, clean, alive).
Dark Cacao did not move until the midday bells rang. Even then he only shifted enough to press his lips (once, reverent) to her forehead, tasting salt and ash and something like hope.

Outside the storm broke and the sun came out, turning the kingdom into blinding diamond.
Inside the royal bedchamber, the king and the Beast slept tangled together beneath centuries of fur and silence, breathing in tandem for the first time in either of their endless lives.
And for one quiet, impossible morning, the world did not end.